Several Months Earlier...

You know, being an ancient, mythic protector of the North isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sure, there's the cool armor and the whole "herald of death" vibe, but honestly, it's a lot of waiting around in a dark, cold crypt hoping someone really screws up so you get to stretch your legs.

Well, someone finally did.

When House Stark's lord and heir were flambéed by Targaryen lunacy, the ice of Winterfell cracked, and the ancient wards shuddered. Deep beneath the crypts, where the dead kings of winter slept, I woke up — groggy, grumpy, and in serious need of coffee.

Aurelius Fenris, the Ice Dragon of the North. Once a man, now more myth than flesh. My soul, connected to the very foundation of Winterfell by me and my good friend Brandon the Builder — or as I liked to call him, Bob the Builder — was stirred awake.

During this awakening, I was shown why I had awoken: the screams of my kin and the fire that consumed them.

It was sickening. I didn't know the exact age when this would happen or I could have prevented all of it. Knowing only that wildfire would be used, I told Brandon to set the conditions to wake me up only if there were dragons in the North or if wildfire was used to burn a Stark.

Emerging from the depths, I took stock of my ancient armor, cold to the touch but unyielding as the glaciers.

My sword, Icebane, glimmered with frost, thirsty for the blood of those who had wronged the house of my closest friend and near kin.

It had not tasted the blood of dragons since I had awoken during the Dance of the Dragons, nearly eliminating all of them.

The air around me crackled with the cold fury that nearly a century and a half of dormant power could muster.