Thom woke before dawn as he always did, but this morning he took a moment to simply lie in bed and listen to the sounds of his family sleeping around him.
His wife Ana breathed softly beside him, her face peaceful in sleep, one hand resting on the pillow near her head. In the small adjoining room—barely more than an alcove separated by a curtain he could hear the gentle sounds of his three children: Beth, who was seven; little Thom, who had just turned five; and baby Alys, who would be two come spring. Beth snored slightly, a soft whistling sound that always made him smile. Little Thom sometimes talked in his sleep, mumbling about adventures and games. Alys would occasionally whimper and resettle herself.
The cottage was warm, the hearth still holding embers from last night's fire, and through the window he could see the first pale light of morning touching the sky, turning it from black to deep blue, to the promise of dawn.
He sat up carefully, not wanting to wake Ana. She had worked very hard yesterday—helping him in the fields until midday, then looking after the children, cooking their evening meal, cleaning the cottage, and mending clothes. She was the one keeping it all together, he thought, with a surge of warmth in his chest. When he was tired or discouraged, when the weight of providing for five people felt too heavy, Ana was there with a steady hand and a kind word. She never complained, never faltered. He loved her for it, loved her more than he could ever properly express.
He stood and walked through his home, the cottage that had been in his family for three generations. It had been his father's home, and his grandfather's before that—though they had not survived to see these peaceful times they now lived in. His old man had died during the last terrible winter under Ironborn rule, starved and frozen, buried in a shallow grave because the ground had been too hard for proper digging. Other loved ones had followed soon after.
But how different the house had become in the last three years.
The roof no longer leaked. Thom had been able to afford proper thatching, thick and well laid, that kept out even the heaviest rains. The walls had been properly repaired with good mortar and stone, no longer letting in drafts of cold air through cracks and gaps. The floor was level and clean, the packed earth replaced with fitted stones that Ana could sweep easily. And there was furniture now real furniture, not just rough-hewn benches including a proper bed frame and a table large enough for the whole family.
And of course, there was food. Always food.
Thom walked to the larder, a small storage room that his father had built but which had always stood mostly empty in Thom's youth. He opened the door and stood there for a moment, still marveling, even after three years, at what he found inside.
Salted pork hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Dried meat wrapped in cloth. Three wheels of cheese. Sacks of grain and flour, more than his family could eat in months. Preserved vegetables in clay jars carrots, turnips, onions, all put up properly so they would not spoil. Even some honey, golden and sweet, something he had bought on his trip to Cyrodiil three days ago. A luxury he had never even tasted as a child.
His children would not go hungry. That simple fact still brought tears to his eyes sometimes when he let himself think about it.
He remembered the times of his youth, the three winters he had survived. The gnawing, constant hunger that made your belly ache and your mind fog, that made you weak and irritable and desperate. Watching his younger sister Mya waste away one terrible winter when he was nine, too weak from hunger to fight off a simple cough. She had been four years old. They had buried her wrapped in her only blanket because they had nothing else.
He remembered his mother's face, gaunt and hollow, as she gave her portions to the children and claimed she had already eaten. He had believed her when he was small, but as he grew older he had understood what she was doing. She had died too, though later, after the hunger had weakened her so much that even a minor illness carried her off.
The Ironborn had made it all worse. Every harvest they had come and taken the best of everything the finest grain, the fattest pigs and cattle leaving barely enough for their village to survive on. If you complained, if you resisted, they would ruin you in the worst ways.
Thom felt a pang in his chest at the memory of the girl he had been sweet on in his youth being dragged away by the damned Ironborn. He could do nothing. That was how it was. He had watched helplessly.
You learned to bow your head, to hand over what they demanded, and to be grateful they did not take more. That was how it was.
But that was before.
Before he had come.
The Herald of the Gods. The Dragonborn.
King Harald Stormcrown.
Thom dressed quickly in the dim light, pulling on his wool tunic and breeches, and then moved to a small shrine in the corner of the cottage. It was simple: a wooden carving of a weirwood tree with a seven-pointed star carved into its trunk, and next to it a carving of a dragon, the same sigil of House Stormcrown that flew from the banners in Cyrodiil.
He knelt before it, his knees settling on the worn cushion Ana had sewn for this purpose, and clasped his hands together.
"Old Gods," he whispered, "who watch from the trees and know all that passes beneath their branches, bless my family and keep them safe."
"Seven who are One," he continued, "Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger, guide us in your wisdom and protect us from harm."
"Nine Divines," he added, though he understood these gods less, knowing only what the keepers had taught him, "powers from beyond our world who stand with the Dragonborn, lend us your strength."
"And Herald of the Gods, may you be blessed in all you do. Protect our village, our kingdom…"
With the prayer over, Thom began to go about his day.
The rest of the family woke soon after. Beth emerged from the adjoining room first, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Little Thom followed, already chattering about something. Ana rose with baby Alys in her arms, the child still drowsy and clinging to her mother.
The morning rush began as it always did. Thom helped Ana with the chores. They broke their fast together at the table.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Ana chided gently to Beth, who was talking about one of her friends she had had a falling out with, a simple child's fight. "And eat proper. We've got to leave early. Don't want to be late for Keeper Jon's sermon."
"Aye, we should," Thom agreed, reaching for another slice of cheese. "The keeper said it were important, didn't he? Word from the King himself."
