A/N: This has got to be my longest chapter yet though with everything happening, I guess it had to be. Enjoy! :D
If you want to read up to 10 chapters ahead, patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Highgarden, The Reach
Jon watched Master Luke refuse King Renly's offer, a flicker of pride warming his chest despite the evening's earlier tension. The words carried across the hall with quiet conviction, the kind of loyalty that would have made Uncle Ned nod approval. But beneath the pride, something else stirred. A thought that had been growing since the tourney field, since watching Master Luke dismantle seasoned knights with movements that seemed to defy the very laws of nature.
What was the point of it all?
The melee, the joust tomorrow, the feasting and pageantry. Master Luke could have ended the entire tournament in heartbeats if he'd truly wanted. Jon had seen him throw men through the air with a gesture, collapse structures with a thought, move faster than the eye could follow. The Force made mockery of conventional combat, turned skill into something almost irrelevant.
Do they hold such pointless battles on other worlds? Jon wondered, his eyes tracking Master Luke's return across the hall. Or is this waste of time unique to Westeros?
He scanned the hall for his companions, his senses reaching out through the Force. The technique had become almost second nature now, a gentle expansion of awareness that let him feel the emotional currents flowing through the room. He found Sarella near one of the side corridors, speaking with a serving maid in hushed tones. Their body language suggested conspiracy rather than casual conversation, heads bent close together, Sarella's hand briefly handing something to the woman.
Jon's curiosity piqued. What was she—
No. He pulled his awareness back, feeling sheepish. That was snooping, prying into private matters that didn't concern him. Luke had warned about the temptation to use the Force to satisfy idle curiosity, how it could become a habit that led to darker invasions of privacy.
But then he felt it. A knot of sheer terror and shame so intense it made his breath catch. The emotion blazed through the Force like a beacon, impossible to ignore even if he'd wanted to. Jon's head turned instinctively toward the source.
Sam.
Jon found him instantly, standing near one of the hall's side entrances. But Sam wasn't alone. An older man had him by the arm, fingers digging into flesh hard enough that Jon could see the white pressure marks even from across the room. The man was powerfully built, with stern features and the bearing of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. Everything about his posture radiated martial competence and unyielding pride.
Through the Force, Jon felt Sam's terror spike higher. Shame flooded through their connection, thick and choking, mixed with a helplessness that made Jon's jaw clench.
Jon was moving with purpose, weaving between tables and nobles with the fluid grace Luke's training had given him. The Force guided his path, showing him gaps in the crowd before they appeared, letting him move with a speed that drew no attention because it looked natural.
The man's voice reached him first, low and brutal, pitched to carry only to Sam's ears but impossible to miss for someone with Force-enhanced hearing.
"You disgrace my name." Each word fell like a hammer blow. "Cavorting with these savage Northerners when you should be at the Wall. A maester's chain? You were meant to be a man, not a bookkeeper's lackey."
The contempt in those words ignited something cold and dangerous in Jon's chest. He'd heard that particular tone before, from southern knights who looked at northern steel with disdain, from courtiers who called his people barbarians. But this was worse. This was a father speaking to his son with nothing but disgust.
Jon's hand closed over the man's wrist before he could second-guess the action. The grip was iron-hard, fingers finding pressure points with the precision Luke had taught him. "Let him go."
His voice came out quiet, but it carried the kind of cold that preceded northern blizzards. The temperature around them dropped several degrees, Jon's breath suddenly visible despite the hall's warmth.
Lord Randyll Tarly turned, and Jon found himself looking into eyes like chips of flint. The man's gaze swept over him in a single dismissive glance, taking in his northern clothing, his dark coloring, his youth. Finding him wanting in every particular.
"This is a family matter." Randyll's voice dripped with aristocratic disdain. "It does not concern a bastard."
The shame that used to accompany that word was absent. But the anger was still ever present.
"He is a brother of the Night's Watch." Jon's grip tightened fractionally, feeling the bones shift beneath skin. "He does not answer to you. Family matters or not."
Randyll scoffed, the sound dismissive as a hand waving away smoke. "You presume much for a bastard." He tried to pull his arm free, but Jon's grip held firm. Through the Force, Jon felt the man's surprise at his strength. "Run along before you create a problem your father can't solve. Lord Stark has enough troubles without his bastard starting fights at Highgarden."
The frost spread outward from Jon's feet, creeping across the stone in delicate patterns. A nearby torch flickered despite the lack of wind.
Randyll Tarly's breath emerged in a sudden plume of white vapor, mist curling between them despite the hall's braziers. The warmth that had filled the space moments before fled like a thief before dawn. Gooseflesh prickled along his exposed neck, and he felt the cold seep through his fine doublet.
"Father, please!" Sam's voice cracked, but he pushed forward anyway. "Jon's done nothing wrong. He's only—"
"Shut your mouth!" Randyll's free hand moved as if to strike, and Sam flinched backward. "You're an embarrassment. A craven who runs from his duties, who hides behind books and excuses. I should have let the hunting accident happen. At least then you'd have died with some dignity instead of living as this... this pathetic disgrace."
Jon felt Sam's shame spike so high it was almost physical, a wave of self-loathing and despair that made Jon's throat tight.
"The only one creating a problem is you, my lord." Jon's voice dropped lower still, each word precise as a blade finding gaps in armor. "So I do not have to go anywhere." He stepped closer, forcing Randyll to either back away or stand his ground. The man held, but Jon felt uncertainty ripple through him. "Sam is a better man than you will ever be. It takes no strength to brutalize a son who does not share your passions. It is the work of a weak man who fears his own legacy is a failure."
Randyll Tarly's face turned purple, veins standing out on his neck like cords. The hall around them had gone quiet, conversations dying as nobles turned to watch the confrontation. Jon felt their attention like weight pressing against his shoulders, but he didn't look away from Randyll's furious gaze.
"How dare you." The words came out strangled. "You know nothing of legacy, bastard. Nothing of what it means to carry a house's honor."
"I know what it means to be judged for circumstances beyond my control." Jon's hand remained locked on Randyll's wrist, steady as Winterfell's walls. "I know what it's like to be called shameful for simply existing. And I know the difference between a man who earns respect and one who demands it through cruelty."
Jon felt Master Luke's presence approaching through the Force, that calm steady wave that could soothe even the darkest emotions. But before his teacher could intervene, movement caught Jon's eye.
Queen Margaery materialized between them like summer sunshine breaking through storm clouds. Her smile was bright enough to dazzle, warm enough to thaw frost, and completely at odds with the cold fury crackling through the air.
"Lord Tarly!" Her voice carried delight and surprise in perfect measure. "My father was just asking for your counsel on our outriders. Something about the best routes through the Kingswood?" She placed a gentle hand on Randyll's free arm, the touch light but insistent. "He's quite anxious to hear your thoughts."
Randyll's jaw worked, his face still flushed with rage. But the Queen's presence, the watching nobles, the political necessity of maintaining decorum, all of it combined to trap him more effectively than any chains.
"Your Grace," he managed through clenched teeth. "Of course."
Margaery's smile never wavered as she guided him away, though Jon caught the steel beneath her pleasant expression. She glanced back once, her brown eyes finding Jon's with an intensity that made his breath catch.
"And Lord Snow," she called over her shoulder, still leading a sputtering Lord Tarly toward where Lord Mace held court. "I believe my brother Willas wished to speak with you. About your direwolf, I think? He's quite eager."
The dismissal was masterful. Polite, public, giving Jon an escape while simultaneously diffusing the situation before it could escalate into something King Renly couldn't ignore. Jon watched her go, grudging admiration mixing with his lingering fury.
"Jon." Master Luke's hand found his shoulder, warm through the wool. "Breathe."
Jon realized he'd been holding his breath, his whole body coiled tight as a drawn bowstring. He exhaled slowly, feeling the frost around his feet begin to melt. The torch that had been flickering settled back into steady flame.
"That man..." Jon's voice shook with barely controlled rage. "He threatened to murder his own son. Calls him craven for preferring books to swords."
"I know." Luke's voice carried understanding. "And you defended Sam with honor. But Jon, you were about to cross a line."
Jon looked down at his hands. They trembled slightly, and he could still feel the cold building beneath his skin. The frost that had crept across the stone floor moments ago. The memory of those flames dancing between his fingers in the godswood made his stomach turn. He'd felt powerful then. Invincible.
"I know what line I was about to cross," Jon said quietly, meeting Luke's eyes. The Jedi's expression held no judgment, only patient understanding. "I could feel it. The cold wanted me to hurt him. To make him feel what Sam feels every day."
"Randyll Tarly's words mean nothing," Luke continued quietly. "He's a man who measures worth only by his own narrow standards. Sam's value isn't diminished by his father's blindness."
Sam stood where Randyll had left him, pale and shaking. His round face was blotched with humiliation, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Jon felt his friend's gratitude warring with shame, the complex tangle of emotions that came from being defended when you'd spent your whole life learning to endure abuse in silence.
Jon moved toward him, but Sam raised a hand, stopping him. "Thank you," Sam whispered, his voice barely audible over the hall's returning noise. "But you shouldn't have... he'll remember this. He'll find ways to—"
"Let him try." He forced himself to soften his tone. "Sam, don't let his poison convince you are worth less than him. You are a member of the Night's Watch. Wear it with pride."
Sam's expression crumpled, relief and gratitude flooding through him so strongly that Jon felt it like a physical embrace. "Thank you," he said again, then hurried away before emotion could overwhelm him completely.
Jon watched him go, his hands still trembling with residual anger. The encounter had left him shaking with a rage he couldn't fully voice, not here in this great hall surrounded by southern nobles who would see it as northern barbarism.
He needed air. Cold air. The honest company of creatures who didn't lie or judge or measure worth by birth and breeding.
Luke's hand squeezed his shoulder once more before releasing. "Go. I'll make your excuses if anyone asks."
Jon nodded gratefully and turned toward the hall's side entrance, the one that led toward the castle's outer yards.
The night air hit him like a blessing. Jon drew it deep into his lungs, tasting the sweetness of roses mixed with the honest smell of horse and hay. The noise from the feast faded to a dull roar behind closed doors, replaced by the gentler sounds of night. Crickets singing in the gardens. The distant whinny of a destrier. The soft pad of paws on stone.
Ghost.
Jon followed that presence through the Force, letting it guide him toward the kennels. The structure was far more elaborate than Winterfell's, all carved wood and iron fittings, with individual stalls large enough to house full-grown destriers. But it was still a kennel, still a place where beasts were kept, and somehow that made it more honest than the feast hall's gilded lies.
He found Ghost and Amidala in a spacious enclosure near the back, separated from the hunting hounds and coursers. The white direwolves stood out like fresh snow against the dark wood. Amidala lifted her massive head as Jon approached, her amber eyes catching the moonlight. A low rumble emerged from her chest, not quite a growl but not quite a greeting either. Lazy acknowledgment, perhaps. Recognition of pack.
But Ghost. Ghost went mad.
The albino threw himself against the kennel door, claws scrabbling at wood with enough force to leave deep gouges. A whine escaped his throat, high and desperate, so unlike his usual silence that Jon's heart clenched.
"Easy, boy." Jon's hands fumbled with the latch, fingers clumsy in his haste. "Easy, I'm here."
The door swung open, and Ghost was on him immediately. The direwolf's weight drove Jon back against the opposite wall, breath whooshing from his lungs. Ghost's paws planted on his chest, the wolf's face level with his own. A rough tongue rasped across Jon's cheek, his jaw, his neck. The wolf's whole body trembled with emotion too large for silence.
Jon sank to his knees, and Ghost came with him, pressing close enough that Jon could feel the rapid hammer of the direwolf's heart against his ribs. He buried both hands in thick white fur, feeling the solid warmth of muscle and bone beneath. Real. Honest. Uncomplicated in a way nothing else in this southern castle could be.
"I missed you too," Jon whispered against Ghost's neck. The wolf's scent filled his nose, wild and clean, cutting through the cloying perfume that had saturated the feast hall. "Gods, I miss the North. Miss Winterfell. Miss things making sense."
Ghost's rumble vibrated through Jon's chest, a sound of contentment and understanding. Through their bond, Jon felt the wolf's simple truth. Pack was everything. Separation was pain. Reunion was joy. No politics, no lies, no games of words and hidden meanings.
Here, with Ghost pressed against him and Amidala watching from her corner with those knowing amber eyes, Jon could simply be. No bastard, no hidden prince, no student struggling to master impossible powers. Just a boy and his wolf.
The rhythmic beat of Ghost's heart beneath his palm steadied Jon's own racing pulse. He let his eyes close, drawing the Force around them both like a blanket.
"He is even larger than the maids whisper."
Jon's eyes snapped open. Margaery Tyrell stood at the kennel entrance, backlit by torchlight from the corridor beyond. Willas stood beside her, leaning on his cane, his expression holding genuine fascination rather than courtly politeness.
Jon scrambled to his feet, Ghost rising with him. Heat flooded his face. How long had they been standing there? Had they seen him practically weeping into his direwolf's fur like a child?
"Your Grace. My lord." Jon inclined his head, forcing his voice steady. "Forgive me, I didn't hear you approach."
Margaery's smile was gentle, touched with something that might have been understanding. "My brother could not wait until morning. Forgive our intrusion."
