For too long, the song lingered on the wind, a chorus of certainty warning those who never listened: “Winter is coming.” And though the wise never say it, they know what the words really mean: ice in their bones, in their eyes, in their hearts, in their souls. The whole world frosting over as his armies advance: inch by bloody inch, mile by frigid mile, over the wall, through the wall, southward, onward, until at long last he reaches the throne of iron upon which he was meant to sit.
“Winter is coming.” Frantic whispers, the chorus rising as fear tinges every cloud of breath expelling into the wind. “Winter is coming.”
A stiff nod south, and his armies advance. “Winter is coming.”
Winter is here.