Yesterday, Keeper Jon had come to their village. Heartwood was a village of one hundred and fifty souls, nearly sixteen families working the surrounding fields. They lived under Lord Vypren. The keeper had come bearing word from the King himself and had told them it was important that everyone hear his sermon that morning.
After breakfast, they dressed in their finest clothes. Of course, the children being children, Beth and little Thom wanted to go play with the other village children rather than attend a sermon.
"But Ma, can't we just go after?" Beth whined. "Me and Sara wanted to—"
"You'll do no such thing," Ana said firmly. "This be the King's word we're hearin', not some market day gossip. You'll come and you'll listen proper."
"But—but…" little Thom complained.
"I don't care," Thom said, his voice taking on the tone that meant the discussion was over. "Keeper Jon says it's important, so we go. All of us. And you'll sit quiet and listen, or you'll be muckin' out the pig pen for a week. Understand?"
"Yes, Pa," both children mumbled, suitably cowed.
They left the house together, Ana carrying Alys on her hip, the older children walking ahead but staying close, as they had been taught.
Thom saw his neighbors emerging from their cottages as well, all dressed similarly, all heading in the same direction. He smiled and waved.
There was Old Wat the blacksmith, whose forge now had proper tools instead of the broken scraps they had made do with under the Ironborn. He walked with a slight limp from an old injury, but his face was cheerful.
There was Jennis, who had lost two sons to the reavers during a raid ten years back, but whose remaining children were thriving now. Her daughter had just gotten married, and her son was in Fairmarket, learning under a merchant.
Young Pate and his new wife Lysa walked hand in hand, just married last month in a ceremony blessed by Keeper Jon himself. They were both beaming, still in that first flush of new marriage.
They reached the village square, which was already filling up with people. Families clustered together, children darting between adults, the murmur of conversation growing as more villagers arrived.
Thom spotted three other men of his age near the well and made his way over, Ana going to stand with some of the other women. The men, Ralf, Martyn, and Gerold, had all grown up with Thom and survived the same hardships. All three of them had been away at Lord Vypren's castle and had only come back yesterday.
"Thom!" Ralf called out as he approached. "What's the word from the capital? You just came back, didn't you?"
"Aye," Thom said.
"Well?" Martyn pressed, leaning in. "What's happenin'? We've been hearin' all sorts of wild stories. Some say there were dragons, others say the Stranger himself walked the streets."
Thom shook his head. "Not quite that, but bad enough. It's all true about the septons plottin' to kill our King. They say these septons turned to some dark god and brought forth some abomination, some monster that killed the King in the North."
All three men looked shocked, their faces going pale.
"Truly?" Gerold whispered.
Thom nodded gravely. He himself could hardly believe what he had heard when he was in Cyrodiil, but then he had seen the battlefield with his own eyes. The keeper there had taken him and the others who had come to trade to see it, the scorched earth where King Harald was said to have flown in on wings of light and defeated nearly ten thousand Warrior's Sons who had planned to massacre the faithful of the Covenant, poor and innocent men and women just like him and his family.
The ground had still been black with ash, the smell of burnt flesh lingering even days after. They said the King had rained fire from the sky like divine judgment itself.
"The King was apparently injured in the fightin'," Thom continued. "But of course, with the gods' blessin', he was healed. Saw him meself, actually, from a distance."
They all looked relieved at that, shoulders relaxing.
"I also saw they were recruitin' for the Legion," Thom added. "Criers all over callin' for able men to join. Good pay, they said."
Nearby, some young teens who had been half-listening perked up at that.
"The Legion!" one of them said excitedly, a gangly boy of maybe fifteen. "I gotta join!"
"I want to join too!" another teen declared. "Fight for the King! Be a hero!"
"You'll do no such thing," the first boy's father said sharply, grabbing his son by the shoulder. "You won't be fightin' in any wars, Joss. I didn't raise you to get yourself killed."
The teens looked mutinous.
"But the King needs us!" Joss protested. "They're recruitin'! We could serve!"
"You can serve by stayin' alive and helpin' with the harvest," his father said firmly. "Now hush, the keeper's arrivin'."
Just then, the crowd began to quiet as Keeper Jon made his way to the center of the square. He climbed up onto a small wooden platform that had been set up for this purpose so everyone could see and hear him clearly.
Thom went and stood with his wife. Ana shifted baby Alys in her arms. Beth and little Thom pressed close to their parents, sensing the serious mood of the adults around them.
Keeper Jon raised his hands, and the last of the conversations died away.
"Good people of Heartwood," he began, his voice carrying across the square. "I welcome you all this mornin'."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled villagers.
"Today I must speak to you of somethin' difficult," Keeper Jon said, his expression becoming more serious. "You have all heard rumors, whispers, stories from the capital. And I am here to tell you that much of what you have heard is true."
The murmuring began immediately, people shifting uneasily.
"The treacherous septons' plot to kill our King was real," Jon continued, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the noise. "There were those who called themselves servants of the Seven but who had turned from the light and into darkness. They conspired with corrupt maesters to murder King Harald, to destroy the Covenant, and to bring ruin upon all we have built these past years."
Everyone began murmuring louder now, expressions of shock and anger crossing faces throughout the crowd.
Thom only nodded, meeting the eyes of Ralf, Martyn, and Gerold across the crowd. They looked back at him with grim understanding. He had told them the truth.
