The falling snow tells a story.
Not of a lord, or a king. Not of a prince, or an emperor. Not of a god, not even of a man.
No. The snow tells the story of a boy.
A very small boy.
A very small, very scared, very lonely boy.

The snow-snakes wriggle across the ground, playing together happily. But when the boy approaches, this wonderfully naive little boy, they hiss in anger. They attack him, and as their fangs sink in, he tastes of Death again. Their venom is a constant reminder of her presence. She will not take him today - nor, hopefully, for a very long time - but she is there.

And as the boy weeps, the snow laughs.
It's quiet, but it's sinister. The wind whispers to the boy, whispering his own story that he no longer wishes to hear. And as he listens, he lives. His heart breaks again and again as he remembers each betrayal, relives every death, is reminded of every fault of his own.

The snow laughs. The boy weeps.
And the falling snow, as though it's ash from the heavens, as though everything he loves is burning away, leaving everything cold - the falling snow prevents his escape. The snow-snakes and cruel winds and laughing snow are a part of him.

Is it any wonder, then, that the boy is so afraid of fresh snow?