They say he came back from the dead the last and littlest of the Stark pups. I’ve seen him and I say hell spat him out. The Onion Knight brought him back from Skagos, a damned place. Seaworth led him out of the bones and ash and brought him back to Winterfell. His brother may have been the King in the North, but this one is the North. His eyes are like ice, his moods as sudden and furious as a winter storm. The weirwood trees weep as he walks by. They say the trees whisper his name.
He does not pay much heed to the whispering of trees. He does not pay heed to much of anything, except for the howl of his wolf and the screams of his prisoners. Those he seems to like. They light up those ice eyes and he looks like the Stranger himself. Beware the rage of the Black Wolf, there is little else in him but that. Whatever Southern blood the boy had from his Tully mother is long gone. That boy is more wolf than anything.
And wolves rule winter with gleaming teeth and sharp claws.
Beware the Black Wolf