[The North, White Harbor, 11th moon, 298AC]
The morning came gray over White Harbor.
Eddard Stark stood alone at the narrow window of the chamber Lord Wyman Manderly had granted him within the New Castle, his hands resting upon the cold stone sill as he looked out over the harbor.
The Bite lay restless beneath a low sky. Waves rolled slowly against the piers below, the water dark and flecked with white where the wind touched it. Ships crowded the harbor now, far more than when they had first sailed into port two days earlier. Northern sails filled the anchorage, broad traders, fishing boats, and lean war galleys alike.
The North was gathering.
Word had spread quickly once the Stark fleet had entered the harbor with torn sails and bloodstained decks. Rumors moved faster than ravens, and by now every man in the city knew that something had gone terribly wrong in King's Landing.
They did not yet know how wrong.
Ned watched as a pair of dockworkers hauled a rope across the pier below. Their voices carried faintly on the wind, though he could not make out the words. Nearby, a group of soldiers in gray cloaks stood beside stacked crates of spears newly unloaded from one of Wyman's storehouses.
War preparations, quiet ones, but preparations all the same.
He closed his eyes briefly.
It had begun like this once before.
The memory came easily, though Ned would have preferred it did not.
He could still see Robert Baratheon as he had been in those days, broad-shouldered and laughing, his black hair wild in the wind as he rode at the head of his host. A warhammer slung across his back, eager for battle, eager for justice.
Robert had believed the realm could be remade with steel.
Perhaps it could.
But steel demanded blood.
And the realm had bled enough.
Ned's hand tightened slightly on the windowsill.
Robert was dead now.
Dead, and the Iron Throne sat beneath a boy who had no rightful claim to it.
He wondered what Robert would have said if he could see the realm now.
The thought lingered for a moment before fading, replaced by another memory far more recent.
The gate of the Red Keep.
The portcullis falling.
Ser Torrhen Stark standing beneath it, sword rising and falling as red cloaks surged around him.
Ned forced the memory aside.
There would be time enough to grieve.
Today, there were decisions to be made.
A knock sounded at the chamber door.
"Enter," Ned said.
The door opened, and a young Manderly servant stepped inside, bowing low.
"My lord, Lord Stark asks for your presence in the council chamber."
Ned inclined his head.
"I will come."
The boy withdrew.
Ned lingered at the window a moment longer before turning away.
Outside, the wind off the Bite had begun to rise.
Winter was coming, and with it, war.
As he paced down the halls, servants and men-at-arms scurried around him, preparations still underway.
It wasn't long before Ned had reached his destination, door open, two Winter Guard standing vigil at the door, both nodded toward him, returning the gesture in kind as he entered.
The council chamber of the New Castle was warm with firelight when Ned entered.
A long oak table dominated the room, its surface scattered with maps and parchments. A hearth crackled along one wall, casting shifting shadows across the stone.
Several men were already gathered there.
Alaric Stark stood at the head of the table, tall and silent, one hand resting upon the edge of the map spread before him. Ice hung across his back, the great sword's pommel rising above his shoulder.
Tempest lay stretched across the floor beside him, azure eyes half closed but watchful.
Cinder paced slowly along the far wall, her reddish coat glinting in the firelight.
Around the table stood the others.
Smalljon Umber leaned against a pillar near the hearth, his massive arms folded across his chest.
Beside him stood Derrick Umber, broader still, his beard thick and dark.
Ser Harald Stark stood near the table, his wounded shoulder bound tightly beneath a fresh bandage.
Ser Desmond Manderly had taken up position near Alaric, leaning on his halberd, yet ever watchful.
Ser Lucion Lannister stood near the window, his golden hair catching the dim light. Despite being a Lannister, he had proved himself as loyal as any, even becoming a kin-slayer in service to Alaric, having cut down some distant Lannister cousin during the carnage.
Several others were present as well, men who had fought beside Alaric in the Red Keep and survived.
The room fell quiet as Ned entered.
Alaric looked up.
"Uncle."
Ned inclined his head slightly.
"My lord."
Alaric gestured toward the table.
"We were waiting for you."
Ned moved forward and took a place beside him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Alaric broke the silence. "We have received additional reports from the south," he said calmly. "Ravens from Gulltown and the Fingers."
He tapped the map with one finger.
The coronation has been done, they crowned the golden bastard following our flight from King's Landing
No one seemed surprised.
They had all expected it.
"Joffrey now sits the Iron Throne, and from all reports, he intends to make it known he weilds the power, despite still being a puppet for his bitch of a mother, and no doubt, the Old Lion as well" Alaric continued.
