On the pale, snowbound land, a long procession stretched across the white wilderness like a winding black python. Slowly and steadily it moved south along the King's Road, its endless columns kicking up powdery drifts beneath hooves and boots.The wind howled in the air, sharp and merciless, whistling through pine boughs and tugging at cloaks. Overhead, the winter sun hung pale and cold in a cloudless sky, the blue dome stretching like a frozen lake above them. Only a few white wisps of cloud drifted lazily, far beyond reach, as if mocking the weary mortals trudging below.Eddard tugged the hood of his heavy fur cloak lower, shielding his eyes from the stark brightness. His left hand reached forward to pat the neck of his restless mount, a gray warhorse stamping anxiously at the hard-packed snow. The beast snorted, exhaling clouds of steam into the frigid air, but calmed beneath its rider's steady hand.The wedding in Winterfell was already behind them. Though Bran had pleaded with him to remain longer, eager to keep his new brother-in-law close and continue seeking his counsel, Eddard Karstark had chosen otherwise. His instincts warned him that lingering in Winterfell would only sow further tension.Catelyn Tully, now regent of the North, had made her feelings clear without raising her voice. She had seized much of the governance from her daughter Sansa, and with quiet words wrapped in courtesy, she issued what was effectively an eviction. Tens of thousands of Free Folk settled near Winterfell, she said, had already disrupted the lives of its people. Too many vassals had reported their dissatisfaction.The meaning beneath her words was plain: Sansa and her husband must depart, lest Eddard's presence continue to sway Bran and further erode Stark authority.Eddard did not quarrel with her reasoning. On the surface, it was true enough. The Free Folk were a restless people, unused to rule or order. Once beyond danger, their wild nature often reasserted itself. Left unchecked, chaos would follow.The journey south had been brutal. From the Gift to Winterfell stretched a thousand long li, and though thirty thousand Free Folk set out, more than a thousand had perished along the way. Half of the dead were young warriors—too reckless to obey discipline, too quick to raid passing farms. Styr dealt with them harshly, hanging their corpses from roadside trees as warnings. Any traveler emerging from Castle Black and riding down the King's Road would have seen grim silhouettes swinging above the snow.The others who perished were those who had fled, thinking to vanish into the deep Wolfswood and live free once more. The cavalry of Twin River City cut most of them down. A few slipped away, but even they often met their end at the hands of the mountain clans who guarded their rugged forests with suspicion and steel.The lesson was swiftly learned. Styr's iron discipline, coupled with the southerners' merciless patrols, bent the Free Folk to order. They saw the futility of flight, the hopelessness of defiance. After all, if they had truly preferred death to submission, they would never have abandoned their homes beyond the Wall to follow Mance Rayder in the first place.Now, beneath the shelter of canvas and crude palisades, none froze to death. Their bellies were filled, if not lavishly, then at least consistently. To people who had lived too long in hunger and cold, that alone was a wonder.Yet food alone would not tame them. Eddard devised a method to burn away their wildness: training. His knights led companies of soldiers into mock battles against the Free Folk. Fifty against fifty, with wooden clubs and shields, fighting for the prize of a sheep or a steel sword. The outcome was always the same. The armored, disciplined knights triumphed, while the Free Folk—except for Styr's Thenns, hardened by law and discipline—fell in disarray.It was not meant to be fair. Eddard's purpose was to teach. To show these untamed men that bravery and strength alone could not prevail against steel and order. To win such weapons, such armor, such lives, they must learn obedience.Now, on the march south from Winterfell, the methods changed. Free Folk were ordered into columns. Tribes that held formation earned praise and better rations. Those that lagged or quarreled went hungry through the night. Hunger proved a sharper spur than speeches, and soon the line of march grew steady.From the hilltop, Eddard lowered his brass telescope. The black serpent of humanity stretched far into the distance, banners and wagons crawling like ants upon the snow. A grim smile touched his lips. "Just as I thought. Styr handles the task well."Below, the Thenn warlord rode tirelessly among the columns, his voice barking commands, his axe glinting. Under his eye, order held.Beside Eddard, Sansa shifted, her auburn hair gleaming beneath her hood. Her velvet cloak was drawn tight against the wind, but her cheeks were still flushed with cold. She worried her lower lip before whispering, "But people die every day, Eddard. Is