Robb has been dreaming about Winterfell. This is a common but unpredictable state--sometimes he dreams about sunlight glittering off ice, the scent of cooked apples and snowflakes in Jon's hair; others he dreams of blood and fire, of three-eyed ravens and two small boys' heads on the wall.

And sometimes--like this one--it is running, four legs on the snow and the scent of woodsmoke in his nose. Chasing a brightly-coloured bird, out of place in the ice-covered north, and never able to jump quite high enough to catch it.

And then the ice cracks beneath his foot--paw?--and he slips, skidding across the frozen ground until his eyes open, and he's back in his own bed, with Grey Wind stretched out at the foot and a suspiciously human-sized lump of blankets next to him.