It was a letter from his dearest grandson, the young buck was always so restless. Reckless even, to this day he still disagreed with his fellow elders for choosing him as the Lord in Winter. Alas, it was deemed in the forest’s best interests, the last lord had disappeared in the spring and the hearthfire had gone out, which meant the worst. Without one, the ever fractious tribes would have no unifying voice and the forest’s magic would slowly loosen its bonds with his people, rejecting them. And then winter would come.