"But the gods protected our King!" Keeper Jon declared, and hope lit his face. "The Herald of the Gods cannot be so easily struck down!"
Cheers erupted, and Thom found himself cheering as well.
"The septons made deals with dark gods, forces from beyond our world, to strike against our King. And it is these dark forces that I wish to warn you of today. Our blessed King wants you to be warned, wants you to understand what threatens us, so that you may be vigilant and protected."
The crowd shifted, attention sharpening. Thom felt Ana's hand grip his tighter, and he squeezed back reassuringly.
"There are forces in this world that hate all that is good," Keeper Jon continued, his voice carrying clearly across the silent square. "Forces that seek to corrupt, to destroy, to twist the natural order into something foul. They are the Deceivers, for they come not honestly but through lies and false promises."
Thom felt a chill run down his spine despite the morning warmth.
"They are not of this world," Jon said. "They exist beyond the boundaries of what we can comprehend, always seeking ways to break through, to influence, to corrupt the souls of mortals for their own terrible purposes."
He began to pace slowly on the platform, his robes swaying with each step.
"There is the Lord of Domination, who seeks to enslave all living things, to break their will and make them puppets dancing on strings. He whispers to those who crave power over others, promising them strength if they will only kneel and serve him first. But his promises are chains, and those who accept them become slaves themselves."
"There is the Lord of Destruction," Jon continued, his voice rising. "He delights in chaos and revolution and the tearing down of all order. He offers mortals the power to overthrow their masters, to burn down what exists, but what he does not tell them is that he cares nothing for what comes after, only for the destruction itself. He would see the whole world reduced to ash and ruin."
"There are others," Jon said, his voice dropping lower, almost to a whisper. "The Webspinner, who delights in murder and betrayal and secret plots. The Lord of Madness, who drives men to insanity with his gifts, turning loved ones into gibbering wrecks."
He paused, looking around at the increasingly frightened faces.
"There is the Prince of Pestilence, who spreads disease and plague, who delights in watching the healthy waste away into nothing. There is the Lady of Decay, who corrupts all that is wholesome and turns beauty into rot. There is the Lord of Nightmares, who invades our very dreams and turns sleep itself into torture."
Thom unconsciously pulled his family closer. Ana had gone pale, and even little Thom had stopped fidgeting, sensing the serious mood.
"Why do I tell you this?" Jon asked, looking around at his frightened flock. "To scare you? No, my friends. I tell you this so that you may be prepared, so that you may recognize their influence when you see it, so that you may resist."
He pointed upward toward the sky.
"The Nine Divines stand watch over our world," he said, his voice gaining strength and conviction. "They are the Protectors who guard the boundaries between our reality and the realm of the Deceivers. They fight on our behalf, holding back the darkness so that we may live in the light."
Hope began to kindle on faces throughout the crowd.
"This is the natural order of things," Jon explained. "The Nine Divines Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time; Arkay, the God of Life and Death; Dibella, the Goddess of Beauty; Julianos, the God of Wisdom; Kynareth, the Goddess of Air; Mara, the Goddess of Love; Stendarr, the God of Mercy; Talos, the God of War and Governance; and Zenithar, the God of Work and Commerce protect us from the Deceivers while the Old Gods and the New Gods watch over us in their own ways."
He spread his arms wide, his voice becoming passionate.
"And their chosen champion, their Herald, rules over us! King Harald Stormcrown, who brought the truth of the Covenant to us all, who enlightened us to the unity of the divine! He walks among us, fights for us, and protects us with power granted by the gods themselves!"
Cheers erupted from several people in the crowd.
"So yes, the Deceivers exist," Jon declared. "Yes, they are terrible and powerful. But we are not defenseless! We have the gods watching over us! We have the Nine Divines standing guard! We have our King fighting on our behalf!"
The fear in the crowd was transforming into something else—determination, faith, a sense of being protected rather than vulnerable.
"When you face temptation," Jon said, his voice becoming instructive, "when someone offers you power or wealth or revenge in exchange for just a small service, a small compromise, think of the Deceivers and their lies. Look to the Nine for guidance instead. Pray to the Old Gods for wisdom. Trust in the New Gods for strength."
He pointed at various people in the crowd as he spoke.
"When you hear of strange cults or secret societies promising hidden knowledge, remember that the Deceivers work through deception. Turn away from such things and stay in the light of honest worship."
"When you feel despair or anger or the desire to harm others, recognize that these feelings may be influenced by forces that want you to fall. Resist them. Choose kindness instead, as the Covenant teaches us. Choose community. Choose faith."
He lowered his arms, his expression becoming gentler.
"The world is more dangerous than many of us knew," Jon said quietly. "But it is also more protected than we might have believed. Trust in the gods. Trust in your King. Trust in each other. And together, we will stand against any darkness that threatens us."
He raised his right hand high.
"The Covenant watches over us!" he declared.
"The Covenant watches over us!" the crowd responded, their voices joining together.
"Its Herald protects us!"
"Its Herald protects us!" they echoed.
After the dramatic warning about the Deceivers, Keeper Jon continued with his usual sermon, speaking of the virtues of the Covenant: kindness to neighbors, honest work, devotion to family, and unity between the Old Gods and the New. He also alluded to coming conflicts.