Smalljon snorted.
"A boy who hides behind lions."
"Just so," Alaric said.
His gray eyes moved toward Ned.
"Uncle… you were present when the king was on his deathbed. Tell them what happened."
The room grew still.
Ned drew a slow breath.
Robert's final hours came back to him clearly.
The king lying broken upon his bed, his great strength finally spent.
"I will tell you," Ned said quietly.
And he did.
He spoke of Robert leaving for his final hunt and the wound he had sustained.
Ned told them of a rumor that Robert had been purposely inebriated more than usual, the main suspect being Lancel Lannister, his squire.
He also spoke of the wound, a gnarly gash brought upon him by a boar, too drunk to properly kill the beast.
He told them how the king had summoned him to his bedside, how Robert's voice had grown faint as the life left him.
Ned repeated the king's last wishes.
The room listened in silence.
When he finished, the fire crackled softly in the hearth.
Then Smalljon spoke.
"So the lions murdered him."
"Perhaps," Ned said. "Perhaps not."
"They certainly benefited from it," Derrick muttered.
"That they did," Ned agreed.
His gaze moved slowly across the gathered men.
"There is more you must hear."
He paused briefly.
"Joffrey Baratheon is not Robert's son."
The words hung in the air.
Several men shifted where they stood.
Ser Desmond frowned slightly.
"You are certain?"
Ned nodded.
"I am, and I suspect Lord Jon Arryn was as well."
He explained then what he had discovered in King's Landing, the lineage of the Baratheons, the pattern of dark hair and blue eyes that ran through the bloodline.
And the golden children of Cersei Lannister.
When he finished, Lucion Lannister let out a quiet breath.
"Seven hells," he murmured.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then Smalljon straightened.
"Well," he said, his voice blunt as a hammer, "that settles it."
Several heads turned toward him.
Smalljon grinned grimly.
"The Iron Throne belongs to no lion bastard."
Derrick Umber nodded beside him.
"The North owes the South nothing."
He looked directly at Alaric.
"Name the truth of it, my lord. The wolves should rule themselves."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Smalljon stepped forward, planting both hands on the table.
"The South has bled us for generations. Kings, wars, taxes, southern squabbles, first the Dragon King's, now the Stag and Lions, but wolves should keep to their own, no?"
His voice grew louder.
"The Starks were kings once."
His gaze locked on Alaric.
"They should be again."
Derrick nodded heavily. "Aye, my brother speaks true, the only king we Umbers mean to bend our knee to is one who bears the name Stark and has direwolves beside him."
The room erupted into quiet murmurs.
Lord Wyman seemed to weigh the option, his mind no doubt running through the risks and even benefits of an independent North
Ser Harald frowned thoughtfully.
Ser Desmond looked uncertain.
Lucion watched Alaric carefully.
Ned remained silent.
All eyes turned to the young Lord of Winterfell.
Alaric did not speak immediately.
Instead, he studied the map before him.
When he finally raised his head, his voice was calm.
"You would crown me king."
Smalljon grinned.
"Aye."
Alaric considered that.
Then he shook his head slowly.
"Not yet."
The words surprised several men.
Smalljon blinked.
"Not yet?"
Alaric's expression remained steady.
"The realm is breaking apart," he said. "More kings may rise before the year ends."
He tapped the map again.
"The lions hold King's Landing. Renly gathers strength in the south. And Stannis Baratheon…"
Here he glanced briefly toward Ned.
"…has the strongest claim to the throne."
Ned inclined his head slightly.
"That is true."
Alaric continued.
"If we crown a king today, we bind ourselves to a path we may later regret."
Smalljon frowned.
"You mean to wait?"
Alaric's gray eyes hardened slightly.
"I mean to watch."
His gaze moved toward the south.
"For now, there is only one certainty."
"The Lannisters."
The word carried quiet venom.
"They murdered a king," Alaric said. "They sought to imprison us in the Red Keep."
His hand tightened slightly on the edge of the table, a snarl almost developing on his face, the two great beasts Tempest and Cinder reflecting his emotions with their own low growls.
"And their worst sin yet, they murdered the man whom i thought of as a father, my sworn shield and a Stark, for that, I seek to bleed the lions to the last."
The room fell silent again.
Harald lowered his head slightly.
Alaric's voice grew colder.
"Before we speak of crowns, we will see justice done."
Ned watched him carefully.
Then he spoke.
"There is another path."
All eyes turned toward him.
