The deep-green seawater frothed with whitecaps as the Silence cut through the waves, its crimson hull gleaming like the hide of some monstrous predator. Spray lashed its decks, but the ship pressed forward with ruthless speed, prow knifing toward Old Wyk.
At the bow stood Euron Greyjoy, black seal cloak snapping in the salt wind. His good eye gleamed with satisfaction as he gazed across the waves. He had no need of the Kingsmoot now. Why risk the voice of the captains when fate had already tilted the scales in his favor?
Asha Greyjoy had been captured in the Wolfswood, trapped at Deepwood Motte—Balon's only daughter, his chosen heir. By blood and alliance she was dangerous: daughter of the Old Kraken, kin to the Harlaws, backed by captains who had fought beside her. Convening a Kingsmoot while she was free would have risked open division.
But now? She was a prisoner on his ship, and he was returning not with rumors but with proof.
He had summoned the kraken.
At Dragonstone, with half the captains gathered, he had called forth a monster from the deep and set it upon Robb Stark. They had seen the Young Wolf dragged screaming beneath the waves by tentacles thicker than a mast. They had seen Euron, Crow's Eye, command the abyss itself.
What was a horn, blown by any man, compared to that?
Asha, chained but unbowed, leaned against the rail and stared at her uncle with disbelief. The sea breeze tangled her dark hair, and her gray eyes narrowed as if to pierce his flesh.
"What is that thing?" she demanded, voice raw. "A beast covered in tentacles… it cannot be real."
Euron turned his head, lips curling in a smile that showed more cruelty than mirth. His blue eye glittered; the patch over his black eye made him all the more unsettling.
"Do not doubt your eyes, niece. What you saw was the kraken of our banners. The sigil of House Greyjoy, made flesh. The sea itself obeys me."
"That is impossible."
Her voice trembled despite her effort at defiance. She had grown up hearing tales of drowned gods and sea monsters, but they were tales, nothing more. And yet she had seen it.
"Nothing is impossible." Euron's voice rang with conviction. He strode closer, boots thudding on wet planks. "I once dreamt of such creatures, faint whispers in the night. But the dream has changed."
"What dream?"
"You truly wish to know?" He spread his arms, cloak billowing like dark wings. "More than half a moon ago, a raven came to me in my sleep—the same black bird that visited me as a boy. It guided me to leap from the tower of Pyke into the depths. I fell through leagues of darkness until I found the kraken waiting. There, I bound it to my will. And before the dream ended, the raven spoke: Gather your fleet. Sail to Dragonstone. Summon the beast where all captains may see, and slay the wolves of the North who dared pursue us."
His lips, blue-tinged from the strange draughts he favored, parted in a wild smile.
"And so I woke and asked myself—why not? Why not indeed?"
"You're not king yet," Asha spat. "No captain is bound to obey you."
"Oh, how right you are." Euron inclined his head mockingly. His long dark hair clung to his face in damp strands, like seaweed dragged from the deeps. "Yet when I spoke of this, even your precious uncle Harlaw could not resist. He cajoled his allies, the Botleys, the Stoneswifts, the Womarks… until half the Iron Islands raised their sails to witness my spectacle. And what did they see? A kraken tearing a king to pieces."
He leaned so close she could feel his breath, sharp as brine.
"Tell me, sweet niece—who among us is more fit to wear the Driftwood Crown?"
No answer came. For in her heart, Asha knew the truth: not Victarion with his blunt strength, not Damphair with his prayers, not herself with her alliances. Before the sight of the kraken, no captain would deny him.
The Kingsmoot was already lost.
On the cliffs of Old Wyk, crowds had gathered. Ironborn lined the shore, dark shapes against the gray sea, and as the Silence drew near, the chants began.
"Euron! Euron! Euron!"
The roar swelled like a storm wind, crashing against stone and surf alike.
High above, Aeron Damphair stood barefoot in the shallows, his ragged robes soaked to the knee. His long, salt-matted beard clung to his chest. At the sound of those cries, despair clenched his belly. The Drowned God was weeping, and the sea raged with His anger.
All around men spoke of Crow's Eye—of the lands he had seen, the cities he had sacked, the women he had stolen, and now of the kraken he commanded. If such blasphemy continued, the impious one would wear the crown.
Something must be done.
From the surf rose a massive figure clad in grey mail, black leather beneath, and a kraken cloak rippling in the wind. Nine threads of gold stitched upon it glimmered faintly in the spray.