this truly wise? Won't their grief turn to riot?"The memory of King's Landing still haunted her—the howling mob, gaunt with hunger, that had torn apart the High Septon and even slain a knight of the Kingsguard. Panic and famine could topple thrones.Eddard studied her, his expression softening. "Do not fear. These are not one people, united in loyalty or blood. They were gathered by Mance Rayder out of desperation, just as we gather them now. Look through the glass, Sansa. See how each tribe answers the same command differently."Obediently, she raised the telescope to her eye. Where her husband pointed, a gray-eyed youth rode with calm authority, guiding his column with precision. The men obeyed swiftly, forming ranks with little complaint."That is Segon, son of Styr," Eddard explained. "Among the Free Folk, the Thenns alone hold a concept of law. They march with discipline, because they understand what it means.""Now, there." His hand shifted her aim.She beheld a hulking man upon a dogsled, snarling curses, his whip cracking over his followers. Disorder seethed in his ranks; the men argued, the women lagged, the children wailed."The Walrus Men," Eddard said grimly. "Their chief styles himself the Great Walrus, though he has more temper than wisdom. His tribe is foul-tempered, ill-mannered, and… unattractive, in every sense." His lips twitched at his own jest. "They've gone without dinner for three days. If they do not bend soon, they will break."Sansa lowered the glass, troubled. "Then what will you do?""Nothing." His voice was cold as the wind. "If rebellion comes, they will be destroyed. I've already ordered Lando and the others to watch them closely tonight. At the first sign of betrayal, their tribe will be ended."He took her hand, pale and small in his calloused grip, and together they walked toward their waiting horses. Sansa blushed, glancing at the guards who studiously averted their eyes, but her husband's voice came low and firm."For the same command, some obey, some endure, some resist, and some defy. We reward the obedient, win the endurant, destroy the defiant, and in so doing, terrify the wavering. That is rule."Her eyes widened, realization dawning. "Oh… I see."He smiled faintly. "Do you truly?"Color flamed across her cheeks. "Ah—I—"Chuckling, Eddard helped her mount her mare, a gentle chestnut with a patient temperament. She sat stiffly, embarrassed by his teasing words. Though now a married woman, Sansa was still unaccustomed to such boldness. He often called her his "large loli"—a phrase she never quite understood, though his eyes glittered when he said it. She only knew that in their private hours, she tried her utmost to please him. And in that, she had learned, obedience could be as powerful as beauty.The army trudged on, mile after mile.---Far to the south, upon the banks of the Trident, another company moved with far less order. Boats ferried them across the swollen, ice-choked waters, black cloaks marking them as men sworn to the Wall.Tyrion Lannister stumbled ashore, cursing softly as his boots sank into the mud. He steadied himself with a grimace and turned to the sellsword at his side. "Strange, is it not? Last time I crossed here, Roose Bolton's banners faced us. Now we don black robes and march toward his seat."Bronn scowled, tugging irritably at the unfamiliar cloak. "You're still in the mood for riddles? Best think instead on how we'll survive the Starks. This is Twin River territory. Your little kinsman Eddard Karstark won't take kindly to deserters in black." His voice dropped, bitter as wormwood. "And Seven take your sister. That mad bitch cost me everything—my castle, my wife, my son. Or near enough a son."Tyrion's mismatched eyes gleamed with amusement. "Not yours, I think. Still, Cersei's madness is a fire none can quench. Even the Crone herself would shrug at her riddles.""Madness?" Bronn spat into the snow. "She ordered my wife murdered. Ordered my unborn child cut from her belly. And you stood there, smiling, confessing, and dragged me into this black cloak with you!""I smiled, aye," Tyrion admitted with perverse cheer. "Lannisters pay their debts. You should know that by now.""You owe me a kingdom!" Bronn growled. "If the king ever recalls you, you'll take me with you, or I'll gut you in your sleep. Swear it.""By the Father himself," Tyrion replied smoothly.The mercenary grunted, swinging into his saddle. "Seven hells. I never thought I'd wear crow feathers twice in my life." With that, he spurred ahead, scouting the road.Behind him, more than three hundred black-cloaked recruits marched northward under Conway the Raven's command. When Harrenhal's watchers turned back, the company pressed on, only to find their path barred.From the mouth of Karin Bay emerged a host, banners snapping in the bitter wind. Upon the standard gleamed a golden sun upon a field of black.Bronn reined up sharply, eyes widening. "Seven save us. It's like seeing a White Walker in daylight."---
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