They called him the Young Wolf. He was born to be Lord of Winterfell but when the War of the Five Kings started he was one of them, crowned at fifteen after the battle of the Whispering Wood where he captured the Kingslayer. It’s said that when he raised to accept his crown, all men and their families knelt to swear feilty, and all the wolves in the Seven Kingdoms howled at once. He never lost a battle, and some say that he put a bit of himself in his Grey Wind every time he rode against another army, killing enemies with a sword and with his bare teeth both. But what the stories won’t tell you is that Robb Stark had his mother’s eyes, and he always had a place for bastards and broken things at his table. He was terrible at sums, but maps and houses came to him so naturally, as if he had been born to be a king and know every piece of land and the men who served him. Winterfell’s name was the one he cried in battle and he was every bit his father’s son, but family, duty and honor were part of him just as much as winter. He was a good king, kind and noble and just, and when he died the North died with him. But they raised once more and remembered. The Young Wolf is nothing more than a song now… and it’s the loudest one of them.