"Our kingdom stands as a beacon of light, but the other kingdoms of Westeros... they have not yet embraced the truth of the Covenant. Some of their lords and septons remain blind to the unity of the divine. And where there is blindness, the Deceivers find fertile ground."
The crowd grew quiet, uneasy.
"In the kingdoms that neighbor us, septons preach hatred against the Covenant, where lords speak of our King as a heretic rather than a Herald. The Deceivers work through such division, turning brother against brother, kingdom against kingdom."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"I do not say this to frighten you, but to prepare you. There may be... conflict on the horizon. War, even. Not because our King seeks it—he desires only peace and prosperity for all—but because those who have been deceived may seek to destroy what we have built here."
Thom felt his stomach clench with fear. War. He had lived through the brutal times of the Ironborn, had seen what violence could do to common folk. The thought of armies marching through these fields again, of his children going hungry because soldiers had taken the harvest...
"But if such a time comes," Jon said, his voice rising with conviction, "we will not stand alone! The gods are with us! Our King, blessed by the Nine Divines themselves, will protect us! And we, the faithful, must stand ready to protect what we have been given!"
He spread his arms wide.
"The Covenant watches over us! Its Herald protects us! And together, we are stronger than any force of darkness!"
The crowd responded with fervent agreement, voices raised in unity.
After the sermon ended, Thom could see that everyone had a look of determination on their faces, almost zealous. The fear had been transformed into something harder, more resolute. These were people who had lived through hardship and found prosperity. They would not give it up easily.
He saw the teens from before, Joss and his friends, now speaking with their fathers. And to Thom's surprise, he saw Joss's father nodding, his expression grave but accepting.
"If war comes," he heard the man say, "better you serve in the King's Legion, where you'll be trained proper and fed well, than be pressed into service by Lord Vypren."
"Aye, Da," Joss said eagerly. "I'll serve the King! Protect the Covenant!"
Thom walked over to Ana, who stood holding Alys and watching Beth and little Thom with worried eyes.
"Everything will be fine," Thom said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He put his arm around her shoulders.
Ana leaned into him. "I hope so," she said quietly.
He watched as Beth and little Thom ran off to play with the other children, their laughter ringing across the square as they chased each other around the well. Baby Alys giggled in Ana's arms, reaching for her father.
Thom hoped the peace would last. If it did not, Thom had faith in his King to protect them.
Yes. Faith…
.
.
.
Barthogan walked through the cold stone corridors of Winterfell to the lord's chambers, where he knew his brother was.
Today was the day of Edric's coronation, and he needed to make sure his brother was ready, or as ready as he could be, given the circumstances.
The servants bowed low as he passed, murmuring "My prince" or "Prince Barthogan." Their faces were carefully neutral, but Barthogan could see the concern in their eyes. Everyone in Winterfell knew what state Edric was in.
Soon he arrived at the lord's solar, his father's room. Or it had been.
The guards at the door bowed as Barthogan entered, and he found Edric there, exactly where his uncle had said he would be.
His brother was curled in a chair by the hearth, which held only embers. Edric looked terrible. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat despite the chill in the room. His hands trembled so badly he could barely keep them still, and his eyes were wild and unfocused, darting around the room like a cornered animal searching for escape. His face was pale, almost greenish, and there was a sheen of sickness on his skin.
Barthogan sighed heavily.
Their uncle Brandon Snow had made Edric quit the drink two days ago, cutting him off completely after years of near-constant inebriation. This was what had happened since then: the shaking, the sweating, the sickness that came when a man's body rebelled against the sudden absence of what it had grown dependent on.
"Edric," Barthogan said gently, stepping into the room.
Edric's head snapped up, and for a moment he did not seem to recognize his brother. His eyes were glazed, confused. Then clarity returned, and with it, desperation.
"Bart," he croaked, his voice hoarse and raw. "Bart, please. Just one drink. One sip. I promise, just one sip and I'll be fine. I'll be able to do this. Just one—"
"You know I can't do that," Barthogan said, moving closer but keeping his voice calm and steady.
"Please!" Edric's voice rose to something approaching a wail. "You don't understand! I need it! I can't think without it! My hands won't stop shaking! My head feels like it's splitting open! Just one cup of wine! Just a little ale! Anything!"
Then he seemed to crumple in on himself, curling tighter in the chair, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.
"I don't want to be king," he said, his voice breaking. "I can't be king. I'm not... I'm not Father. I'm not Brandon. I'm not even you. I'm just..." He started to shake his head. "Just leave me alone. Let me go back to... to before. I'll take my wife and go to her home in White Harbor. I don't want any of this. I never wanted any of this."
Barthogan knelt beside the chair, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Edric, listen to me—"
"Brandon was supposed to be king!" Edric shouted suddenly, pulling away and half rising from the chair. "Brandon! Not me! Never me! I was never supposed to... Father knew! Father knew I couldn't do this!"
His face contorted with pain and self-loathing.
"He knew I was worthless! A drunk! A failure! He would have chosen you instead of me if he could have!"
Then his expression twisted into something uglier, and he turned on Barthogan with sudden fury, his grief transforming into rage that needed a target.
"This is all YOUR fault!" he screamed, trying to stand but stumbling, catching himself on the chair arm. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't made Father go south! If it hadn't been for you and your southern ambitions! Father would still be alive! Brandon wouldn't have... Serena wouldn't be..."
