Chapter 45 King

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Chapter Forty-Five: The King in the North

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the heated voices of lords and warriors, banners of every great house of the North hanging proudly from the rafters.

Eddard Stark strode through the hall, the weight of the old gods' vision still fresh in his mind, but his expression was composed, unreadable. His bannermen awaited him, gathered in clusters, deep in debate over the fate of the North and which king they should follow.

Catelyn was seated beside him, her face carefully blank. Robb sat to his right, his face tense, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. Jon stood a step behind him, silent, unreadable as ever, with his direwolf Ghost at his side.

Ned took his seat at the head of the hall, and the discussions continued.

"Lord Stark," Rickard Karstark began, his deep voice carrying through the hall. "There is only one rightful king, and that is Stannis Baratheon. He is Robert's lawful heir, the eldest of his brothers. By all the laws of men, he is the next king."

"Aye," agreed Galbart Glover. "The law is clear. If we follow Stannis, we stand by rightful succession."

"A king who sits on his arse in Dragonstone," Wyman Manderly scoffed. "Stannis knew of Robert's children being false, and instead of warning Robert, he fled to Dragonstone and let Jon Arryn be murdered. He may be rightful by blood, but is he fit to rule?"

"Aye, well said!" roared Jon Umber, slamming a fist on the table.

"If not Stannis, then Renly," suggested Howland Reed, his quiet voice carrying surprising weight. "He commands the Stormlands and the Reach already. He has the numbers to win this war."

"A usurper, claiming a throne that belongs to his elder brother," Benjen said sharply. "And what of the North? Do you think Renly will look to us with anything but greed once he sits the Iron Throne? He is not our friend. He is a man who would steal a throne before it was even empty."

Ned sat in silence, listening.

Neither of them are worthy.

Renly wanted a crown that was not his by right, grasping at power with no thought to duty.

Stannis had abandoned Robert and let Jon Arryn die without action.

Neither of them had his respect.

And then—

Greatjon Umber stood.

"MY LORDS!" his booming voice cut through the arguments, silencing the room.

The great man stepped forward, his broad shoulders towering over most in the hall, his wild hair casting shadows in the firelight.

"Here is what I say to these two kings!" he bellowed. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall.

"What do they know of the Wall, or the wolfswood, or the barrows of the First Men?" Greatjon continued. "Even their gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too."

There were nods now, low grumbles of agreement turning into quiet assent.

"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again?"

Silence.

The words hung in the air, thick with meaning.

"It was the dragons we married," Greatjon growled. "And the dragons are all dead!"

He turned—and pointed straight at Ned.

"There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, m'lords. The King in the North!"

A roar erupted from the hall, voices calling in agreement.

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

Ned felt the weight of their expectations settle over him.

He rose to his feet.

And then, with slow purpose, he shook his head.

The hall fell silent.

Ned exhaled.

"There is one who fits what you have described," he said. His voice was calm, but it carried through the hall like rolling thunder. "One with the right blood and the right claim to the Iron Throne."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the lords.

Robb sat up straighter.

Jon, silent until now, tensed at his side.

Ned turned to face the hall, letting his voice ring out clearly.

"My son, Jon Snow—" He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his bannermen. "—is not my son at all."

A stunned hush fell over the room.

Catelyn's breath hitched.

Robb's eyes widened.

Jon stiffened, his grey eyes narrowing, but he said nothing.

Ned turned and met Jon's gaze directly.

"His name is not Jon Snow," he declared.

"His name is Daeron Targaryen."

A shockwave went through the room.

Gasps. Murmurs.

"Targaryen?"

"What madness is this?"

Ned did not waver.

He told them everything.

The truth of Rhaegar and Lyanna's marriage. The son they bore in secret. The promise Ned had made on his sister's deathbed.

How Jon Snow—Daeron—was the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

By the time he finished speaking, the hall was silent.

Greatjon Umber looked stunned.

Rickard Karstark's jaw was clenched.

Benjen had closed his eyes, as if the weight of Lyanna's secret had finally settled on his shoulders.

And Jon—

Jon had not moved.

He stood as still as a statue, his face unreadable.

Ned turned to face him fully.

And then—

With slow, deliberate purpose, he knelt.

"I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do hereby pledge my sword, my life, and my honor to King Daeron Targaryen, third of his name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."

The words rang through the hall.

One by one, his bannermen followed.

Greatjon dropped to a knee.

Then Wyman Manderly.

Then Karstark.

Then the Mormonts, the Glovers, the Reeds, the Flints.

A ripple spread across the hall as the entirety of the North swore fealty to their king.

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

Ned turned to his nephew—his king.

Jon stood frozen, his breath shallow, his hands clenched at his sides.

For the first time, Ned saw uncertainty in him.

He reached out, resting a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Rise, Your Grace," he said softly.

And Jon—Daeron—did.