Willas moved forward with surprising confidence despite his cane, his green eyes bright with scholarly interest. "I've read accounts of direwolves, but the texts don't do them justice. May I?"
Jon glanced at Ghost, who watched the approaching strangers with those unsettling red eyes. Through their bond, Jon felt the wolf's curious assessment. Willas's genuine interest in animals rather than politics showed in his Force presence, a clean enthusiasm that Ghost seemed to recognize.
"You are welcome, my lord." Jon gestured toward Ghost. "This is Ghost. You may approach him, but Amidala..." He nodded toward the massive she-wolf in the corner. "She listens only to Master Luke."
Willas extended his hand slowly, palm up, letting Ghost make the first move. The direwolf's nose twitched, scenting the offered hand. A moment passed, tension stretching, before Ghost's tongue rasped once across Willas's fingers. Permission granted.
"Extraordinary," Willas breathed, his hand moving to Ghost's head with the careful touch of someone who understood animals. "The bone structure, the muscle development. And those eyes. I've never seen anything like them."
Ghost's acceptance was a powerful thing, a silent vouching that carried more weight than any words. The direwolf didn't suffer fools or cruelty, and his tolerance of Willas spoke volumes.
"Each of my siblings has a direwolf," Jon said, watching Willas's careful examination of Ghost's structure. "Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon. Ghost's littermates. Their mother is Amidala."
"Seven direwolves south of the Wall." Wonder colored Willas's tone as he straightened, turning toward where Jon had indicated. "The texts mention them as solitary creatures, yet here..."
He trailed off as his gaze found the massive she-wolf. Amidala had risen to her feet in one fluid motion, white fur rippling over muscle and bone. She stood nearly as tall as a pony at the shoulder, her amber eyes fixed on Willas with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.
Willas froze, then slowly backed away, a rueful smile touching his lips. "It seems she doesn't care for me petting Ghost."
"It's a mother's instinct." Margaery's voice carried from the entrance, where she'd remained. She moved forward now, her silk gown whispering against stone. "She's just making sure no one hurts her children."
Jon watched as Margaery approached Ghost with more tentative movements than her brother had shown. Her hand extended slowly, trembling slightly. Jon sensed genuine nervousness beneath her courtly composure. This was real uncertainty.
Ghost sniffed her fingers, his red eyes fixed on her face. Jon felt the wolf's assessment through their bond. Not threat. Interesting. Female. Pack-adjacent, perhaps. What?
The direwolf allowed her touch, and Margaery's fingers sank into white fur as saw wonder bloom across her face. The careful mask she'd worn all evening cracked, revealing someone younger beneath. Someone almost innocent. Almost.
"His fur is so soft," she murmured. "I expected it to be coarse, like a hunting hound's."
"Winter coats are thick," Jon said, the words coming easier now. "They need to be, for the cold."
Willas had become absorbed in his examination of Ghost, running his hands along the direwolf's flanks, checking teeth and paws with the careful attention of a master breeder. He muttered to himself, observations about bone structure and muscle development that Jon only half-understood.
Margaery straightened, her hand lingering a moment longer in Ghost's fur before falling away. When she turned to Jon, her eyes held something he couldn't quite name. The pretense of her visit being for Willas's benefit fell away like a discarded cloak.
"That was a brave thing you did for your friend." Her voice had changed, becoming softer, more intimate. "Not many men would risk Lord Tarly's wrath for a sworn brother."
Jon's reply came flat, deflecting the praise before it could take root. "It was the right thing to do."
"Perhaps." She took a step closer, and Jon became acutely aware of the space between them. Of the way torchlight caught in her brown hair, turning it to burnished copper. Of the scent of roses that clung to her skin. "But what he said to you, calling you bastard like that. That was not right."
Jon met her gaze, searching for the calculation he knew had to be there. Testing him, offering sympathy to see if he'd show vulnerability.
But instead of raising his usual defensive walls, Jon let cold political realism surface. The kind of clear-eyed pragmatism his uncle had tried to teach him.
"I am in the South, Your Grace." He kept his voice level, matter-of-fact. "I am Ned Stark's bastard. I expect no other name."
He was deliberately using his status as a shield, turning what she'd meant as sympathy into a test of her own character. Would she flinch from the blunt acknowledgment? Would she offer false comfort, or would she show him who she truly was beneath the courtly grace?
Margaery's expression changed entirely. The polite, carefully constructed mask she'd worn all evening faded, replaced by something genuine. Something assessing and warm. She took another step closer, the space between them suddenly charged with an energy Jon didn't fully understand.
"My grandmother has been asking about you." Margaery's voice carried a note of genuine curiosity now, the political mask slipping further. "She will most likely be put off with me saying this but she has sent ravens, and spoke with merchants who'd passed through White Harbor." Her eyes searched his face. "Why do you think the Queen of Thorns would take such interest in Ned Stark's bastard?"
Jon felt heat creep up his neck, but he didn't look away.
The alarm bells in his mind rang sharp and clear. Olenna Tyrell didn't waste effort on idle curiosity. Every question she asked, every piece of information she gathered, served a purpose. And if she'd been gathering information about him specifically...
"Because she's wondering if I'm a threat." Jon kept his voice steady, meeting Margaery's gaze directly. "Or an opportunity."
The corner of Margaery's mouth quirked upward, approval flickering in her brown eyes. "Both, I think." She tilted her head slightly, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "Mayhaps she wonders if the wolf can be aimed?"
The political barb hung in the air between them, sharp and clear. Lady Olenna wanted to know if Jon could be used, directed, turned toward Tyrell purposes. The question was blunt enough to be almost refreshing after an evening of veiled suggestions.
But then Margaery's tone shifted, becoming softer. More personal. The calculating queen faded, and curiosity emerged.
"I, myself, find I am more interested in the wolf himself."
The look in her eyes was no longer just that of a queen calculating an asset.
Jon's breath caught. This directness from a woman who looked at him not with disgust or pity, but with interest?
His pulse hammered against his throat. Every instinct honed for battle proved useless here—no sword forms existed for navigating the warmth in Margaery Tyrell's gaze, no Force technique to steady the sudden awareness of how close she stood, how the torchlight made her brown eyes seem almost amber.
The moment stretched between them, charged with a potent mix of political maneuvering and something that felt dangerously close to genuine attraction. Jon's mind raced for a response, for the right words that would navigate between honesty and caution.
"He is magnificent. Truly."
Willas's contented sigh shattered the spell. Jon's head snapped toward the other Tyrell, and he realized with a jolt that he'd completely forgotten Willas was even there. The man knelt beside Ghost, running his hands through the direwolf's fur with the reverence of a septon touching a holy relic.
"It grows late," Willas added, pushing himself upright with his cane. His expression was blissfully content, completely unaware of the silent negotiation that had just transpired between his sister and their northern guest. "We shouldn't keep Lord Snow from his rest. The joust tomorrow will require all his strength."
Margaery's smile returned, the queenly mask mostly back in place. But her eyes still held that new, considering light when they found Jon's. She turned toward the entrance, her movements graceful as a dancer's.
She paused at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder. The torchlight caught her profile, painting her in shades of gold and shadow.
"It is a pity you wear no favor for the joust tomorrow, Lord Snow." Her voice was light, almost playful, but the challenge beneath was clear as crystal. She held his gaze, and Jon felt the weight of her attention like a physical thing. "A man of your spirit ought to have a rose to fight for."
It was a direct offer, barely veiled by courtly suggestion. An invitation that carried implications Jon could only begin to untangle. Political alliance, certainly. But beneath that, something more personal. More dangerous.
Jon's voice stopped her before she could turn away. It came out quiet, but it carried through the kennel's stillness.
"A wolf's favor is not given lightly, Your Grace."
The words weren't flirtation. They told her that his loyalty, and by extension any affection, had to be earned rather than won through pretty words and political maneuvering. The challenge had been met and returned in kind.
Margaery's eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her features before something else replaced it. Respect, perhaps. Or intrigue. Her smile deepened, becoming more genuine.
"No," she said softly. "I suppose it wouldn't be."
She held his gaze a moment longer, and Jon felt the shift in her Force presence. He'd left her with more questions than answers, and an undeniable curiosity about the northern bastard.
Then she was gone, Willas following with a final appreciative glance at Ghost. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Jon alone with the direwolves and the thundering of his own heart.
Jon sank back to his knees, Ghost immediately pressing against him. The direwolf's solid presence grounded him, pulled him back from the edge of whatever precipice he'd just been standing on.
"What just happened?" Jon asked the wolf, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ghost had no answer, but Ghost gave Jon a look even he couldn't understand with their bond.
Jon buried his face in Ghost's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of wolf and winter. Tomorrow he'd ride in a joust, playing at war for the entertainment of southern lords.
A wolf's favor is not given lightly.
Jon smiled despite himself, despite everything. He'd meant those words. Whatever game Margaery Tyrell was playing, whatever her grandmother schemed, Jon Snow wouldn't be moved by pretty faces and sweeter words alone.
If they wanted the wolf, they'd have to earn him.
Ghost rumbled his approval, and for the first time since arriving at Highgarden, Jon felt like he could breathe.
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White Harbor, The North
The horn of ale sat untouched in Eddard Stark's hand, condensation beading against his palm like cold sweat. He stood on the dais of the Merman's Court, looking out at the sea of grim Northern faces that filled Lord Wyman's great hall. Torchlight flickered across weathered features and grey beards, illuminating men who'd ridden through snow and sleet to answer his summons. Their loyalty was absolute, their readiness for war palpable as the smoke that drifted toward the vaulted ceiling.
It felt like a heavy cloak settling over his shoulders, that loyalty. The weight of it pressed down on him, threatening to drive him to his knees.
Robb. His eldest son was beyond the Wall right now, leading a ranging party into lands where the dead walked. Treating with wildlings while true monsters hunted in the darkness. No ravens from Castle Black. Just silence, stretching like the frozen wastes themselves.
What if he's already—
Come home, Robb, Ned thought, the prayer desperate and silent. Come home safe.
But the old gods offered no comfort so Ned forced the thought away, he needed to have faith in his son.
His mind shifted south, and the fear changed flavor. Jon. No, Daemon, alone in the Reach with only Luke for protection. Luke, a man of impossible power but a stranger to this realm's treachery.
Both my sons in mortal coil. The fear coiled tighter in his chest. And now her.
The memory surfaced then, pulling him under like dark water.
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"I saw him, Lord Stark." Her voice trembled, but not with fear. With certainty. "Your son, Bran. He was... nowhere. And everywhere. In a place between worlds."
Ned had pulled a chair closer, every instinct screaming that he needed to hear this. "Tell me."
She described it then, the Realm Between. A place of grey mist and impossible gateways, where she'd stood with Bran and watched doorways to a thousand different moments. Her words painted images that belonged in Old Nan's darkest tales.
"There was a man there," she continued, fingers twisting in the fur blanket. "Ancient. Withered. He sat on a throne made of roots, and he..." She shuddered. "He called himself Brynden Rivers."
Daenerys's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. "He said he'd been waiting. That he needed our power for the war against the Night King." Her hands clenched into fists. "He almost killed us, Lord Stark. He wanted to consume us, to drain everything we were and use it as fuel."
Ned felt his world tilting further off its axis, the ground beneath his feet growing less solid with each impossible revelation.
"Bran." The name left Ned's lips before he could stop it. "Is he safe?"
Daenerys's expression softened, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "He is. When we severed Bloodraven's connection, I think he returned to his body."
The relief that washed through Ned, one less son to worry about, two more to go.
"Thank the gods." The words were barely audible.
"I would like to meet him." Daenerys's voice held a tentative quality, as if she expected refusal. "If... if that would be permitted. He tired saving my life and I would like to thank him in person."
"You will," he promised. "When the time is right."
"How did you escape?"
"A man made of light." The words should have sounded mad, but they didn't. Not anymore. "He appeared when Bloodraven attacked. Called himself Ser Luke's father."
Ned's breath caught. "Luke's father?"
"Anakin Skywalker." She met his gaze, those violet eyes holding his grey ones with unnerving intensity. "He saved us. He said..." She paused, searching for words. "He said the Others, the Force, the Old Gods—they're all tangled together. All part of the same terrible knot."
Silence filled the chamber, broken only by the fire's crackling. Ned stared at this girl, the daughter of the Mad King, and saw not an enemy but something else entirely. A child thrust into a conflict not of her making. A piece on a board she'd never asked to play on.
"Princess Daenerys," he said carefully, "what I'm about to ask... you may refuse. You're under my protection regardless."
"Ask."
"Would you be willing to serve the North? To act as a shield against those who would see us weakened?"
Understanding flickered across her features. "You want to show the lions a dragon." Her voice carried a perception that belied her years. "But you hide the true one."
Ned said nothing. The silence was answer enough.
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll do it. For Daemon. For my nephew." Her chin lifted. "And because you've shown me more honor than my own blood ever did."
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The Greatjon's drinking horn slammed onto the table, the sound like a thunderclap in the crowded hall. Ned jerked back to the present, ale sloshing in his own untouched horn.
"Enough talk, Ned!" The Greatjon's bellow could have shaken snow from the rafters. "Robert is dead! And they name you traitor?" His massive fist struck the table again, making platters jump. "Give the word, and we'll march south and teach them the meaning of Northern wrath!"
