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Balon Swann found himself pleasantly surprised to be in the service of the Crown Prince. He had always wanted to be in the Kingsguard, and it had been a shock to learn that King Robert, late in his reign, had intentionally left two positions on the white-cloaked order unfulfilled.

Ser Meryn Trant was a fellow Stormlander, but the less said about him the better. Trant was an ambitious and cruel knight, who would never benefit anyone but himself. So, Balon had none among the current Kingsguard to vouch for him.

But he needed them not. He was an able knight—good with a blade, better with a morningstar, and best with a bow.

So, when Lord Renly had sent a message that he was to be in the personal service of Prince Haridon, Balon had been genuinely happy.

The Crown Prince was considered the heir of the Stormlands, as Lord Renly was still without a child, which was a position of great prestige, aside from Haridon's place in line for the Iron Throne.

Balon still wanted to join the Kingsguard, but he would wait. He would wait until the inevitable post-coronation recruitment began. Until then, he would serve the Prince faithfully.

It certainly helped that the Prince was a knight himself, and had a knight for a sworn shield—a Northern knight, the son of the recently imprisoned Lord Stark, Ser Jon Snow.

But Balon cared not for the politics of it. His job was to serve the Prince and not question his choices.

The Prince had ordered him to guard the entrance of the Tower of the Hand—his first, and quite a good, job. If a bit confusing.

Scratch that, his entire service was confusing too. If he was meant to serve the royal family, then why not the King Joffrey?

But Lord Renly had ordered it, so here he was. Quite focused on his duty.

The Prince had welcomed him with a warm smile, and while he kept Balon at a professional arm's length, it was to be expected.

The Prince already had a dedicated sworn shield, a noble bastard if whispers were to be believed.

Also, Ser Arys Oakheart, the Reachman, followed him around dutifully.

Haridon took a long breath as he placed his greatsword back on the ground, clutching its handle with both hands lightly. His morning training session was at its end.

Jon was standing opposite him, his own longsword held loosely in hand. They had sparred for a few tiring hours, neither truly gaining the upper hand, a testament to their evenly matched skill, and familiarity.

He knew Ser Arys was somewhere nearby, keeping silent vigil. Even after three days of his brother taking the throne, the Reachman was still officially assigned to him.

He had thought Joffrey would immediately replace Arys with Ser Meryn or Ser Boros, creatures loyal to his brother and mother. But to his surprise, he had been allowed to retain Arys, most likely his mother's idea to keep a familiar Kingsguard with him.

Taking over the regency had given his mother quite the political boost, and he knew she would soon start pushing her influence around. Yet, the truly concerning event was Lord Stark's arrest.

He didn't know what his mother was ultimately trying to achieve by imprisoning the Hand, aside from the immediate removal of a threat to her power, and gaining the title of regent.

Surely, she had secured the regency, but she had also imminently given the North and the Riverlands a non-negotiable reason to rise.

Harry was certain a raven would arrive in a few days confirming the worst: Robb Stark will rise for his father, and the Riverlands would rise with him, given Lord Stark's marriage to a Tully.

His mother had likely convinced herself the move was a political master plan, but Harry saw only a rash, poorly thought-over action.

He also strongly smelled someone else plotting behind his mother's back, using her arrogance for their own gain. There were two likely suspects: the web-weaver Varys or the slimy-opportunistic Littlefinger.

Jon, in the meantime, had been full of frustration and righteous anger. Harry knew he desperately wanted his father free and his sisters secured.

While He had assured the latter by assigning guards to the Tower and sending Jon to find Arya, the former—Ned's release—was a task he was waiting on.

Renly, with a letter of fealty and service, had also sent him a knight, Ser Balon Swann, said to be one of the best swords under his tutelage.

His uncle had sent Swann to aid him, and by observing the surface thoughts of the Stormlander, Harry knew he was not here to spy, but to truly serve.

So, he had assigned the knight to guard the tower against everyone, even his brother. Especially his brother, he knew the cretin was used to getting his way, and now as a king he had power that would only aid him. Power that he had let him have due to his own indecision.

But until he knew who truly orchestrated Lord Stark's imprisonment and to what end, he couldn't act decisively without plunging the realm into war faster than necessary.

He had already sent for Tyrion. The dwarf had returned to Casterly Rock a few days before his father's demise, and Harry wanted him back in King's Landing.

