And what do they say of Robb Stark in the north? They call him the young wolf. They say he rides into battle on the back of his giant direwolf. They say he can turn into a wolf himself when he wants. They say he can’t be killed. And do you believe them? No, my lord. Anyone can be killed.
Oh, my sweet summer child. What do you know about fear?
Fear is for the winter when the snows fall a hundred feet deep. Fear is for the the long nights when the sun hides for years, and children are born and live and die, all in darkness. That is the time for fear, my little lord, when the white walkers move through the woods. Thousands of years ago there came a night that lasted a generation. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the shepherds in their huts, and women smothered their babies rather than see them starve, and wept and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks. So is this the sort of story that you like? In that darkness the white walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds.