cp3

764Chapter 3

The Great Hall of Winterfell stood a clear reminder that even though the Boltons had occupied its chambers for a time, it was an unquestionable testament to the Stark rule. The sigil of the direwolf was proudly carved along the stones of the floors and walls and ceilings, a pack racing along the room, always wanting but never able to catch one another.

The hall was filled with men, armed and all. Two long tables kept the area, a line down the middle going from the head table to the exit. The knights of the Vale took the eastern table of the room, banners of all make and color on display, held by squires and pages and sons. Representing them was Bronze Yohn Royce, the commander of their army that had joined with Jon in the Battle of the Bastards. The western part of the room was made up of a mixture of northern houses, civilian folk who had distinguished themselves in battle and the wildling leaders. It was an array of different colored greys, colored to mix into the climate of their peoples, grim faces and heavy hands the lot of them.

A dais raised over these long tables, two half stairs leading to the head table, where three chairs sat. Jon sat the middle, Sansa his right, and me on his left. Even more symbolic, Ghost lay down in front of the table, the very creature of our sigil, the showcasing of approval by the Old Gods. The last of the Starks took the front, keeping the council of this chamber, as was meant to be.

But there was no council to keep. The armies holding over in this castle were arguing amongst one another in a punitive manner, neither side giving an inch.

"You can't expect the knights of the Vale to side with Wildling invaders!" Yohn Royce said, standing tall. I understood his plight and reasoning, though felt it poorly timed. Those born in the Vale had dealt with the mountain clans for centuries, the savage peoples that claimed the mountains for their own, hoping to push those they considered Andal invaders out. They were wildings without the name, and Yohn Royce had no love for either groups.

Tormund Giantsbane smirked from behind his bushy red beard. "We didn't invade. We were invited."

"Not by me." Royce huffed. Mutters of agreement and disparity rang the room, and Jon held a worried gaze in his eye.

"The free folk, the northerners, and the knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won." He said, the hall going quiet with his words. "My father used to say we find our true friends on the battlefield."

Lord Cerwyn stood, addressing both Jon and the rest of the room. "The Boltons are defeated. The war is over. Winter has come. If the maesters are right, it'll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms."

"The war is not over," Jon denounced. "And I promise you, friend. The true enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm."

The lords whispered conversation at that, worried tones and scoffing remarks plain to hear. I eyed them, mapping their thoughts. Ser Davos had not seen the wights, but he believed Jon's words as law, as did many of the northern lords. The wildlings were on Jon's side, no questions about it. The knights of the Vale clearly thought Jon delusional, as did the some of those other northern lords.

I trailed my eyes to the corner of the room, searching at a figure hiding against the torchlight, posed in such a way that the shadows secreted him. Petyr Baelish was a small, thin man, host to a clean head of black-grey hair and a well-groomed mustache. He looked entertained by the events occurring. He would need to be dealt with soon, but now was not the time.

Now was the time for a different sort of change.

My attention was firmly rooted on Lyanna Mormont when she stood, however. A girl of plain looks of an age with me, she held a strong demeanor and a spine of steel. Excitement brewed in my belly as she began to speak, her gaze locked onto Wyman Manderly. "Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly. But you refused the call."

The fat lord looked both confused and abashed at that and made to speak against such lambastes. Lyanna ignored him and turned her eyes towards the elderly lord at her side. "You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover. But in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call."

She turned her eyes towards Lord Cerwyn, honest disgust in her tone. "And you. Lord Cerwyn. You father was skinned alive by Ramsey Bolton! Still, you refused the call!"

"But House Mormont remembers!" She told the room. "The North, remembers! We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don't care if he's a bastard, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He's my king, from this day until his last day!"

Her eyes were hard, staring Jon down. Stunned by her proclamation, Jon offered her only the barest of nods. Biting her lip, the Lady Mormont sat down again, shallowly bowing her head.

Lord Manderly stood quickly, shamefaced. "Lady Mormont speaks harshly. And truly." He gave his gaze to the northern lords further down the hall. "My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn't commit my men your cause, because I didn't want more Manderly's dying for nothing."

"But I was wrong!" He announced, pointing his finger Jon's way. "Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding! He is the White Wolf! The King in the North!" He unsheathed his sword, and fell to one knee, head bowed before Jon.

Lord Robbet Glover stood next, his voice gravelly and weak with old age, his gaze locked onto Jon's. "I did not fight beside you on the field, and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong, and as forgiveness."

Jon swallowed audibly; a bead of sweat rolling hidden down his neck. "There's nothing to forgive, my lord." He rasped.

Lord Glover somberly nodded, looking towards the rest of the room, their silence captive. "There will be more fights to come," he told them. "House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years! And I will stand behind Jon Snow. The King in the North!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!" the room echoed, standing, swords unsheathed, blades rasping against the air. They chanted the title, over and over and over again. "THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

Jon looked between us, at Sansa and me. Slowly, he stood, taking in the room, their cheers and chants and plea for the future. Many minutes passed before they quieted down, and he addressed them evenly.

"You name me king." He said. "You say Ned Stark's blood runs through my veins, Lady Mormont. But it is only his blood that runs through my veins. Not his name. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I am not a Stark. I am half-brother to Robb Stark, the last King in the North. But here, at my side, is his full brother, the trueborn son of Eddard Stark and his lawful wife, Catelyn Tully."

He waved a hand my way, a deathly serious look in his eye. "A son cannot inherit before a father. A younger brother cannot inherit before his elder. A bastard cannot ever make claim before the trueborn. Rickon Stark is of the North, he traveled the land as a boy and was taken prisoner by the Umbers, sold then to the Bolton's. But he did not break under their stewardship. He never left the North, he never went south past our border or ranging beyond the Wall. He is you king."

"We proclaimed you king, Jon Snow." Lyanna Mormont protested, rocketing to her feet once more. "Lord Rickon is trueborn and a northerner, nobody denies that. But we did not proclaim him king."

"Then my first and last act as king is to pass the title to my brother." Jon said, sitting down. Sansa looked at him as if he were a fool, and I could not blame her.

The room hissed at his words, but little else. Tensions rose and I knew that Jon had fucked up something fierce. Northerners were proud. They did not bend their knees easily. To do so to Jon Snow was a submission of their nature, and also the showing of clear loyalty. He had earned their trust, his deeds known and respected. But I was not known to them. They would not bow to me in a similar manner.

Not unless something was done.

I stood before the assembled lords and walked down the dais. Lyanna Mormont was still standing, and she eyed my approach warily. I passed her and took the center of the room and spoke. "You have named Jon Snow your king, and his first proclamation as king is to hand the title over to his brother. This was not done because he would be a poor king. No, Jon would be a great king, better than my brother Robb, even. He does this out of propriety. The laws we have established are clear to him. A bastard cannot be before a trueborn."

"My mother never liked Jon." I said, turning towards him. Jon's face was skewed in confusion. "From as far back as I can remember, this was true. She believed him to be the doom of her children. A bastard that would make to usurp his Stark betters. It was her scorn that had Jon run off join the Night's Watch, thinking it the best a bastard could do. But we all know she was wrong, don't we? Here and now, we all know that he is the better man. Do any of you deny this?"

The assembled peoples all around made their agreements clear. The wildlings in the back were not quiet though, hooting and hollering my words. Parrots, the lot of them.

"I do not want to be king either." I told them. "Heavy is the crown and I am young and inexperienced. I was yet to start my lessons with a maester when war broke out, and I know little of ruling. I do not think I would be a good king. …But if Jon proclaims me king, then I will be king. And part of being king, is knowing both to delegate duties and make offerings when rewards are due. And a reward is long due, I feel."

I stared my cousin down. "He is the Bastard of Winterfell. He was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He fought the White Walkers. He saved the Wildlings. He took a dagger to the heart for all of us. He beat back the Bolton's and had he failed he would have done so to give those that remained the chance to route Ramsey out after. Jon does not care about distinctions between wildling or Westerosi or the north and the south, he cares solely about the living over the dead."

"A truer Stark there is not!" I bellowed, turning the room around. Shouts followed, loud Aye's echoing the hall. "Robb does not equate him, nor even does my father. Not since Torrhen Stark the King Who Knelt has there been such a selfless man in the line of the Starks, one that willingly abandons their pride to see all of the North live in its place. Our father passed words down to all of his children, words that his father and his father's father and generations of Starks before him had said. When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. I name you pack, Jon Snow."

A smile bloom over my face, wide and happy. I twisted around towards him one last time and said my peace. "I name you Jon Stark, a bastard no longer."

The cheers were near as loud as they were when they pronounced Jon as king. They all stood, the word "STARK!" chanted, recited till Jon broke from his stupor, Sansa gleefully pulling him to stand. He smiled a bright thing, rare to see on such a brooding person. To be a Stark had been his greatest wish as a boy, and though he was a man now, such hopes did not fall away easily.

I didn't care that he was not the son of Ned Stark. Cousin, brother. The distinction was irrelevant. Jon was worth the family name ten times over, though never would he make the change himself. Were he king, he would keep his bastardly station because he felt himself unworthy of the Stark name, actions be-damned. Were Sansa queen, much as I loved her, I knew she would not elevate him as he should have been. A woman queen when there was a male sharing her name, bastard born or no, would seed discord. Only I could do this.

And I did so happily.