Complete-Zero

The young woman's feet sunk into the icy dirt. The frosted fields were probably the only place in the North's capital left not overrun with metal. The only thing before her eyes were carved, wedged gravestones, littering the snow with black honour and fury. In fact, she swore she saw the grave of one whose proud family name was that of Black itself. But that name, proud as it was, was not the one occupying her mind. After all, the name one should be proudest of was one's own. She looked at the (comparatively smaller) grave in front of her. She had, perhaps, laid too many wisteria flowers of her own at the grave's foot. But how could she not?