His voice cracked, but the anger pushed through. "You wanted this alliance so badly! You pushed Father to go to that cursed tourney! You and that sorcerer king you worship! This is YOUR FAULT!"
He lunged at Barthogan, hands reaching to grab, to strike, to do something with the rage and fear and withdrawal coursing through him.
Barthogan caught him easily, holding his brother's wrists as Edric flailed weakly. Then he pulled Edric into an embrace, wrapping his arms around him as his brother struggled.
"I can't do this," Edric sobbed against Barthogan's shoulder, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. "I can't. I can't. Bart, please. You can be king. You should be king. You're strong, you're smart, you know how to deal with the lords, you—"
"Edric—"
"I'll renounce it!" Edric pulled back, his eyes bright with desperate hope, tears still streaming down his face. "I'll renounce the crown! I'll tell them all I'm unfit! That you should rule! They'll listen! They have to listen! I'll tell them I'm a drunk, that I can barely stand without wine in me!"
He grabbed at Barthogan's tunic, his shaking hands bunching the fabric. "Please, Bart. Please. You take it. You be king. I'll support you. I'll tell everyone you're the better choice. Just... just let me go. Let me disappear. Let me go somewhere quiet where I don't have to be... this."
"It doesn't work like that," Barthogan said gently but firmly. "The succession is clear. You're Father's second son, and with Brandon having taken the black—"
"I DON'T WANT IT!" Edric screamed, his voice breaking.
"Listen to me, brother," Barthogan said, gripping Edric's shoulders. "Some lords still think exactly what you just said. That this is all my fault. That I manipulated Father into going south, that I'm responsible for his death, that I'm some southern sympathizer who would sell the North to the Heartlands."
He looked Edric directly in the eyes. "If I take the crown, there would be civil war. Half the lords would never accept me. They'd look to Cousin Jonnel Stark, or maybe even the Starks of the Barrowlands, and crown one of them over me. The North would tear itself apart."
Edric's face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks.
"I can't," he whispered, his voice raw with despair. "Bart, I can't. I can't even... I can't even give the North heirs."
He looked away, shame written across his features. "Years of drinking... my seed is weak. Useless. I'll never give the North an heir."
"We'll worry about that later," Barthogan said, though the revelation troubled him. "For now, you just need to get through today. Through the coronation. One step at a time, Edric. I'll be there with you. Uncle Brandon will be there. We'll help you through it."
"I don't want help," Edric said, but the fight had gone out of him. He sagged in Barthogan's arms, exhausted.
The door opened, and Brandon Snow entered, his expression concerned.
"Is everything alright? The ceremony begins in an hour and—" He stopped, taking in Edric's state. "Ah."
"Yes," Barthogan said, standing and helping Edric back into the chair. "We're fine. We'll be ready."
Brandon Snow looked deeply skeptical but nodded slowly.
For the next hour, Barthogan stayed with his brother, speaking quietly and reassuringly. He helped Edric wash his face, combed his hair, and made sure his clothes were proper for the ceremony. Slowly, gradually, Edric calmed. The shaking didn't stop entirely, but it lessened. The wild look faded from his eyes, replaced by something like resignation.
"Just get through today," Barthogan repeated. "That's all you have to do. Just today."
Edric nodded numbly.
=========
The coronation ceremony took place in the Godswood, as was proper for the Kings in the North who held to the Old Gods.
The lords of the North assembled in a circle around the heart tree, their breath misting in the cold air, their faces solemn.
Barthogan stood among them and could feel the division in the assembled nobility as clearly as if a line had been drawn down the middle of the grove.
Half of them glared at him with barely concealed hostility—Lord Ryswell most prominently, his face twisted with disgust whenever his eyes fell on Barthogan. These were the traditionalists, the ones who blamed him for his father's death, who saw his southern sympathies as a betrayal of Northern values. They would have preferred almost anyone else on the throne.
But the other half seemed to prefer him over Edric. Lord Dustin watched him with calculating eyes. Lord Karstark nodded slightly when their gazes met. Even Lord Bolton, standing at the edge of the circle, appeared to be evaluating Barthogan with something approaching approval.
Edric knelt before the weirwood tree, his hands pressed into the snow, his head bowed. Barthogan could see his brother trembling, though whether from cold or withdrawal or fear, he couldn't say.
Brandon Snow stepped forward, carrying the ancient crown of the Kings of Winter. It was a simple circlet of dark iron and bronze, decorated with nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of longswords. It had been worn by Stark kings for thousands of years, from before the Andals came, from before recorded history.
Their uncle placed the crown upon Edric's head with steady hands.
"Edric of House Stark," Brandon Snow intoned, his voice carrying across the silent grove, "Eighth of his name, King in the North and of the First Men, Lord of Winterfell, I crown you in the sight of gods and men."
"Long may he reign," the assembled lords chorused, though some voices were notably more enthusiastic than others.
Edric stood slowly, swaying slightly, and Barthogan tensed, ready to catch him if he fell. But his brother managed to stay upright.
Brandon Snow's voice rose, powerful and commanding. "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
The lords began to chant, their voices joining together in the ancient acclamation.
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
The sound echoed through the Godswood, through Winterfell, declaring to the realm that the North had a new king.
Barthogan joined his voice to theirs.
======
After the ceremony, as the lords filed back toward the Great Hall for the coronation feast, Brandon appeared at Barthogan's side as they walked through the covered bridge.
