"Why so fast, Ned?"
Sansa's clear blue eyes were misty with relief as she took his salt-stained riding cloak and hung it on the cedar rack. She stood close, her breath warm against his cheek. "Your letters from Volantis said there were still negotiations to conclude in Pentos. I didn't expect you for another turn of the moon."
Eddard Karstark, covered in the grey dust of travel, offered his wife a tired but genuine smile. "The sea is a slow road, Sansa. Dragons are much faster."
He had taken Viserion on a sweeping, thunderous circle around the towers of Harrenhal before landing, ensuring that every vassal, scout, and merchant in the vicinity witnessed the silver-white beast. In Slaver's Bay, he had learned that power was only as good as the terror it projected. By showing the Riverlords that the "Winter Wizard" now commanded a dragon, Sansa's regency would remain as solid as the stones of the Sunstone Tower.
Now, Viserion nested atop the tower's melted summit, letting out a low, vibrating growl of satisfaction as he curled his tail around the warm stone, sensing the ambient heat of the castle's hearths.
Eddard walked to the cradle, looking down at his sleeping son. He reached out with a leather-gloved finger, gently poking the little fellow's cheek. The baby let out a very reluctant, high-pitched mumble, his tiny fists swinging in his swaddling clothes.
"He doesn't like to be disturbed while he sleeps," Sansa laughed, leaning against Eddard's shoulder.
"He has the Stark grey eyes," Eddard noted, watching the boy's dark hair. "And he swings his fists like a Karstark. He won't be a quiet King, Sansa."
Upon his birth, the boy had automatically inherited the future crowns of the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the Crossing. It was a massive inheritance, and Eddard intended to ensure the world was stable enough for him to rule it.
"Are the matters in the East fully resolved?" Sansa asked, leading him to the table where a hot bowl of mutton broth awaited.
"They are," Eddard said. "The Archons of Pentos were sensible. When Daenerys's fleet of nearly two hundred ships appeared at their docks, flanked by the Unsullied and three dragons, they realized that their ancient laws were useless against fire. They yielded without a single arrow being nocked."
The power structure of Pentos had been dismantled. The "Ragged Prince" had assumed the role of Prince with real authority, disbanding the Archons' private guards and reorganizing the city's defense. To secure his position against the other Free Cities, the old mercenary had agreed to a permanent trade alliance. Pentos would provide grain, pasturage, and gold to the North and the Trident in exchange for Slaver's Bay timber and the protection of the dragons.
It was a lucrative treaty that solved the North's immediate winter crisis. Eddard had signed the parchment, left the return fleet under Jason Mallister's command, and flown ahead on Viserion.
"But what of the home front?" Eddard asked, taking a sip of the broth. "Has there been any movement from the West?"
Sansa's smile faded, replaced by an expression of intense, unreadable serious. She looked at him, her eyes unblinking. "Nothing major from the West, Ned. But... Robb is back."
Eddard froze, the silver spoon hovering inches from his lips. He stared at his wife, his mind struggling to process the sentence. "What did you say?"
"Robb is alive," Sansa repeated, her voice trembling. "He rode Grey Wind out of the Haunted Forest. He is at Castle Black now, with Jon."
"How is that possible?" Eddard's voice was a low, dangerous rasp. "I saw Robb's body, Sansa. I stood in the crypts of Winterfell. It was bloated, decayed, and barely recognizable. If he is 'alive,' then he is a wight, a monster of the ice."
"No," Sansa said, shaking her head. "He says it was a trick of the mind. The previous Three-Eyed Raven used a double - Kaelen, the son of the guard Cayn to take his place in the crypts. Robb is... he is different now, Ned. He calls himself the new Green Seer."
A cold dread bloomed in Eddard's chest.
Bloodraven, he thought, his fist clenching. He had known Brynden Rivers was a master of illusion and shadow, but he had assumed the old Targaryen bastard would rot in his cave. Instead, Bloodraven had hijacked the body of the King of the North.
If this "Robb" returned to claim his birthright, the political structure Eddard had spent two years building would turn to ash. Catelyn would demand Bran return the crown; the Northern lords would flock to their "resurrected" legend, and the alliance with the Riverlands would be fractured.
"Has he claimed the North?" Eddard asked, his eyes narrowing. "Does he want his crown back?"
"No," Sansa said. "Jon's letter says he remains at the Wall. He hasn't mentioned the throne or Winterfell. He only speaks of the threat of the Others."
Eddard stood, his appetite gone. "I must see him myself. I'll make a trip to Castle Black once the local lords are settled."
At the Wall, the morning sun offered no warmth, its pale light reflecting off a desolate, freezing landscape. Yet, Castle Black was livelier than it had been since the Age of Heroes.
Bowen Marsh stood on the wooden gantry, watching the massive encampment below. The courtyard was a sea of horses and men. Northern veterans, draped in heavy grey wolf-pelts, were sharing thick leather gloves and woolens with the Riverlords, who had never experienced a winter this severe.
Further off, the knights of the Vale and the Reach were sparring in the slush, their practice steel clanging against iron-clad shields. The Dornish spearmen, hating the cold, had huddled within the subterranean passages of Mole's Town, refusing to emerge unless the dead were at the gates.
Bowen Marsh was drowning in logistics. He had to find hats, boots, and cloaks for an allied host of nearly 60,000 men. If not for the Free Folk furs and the grain shipments Eddard had secured, the Wall would have starved within a fortnight.
Inside the King's Tower solar, the atmosphere was as stiff as the ice outside.
"Jon Snow, we came at Robert Arryn's command, but I've seen nothing!" Bronze Yohn Royce bellowed, his rune-etched plate armor clanking as he paced the room. "No dead, no White Walkers, only a bloody storm hovering over the forest! My horses are freezing, and my men are reaching their limit. How long do we wait in this hell?"
Jon Snow sat silently, his hands resting on Longclaw. He had no easy answers.
Tywin Lannister, now a black-clad Ranger of the Watch, looked up from the corner, his pale green eyes cold. "I hear the knights of the Vale are men of high honor, Lord Royce. Surely you wouldn't suggest defying the Warden of the East's command simply because your fingers are cold?"
Royce's face turned a violent shade of red. He glared at the former Hand but could find no retort.
"I will write to Winterfell," Jon Snow said, cutting through the tension. "Bran will send more supplies, and you have my permission to fell timber in the forest to keep your stables warm. But you must hold, My Lord."
"The wait won't be long," Robb Stark said from the hearth. His Tully blue eyes were clear, but they held an ancient, world-weary stillness that didn't belong to a young man. "The Horn of Winter is being restored. The White Walkers are preparing their final ritual, and they will strike where the living are thickest."
Melisandre touched the glowing ruby at her throat, her crimson robes rustling. "I saw it in the flames, Lord Commander. Black Castle is surrounded by a sea of bones. The Wall was a ruin of ice, and the magic of the Old Gods was suppressed. The battle is coming here."
Stannis Baratheon stood by the window, his jaw grinding rhythmically. "The dead hate the living, and we have 60,000 living souls at this gate. They have no reason to go anywhere else."
The King turned, his grey-blue eyes fixing on Jon Snow. "But where is Eddard Karstark? Why is the 'Lord of the West' slower than my own fleet?"
[System Notification: Narrative Convergence: The Wall Coalition.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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