I stood inside the open gates of Winterfell, looking out into the distance. My fit of rage had resulted in 5 men hanging outside of the Keep's walls along with the bodies of the guards who failed to protect my wife.

My knuckles were bloody from the beating I'd given Edda's handmaidens. Though they did manage to hide the children from the Stark invaders, they both failed to save Edda.

How could I have been such a fool? A fool for taking my entire army to the Dreadfort to find a single letter left at the gates of my palace reading: The pack survives.

No man dared approach me as I stared out at the forest outside of Winterfell. Somewhere out there the love of my life is surrounded by wolves who wish to tear her apart...

Hours passed as I watched the sun set and rise. I was not going to sleep. I was not going to eat. I was going to find Edda Bolton. I was going to kill the traitorous Lord Crastely and the thieves Sansa Stark and Jon Snow. And all the while I was not going to let go of my titles.

I was the Lord of Winterfell. The Warden of the North.

Most importantly, I was a flayer. A mischievous, sadistic, bastard born flayer. And I don't like when people take my things.