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Chapter66-"Rejection"
The wind blew cold and steady across the docks of White Harbor, tugging at cloaks and whipping across the sails of ships preparing for the long voyage across the Narrow Sea. Seagulls cried overhead. Salt hung in the air, mixing with the smell of pinewood, wet rope, and the sea.
Cregan Stark stood at the edge of the pier, his black cloak billowing like smoke behind him. Beside him loomed Shadow, his direwolf — massive, silent, and still. The beast's red eyes scanned the harbor with a predator's calm.
Behind Cregan, nearly two hundred Frostguard and Northern warriors, hand-picked and battle-hardened, waited with discipline. Each wore black-iron pauldrons and wolf-emblazoned cloaks, forged in Frosthall's forges, their blades sharp, armor lacquered, and faces grim. These were not mere soldiers — these were loyal sons of the North, sworn to their Bloody Wolf.
Further behind, wagons loaded with provisions, sealed crates of black steel, and barrels of Frosthall wine were being moved toward the holds of their trade cogs and war-galleys. They were not just heading to war — they were bringing their presence, their power, and their business to the other side of the world.
And at Cregan's side, stood Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene Sand.
Obara, in riding leathers and a steel-tipped spear slung over her back, eyed the warships like a general weighing her next battlefield. Nymeria Sand wore silks and leather beneath her dark traveling cloak, eyes scanning the harbor with cool calculation. Tyene, cheerful on the surface but deceptively lethal, hummed a Dornish tune, flipping a dagger between her fingers.
"You northerners love dramatic farewells," Tyene quipped.
Cregan didn't turn. "We don't do this often. When we say goodbye… it means something."
Nymeria watched him for a moment. "You're not like the other wolves."
"I'm not like many things," Cregan replied.
Obara let out a small grunt, adjusting the spear on her back. "You're still late. We've been packed and ready since sun-up."
Cregan gave her a smirk. "Let a man say goodbye to his home."
From the bluff above the docks, Jon Snow stood watching silently.
Down below, Jon had already tried to argue with Cregan earlier that morning.
> "Let me come," Jon had said.
"No," Cregan had replied.
"Robb can handle the North—"
"And you can keep him alive. You're his sword now, not mine."
Jon had clenched his jaw but said nothing more.
Now, Cregan turned and approached his men. His voice was calm, yet it carried like thunder across the dock.
"We go to Essos not just to defend our interests — but to remind the world that the North protects its own," he said. "We will not seek war… but if war finds us, we answer not with words, but with steel."
The soldiers pounded fists to chests in unison — "For Frosthall! For the North!"
Cregan gave a last look to the top of the bluff, meeting Jon's gaze. The brothers locked eyes, and for a moment, neither said a word. Then Jon gave him a small nod.
Cregan nodded back.
Shadow growled low and turned toward the ship, already bounding up the ramp like a ghost in the wind. The Sand Snakes followed, Obara leading, Nymeria behind her, and Tyene tossing her dagger into the air before catching it and laughing softly to herself.
Cregan was the last to board.
He paused one last time at the foot of the ramp, turning to look at his homeland.
The mists curled along the water. The sails snapped in the wind. Somewhere far away, a wolf howled.
> "Essos may be foreign land," Cregan muttered, "but it knows the scent of wolves."
The ship's horn bellowed as the sails unfurled.
The Bloody Wolf had left Westeros once more.
And this time, war was following close behind.
---
King's Landing – Red Keep, Before Jon Arryn's Death
The corridor outside the king's solar was quiet, save for the distant murmur of the court and the gentle rattle of armor from the Lannister guards stationed at every corner. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, walked steadily with a sealed parchment in hand — the wax still fresh, the direwolf sigil of House Stark staring back at him like a silent warning.
He paused outside the heavy oak doors and gave a firm knock.
"Enter," came the booming voice of Robert Baratheon, already half-irritated.
Jon opened the door and stepped inside. Robert was seated near the window, wine cup in hand, his crown resting on the table beside him. His eyes lifted at the sight of his old friend.
"Ah, Jon," the king grumbled. "Tell me good news for once, eh?"
Jon stepped forward and handed him the scroll. "A raven arrived this morning from the North. Lord Stark has sent his reply regarding the marriage proposal."
Robert's face lit up for a heartbeat. "Finally. So—what did they say? Do they have demands? Gold? Titles?"
Jon hesitated. "They've… rejected the offer, Your Grace."
The cup slammed down on the wooden table, splashing red wine across the polished surface.
"What?" Robert barked. "They refused? They refused their king?!" His voice echoed across the solar. "Do they not see the honor in this? The alliance, the security it brings to the realm?!"
"Calm yourself, Robert," Jon said, measured and steady. "This is not rebellion. It's political prudence."
Robert's brows furrowed, his rage slowly simmering beneath the surface. "Political prudence? From Ned?"
Jon exhaled. "Their reasoning is that Sansa Stark should be wed in the North — that it's been generations since a Stark maiden married within her own lands. They're appealing to tradition and Northern pride."
Robert snorted. "Then they can marry the younger one in the North. What does that have to do with my offer? Sansa is pretty. She's quiet, courtly. She'd make a fine queen. I want her for Joffrey."
"You want her," Jon repeated softly, "but it's not about what you want anymore. It's about trust. And you lost a great deal of that when your son threatened their kin."
Robert's face twisted. "He's a boy! Boys fight. He pushed a girl and now we're to lose the North over it? Don't tell me Eddard's entire brood is so delicate."
"They're not," Jon replied. "That's precisely the point. The North remembers, Robert. They protect their own, and they never forget who threatened them. You know Eddard. He would've found a way to accept if he believed it safe. But his sons? They're different. And your queen's presence at court doesn't ease their minds."
Robert's anger faltered, turning into frustration. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. "The realm is hanging by threads. Dorne whispering, the Reach and North growing too rich… this alliance could have kept things calm."
Jon nodded. "Perhaps. But forcing it now might do the opposite."
The king sighed heavily, staring out the open window toward the courtyard below. "Damn Ned. Always so stubborn. Always so... bloody Northern."
Jon, quietly, "Perhaps it's time you visit the North again. As king, not just as a friend."
Robert chuckled bitterly. "What would I even say to them? Sorry my son shoved your kin? Now marry him anyway?"
"No," Jon said. "You tell them you respect their decision… and you wait. For a better moment. For a better path."
Robert grunted and reached again for his wine. "Bah. You always say wait."
"Sometimes waiting is what keeps the blood from flowing," Jon said.
Robert took a long drink, then muttered, "Fine. Let it be. But gods help us if the boy ends up taking after his mother."
Jon didn't answer. He simply turned, placing the raven scroll on the table and walking quietly from the solar.
Behind him, the King of the Seven Kingdoms sat brooding in his chair — a storm barely kept at bay.
---
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