The snow has begun to fall in King Landing, the Maesters have sent out the great white ravens. This long, bloody summer is at an end. A great man once said the "The Starks are always right eventually", and that rings more true than ever before.
A dead boy has landed upon the eastern shore and has proclaimed himself a king. Some may believe it is true, although they are fools. Black or red, the boy has done nothing and is nothing. Those who flock to him are doing it in hopes he can warm them once the cold winds reach south. He will proclaim Blood and Fire, and Blood will surely be shed in his name. But it is the Fire he lacks, and without that, the Blood will surely freeze.
Another boy who claims-to-be-King sits upon the Iron Throne. A bastard in truth, who cannot hope to survive the cold. In the summer warmth, a boy who smells of roses can be king, provided his gold is good. But in the Winter, roses wilt and die, and summer's gold cannot buy Winter's favor. The lion cub will surely perish in the cold, shivering. The lioness, who for so long believed there were enemies behind every door, may for once be right.
In the Vale, a small man who casts a very large shadow stands upon a house of cards. A Lord in name, but a gambler in truth. He has climbed the ladder much higher than most of his birth, but there-in lies his flaw. He never realized, the higher you climb, the further you fall. Mockingbird or Titan, he forgot the first lesson her ever learned, you cannot hope to tame a wolf. And this she-wolf he hopes to crown, but The North Remembers; and soon so will she. And the wrath of wolves is fierce to behold. He, like the rest, will find his summer plans soon die in the cold.
Another, madder than all the rest, comes from the sea. Promising the fruits of Westeros, on the backs on dragons, he leads his Ironbon. This krakken with a smiling eye and blue lips believes he can fly. Perhaps he can. But what of it? Whether he is on the sea, on land, or in the air, the chill of winter will still find him. A godless man may sit the Sea Stone chair, but a madman will never find the warmth he needs to survive the winds of winter.
A conqueror reborn is trying to find her way home, although she doesn't truly know where her home is. The Silver Queen lost her way, but upon her Stallion That Mounts the World she will head West. It is said that whenever a Targaryn is born, a coin is flipped, madness or greatness. The saying is wrong. A coin is flipped every moment of every day in a Targaryn's life. The Mother of Dragon is no different. It remains to be seen whether the fire she brings will be a great reprieve against unyielding cold; or a maddening inferno turning all she sees into ashes that are indistinguishable from the snow on the ground.
A shell of man with blue eyes and a false sword stands leading a group of dead men. It cannot be said he worships a fire god, no. A fire god has proven itself useful to him, so he allows it to be adhered to. But that is changing, for he has seen the power in the cold, and he understands. Where fire can be a tool, the cold can be a weapon. This mann is cold himself, and he leads his men with a sword that gives off false light and false hope. They will try to warm themselves in the fire of his sword, but it will give no warmth, and with no warmth, they will die. But even if they are dead, will he lead them still?
For the first time in centuries, a Stark isn't ruling over the North. A perversion in truth. One small gift this winter brings is that when the grandfathers go hunting, they know exactly what they are hunting for. The thought of reminding The Leech Lord and his bastard what Winter truly is will give these grandfathers enough warmth in their souls to brave the wind and survive the cold long enough to bathe in Bolton blood.
At the edge of the world, a boy dies; a wolf howls. While his name is Snow and his face is Stark, his heart beats with blood, aye, and fire. This bastard-who-could-be-king has united the most bitter of enemies, for he knows bitter enemies are nothing compared to the bitter cold. Nothing, yes, he knows it. But knowing nothing is why he is great, for the wisest of men only know one thing; that they know nothing. At the edge of the world, a boy dies, but will a man be reborn?
Beyond the Wall, a frigid power is stirring. Legions of cold dead are marching south. Howling winds are their war horn, cracking ice is their drumbeat. This army does not weaken when there is no food to be found. It does not fear when it sees its brethren fall. Rivers do not halter it, for they will march across it. A charge of the most heavily armed knights will not cause it to break, nor will a volley of arrows cause it to loose strength. A Wall of Ice will not stop this army either. Ice is the plaything of creatures who lead this army, and Winter is Coming.