The Young Wolf is dead. That had become an accepted fact all over Westeros in the past year--Robb Stark was dead, and with him died the hope of the North. Exactly how he'd died, though, was a matter of heavy dispute: the Freys claimed that he'd turned into a monster and tried to rip them all apart, the northmen protested and said he was a good, just and fair king who'd been betrayed by his own man, and the common folk had a hundred different tales of how it went, depending on who you were talking to. And the singers didn't help, either, with a thousand different songs on the Red Wedding.

The truth, though? The one that no one knew?

Robb Stark woke up after the Red Wedding, somewhere near a small village near the Trident, bleeding from arrow wounds and knife wounds and gods knew what other wounds he had, his memory as fragmented and shattered as broken glass. He'd hauled himself to the nearest inn, and once he'd recovered enough, set out north.

All right, so going north probably wasn't one of his best ideas. After all, winter was coming (and the words were familiar, achingly so), and northern winters were harsh and long. Still, there was something there, he was sure, something from what little he could remember to be found in the north.

And so it was, that he stepped into a tavern along the North road, looking for a place to eat, drink and sleep. The place seemed a little more crowded than usual, the only empty seat near someone wearing a cloak and scarf. It wasn't exactly ideal, considering that there could've been a dagger under that cloak, but he was tired and hungry enough that it made no matter to him.

So he took a seat, unaware of who he was sitting beside.