"Long live the King in the North!""Long live the King in the North!""Long live the King in the North!"The chants echoed through the hall like rolling thunder. Voices overlapped and rose in waves, the sound bouncing off the stone walls until it seemed Riverrun itself trembled under the weight of it. The lords of the North and the Riverlands cried out together, their passion unrestrained, their excitement almost feverish.Behind Jon, the sound rumbled on and on, but he no longer cared. His face remained calm, unreadable.It might have seemed that he had failed to stop Robb from declaring himself king, but in truth, he had never meant to stop him at all. His sharp words had only been a test, a way to probe whether Robb—or the lords gathered here—would listen to reason.The result was clear. They would not.The men of the North, stubborn and prideful, had chosen their path. To Jon, it was a short-sighted one. That alone was enough to confirm what he already knew: there was no need for him to remain here any longer.His plan was already forming. He would look ahead to the Blackwater. There, he intended to cooperate with Stannis Baratheon. If he fought for Stannis and helped secure victory, there would be no question—he would be rewarded with a title, perhaps even a fief in the Westerlands once Tywin Lannister fell.He had already made his position known before every noble in the hall. Word of his defiance would spread, and when it reached Stannis, it would be seen as proof of his loyalty to law and order. His "background" would be cleansed in the eyes of the one man who valued legitimacy above all else.Yes—Stannis would trust him. Perhaps even consider him useful, someone who could divide the loyalties of House Stark.But Jon had no interest in Winterfell.If he were only Eddard Stark's bastard—if he did not carry with him the mind of a transmigrator—then the best path for the North would have been plain: ally with Renly.That alliance would have been the quickest way to bring down the Lannisters. Renly, weak in both will and ability, would never hold the realm together. Once vengeance was secured, the North could consolidate power, build influence in the Riverlands, and in time, perhaps even scheme for the Iron Throne itself.The middle strategy, as Stevron Frey had suggested, was to wait. Sit back, let Renly and Stannis clash, and throw support to whichever one emerged victorious.But crowning Robb king? That was the worst choice of all.It bound the North and the Riverlands together, true, but it also cut them off from every other path. They would be isolated, without allies, fighting a war on all sides.Jon knew what history taught: Build high walls, store grain, endure. That was how kingdoms survived. Yet the lords were too hungry for vengeance, too blinded by pride. They would not listen.Jon was different. He was a transmigrator. He knew Renly's army would not last. He knew of the shadow assassin Stannis held—an unstoppable, unnatural weapon that could end a man's life in the dark, no matter the walls or guards around him.Even so, Jon judged that crowning Robb was the worst of all possible moves. With Renly, negotiation with Stannis would remain open. With Stannis, negotiation with Renly might still be possible. But with Robb crowned king, every door was slammed shut.If Robb had shown restraint, Jon would have stood by him. He would have helped him destroy Tywin and secure the Westerlands. That would have been enough. But now, the crown upon Robb's head meant more battles, more blood, and endless wars.So Jon had resolved: he would leave.Still, before he went, he would collect what was owed to him.On the Green Fork, he had saved many lives—sons, heirs, and kin of the very lords gathered here. Among them was Harrion Karstark, son of Lord Rickard himself. Favors like those could be traded. Jon would demand his due—arms, armor, horses—and with them, he would march east to the Mountains of the Moon. There, he would raise his own men, train them, and forge true strength in preparation for the Blackwater.Yes, there was still time. Enough time to train them, enough time to shape them into the force he would need.As he thought, a faint shimmer of light appeared before his eyes."Remaining upgrades: 1."A small smile curved Jon's lips. At least something still favored him.Then he felt eyes upon him.Ramsay Bolton, the Bastard of the Dreadfort, stood at the door. His expression was cruel, his gaze mocking. Malice and glee danced together in his pale eyes. He saw Jon's defiance as suicide, a fool's blunder that would doom him in northern politics. In Ramsay's mind, Jon had cut his own throat.Jon's eyes flicked toward him, his voice low, dangerous, meant only for Ramsay's ears. "What are you staring at? Don't forget—your life belongs to me."A shiver ran down Ramsay's spine despite his efforts to sneer.Arrogant bastard, Ramsay seethed inwardly. One day, I will be Lord of the Dreadfort. One day, you will still be nothing. Unless you kill your own brother, you will never rise above me.His thoughts were broken when another young noble approached the doorway. Bowing respectfully, he spoke."Lord Jon, His Majesty Robb requests your presence to discuss the coming battle plan."Ramsay's smirk faltered. Why does Robb still trust him?But Jon ignored him and stepped back into the hall.Inside, the mood was icy. Lords who had once respected him now turned their backs, as if he were invisible. To them, his opposition to Robb's coronation had marked him as an outcast.Only three faces acknowledged him.Catelyn's expression was dull, heavy with despair. She had surely realized what the future now held: hardship and endless struggle.Robb was tense, his shoulders stiff. For all his pride in his crown, his brother's defiance weighed heavily upon him.Brynden Tully's face remained still, unreadable, though Jon could guess Robb had given him the task of keeping the meeting orderly.There was one more set of eyes watching him—wide and bright.A boy, no older than eight or nine, bore the sigil of the ploughman upon his chest. Jon remembered: House Darry, loyal to the Targaryens until the end, their line nearly wiped out by Ser Gregor. This boy, Lymond Darry, was likely the last male heir.Now the child stared at Jon with open admiration. Perhaps Jon's words earlier, his boldness in the face of the crowd, had struck a chord in the boy's young heart. At his age, songs of heroes and brave defiance held powerful sway.Jon sat quietly in the southwest corner, choosing a place where he would not stand out. Yet the lords around him shifted their chairs, deliberately moving further away. Their rejection was plain.Ironically, it only made him more noticeable.At last, Brynden rose, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs."Jon," he said, his eyes steady on him, "we have won two victories in the Riverlands already. Now we prepare to reclaim the lands we have lost. What counsel do you give us?"Jon's head throbbed faintly. Counsel? The only counsel I have is to leave you to your folly.The truth seemed obvious to him. Tywin's host was still whole, still looming. The garrison at Golden Tooth was strong, watchful. To scatter their strength now, to chase after castles and villages while Tywin remained at large—that was madness.The old wisdom rang in his mind: Lose land to save men, and the land may be regained. Lose men to save land, and both will be lost.But these lords, blinded by rage and pride, would not understand.He no longer had the will to argue. His passion to resist had burned out. All he wanted now was to secure the arms and armor he needed, and then leave.So he gave them what they wanted to hear."I will hold Tywin's main force on the eastern front with Lord Bolton," Jon said, his voice steady, "to create the conditions needed for reclaiming the lost strongholds."Heads turned.. Lords who had ignored him now glanced his way.The boy is sensible after all, some thought.At least he does not stir trouble again, others murmured.Robb's face eased. For all his pride as the King in the North, without Jon's support, he felt uneasy. Hearing his brother speak in agreement—even in part—lightened his heart.Jon folded his arms, his expression unreadable. Inside, his thoughts were already far away—on the Westerlands, on the Blackwater, and on the future that belonged to him alone.---
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