Tyrion was an astute mind, capable of seeing mistakes others missed, and efficiently used his sly words and pragmatic nature.

Truly, if his grandfather wasn't blinded by his hatred and contempt for his youngest son, he might have had an heir who could match his own intellect.

Well, that blindness was only beneficial for Harry; at least he had a clever and potentially trustworthy aid he could summon to the capital.

Nodding to Jon, Harry started taking off the heavy armour, or at least the pieces he was still wearing: the breastplate, shoulder guards, wrist guards, boots, and shinguards.

Wearing the full armour was a tiring experience, even for a simple spar.

He was a knight, like the ones he had heard of in the Middle Ages.

This world had countless of them throughout its long history, some truly legendary like: Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Daemon Targaryen, Ser Duncan the Tall, Ser Barristan Selmy, and many more.

Even the Baratheon line had its fair share of knights, some truly legendary, like Ser Lyonel Baratheon, "The Laughing Storm," as he was called for his erratic laughter in between battles—his great-great-grandfather, or something close.

Others, like Ser Meryn, Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Amory, Ser Lyn Corbray, and many others, had stained the knight's armor. Some were the most dishonorable Haridon had seen or heard of. Even his uncle was on the list, a man without any honor.

He was a knight too now. While some would always claim he was knighted by the King merely because he was his son, the ones who had seen him defeat the Mountain would claim otherwise, even more so when they fought him themselves.

Placing his armour nearby for a squire to bring it to the armory, he nodded to Jon, and they started walking toward his chamber.

"They are allowing none to see my father," His sword shield said, his face etched in a scowl of powerless frustration.

Harry nodded, knowing full well that his mother wouldn't allow anyone to meet with the Hand, or former Hand, and possibly free him.

"Worry not. Let me get behind who all planned this. We'll have to possibly free Lord Stark," Harry said as they walked on, nearing his chamber. "Did you find what I asked?"

Jon nodded. "All the guards and gaolers are Lannister men."

"Who told you that?" Harry asked as they reached his chamber gate.

"The third gaoler. I had to get him drunk," Jon said with a momentary, grim smirk.

"Nice, nice. And you are sure there are no Stormlands guards?" Harry asked, confirming the security landscape. Jon nodded, confirming the Lannister monopoly on the black cells.

Harry nodded. "Keep an eye out for Sansa and Arya. I want none near them until I get past all of this. If anything changes, inform me."

Jon nodded. "Sansa is a bit mature; she was hysterical, but me being here calmed her. The true issue was Arya, Your Grace. She is only in the Keep because I am here; else, she would have already escaped."

Harry shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and deep concern for the wild girl. "We can't let that happen, Jon. The world outside is much more brutal. She is hard, I know, but she is still a kid. Relax. I will protect them both."

Varys smiled, a most unsettling expression across his powdered face, and then he laughed, a soft, high-pitched twittering of pure glee.

The smell of war was thick in the air, a perfume to his nose, and the chaos he so desperately relied upon was already on the horizon, sailing toward King's Landing at full speed.

The time was near for him to start his own campaign. The game board was set and the pieces had taken their place, moving as he had wanted them to. The auspicious omens were everywhere.

Daenerys was married to the savage Khal, and had become his mare, ready to birth the heir to Khal Drogo. Viserys, the mad prince, was last heard running away from the raiders of Drogo, fearful for his pathetic life.

Ser Jorah had reported the prince insulting the Khal, and Drogo had not taken lightly to that, supposedly wanting Viserys's head.

According to his little birds, Viserys was nearing Qarth, and Varys sincerely wished death upon him. That would be another hurdle out of the way, leaving only the more malleable Daenerys.

Rhaenys Targaryen was currently cooped up in Dorne, but she was now dangerously exposed.

With Robert dead and Ned Stark behind bars, her staunchest defender against the throne was gone, except for her uncles. A few kind, whispered words in Joffrey's ear, and she would be dragged to King's Landing in chains, a hostage for the throne.

Her safety depended entirely on her caution and Dorne's isolation.

Ah, yes. The game was set. The pieces had taken their places, and the dice was about to be rolled—or rather, the dominoes were about to fall.

He cackled to himself, a sound like a spider squeaking, and turned a corridor, thinking of the grand designs he would soon execute. But he came face-to-face with the Crown Prince, Haridon.