"Stannis Baratheon."
The name carried weight.
"He is Robert's elder brother," Ned said. "If Joffrey is a bastard, then Stannis is the rightful king."
Smalljon frowned.
"A hard man."
"A just one," Ned replied.
Derrick scratched his beard.
"And what of the stories from Dragonstone?" Ser Desmond spoke quietly. "That… red priestess of his."
Several men nodded uneasily.
"Melisandre," Lucion said.
"Aye," Derrick muttered. "They say she's turned Stannis' wife to her fire god."
"The Lord of Light," Smalljon said skeptically.
Ned's brow furrowed slightly.
"I have heard the same."
The chamber grew uneasy.
Northern men did not take kindly to foreign gods.
Smalljon spat into the hearth.
"We follow the old gods."
"Or the Seven," Lord Wyman added, almost speaking more out of duty and tradition than true faith.
It was an open secret that his Granddaughter and eventual lady to White Harbor, Lady Wynafryd, had turned to the Old Gods, especially following her marriage to Ser Torrhen's nephew Cregard Stark, eldest of Ser Benjicot, patriarch of the White Harbor Starks.
"But not fire demons." Lord Wyman finished, pulling Ned out of his thoughts
A low murmur of agreement followed.
Alaric listened without interrupting.
Finally, he spoke.
"If Stannis is the rightful king, then the law favors him."
He paused.
"But law and loyalty are not always the same."
The men around the table watched him carefully.
"If Stannis wishes the North's support," Alaric said, "he will need more than blood and parchment."
His gaze hardened.
"He will need our trust."
Ned nodded slowly.
"And if he does not earn it?"
Alaric's answer came quietly.
"Then the North will choose its own path."
Smalljon grinned again.
"A wolf's path."
Alaric did not smile, but all could see the dangerous glint in his eyes, almost reminiscent of the look of the ancient portraits and tapestries of the Kings of Winter from before the conquest.
Outside the chamber, the wind howled faintly against the walls of the New Castle.
The realm beyond those walls was already beginning to fracture.
And every man in the room knew it.
War was coming.
The only question now was whose crown would survive it.
[The Next Day]
The next morning dawned colder than the last.
A thin frost clung to the rooftops of White Harbor, and the wind blowing in from the Bite carried the sharp promise of snow. The harbor itself had grown busier still since the previous evening. More northern banners had appeared along the docks, and men in mail and leather crowded the quays as ships came and went beneath the gray sky.
Bannermen and landed knights in service to House Manderly had begun to arrive, their levies and trained men along with them.
Ned Stark stood among them now.
Beside him were Alaric and many of the same men who had gathered in the council chamber the night before. Smalljon and Derrick Umber stood near the edge of the pier, speaking in low voices. Ser Harald leaned heavily against the railing, his wounded shoulder still bound, though he had refused to remain indoors. Lord Wyman Manderly had arrived as well, his great bulk wrapped in heavy furs as he watched the harbor with keen interest.
Tempest and Cinder prowled the dock beside Alaric, their massive forms drawing wary glances from sailors and soldiers alike.
They were waiting.
A horn sounded from the harbor mouth.
Men turned toward the water.
Through the gray morning mist, sails appeared.
A small fleet moved slowly toward the harbor, their hulls cutting steadily through the cold water. Manderly colored Stark banners snapped above them, the direwolf of White Harbor flying proudly in the wind.
But these were not the battered ships that had returned from the south.
These vessels were fresh.
Well provisioned.
Warships and swift traders alike.
Wyman Manderly gave a pleased grunt.
"Ah," he murmured. "Right on time."
Ned recognized the leading ship as it drew closer.
The vessel was broad and sturdy, its prow carved with the snarling head of a direwolf. Its sails were trimmed in gray and white.
The Starks of White Harbor.
At the front of the deck stood a man Ned had known for many years.
Ser Benjicot Stark.
The elder brother of Ser Torrhen.
Though elder only by a year, the sea had hardened Benjicot early. His dark beard had gone streaked with silver, and the lines on his face spoke of long voyages and harder storms.
Beside him stood several younger men.
One of them, Ned recognized immediately.
Rodrik Stark.
Ser Torrhen's son.
The boy, no, the young man, stood tall near the railing, his cloak snapping in the wind as he scanned the harbor eagerly.
Another figure stood beside him.
Tall, pale, and sharp-eyed.
Domeric Bolton.
The heir to the Dreadfort.
They had come from the Vale.
Ned remembered the raven Alaric had sent weeks earlier, calling trusted companions back north.
