>You are the Wolf's Shadow

Memory comes not like a tide, but like knives.

The stone beneath you is slick with filth and old blood, and your back is half-dead from the cold. But the ache is familiar. You’ve slept in the snow. You’ve bled under pines. You’ve ridden through storms where the howling wind spoke your name.

You were Lord Stark’s man. Torrhen Blackweald was your name, though your father was no great noble. One of Lord Stark's shadows, quiet and iron-sworn. You were not among his knights—your blade bore no sigil—but you rode at his left hand when his household marched south. You ate salt and bread beneath his roof, and swore oaths before gods old and new. You remember the sound of his voice. The weight of his gaze.

You remember the Red Keep. You were there when the world ended.

After the Hand’s arrest, they came for you at night. Not through the gates. Through the tunnels—the old ways, the ones Lord Stark’s steward whispered of after too much wine. You ran. You killed. You bled. For a time, you were able to evade arrest and hide in the shadows. But in the end, you were caught like the rest.

The last thing you remember is the sound of hounds. And the thing in your hand. It was not a blade. It was a token—small, smooth, warm from the heat of your chest. Not a message. Not a weapon. A gift, perhaps. A keepsake. It had been meant for one of the Stark children.

You no longer have it. You don’t know if you dropped it. Or gave it away. Or if they took it when they dragged you into the dark.

Now you must be in the Black Cells, beneath the Red Keep, where sun and memory go to die. Your wrists are scabbed and stiff in rusted shackles. Your hair is matted with blood and straw. You’ve lost track of time. The only light comes when they open the door to beat someone else. To your left, someone whispers a name. It isn’t yours. To your right, someone weeps without breath.

Above, a voice says:

“He was one of Stark’s… no one important. Just a shadow.”
“Even shadows carry knives,” another replies.
“He had something. Didn’t he?”
“Burnt. Everything he had, we burned.”

But they lie. Or they don’t know. Or they missed it.

What will you do?
>Call out into the dark. Someone out there might still remember your name.
>Stay silent and listen. The cells speak if you let them.
>Search the filth and stone for what they missed.
>Close your eyes. Follow the memory. What did they give you—and why?
>Write-in