Their eyes met, and Varys felt a bizarre, horrifying sensation, as if centipedes were crawling in his mind, their tiny, sharp legs scuttling through his most private thoughts.

A sudden, blinding headache rose out of nowhere, an agonizing pressure behind his eyes that threatened to split his skull.

"Look where you are going, Lord Varys," the Prince said, his voice level, with an unamused smile that did not reach his piercing emerald eyes.

He passed him, seemingly unaffected by the intense mental surge he had just triggered in the Master of Whisperers. Following him were his chosen sword and the Kingsguard, Ser Jon and Ser Arys respectively.

Varys closed his eyes, fighting to remain standing as the pain seemed to overwhelm him, something was quite amiss with his mind.

But just as quickly as it had appeared, the sensation vanished, leaving him breathless and reeling.

He opened his eyes, staring at the empty space where the Prince had been moments before. He looked behind and found the Prince walking normally, chatting with his guards.

With a deep, disoriented frown, Varys walked toward his own chambers.

Vickon of Greyshores found his new quarters surprisingly homely, livable, and every bit as comfortable as he had imagined.

He flexed his arms and cracked his neck; it took a slight toll on his body to maintain the perpetually hunched posture of a humble, non-threatening messenger.

He looked around the cold, stone castle, Pyke.

The walls were barely lit by sputtering torches, and the corridors each had a narrow window overlooking the sea. The salty tinge of the spray and the harsh, damp wind made his hair rise slightly, just like any true Iron Islander.

He looked every bit the weak, eager messenger he wanted to project. His hunched form and slightly grey hair made the look more prominent, disguising the corded strength beneath his clothes.

Oh, how he missed the sea.

It had been a few years since he had climbed a mast, dipped in the cold, black sea, and tasted freshly skinned fish. The cooks here, on the Iron Islands, were far more able at roasting meat than preparing it raw; he missed that salty, tingly flavour.

He had grown up at sea from a young age, traveling on different vessels as his master sailed the coasts.

He had kept his face carefully masked for quite a few years until the scars had faded, becoming nothing more than slight bumps against his tough skin.

He had captained his master's ships for quite a few years and, in the true Iron Price tradition, had paid for his own small ships.

He had never been particularly religious, even though he had been closer to the Drowned God and the sea for most of his life.

No, while he admired the Old Ways, he wasn't the staunchest of reavers, unlike Lord Balon.

The Mad Lord was quite out of step with the practical realities of the Old Ways, and it was that difference that would ultimately benefit Vickon.

It had not been hard to gain entry into Balon's inner circle, and he knew the right way of claiming what he wanted, even paying the Iron Price—violently, if required.

The door to his chamber opened, and a slightly older reaver with a scarred, half-missing lip entered. "Lord Reaver Balon has summoned you, Advisor."

Vickon nodded, his hunch instantly back in place. He picked up his own short, sharp sword, tucked securely into his belt, and walked out to meet his Lord, the scent of brine and damp stone his only companion.

Cersei eyed the scroll with gritted teeth. "They dare! When did we receive this?"

Varys, seated to her left, spoke up, "This morning, My Queen. It was sent as a response to the King's missive for Robb Stark to come and swear his fealty."

"A declaration of war? And where is Joffrey? Why wasn't I informed as early as you could? Does he know?" Cersei shot one question after another, her frustration turning to fury.

"The King does, Lady Regent. And we informed you as we gathered for council, as Grand Maester Pycelle was the only one informed," Littlefinger interjected, his eyes darting between the Queen and the Grand Maester.

Cersei turned her eyes on Varys. "And you want me to believe you didn't know? Your duties entail knowing things! A revolt from the North, and you feign ignorance?"

Varys straightened, his usual serenity nowhere to be seen. "There were whispers, My Queen. And I would have told you as soon as my little birds confirmed the rumors."

"You're paid to tell me the rumors, Eunuch! Don't test me. From now on, tell me even if you hear whispers," Cersei snapped at the Master of Whisperers, laying down a sharp command.

The Spider nodded his head meekly, but Cersei had already turned her attention to Pycelle. "Grand Maester, you handle the ravenry, correct? Then why didn't I get the scroll before the council?"

"My Lady, the King—" Pycelle started in a weak voice, his eyes wide and watery, likely an attempt to seem weak and harmless. Cersei knew he was anything but that.