Victarion Greyjoy.
"Brother," Aeron called, stepping into the tide. Cold water lapped his thighs, but he did not falter. "What is dead may never die."
"But rises again, harder and stronger," Victarion replied. He removed his kraken helm and knelt, letting the water soak him. Aeron poured saltwater over his head, intoning prayers.
When the ritual ended, the priest spoke in a low voice. "Do you still seek our brother's crown?"
Victarion's heavy jaw tightened. "If it be the sea god's will, aye. But when I dream of the throne, I see only Euron upon it." His fists clenched. "You have not seen the beast, brother. Its shadow is greater than the Invincible. Against such a monster we are helpless. Unless the Grey King himself returns, no one can defy Crow's Eye."
Aeron's heart ached. The sea god's true king was slipping away, replaced by a madman who mocked the gods themselves. He closed his eyes and prayed for a miracle.
---
Winterfell.
The North was clad in mourning.
When the carriage bearing Robb Stark's coffin rolled through Winter Town, the air itself seemed to freeze. The grief of thousands pressed down like a blizzard, smothering hearth and heart alike.
The direwolf banners of House Stark led the procession, flanked by the bear of Mormont, the gauntlet of Glover, the sentinel of Tallhart, the red-eyed steed of Ryswell, the axe-crown of Dustin, and many more. Stern-faced lords walked beside the carriage, their heirs trailing in silence.
The people crowded the streets—blacksmiths with soot on their hands, farmers still smelling of earth, tavern maids, beggars, and whores alike. Some bowed their heads in prayer, others whispered of Robb's victories, of his kindness, of the honor of House Stark.
Then a harp struck a single mournful note. Another bard joined, then another, until the dirge rose around the coffin, carried on cold wind toward the gates of Winterfell.
Eddard Karstark—though many now simply called him Eddard—stood waiting at the gates. His heart was heavy, yet his face betrayed nothing. Nearly two years he had walked beside the Young Wolf: ally, counselor, kin by marriage, friend. He had fought for Robb, schemed for him, gambled the future of the North upon him.
And now Robb was gone. Fate, crueler than any blade.
Still, grief had no place in command. Eddard directed the lords, oversaw the entry, ensured order and reverence. Not a step out of place, not a breath of disrespect.
In the crypts, Robb Stark was laid to rest among the kings of old, beside the stern stone likeness of his father, Eddard Stark of Winterfell. The sculptor's chisel had captured the late lord's grave dignity: iron sword across his knees, eyes forward as if still guarding the North.
The prayers ended, and one by one the lords departed, leaving the Starks alone in their grief.
Sansa wept until her eyes were raw, beyond the reach of any comfort. Rickon clung to Shaggydog until sleep stole him, tears streaking his face. Bran sat silent in Hodor's arms, his blue eyes wide with confusion.
He turned at last to Eddard. "What should I do?" he whispered.
"Control your grief," Eddard said gently. "Hide your doubt. Even if you must pretend."
Bran swallowed hard. He was nine, broken in body, yet burdened with a crown. Robb's will had left the Trident to Sansa, the North to him. Lords waited to test him, wolves in their own right.
"Listen well," Eddard said, his voice low. "You must know who to trust. Take House Manderly. They are loyal because they must be. Outsiders once, the Starks sheltered them, and only by serving Winterfell can they hold White Harbor. Gratitude binds them—and necessity."
Bran nodded slowly.
"And House Ryswell?"
"Beware them," Eddard warned. "They seek blood ties with kings. While Rickon lives, they may dream of marrying into the royal line. Guard yourself."
"And the Glovers?"
"Trust them, for now. Robb died for Deepwood Motte. Lord Galbart will carry that guilt until his grave."
One by one, Bran asked, and Eddard answered—laying bare the loyalties of the North, the bargains and dangers hidden in blood and oaths. At last Bran whispered the name that troubled him most.
"What of the Umbers?"
Eddard smiled faintly, placing a hand on the boy's head. "Greatjon is rough and wild, but he loves strength. Show him courage, and he will be yours. The Umbers are true once won. Have faith, Bran—faith in yourself, and in the Stark name."
The boy swallowed, nodded, and wiped his eyes. For the first time since the coffin entered Winterfell, his shoulders straightened.
The crypt was cold, but in that moment, the Stark line did not falter.
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