The hall erupted. Benches scraped against stone as lords surged to their feet, voices rising in a cacophony of rage and bloodlust.
"These Southerners think they can trample on Northern honor and we won't do a thing!" Lady Maege Mormont's cry cut through the chaos like a blade.
"After they bled us with taxes?" Galbart Glover's normally mild voice cracked with unprecedented fury. "I'll see the Rock burn before I send another copper south!"
"My sword is yours, Ned." Rickard Karstark stood, hand on his blade's pommel. "Point me at a Lannister. Any Lannister."
Ned watched it unfold with a sick certainty in his gut. He could see it clearly now, the path they wanted to take. They would march south for his honor, for Northern pride, for revenge against southern treachery.
And the North would freeze. The smallfolk would starve. The Wall would stand undermanned while the army of the dead grew with every passing day.
I must control this storm. Before it destroys us all.
But before he could speak, another voice cut through the roaring. Soft. Chilling. Like wind over ice.
"An admirable sentiment, my lords."
Roose Bolton stood, and the hall quieted as if someone had drawn a blade across all their throats at once. The Lord of the Dreadfort's pale eyes swept the assembly, his expression as unreadable as fresh snow.
"But once we have taken King's Landing and avenged Northern honor..." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Whom do you propose we crown?"
The question sent ripples of realization spread across faces as lords looked at each other, as the flaw in their fury became suddenly, painfully apparent.
Were they fighting for Northern independence? For secession from the Seven Kingdoms? Or were they fighting to place a new king on the Iron Throne? And if so, who? Renly, who'd already crowned himself? Stannis, who'd fled with the royal fleet like a thief in the night? Or Cersei's bastards?
The Greatjon opened his mouth, then closed it again. Lady Mormont's hand fell from her sword hilt. Even Rickard Karstark seemed to deflate slightly, the wind stolen from his sails.
Ned met Bolton's pale eyes across the hall. The man's face remained a mask, but something flickered in those colorless depths. Always calculation with the Leech Lord.
Ned turned from Bolton's gaze and gave a single, sharp nod to Ser Andar Royce, who stood near the great doors. The young knight straightened, understanding passing between them without words.
The heavy doors of the Merman's Court groaned open.
Daenerys Targaryen entered, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
She wore simple dark wool, nothing of queenly finery or southern silk. But her silver hair caught the torchlight and gleamed like molten moonlight, impossible to ignore, impossible to mistake for anything but what it was. The blood of Old Valyria made flesh.
Perched on her shoulder sat Morghaes, the black dragon no larger than a dog but radiating presence that filled the hall. Smoke curled from his nostrils in lazy spirals. Flanking her like deadly shadows came Rhaegal and Viserion.
The collective gasp was like wind through a forest of steel. Men stumbled backward, benches toppling. The Greatjon's hand flew to his greatsword, his face draining of color until he looked like a man who'd seen a ghost.
"Seven hells," someone whispered.
"Dragons," another breathed. "Living dragons."
Roose Bolton's face remained a mask, but his pale eyes tracked every movement the creatures made. Pure, fascinated calculation flickered in those depths, like a merchant appraising goods he'd never dreamed of acquiring.
Ned stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Daenerys. Not blocking her, but protecting her. His voice, when it came, was cold and clear as winter ice.
"You see before you the daughter of the king who murdered my father and my brother."
The words fell like hammer blows. Men shifted, uncomfortable, hands tightening on sword hilts.
"Your instincts tell you she is the enemy."
Morghaes hissed softly, a sound that made several lords step back another pace. Rhaegal's tail wrapped around Daenerys's neck, the dragon's head swiveling to track the room's occupants with unnerving intelligence.
"You are wrong."
Ned let the statement hang, watching comprehension dawn on some faces, confusion on others.
"She is the answer to the question Lord Bolton so wisely asked." He gestured toward the Leech Lord, who inclined his head fractionally. "We will not bow to Stannis or Renly. Why trade a lion for a stag? Why replace one southern king with another who cares nothing for Northern needs?"
"Lord Stark," the Greatjon rumbled, "what are you saying?"
"I'm saying we support the true heir to the Iron Throne." Ned's voice carried to every corner of the hall. "We support Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Let the lords of the south choke on that. Let Tywin Lannister fear the return of dragons to Westeros."
Uproar threatened to erupt, but Ned raised his hand, and somehow, impossibly, silence fell.