"Knows about what happened. He told me first," Joffrey said, as he entered the chamber. Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Barristan Selmy followed him, flanking the King.

The councilors stood up immediately as her son took his own seat on the high throne, before waving a dismissive hand for them to sit.

Cersei smiled, a genuine, if brief, prideful one. Joffrey, for the first time, was behaving like a King, demonstrating a measure of control and decorum.

It was all Robert's fault, she thought bitterly. The oaf was the only one her dear son had looked to for guidance, and the man had been a whore-monger, rude, and alcoholic himself.

Joffrey had picked up some of his worst habits, and she was left cleaning up behind him.

"I know the Stark bastard has revolted," The king said, his face etched in a serious, almost theatrical mask. "What does Grandfather say, Mother?"

She looked up at him, her precious son, her composure returning. "I will send him a letter, Joff. He will raise his banners and raze those barbaric lands to ruin."

Joffrey smirked, a look so much like herself. "Yes, send him that then. I want Robb Stark's head."

Cersei smiled in response, indulging him. "Indeed, My King. You'll have his head."

He then turned, addressing Meryn Trant with a chilling lack of restraint. "Then I'll show that Traitor's head to Sansa."

The knight smirked in response, while Ser Barristan raised a brow.

Cersei's protective smile died a sudden death. "You mustn't, son. She is to be your wife. We can put his head on a spike at the gates."

He turned to her, his petulant anger replacing his earlier restraint, all decorum forgotten. "I will present his and his treacherous father's head on a plate to Sansa!"

"No, you will certainly not." A familiar, commanding voice cut through the chamber's placid air.

Haridon entered the chamber, his sworn shield, Eddard Stark's bastard, Ser Jon, following him closely, with Ser Arys bringing up the rear.

The cruel smirk on Joffrey's face died instantly, replaced by a sullen scowl.

The councilors settled further into their seats, sensing the coming confrontation, even Littlefinger seemed keenly interested in the clash.

"And who'll stop me?" Her eldest asked, his teeth gritted, his voice clear in challenge.

Cersei's second son simply raised a single brow. He was fearless, she had to give him that. Just like Robert, her son was fearless and cut quite the image.

"You will not present Robb Stark's head to anyone. As soon as Grandfather razes the North, Robb Stark would be captured, and forced to swear fealty and possibly hand over a few hostages," He said with a calm, unnerving voice.

He then turned to Cersei. "But that wouldn't need to be done now, would it? Give Lord Stark a fair trial, and we will avoid this whole mess."

"Never! He is a traitor. He will accept his guilt, and will be sent to the Wall," Cersei declared, her voice tight, standing firm on her predetermined solution.

"You can't be thinking of releasing him, Prince," Littlefinger suddenly stood up, injecting himself into the conflict with his smooth, poisonous counsel. "He is a traitor. He must be hanged, or better, beheaded."

"I agree with Lord Baelish, Your Grace," Pycelle wheezed, his voice weak and supportive of the Queen.

Even Joffrey nodded in affirmation.

Varys, who had been quietly observing the spectacle, did not say anything, but didn't refute the calls for execution either, maintaining his position of cautious neutrality.

"I'll have his head, and serve it to Sansa!" Joffrey repeated the cruel threat, slamming his hand on the arm of the Iron Throne.

"Do that, and you'll have one less hand," Her second son said, his voice quiet, clear, and utterly devoid of fear, his gaze locked on Joffrey.

"Haridon!" She snapped, rising halfway out of her seat.

She loved him, but her son was too righteous. Quite unlike any of his parents.

But then again, Joffrey's cruelty was also a radical trait. Cersei was vindictive, she knew that, but neither she nor Robert had been needlessly cruel—maybe her father.

"You mustn't speak to your brother like that! He's your King," she admonished, trying to reassert the peace, which was never there in the first place.

"Then you might like to educate your King, Mother," He said, turning his focus fully to her. "Being needlessly cruel wouldn't benefit his reign, and it is undilpomatic. We need Sansa Stark as a hostage and Robb Stark's cooperation."

"I am the King! I have all the rights to be cruel! I will do as I want, and—" Joffrey suddenly doubled over as a hard fist found its place in his stomach, swiftly.

"Haridon!" Cersei yelled, moving forward instantly, but she was roughly pushed aside.

Ser Meryn had instantly drawn his sword and pointed it directly toward her second son.