"You will need to build up your power base soon," his uncle said quietly, his voice pitched so only Barthogan could hear.
Barthogan looked at him sharply. "That's treasonous talk, Uncle."
"I'm sorry, Bart, but it's the truth," Brandon said, his voice low and urgent. "Edric won't change. He's drinking again already. Did you see him take the cup from Lord Manderly? He drained it in one gulp, couldn't even wait until the feast properly started. He'll drink himself to an early grave, and sooner rather than later."
Barthogan said nothing, because he couldn't deny it. He had seen the desperate relief on Edric's face when Desmond Manderly had offered him wine, had watched his brother's hands stop shaking the moment the alcohol entered his system.
"You need to marry," Brandon continued, keeping pace with him. "Perhaps a Karstark. Mara Karstark is of age and unmarried. Or even a Ryswell, though that would be harder, but it would consolidate the western houses and bring them to your side."
He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "Make yourself indispensable to the realm, so when the time comes—and it will come, Bart, sooner than you think."
"I'm not talking about this," Barthogan said firmly, quickening his pace.
"You'll have to eventually," Brandon called after him. "Denying reality doesn't change it!"
But Barthogan kept walking.
Throughout the day, though, he couldn't escape the reality of what his uncle had said.
He watched as lords approached him rather than Edric when they wanted decisions made or disputes settled. Even some who had been part of Brandon's faction, the traditionalists who had opposed the alliance with the Heartlands, were coming around to his side now.
Edric retreated further into his cups with each passing hour.
By evening, when the feast was in full swing, the new King in the North was so drunk he could barely stand.
Barthogan watched from across the hall as Edric tried to rise from the high table and nearly fell. His wife Desdemona caught him, and two servants rushed to help. Together, the three of them half carried, half dragged the King toward the doors, heading for the royal chambers.
Lords turned to watch them go. Some shook their heads in disgust. Others looked away, embarrassed. A few exchanged knowing glances that said, without words: This won't last.
A king without a crown, Barthogan realized, watching his brother disappear through the doors. That was what he was now.
And perhaps, if Edric continued on this path, Barthogan would find himself crowned soon enough.
The thought brought him no joy. Only great sadness, and a terrifying sense of inevitability that he couldn't escape.
He had never wanted to be king.
But the gods, it seemed, had other plans.
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Queen Sharra Arryn sat in the high-backed chair in the council chamber of the Eyrie, listening to her advisors with growing weariness. The mountain wind howled outside the windows, a constant companion at this altitude, but it was nothing compared to the storm of indignation filling the chamber.
Lord Benedar Royce stood at the head of the table, his face red with righteous fury. Beside him sat Lord Edwyn Redfort, Lord Gerold Corbray with his ancestral sword Lady Forlorn at his hip, Lord Oswulf Hunter, whose zealotry was well known throughout the Vale, and Lord Symond Belmore, who nodded along with every angry pronouncement.
"It is an affront to everything the Faith holds sacred!" Lord Royce declared, slamming his fist on the table. "King Harald blames the Faith itself for unleashing that abomination that killed King Torrhen! The gall of it! The absolute blasphemy!"
"And his claims about the maesters," Lord Redfort added, shaking his head in disgust. "How stupid does he think we are? A secret order within the Citadel controlling the Seven Kingdoms from the shadows? It's madness!"
Sharra remained silent, her hands folded in her lap, her expression carefully neutral.
"The Faith has been ridiculed," Lord Corbray said, his voice tight with anger. "Septons accused of conspiracy and murder, Warrior's Sons massacred by his sorcery. This is the beginning, my Queen. The beginning of the Covenant spreading its poison beyond the Heartlands. If we don't act now, the heresy will consume all of Westeros!"
"Harald must have created the abomination himself," Lord Hunter proclaimed, his voice rising. "Used his dark sorcery to transform that poor Stark girl into a monster, then blamed it all on innocent septons who were merely on a holy mission from the High Septon himself! All to further his heresy, to justify his persecution of the faithful!"
Sharra sighed quietly as her lords worked themselves into greater fury, feeding off each other's outrage like kindling catching fire.
"This is our opportunity," Lord Royce said, leaning forward across the table. "We should strike now while the heretic is weakened. The reports say he's bedridden, barely able to walk, his magic depleted. We take the Saltpans, secure the crossing at the Trident, and then invade the Heartlands proper. Save the souls of its people from this heretic king!"
"Yes!" Lord Hunter was especially zealous, his voice rising almost to a shout. "The Seven call us to action! We must be their instrument! We must cleanse the Heartlands of this corruption before it spreads like a plague to the rest of the realm!"
"My lords," Sharra said quietly, finally speaking. Her voice was calm and measured, cutting through their fervor like a cool breeze. "It was grain from the Heartlands that helped us recover after the war with the mountain clans. King Harald's aid, given freely, saved thousands of our smallfolk from starvation during the winter. That is a fact we cannot ignore."
Lord Belmore straightened in his seat, his expression darkening. "It was all a ploy to deceive us, Your Grace! To make us think he means no harm, to lower our guard while he spreads his corruption!"
He leaned forward, his voice taking on the tone of a man revealing a great conspiracy. "In fact, I am now certain that King Harald had a hand in the rising of the mountain clans in the first place!"
Sharra's eyes narrowed slightly. "That is a serious accusation, Lord Belmore."
