This day marked the turning of the fourth century. By ancient custom, a grand feast is held every hundred years at the Temple of Odin, the God of War and Death. People of all kinds—men and women, children and elders, slaves and freeborn, the blind, the lame, the deaf, and the disfigured—came in droves to the temple. As far as the eye could see, the roads swelled with pilgrims, all seeking to worship and celebrate.
Legend says that Odin is chief among the gods in Valhalla, the celestial realm where the divine dwell. Valhalla is a grand hall within Asgard, where fallen heroes—those who die bravely and with honor—are welcomed by Odin himself. It is a place of eternal glory, a realm of endless feasting, drinking, and battle for the souls of the valiant.
On this sacred day, the gods show favor to mortals. The blind are granted sight. The lame walk. The deaf hear. The crippled are made whole. Slaves are set free. It is a day of miracles, celebration, and renewal.
But it comes at a cost.
A human sacrifice is divinely mandated. The gods demand a price for their favor. Every household—be it royal or common—is required to offer a human life. Yet the offering must be voluntary. The gods do not accept coerced blood. The chosen must step forward with joy in their hearts, honored to die for their family and bloodline, knowing they will dine and wine with the gods in Odin's hall.
Only slaves newly granted their freedom are exempt from human sacrifice. Instead, they must offer a spotless white lamb, young and without blemish.
And so, the feast begins.
House Stark has ruled the North for over a thousand years. Now sits King Alphonse Stark on the throne, a revered leader, wise and battle-hardened. At his side is Queen Matilda, proud and graceful. Their heir, Ned Stark, only eleven years old, was visiting the Temple of Odin for the first time in his life.
He had heard stories of it his whole childhood—how the gods had blessed his family, how they'd won wars and expanded their territory, how their enemies had fallen and their lands had flourished. The Kingdom of the North was by far the wealthiest and most powerful among all the realms.
To the South ruled the mad King Walter. To the West, King Ralph. And far to the East, King Henry, whose lands stretched so far that even the oldest maps ended in white space labeled only "as far as the eyes can see."
These kingdoms were vast—so vast that no king could govern every corner. Thus, each monarch appointed Wardens, men he trusted—often battle brothers and loyal allies from past wars—to rule over regions in his name. In the North, territories like Wessex, Northumbria, King's Landing, Blackard, and Sephen each had their own Warden, sworn to King Alphonse and loyal to House Stark.
The same system held in the other kingdoms. Wards ruled by trust and sword, each tethered to their king like extensions of his will.
Today, though, politics paused. The gods called, and all obeyed.