In response, Ser Jon revealed his own longsword and pointed its tip squarely at Ser Meryn's throat.

Cersei had to admit that the Northern bastard was fiercely loyal to her son.

It seemed she had to admit and learn a lot of things today, mostly unpleasant ones about her own family's capacity for violence.

Haridon moved a few steps back, not in fear, but simply to let Joffrey gasp and breathe.

"You can't hit me! I am the King!" Joffrey whimpered, still clutching his stomach, his face pale with pain and shock.

Cersei, watching from the sidelines, noticed the councilors—Pycelle, Varys, and Littlefinger—moving rapidly toward the chamber doors, scattering like rats.

The swords were still pointed, creating a tense scene.

Meanwhile, Ser Barristan and Ser Arys stood like statues, neither moving nor intervening, simply eyeing the dangerous interaction, adhering strictly to their unspoken codes.

"I don't care if you believe yourself a god, you wretch! Torment Sansa, and I will have your hide, believe me on that!" Her second son declared with chilling conviction, and Cersei saw a flash of herself in him.

Her own fierce, possessive protectiveness over Jaime had been exactly the same.

"You can't—" Her eldest son tried to speak again, but his brother advanced, clutched his tunic neck, and raised him off the ground.

Haridon was quite a bit taller and stronger than Joffrey, and the King was left dangling, whimpering softly.

"Unhand him right now, Haridon! I order you!" Cersei snapped, finally pushing past the Northern bastard and standing directly beside her son.

He glanced toward her, his face utterly emotionless, a blank look that only sent shiver through her body, as it promised cold cruel things. She could not miss it even if she tried.

Meaning Joffrey was turning white, probably due to the tunic constraining his neck.

Haridon breathed out and dropped Joffrey, who fell to the stone floor like a sack of grain. He lay there, weeping. Cersei looked around, horrified at the swords still drawn.

"Drop the swords and out! All of you out!" She screamed, her authority ringing through the chamber.

The Kingsguard hesitated, but with a sharp nod, he sheathed his blade. Ser Jon, noticing the lack of a sword pointed at Haridon, sheathed his own sword and walked out, just behind the scurrying counselors.

Now, only her two sons and she remained in the chamber, the silence a heavy presence on her consciousness.

Cersei bent down to check on the King. He was breathing hard but, remarkably, there was no visible mark on him.

She looked toward Haridon sharply. "Help me pick him up," she ordered.

He merely eyed her before walking toward a chair and sitting in it with casual disregard. His hand found her wine flagon, and he took a deep, long gulp.

She glared at him, but steadily supported the whimpering boy herself. "Ser Barristan!" she yelled.

The gates opened, and the old knight entered, his face betraying any emotion he must be feeling. "Carry the King to his quarters. See that he is checked by Pycelle."

The old knight simply nodded and picked Joffrey up from her arms, carrying him effortlessly like he weighed nothing.

She waited until the knight closed the gate behind him.

"What the hell was that?" she screeched, whirling to face her son. "You put hands on the King! He could have you hanged for that!"

"Then he will have one more army at his heels," Haridon said candidly, looking at her over the rim of the flagon.

"Son, he is the King! You can't behave with him like this! He is your brother, and he needs your support!" Cersei pleaded, walking toward him and sinking into the chair beside him.

He snorted, but didn't seem amused. "Didn't I tell you he was a cruel wretch? Watch what his reign has brought us: two armies waging wars against us."

"It's not Joffrey's fault—" Cersei tried to defend her eldest son, hers and Jaime's.

"He is a damn cretin. His reign will only bring ruin," He said, taking another gulp. "The North should never have revolted if you didn't imprison its Lord unrightfully."

Cersei glared. "Eddard Stark is a traitor. The sooner he accepts his crimes, the sooner he will be sent to the Wall."

Haridon raised a brow, the gesture dripping with skepticism and irritation. "Is he, though? Do you take me for a fool, Mother?"

Cersei scowled. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"You well do. I don't care if you wanted the regency. I am all for it, at least someone smart enough will rule as Joffrey's Regent. But you couldn't control him." He said, his voice confident.

"I can—"

"No, You cannot. He is a rabid dog, and Lord Stark would have been able to curb that. If not, then he would have resigned, and the regency would have fallen to you regardless," He said, standing up and pacing in front of her, his expression troubled.

"You will not call your brother as such. He is just new to all this," Cersei said angrily.

