In the frozen stillness of the North, where wind howls like the dead and ice never fully melts, the bells of Winterkeep rang only once—for the fallen. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, was dead. Betrayed not by blade, but by betrayal in the court of southern kings. His body was returned not whole, but marked—burned, fractured, shamed. The message was clear.

Yet it was not silence that followed. From the moment his body crossed the gates of Winterkeep, a new sound echoed across the ice: hammer upon iron.

His heir, Anthony of House Stark, son of the Iron Line, retreated to the deepest forge beneath the mountain’s roots. There, by molten steel and sleepless hands, he crafted his answer to the world: not a crown, but a shell of vengeance, a second skin of iron and flame.

He emerged changed—not just armored, but alight with purpose. Under the banner “Strength Forges Iron,” he summoned the ancient banners of the North. They came not out of loyalty, but out of fear, hope, or the grim knowledge that war was already upon them.

House Banner, whose sigil bore a fractured helix, swore fealty in blood. Their warriors, calm one moment, monstrous the next, fought with fury none could control.

House Rogers, shieldbearers of the old code, brought honor sharpened into discipline. Their standards bore a lone star, their words: “We Stand for Right.”

House Odinson, descendants of storm-gods and sworn to thunder, cracked the skies when they pledged themselves. Their thunderclap was a language of war.

House Parker, young and burdened, stepped forward with trepidation and fire both. Their creed, etched in webbed silver: “With Power Comes Reckoning.”

But the South did not sleep.

From the darkened cities came a different oath, quiet and calculating. Lord Bruce of House Wayne, cloaked in black and sworn to shadow, saw in Anthony not justice but tyranny reborn. Under the words “We Are the Night,” he forged a counter-alliance:

House El, whose crest shimmered like the sun’s own seal, vowed to uphold hope above law. Their emissary flew rather than walked, and his voice was steel softened by compassion.

House Prince, warriors born from stone and shaped by gods, raised blades not in defense of men, but of peace. Their queen stood taller than any king.

House Allen, keepers of the Time Sigil—a spiral cast in lightning—stood reluctantly at Wayne’s side. Their motto whispered of burden, not pride: “Time Remembers All.”

Far from these two rising pillars, another tide churned.

In the scorched western coasts, where cities crumbled and rebuilt like sandcastles in flame, rebellion brewed. Their unity was not forged in trust, but in necessity:

House Joker, mad in thought but precise in action, carved their sigil from broken smiles. “Through Chaos, Clarity.”

House Luthor, whose golden lion watched men as pawns, spoke of “Human Sovereignty Above All.”

House Thawne, outcasts of time and doppelgangers of prophecy, bore a broken clock whose hands spun counter to fate. Their words: “History is Mine to Rewrite.”

House Brainiac, whose green flame was no fire but signal, whispered as one: “We Are Not One. We Are All.”

Yet none saw what stirred beyond the Wall.

Beyond the frost, where maps end and the sky forgets names, rose the exiled bloodlines. Mutant-born. Witch-crafted. God-haunted. The forgotten heirs of a shattered age.

House M, with Eric of Lensherr as its blade and voice, flew the banner of rising iron. He spoke softly but bent the world.

House Doom, clad in green and vengeance, called no man equal and no god worthy.

House of Rings, ten champions whose powers were bound to relics no scholar could name, marched without nation, without mercy.

House Loki, serpents in human form, sowed doubt even in allies. Their creed: “Victory is the Beautiful Lie.”

So stands the realm: Four great powers, none whole, none righteous.

  • The North seeks justice through might.
  • The South stands for order through fear.
  • The West seeks freedom through fire.
  • The Exiles crave return through conquest.
  • And above them all, the skies crack—not from storm, but from something older still.

The drums of war have not yet sounded, but the silence is cracking.