"Think about it, Your Grace!" Belmore said, warming to his theory. "The clans rose up with unprecedented unity. They claimed the gods showed them signs—glowing weirwood trees, visions in the night, voices calling them to war against the Vale. What if those were not the Old Gods at all, but Harald's sorcery?"
He looked around the table, seeing nods of agreement beginning to form.
"He must have tricked the savages! Used his magic to create false signs, to manipulate them into attacking us. The Vale, the promised land, the first kingdom to see the light of the Seven, was meant to fall into darkness as the heretic spread his wicked heresy."
"By the Seven," Lord Redfort breathed. "The timing was too convenient. Just as his kingdom was being established, just as he was consolidating power, suddenly the mountain clans unite and attack the Vale?"
"Exactly!" Belmore said triumphantly.
"We must act," Lord Hunter said firmly. "Not just to defend the Faith and the Vale itself, but to defend all of Westeros from this sorcerer's schemes!"
"Our men are blooded and ready after the war with the clans," Lord Corbray added. "They're experienced, motivated, and eager for glory. The time is now, Your Grace. We must act before the opportunity passes."
Sharra looked at each of them in turn, her gaze steady and unwavering, then shook her head firmly.
"You speak of opportunity, Lord Royce. I see only folly. Our army is blooded, yes blooded and tired. Our stores are depleted. Our people have buried too many sons already. If we march now, we'll bury more, and for what? To fight a king who helped us when we needed him the most? Our stores are still being rebuilt. The passes are barely clear. Peace is what we need, not another war"
The lords looked at each other, frustration evident on their faces.
"Your Grace—" Lord Royce began.
"That is my decision," Sharra said, standing from her chair with quiet dignity. "We will maintain our current relations with the Heartlands—neither alliance nor hostility. We will watch, we will wait, and we will focus on rebuilding what the clan war destroyed. This council is dismissed."
The lords stood, bowing with varying degrees of reluctance. Some bowed deep and proper; others barely inclined their heads. They filed out of the chamber in silence.
As they walked through the corridors of the Eyrie, away from the Queen's chambers and the guards who stood nearby, the lords' facades of respectful obedience fell away like masks removed.
"She is weak," Lord Royce muttered, his voice low but venomous. "Too weak to see the threat before us. Too weak to act when action is needed."
"It's her woman's heart," Lord Hunter said with undisguised disgust. "Women are too soft, too sentimental for matters of war and faith. They cannot see past their immediate feelings to the larger picture. She has been deceived by the heretic's show of compassion, a trick that only women fall for so easily."
"The heretic king plays on her feminine sensibilities with his gifts of grain and his pretty words," Belmore added, shaking his head. "And she's too blind to see it for the manipulation it truly is."
They turned a corner and found themselves face to face with Artys Arryn, the late king's cousin, standing with a group of courtiers. Artys was a tall man in his late twenties, handsome in the sharp-featured way of the Arryns, with the same pale blue eyes as the late king. Some said he looked exactly as the former king had in his youth; the resemblance was uncanny.
"My lords," Artys greeted them with a smile. "I can see from your expressions that the council did not go as you hoped."
"We presented our case," Lord Royce said carefully, aware they were in a more public corridor now, with servants passing by. "The Queen... disagreed with our assessment."
"As she often does," Artys said smoothly, his voice carrying just the right note of sympathetic regret. "We have talked about this before, my lords. The Queen Mother is... well intentioned, certainly. A caring woman, a devoted mother. But women, for all their many virtues, are not suited to the harsh realities of rulership, especially in times like these."
The courtiers around him nodded in agreement, their expressions reflecting similar sentiments.
"Perhaps it is time," Artys continued, lowering his voice slightly and glancing around to ensure no unfriendly ears were listening, "to consider the welfare of young King Ronnel. He is but a boy of six, and boys need strong guidance. Masculine guidance. Perhaps the council of regency should have... firmer hands upon it. Hands that can make the difficult decisions a woman's heart shrinks from."
The implication hung heavy in the air.
"And if that proves insufficient," Lord Corbray said carefully, choosing his words with care, "perhaps a more mature king is needed. One who can make the hard decisions required for the good of the realm. One who has the strength to do what must be done."
The other lords shifted uncomfortably at this. Lord Royce frowned slightly. Lord Redfort looked away. Even Lord Belmore seemed uncertain. They were frustrated with Sharra's rule, yes, but deposing her entirely in favor of Artys? That was a more dangerous step than they had contemplated.
But none of them spoke against it. The silence itself was telling.
Artys's smile widened slightly, reading their hesitation but also their lack of outright rejection.
"We should discuss this further," Lord Royce said finally. "In a more private setting, away from prying eyes and listening ears."
"Indeed," Artys agreed, his tone pleasant and reasonable. "Come, my lords. I have wine from the Arbor in my chambers, and walls that do not have ears. We can speak freely there, away from..." He glanced meaningfully back toward where the council chambers were. "Unwelcome interruptions."
They walked off together, their voices dropping to whispers, their plans taking shape in the shadows of the Eyrie's high and ancient halls.
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Marro Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos, stood on the balcony of his chambers watching the large dragon that had nested itself near the cliffs on which one of the legs of the great Titan of Braavos rested.
Marro hated it.
More than that he feared it with a bone-deep terror that no amount of reason could fully suppress. The beast was enormous, its bronze-and-green scales easily the size of five large ships combined. Every time it shifted, every time it roared, Marro's ancestors screamed in his blood:
Run.
