In the cold, dimly lit throne room of Winterfell, Ser Beric Rylen nervously smoothed the creases of his dark green tunic as he waited for his liege lord. The ancient stone walls seemed to be watching him with silent judgment, their age-old wisdom whispered through the shadows.

The doors creaked open, and Lord Harlan Idlecreek entered the room, accompanied by his advisor, Lady Elira Soller. Their footsteps echoed ominously on the stone floor as they approached the Ironwood throne that had stood sentinel in this room for centuries. The flickering light from the nearby hearth played games with their faces, casting twisted, elongated shapes that appeared more wolf than human.

"My lord," Beric greeted with a tentative bow.

"Ser Rylen, I have received word that a messenger from King's Landing has arrived," Lord Harlan informed him, his grim expression never wavering. "He brings news of the King's death and the coming chaos."

Beric tensed. "What could this mean for us, my lord?"

Lady Elira chimed in, her silver-sheened hair reflecting the firelight. "It's difficult to say. War seems an almost certain outcome. We must be prepared for anything."

In the silence that followed, a wolf's distant howl echoed through the night, piercing the hushed air. Lord Harlan appeared completely unruffled, looked into Ser Beric's attentive eyes and uttered, "Summon your men, Ser Rylen. We shall not let our enemies catch us unawares."