The North wind doth blow
And it will bring snow
But what shall poor Robin do then ?
Why die of course, winter does that

Skin the color of frostbite
Hair black as a ravens wing
She dresses not in the bright blue of a crisp winter day and the clean whiteness of fresh snow, but the dark velvet of the longest night frosted with pinpoints of crystal like the stars that seem so cold and far away then, broken only by a faint band of color reflecting the northern lights dancing across a frozen waste buried under frosted snow that screams underfoot like a thousand tortured souls at every step.

She takes a little warming up to

Winter isn't coming...it's here.