Hide.
The dragonlords have come.
The dragon Vhagar felt like a knife to the throat of everyone in Braavos, to the entire city that had been founded by escaped slaves fleeing from Valyrian dragonlords. And now here was a dragon again, perched on their very doorstep.
Marro turned to the servant standing discreetly behind him. "How is the Daria doing?"
The servant bowed slightly. "She has been asking for an audience immediately, Your Magnificence. She grows... impatient."
"And she can have it," Marro said with a slight smile. He had let her wait. Let her understand that Braavos was not some conquered city that jumped at a dragonlord's command.
The servant bowed and left.
Marro walked back into his chambers, a sprawling suite decorated in the finest Braavosi style. Blue silks, ornate furniture inlaid with gold, tapestries depicting the founding of the Secret City. He poured himself a glass of wine and waited for his guest to arrive.
A guest who had come with ten ships and a dragon at her back.
The doors opened, and Visenya Targaryen walked into the chambers.
She wore Valyrian clothing, a fitted dress of red and black silk, the three-headed dragon of her house embroidered across the bodice in gold thread. Her silver-gold hair was styled in an elaborate braid that fell over one shoulder, woven through with small rubies that caught the light. She was beautiful in the sharp, dangerous way of a sword's edge—high cheekbones, violet eyes that seemed to look straight through you. And at her hip, hanging from a belt of dragon scales, was Dark Sister, one of the few swords left in the world that was made of Valyrian steel.
"Daria Visenya," Marro greeted with a slight bow.
"Sealord Marro," she greeted back.
"Let us speak," he said, gesturing toward the balcony. It was his favorite place in the palace, overlooking the lagoon and the city beyond.
Visenya smiled as they stepped outside, and her eyes fell upon Vhagar. The dragon roared again, sensing its rider, and spread its massive wings in what might have been greeting or display.
"So," Marro said, getting directly to the point, as Braavosi were known to do, "what does the Darys of the New Valyrian Freehold want in Braavos?"
"Targaryen Freehold," Visenya corrected smoothly. "We are not Valyria, Sealord. We are something new, something better. Valyria fell to its own hubris. We have learned from their mistakes."
"I see," Marro said carefully.
"Do not worry," Visenya continued, her smile widening slightly. "We do not seek to have the Bastard Daughter join the Freehold we are building. Braavos was born of slaves escaping Valyrian tyranny. We understand the... complicated feelings your people have regarding dragons and dragonlords."
She turned to look out over the city. "We seek to unite the old Freehold, yes..."
"But it won't be like the old Freehold, will it?" Marro interrupted. "You seek to free the slaves."
Visenya laughed, a genuine sound of amusement. "Yes. Does that surprise you? Would you be opposed to it? I would be quite surprised if you were, given Braavos's own history."
"No, no," Marro said quickly. "It is admirable. Unexpected from dragonlords."
"Already there are slave revolts in Lys, Volantis, Tyrosh, and Myr," Visenya said, her voice taking on a note of satisfaction. "They call to us for liberation. My brother rides at the head of armies that break chains rather than forge them. The old order is crumbling, Sealord, and something better rises in its place."
"If you are not here for Braavos's submission," Marro said, "then why are you here?"
Visenya turned to face him fully, her violet eyes intense.
"Aegon Targaryen, Darys of the Targaryen Freehold, Lord of Dragonstone and the Painted Mountains, Protector of Pentos, Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, Sovereign of Qohor and Norvos, King of New Ghis, Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor, Breaker of Chains, Great Khal of the Dothraki Sea, and First Citizen of the Reborn Freehold," she recited the increasingly grandiose title with a perfectly straight face, "is calling for an alliance with Braavos."
Marro raised an eyebrow. "You defeat one khalasar and conquer a free city, and already your brother calls himself Great Khal and Lord of all the Free Cities? Master of Old Ghis and Slaver's Bay? Sovereign of territories he has never even set foot in?"
"Why wait for the inevitable?" Visenya said with a slight shrug. "The titles reflect what will be, not just what is."
Marro looked at the dragon, which roared again and shifted on its perch, causing small rocks to tumble down the cliff face. Then he looked back at Visenya, at the absolute confidence in her eyes, at Dark Sister hanging at her hip.
"Then let us talk about what this alliance means," he said carefully. "What does Braavos gain, and what does your... Freehold... require?"
Visenya grinned, showing teeth.
"The seas belong to Braavos," she said. "Lorath will fall under your control and protection. We offer you exclusive trading rights with the liberated cities, more access to markets than before."
She stepped closer. "In exchange, Braavos provides... tacit support. Your ships. Your contacts within the cities and further east."
Marro considered this carefully. "And if we refuse?"
Visenya's smile didn't waver, but her eyes grew colder. She gestured to Vhagar.
"We would prefer you as an ally, Sealord. But make no mistake, the Targaryen Freehold will rise regardless of Braavos's choice. The only question is whether you rise with us or stand aside and watch."
Marro was silent for a long moment, weighing options, calculating risks and benefits.
Finally, he nodded slowly. "Then let us discuss the specific terms of this alliance. I believe Braavos and the Targaryen Freehold can find... mutually beneficial arrangements."
Visenya's grin widened.
"I was hoping you would say that."
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This was a big chapter.....