Ignoring her comment, he continued, "Now your actions have resulted in a full-scale revolt. Be thankful that we have Lord Stark and his daughters as a hostage to bargain."

"Ned Stark will go to the Wall, and Sansa will marry Joffrey," Cersei said, the clear conviction in her voice made her son stop pacing

"She will not. And with Joffrey's cruel streak, you can't predict what he'll do. And I will not have Sansa be tormented by him," He glared down at her.

"Because you love her, don't you?" Cersei spoke up, cutting to the quick. "I can see it in your eyes."

Haridon nodded without hesitation. "I will not pray Joffrey upon such an innocent person. No, she will wed me. And I would handle Lord Stark's trial."

"Joffrey will never allow that," Cersei said, knowing her eldest's possessiveness.

"Then distract him with someone else. Maybe one of the Lannisters or the Tyrells. I heard one of Lord Tyrell's daughters is his age," Haridon replied, completely unconcerned. "She is comely too, and quick-witted."

Cersei scowled, horrified by the suggestion. "I will never allow Olenna and her grasping brood near the throne!"

He placed the empty wine flagon on the table, sitting back down. "The Reach is the richest after the Westerlands, and with coming conflicts, we will need them. They can easily be turned against us."

"By whom? The North is the only one to revolt, and your uncle Stannis doesn't have a strong army yet," Cersei countered, a smirk returning, confident in her current enemies.

Haridon looked up, his emerald eyes boring into hers. "Tell me you are not that naive, Mother. The Riverlands will surely join the North, and Balon Greyjoy's ambitions have never been unknown to us. Pray that Dorne doesn't use this opportunity to crown Rhaenys."

She scowled, realizing the widening scope of the problem. "Another thing to be blamed on Stark. And my father—"

"Grandfather will be overextended," He replied quickly, cutting off her defense. "The Reach is the best option for us right now."

"We still have the Stormlands," Cersei said, looking smug, confident in the loyalty of one of the throne's most powerful vassals.

"Me, I have the Stormlands. I am Uncle Renly's heir; it is me who has held them from revolting," He replied loudly, shattering her confidence. "Why can't you understand? Contact the Reach, talk to Joffrey, and marry him to one of them, or at least set a betrothal."

Cersei looked at him with anger clear in her eyes, realizing the threat he posed. "You, right. You have the Stormlands, and that is the army that would come when you are harmed. I'll have Renly declared a traitor before that," she threatened, trying to reclaim control.

He rolled his eyes. "And have a fourth army, or fifth if the Iron Islands revolt, at your doorstep." He stood up, walked to her, and then bent down to reach her level, dropping to one knee before her chair. "Believe me, I hate Joffrey. But I will not side with another revolt, because that will also put you, Tommen, and Myrcella in danger."

"I don't care if the wretch lives or dies, but I don't want you three harmed. So, listen to me, and do as I say." He said with a finalty, and Cersei despite her arrogance nodded. Sometimes her son reminded her of her father, sometimes.

Robb eyed the bannermen of the North as they gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Bran was positioned by his side, formally present as his heir, while his mother, Lady Catelyn, stood on the other, acting as the Lady of the Keep.

The former got quite a few stray looks as his red eyes seemed to be categorizing the lords. He seemed to nod to himself quite a few times, and then settled down. His eyes focused on the man in the pink cloak, Lord Bolton.

It was his mother who had settled the Lord's accommodation, making sure none would feel slighted or offended by their placement or quarters.

Although the vassals of the North were generally considered honest and righteous, it couldn't be said they were faultless or humble. They got easily offended if not given proper respect, a reality that Catelyn, as a Southerner, had learned quickly.

Chief among those causing trouble were the Lords of Glover, Bolton, Cerwyn, and Dustin. These four had done nothing but complain since they had arrived.

Although the last was just a steward, because Lady Barbrey Dustin had no son of her own, except a bastard, and her husband had no living family either, and he had died in the rebellion all those years ago.

Lord Bolton, ever the quiet schemer, complained in fewer words than the others, but the permanent look of disgust on his face spoke volumes and served as its own form of complaint.

His heir, Domeric Bolton, seemed quite placid though, sitting near his father, Roose.

Robb felt a knot of anxiety; the North respected strength and grit, and the Starks were viewed as gods in human form in the cold lands. Bannermen like the Mormont, Manderly, Umber, Greyion and Glover were the most loyal of all.