It seemed they had arrived just in time.
The ships slid into the harbor slowly.
Lines were cast.
Dockworkers moved quickly to secure the vessels.
Within moments, the gangplank dropped.
Ser Benjicot Stark was the first man down.
He strode onto the pier with long, purposeful steps, his cloak snapping behind him as he approached the gathered group.
"Lord Stark," he called, kneeling before Alaric, who promptly stepped forward.
"Ser Benjicot, I trust the sea treated you well?" he replied, motioning for Ser Benjicot to rise
The two men clasped forearms firmly.
"Aye, they did, my lord, the Vale sends their regards," Benjicot said. "We rode hard for Gulltown and sailed north as fast as the winds would allow."
His eyes swept the gathered men.
"Seems we arrived in time for trouble."
"Just so," Alaric said quietly.
Behind him, Rodrik had already stepped onto the dock.
The young man's face lit with relief as he spotted the familiar figures gathered there.
"Alaric!" he called.
He hurried forward, boots striking the wood of the pier with quick steps.
Alaric met him halfway.
The two embraced like brothers, having been raised as children beside one another before Rodrik had left to foster with his mother's family.
"It's good to see you," he said, breathless with relief. "We heard rumors in the Vale, something about fighting in King's Landing. I feared the worst."
Alaric did not answer.
Rodrik frowned slightly, noticing it for the first time.
He glanced around the gathered men.
His eyes passed over Ned, landing on the two men beside Alaric, acting as his guard for the day.
Ser Harald and Ser Desmond looked down slightly, unsure whether to say anything.
Then he looked back at Alaric.
"Where is my father?" he asked.
The words were simple.
Too simple.
No one spoke.
The wind moved softly across the harbor.
Rodrik's brow furrowed.
He glanced around again.
His gaze found Harald.
"Ser Harald?" he said. "You were with him."
Harald said nothing.
His jaw tightened.
Rodrik looked back to Alaric.
"Where is he?"
Still no answer.
A slow understanding began to creep into the young man's eyes.
Behind him, Ser Benjicot had gone very still.
He had seen the silence, the looks exchanged between the men.
His face hardened slightly.
He stepped forward.
"My brother," he said quietly, grief stretching along his countenance.
It was not a question.
Alaric met his gaze.
For a long moment, neither man spoke.
Then Alaric nodded his head once.
That was all.
Benjicot closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, the grief was there, but it was buried beneath years of hard discipline.
Rodrik stared between them, confusion turning slowly into dread.
"No," he said quietly.
He looked at Alaric again.
"No."
Alaric's voice was low.
"He died in King's Landing." Alaric looked away from Rodrik to the sea, no doubt recalling the scene. "He died for me, the stubborn old bastard." Both Tempest and Cinder's ears drooped as they nudged Alaric with their snouts, comforting him
Rodrik's breath caught.
"He held the gate of the Red Keep while we escaped," Alaric continued. "The portcullis fell before he could withdraw."
The words struck like hammer blows.
Rodrik stood frozen.
For a moment, it seemed as if he had not understood.
Then his shoulders trembled.
"He… stayed behind?" he asked hoarsely.
Harald stepped forward then.
"He held the line," the older Stark said quietly. "First with a dozen brave men, then later… alone."
Rodrik's eyes filled slowly.
"He always said he would die sword in hand," he whispered, no doubt his thoughts turbulent.
Ned himself could empathize with the young man, having lost his own father and even brother around the same age.
The harbor had grown very quiet around them.
Even the dockworkers had stopped to watch.
Rodrik bowed his head.
For several long moments, he said nothing.
Then he drew a slow, shaky breath.
"My father once told me," he said softly, "that a Stark must be ready to die for his pack."
His hands clenched slowly at his sides.
"I just… never thought it would be him."
Ser Benjicot placed a heavy hand on his nephew's shoulder.
Rodrik did not pull away.
Alaric watched him silently.
Finally, Rodrik lifted his head again.
His eyes were wet, but there was something harder in them now.
Something colder.
"Did the lions kill him?" he asked.
Alaric's voice was quiet.
"Yes."
Rodrik nodded slowly.
Then he looked south, toward lands far beyond the harbor.
"When do we march?" he asked.
Smalljon Umber grinned grimly beside the pier.
"A Stark after all," he muttered.
Alaric studied the young man for a moment.
Then he spoke.
"Soon."
The wind off the Bite howled faintly across the harbor.
And somewhere far to the south, the lions of Casterly Rock had begun a war they did not yet understand.