Eddard sat beside Sansa, a piece of dragonglass the size of a mahjong tile resting in his palm. His thumb traced its slick, glimmering surface again and again, while his eyes wandered across the crowded Lord's Hall.
He had not been present for Joffrey Baratheon's coronation, yet he felt certain that the boy-king's ceremony could not have been as bleak as this one. There were no banners draped across the walls, no musicians filling the air with songs of triumph, no commoners cheering in the courtyard. Only the lords of the Riverlands and the North, gathered around a long table, stepping forward one by one to kneel and swear their fealty.
Outside, the wind howled like a wolf. The great doors creaked open, and in strode Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, snow swirling in his wake. He shook the goose-feather flakes from his cloak, his face raw and flushed from the cold. It would take him some time to grow used to northern winters. After all, the summer just passed had lasted over ten years, and the warmth of it still clung to men of the South.
Eddard noticed the Blackfish's glance before he took his seat. Two days prior, Ser Brynden had escorted Lady Catelyn and Lord Edmure back with a company of horsemen. After the memorial service, he and Eddard had exchanged only a few words upon the city wall.
The wind had cut sharp that day, though no snow had fallen. Brynden pulled his cloak tight and asked in a gravelly voice:
"The raven said Robb left a will—naming your daughter Sansa Queen of the Trident. Is it true?"
"My lord," Eddard answered softly, his gaze still fixed on the dragonglass, "the will is administered by Lord Glover, Lord Umber, Lady Maege, and three others. The parchment bears their seals, not mine."
As the words left him, the obsidian shimmered faintly, almost imperceptibly, in his hand. Only then did Eddard look up, adding in a quiet tone, "If you doubt the matter, ask Bran or Sansa. Do not trouble me."
Brynden rubbed his eyes, as though uncertain of what he had seen. His voice dropped lower. "No need to bare your claws at me, Stark. Catelyn struggles to accept it, true—but I believe Robb's will is, for now, the best path forward."
"Do you?" Eddard studied him, noting the white streaks creeping through his gray hair.
"Of course." The Blackfish leaned back against the wall, speaking hoarsely. "Were the realm at peace, Edmure would be a decent choice. He has a talent for keeping his bannermen content. A poor king perhaps, but a steady lord. Had Rickon been five or ten years older, I would gladly see him crowned, with the North's backing to force the Riverlords into line. And if Bran were whole of limb, strong enough to ride between Winterfell and Riverrun, then perhaps two crowns might rest upon one head."
He shook his head. "But none of that is true."
"Then why come to me, Lord Brynden?" Eddard asked.
"I came to warn the future regent: the lords of the Trident do not want a queen. Few will serve the Starks wholeheartedly in this."
He listed names, one after another. "Only Tytos Blackwood of Raventree and Jason Mallister of Seagard have voiced no opposition. The rest mutter their discontent in their cups, though none dare speak openly. Word of your capture of the Twins has spread far, Stark. You have shown strength enough to silence them—for now. None wish to risk civil war."
"Thank you," Eddard said, and this time he meant it. The Blackfish spoke from loyalty, not guile.
His thoughts drifted back to the first days of the war, when Catelyn had seized Tyrion Lannister and cast the Riverlands into ruin. The Kingslayer's host had crushed the Tully banners, Riverrun besieged, the Riverlords scattered. Only Robb's march south had spared them destruction. And in King's Landing, the Iron Throne had done nothing but fail them—its levies butchered at Mummer's Ford by the Mountain.
After Lord Eddard's own death, Tywin Lannister rose as Hand, and the Riverlords' choice had been stark: yield and be butchered, or crown a king and resist.
The North had given them Robb Stark, and the Riverlords had bent the knee out of need as much as loyalty. Robb had been young, uncertain, his rebellion born in confusion after his father's public "treason." Yet the Greatjon had roared for independence, and the bannermen had clamored for a King in the North. Their defiance became legitimate, their cause just: resist tyranny, win independence.
Robert Baratheon's war had begun no differently.
Now Robb was gone. His will had named a queen, and the Riverlords grumbled. A patriarchal realm balked at bending to a woman. But a king's will was law. Unless they meant to rebel, they must endure.
"Rule rests on power," Eddard murmured. He gestured toward the great camp beyond Winterfell's walls. "There are thirty thousand Free Folk out there. Arm them, feed them, and ten thousand can march. Two hundred giants too. My first thought was to keep them to check the Boltons—but no longer. The Ironborn are driven into the sea, and Bran wears his crown now. Let the boy prove himself in the North. I will use the Free Folk in the Trident."
"Wildlings?" Brynden gave a dry chuckle. "I fought the hill clans of the Vale often enough. They robbed, burned, and obeyed no one. Do you truly think you can tame them?"
"I do." Eddard's voice carried a quiet certainty. "I will settle them along the Green Fork. The Lannisters stripped those lands bare, and much of it lies deserted. The Free Folk can till the fields—or starve. If they choose plunder instead, I need only bar the Ruby Ford and close the way. They will be trapped, and dealt with."
Brynden considered this, then offered, "Or settle them at Harrenhal. Robb gave me charge of it before he marched north, though not in fief. Now it belongs to Sansa. A queen should keep her court there."
Eddard frowned. Harrenhal—the cursed ruin. Yet he thought of visions in dream and fire, of magic at his command. If curses had power greater than steel, Westeros would have died long ago.
"Do not fret over the stones," Brynden pressed on. "I set prisoners and craftsmen to the work already. The walls are sound. The halls need only gold for their dressing. And I hear your castellan found old Lord Frey's hidden hoard in the Twins. With such wealth, Harrenhal could be restored to glory."
"Merely rumor," Eddard answered evenly. In truth, near six hundred thousand gold dragons lay in his coffers—but no one needed to know that.
Sansa, sitting beside him, gave no objection when he agreed to Brynden's counsel. She looked radiant beneath her new crown—three golden bands set with emeralds and sapphires, a white gem blazing in the golden sun upon her brow. The lords swore their oaths to her, but Eddard felt the weight of their vows as keenly as she did.
One by one they came forward.
Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall.
Loyalty: Very Good. He disliked a female sovereign, true, but he had fought beside Eddard and knew the Starks' strength.
Janos Bracken of Stone Hedge.
Loyalty: Very Poor. His eyes lingered too long on Eddard. Only the night before he had asked him to arrange a match—Bran Stark and Alysanne Bracken. An alliance to secure his support. Eddard had refused without hesitation. Appeasement would only breed weakness, and favoring Bracken meant spiting Blackwood, whose aid had already proved loyal.
So the line of vassals stretched on:
Karyl Vance of Wayfarer's Rest, his scarred young face solemn (Loyalty: Average).
House Mooton of Maidenpool.
House Mallister of Seagard.
House Piper of Pinkmaiden.
House Smallwood of Acorn Hall.
House Vance of Atranta.
Great lords, lesser knights, men with keeps and men with little more than villages—all came forward in turn.
By day's end, nearly a hundred vassals had sworn, and Eddard's head spun with their names, their sigils, their lands. It was like staring at the endless troop lists of some old strategy game, line upon line until the eyes blurred. Yet most pledged at least average loyalty, more than he dared hope.
Edmure's open allegiance had helped; the Riverlords followed their liege's lead. But fear of Eddard's strength weighed no less heavily.
Thus, on the last day of the year 299 AC, beneath Winterfell's snow, the coronation ended before sunset. Tomorrow would bring a wedding—his own, to Sansa Stark, Queen of the Trident.
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