Still, his lords respected experience and grit. He had not yet achieved the former, but he possessed the second in full.

He was the son of Eddard Stark, and while his coloring was all Tully, his personality was Stark—much like his father, and perhaps much more like his deceased uncle.

Bran had heard the stories of Late Brandon Stark, the Wild Wolf, called as such for his brash and wild nature. Robb reckoned he was much like him, at least that is what his father and mother always said.

"Sit down, my lords," he said loudly, his voice clear and carrying across the vast hall.

His vassals sat down, some sharing wary glances with their rival house heads, others looking at him doubtfully, assessing his youth.

"We have all gathered here to march to the South and free my father, Lord Eddard Stark. Your liege has been imprisoned wrongfully by the Lannisters," he stated, which was met with immediate growls and shouts of 'Get 'em!'

Lord Greatjon Umber stood up, a giant, furious figure. "They say 'e committed some treason. I say bullshit to that! Ned Stark is an honorable man, as honorable as they come."

"Aye," the assembled lords roared in unison, and Greatjon sat back down, satisfied.

"Aye, for that we would have that bastard king's head," Lady Maege Mormont said fiercely, raising her cup in a toast.

"Yes," Robb said, allowing the sentiment to settle. "Lord Stannis has sent ravens all across the Seven Kingdoms claiming that Joffrey, who calls himself Baratheon, is a bastard born of incest."

"And we are to believe Stannis Baratheon? He, who claims the throne for himself, not the real son of the late King Robert?" Roose Bolton asked, standing up. His voice was silky and smooth, yet it sent shivers down Robb's spine—a dangerous softness.

"Aye, we care not for those Southern lords. I say, we march, free our Lord, and return back to our lands," Lord Robar Greyion said. Many lords nodded in support, while a few frowned, clearly not favoring his limited goal.

The Greyions, a family that had ruled the Iron Islands before the Greyjoys, had a small surviving branch in the North. Following the Northern gods and traditions, they had even served the Wall quite a few times.

They had a small keep near the Blazewater Bay and flourished in fishing and trade, as they had well-developed ports.

Robb nodded, acknowledging the dissenting strategy. Theon Greyjoy, seated on his far left as the ward of the Starks, looked immensely irritated at the Greyion's input; their families shared a bloody history, and Lord Robar's son, Rickard, had once defeated Theon's uncle, Victarion.

"Then we must. Tomorrow morning, we'll move out. We ride to the South!" Robb announced, confirming the majority's will.

His vassals nodded their ascent, and as the food was served, they dipped into the dinner with gusto.

Robb looked toward his mother, who gave him a brief, encouraging nod, and then focused on his own dinner, his resolve hardened.

Blue eyes opened, twin pieces of sapphire, carved cleanly out of ice. The black iris within looked to the side, before blinking and standing up.

A sharp, crystalline sound to his left attracted his attention. Seated on a throne made entirely out of ice was a woman, a goddess more like. She was petite and tall, her skin white as fresh snow, and she was dressed in a clinging white gown.

Around her were a few creatures made out of jagged ice, but none were as radiant or graceful as her. Her white eyelashes were long, shading a cerulean eye that seemed otherworldly, even to him—her king, her lover, her paramour.

Her mouth opened, a perfect white row of teeth flashing as she spoke in the icy, snapping language of her creation. "Are you recovered?"

He nodded, replying in the same language. How long had it been? Years? Decades? Not centuries; he had been asleep, his slumber undisturbed and quite relaxing. There were visions of screaming storms, of driving snow, of cliffs of icicles, and of a white bear tall as a house, with light blue eyes just like his own. A gift bestowed upon him by his queen, a hunting partner for him to command.

"You have maintained the work?" he asked, standing fully upright. His form was blue, unlike his queen, and must have seemed translucent and slightly shiny.

He smirked; blood looked quite good reflected on his icy fingers; the reflection made his smile bloom more vividly.

"I have collected some Others, and the wights; they are being raised," she said, standing from her throne and walking toward him.

"An army?" he asked, his excitement palpable, like a child anticipating a gift. Yet, there was nothing innocent about his smile.

His queen nodded as she neared him. She was inches taller than he, and her long, skeletal fingers sent shivers through him as she caroused his face.

"Soon, my King. All too soon," she said slowly.