"But our war is not for the Iron Throne." The words came out harsh, brooking no argument. "Our war, the only war that matters, is coming from the North."
He turned, gesturing toward the great map of Westeros that hung on the wall behind the high table. His finger traced the line of the Wall.
"The Lannisters will never expect this," Howland Reed said slowly. "They'll prepare for Northern rebellion, for us to name you King in the North. Not for us to back a Targaryen."
"Exactly." Ned's voice carried grim satisfaction. "Let them look the wrong way."
"And when the Long Night comes?" Halys Hornwood asked. "When the dead march south?"
"Then we'll have dragons." Ned gestured to the creatures flanking Daenerys. "And whatever else we can gather. Every advantage, every weapon, every scrap of ancient knowledge. Because the alternative is death."
The lords stared at him, at Daenerys, at the impossible creatures that shouldn't exist. Ned could see the war raging behind their eyes, old hatreds against new necessities, pride against pragmatism.
Lord Wyman Manderly struggled to his feet, the movement requiring assistance from two knights. His bulk swayed as he found his balance, then his voice boomed across the hall with surprising strength.
"To Queen Daenerys!"
The declaration hit like a thunderbolt. Heads whipped toward the massive lord, shock written across every face. Even Daenerys's eyes widened, violet irises reflecting torchlight.
"Lord Wyman," the Greatjon started, "you can't possibly ask us to put a woman on the Throne!"
"Can't I?" Manderly's chins quivered as he turned to face the larger man. "Think, Umber. Truly think. The Lannisters bleed us dry with taxes. They murder the king and blame Lord Stark. They send assassins after our children." His small eyes glittered with cold intelligence. "We need an answer that terrifies them. That makes them understand the North is not some tame wolf to be kicked whenever convenient."
He turned back to Daenerys, lowering himself to one knee with a groan that spoke of protesting joints and considerable effort. "I pledge House Manderly to your service, Your Grace. Not from love of your father or your house, but from love of the North and recognition of necessity."
It was not a cry of devotion. It was a declaration of strategic genius.
The Greatjon stood frozen, his massive frame rigid with indecision. Then, slowly, understanding bloomed across his craggy features. A grin split his face, fierce and terrible.
"Aye!" His roar shook the rafters. "Aye, by the old gods and the new! Let the lions shit themselves when they hear dragons have returned!" He drew his greatsword, the blade singing as it cleared the scabbard. "To Queen Daenerys! May her fire burn our enemies to ash!"
The dam broke.
One by one, grudgingly at first but with growing resolve, the Northern lords rose. Swords lifted toward the ceiling, steel catching torchlight. They weren't swearing for love of Targaryens. They weren't kneeling from devotion to dragonfire.
They were following Eddard Stark's lead, trusting his judgment even when it led them down paths they'd never imagined walking.
"House Mormont stands with Queen Daenerys!" Maege's voice carried over the din.
"House Glover as well," Robett added, his sword raised high.
"The Karstarks will not be left behind," Rickard declared.
Ned watched them pledge, one after another, and felt something shift in his chest. Not quite relief. Not quite triumph. Just the grim satisfaction of a man who'd made an impossible choice and seen it accepted.
He looked at Daenerys, who met his gaze with cool understanding. They had made their pact in that small chamber days ago. Now the North had sealed it with steel and oaths.
Her expression remained composed, queenly even in her simple wool. But he caught the slight tremor in her hands, the way Morghaes pressed closer against her neck as if offering comfort. She was terrified, he realized. Terrified and doing it anyway.
Robert would call this treason. The thought came with a pang of grief so sharp it stole his breath. My friend, my brother, would name me oathbreaker for this.
But Robert was dead. Murdered in his own bed by the woman he'd married, if the reports spoke true. And the realm he'd won with warhammer and rage was tearing itself apart.
Ned had chosen his path. He would protect the North. Prepare his people for the Long Night. And if that meant crowning a Targaryen girl with three impossible dragons, then so be it.
The old gods would judge him. The new gods could go hang.
"My lords!" His voice cut through the din, bringing silence once more. "We have much to discuss. Battle plans to make. Alliances to forge." He looked at each of them in turn. "But first, we feast. We drink. We remember that we are the North, and the North remembers."
A cheer went up, genuine this time, fueled by relief and the promise of action after too many days of uncertainty.
As the lords returned to their seats and servants rushed forward with fresh platters, Ned caught Daenerys's eye. She inclined her head slightly, acknowledgment passing between them.
They had set something in motion that couldn't be stopped. For good or ill, the die was cast.