101 AC.
The grey skies of the North brooded low over Winterfell as a bitter wind swept down from the frost-touched hills, curling through the towers and keeps like a restless spirit. Snow dusted the ancient walls, collecting in the cracks of old stone and on the shoulders of armored men gathered in the courtyard. It was the kind of cold that whispered of deeper winters to come.
And yet, the heart of the North beat strong.
For the first time this year, all the high lords of the North had gathered at Winterfell—not for war, not for rebellion, but for a king's summons. The halls had been full for days with quiet talks, heavy meals, and weighty glances passed over hearth and goblet. Now, the hour of departure had come, and beneath the rising banners of the First Men, the lords of the North stood united beneath the direwolf.
At the head of them all stood Lord Ellard Stark, tall and stern, his dark hair touched with silver, his grey eyes set on the southern road. His cloak was wolf-pelt and shadow-dyed wool, clasped with silver in the shape of a howling wolf's head. He looked every inch the Lord of Winterfell—calm in the face of burden, watchful and grave. Beside him stood his steward and bannermen, and before him waited the chosen riders.
Hadrian of Skagos stood silent on the stone steps, clad in black and storm-grey, his presence commanding without a word. Snow caught in his hair like bits of ash, but he made no move to brush it away. His people called him the Stone-Singer, and in the weeks he had spent at Winterfell, even the most skeptical of lords had come to respect the strange strength in him. Not one doubted that the Skagosi had returned to the fold of the North—changed, but unbroken.
The banners of the North whipped in the wind—some faded, others bright, all storied.
Lord Cerwyn of Castle Cerwyn was among the first to stand at Ellard's side. A pragmatic man with narrow eyes and a calm voice, Cerwyn had ever been a voice of reason. "The South will weigh our words, my lord," he said quietly. "Let us weigh them first among ourselves."
Lord Umber of Last Hearth arrived with his booming laugh and red-cheeked bluster, slapping shoulders and sharing hardbread with his men. "We ride for Harrenhal," he declared, "not to bend the knee but to choose the next King ourselves." His giant banner—chains broken—snapped like thunder.
Lord Ryswell of the Rills, steady as the riverbanks, offered few words but rode in good order, his men lean and precise. "Old blood rides with you," he said simply to Stark. "We will not falter."
Lord Hornwood, sturdy and quiet, wore his pine-green cloak as if it were armor, his lined face unreadable. He said nothing, but gave a slow nod as he joined the host, his riders falling into line with practiced ease.
Lord Dustin of Barrowton followed, grim-eyed and proud. No fox-furred lady was he, but a hardened lord whose house had long kept the barrows of kings. "There's ghosts in the South," he muttered, "and they sit on thrones. I aim to see who wears their skin." His voice was gravel, his words iron.
Lord Thallart, grey-bearded and deep-voiced, lord of the Lonely Hills, brought his scarred men and his bitter wit.
Lord Flint, flanked by mountain-born warriors with axes at their sides, offered a solemn nod to Ellard and Hadrian both. "The old stones guide us still," he said.
Lord Manderly, regal and rotund in sea-green velvet, arrived with a dozen scribes and twice that many guards, his voice booming like a bell as he greeted the others. "Let the South argue over kings—we will argue over law and right. Let it be known that White Harbor does not forget justice."
Lord Glover of Deepwood Motte, hawk-eyed and composed, spoke little, but every motion he made spoke of readiness. His men looked like trees in armor.
Lord Bolton, pale and soft-spoken, arrived last, draped in his pink flayed man and silence. The other lords eyed him carefully, and though he gave Lord Stark a respectful nod, few stood close to him for long.
Lord Karstark, broad-shouldered and grim, his face shadowed by a black beard, approached with the solemn dignity of House Stark's distant kin. "Blood remembers," he told Lord Ellard. "The crown should, too."
Lord Mormont, wrapped in a bear-pelt cloak, strode forward on a massive brown horse. "I'll not sit idle while men forget what a rightful heir is," he said. "I stand with the First Daughter, if the time comes."
Winterfell's courtyard had never seen such a gathering in living memory. Horses stamped and blew white breath into the morning air. Armor clinked and fur rustled in the wind. Lords greeted each other stiffly or warmly, depending on old feuds and friendships.
No great host rode forth—no banners numbering in the hundreds. But this was the North, and its strength lay in resolve, not numbers.
Lord Ellard turned to them, his voice carrying across the cold stones.
"The King calls us to Harrenhal," he said. "To witness a choice that will shape the realm. We ride not as conquerors, not as flatterers, but as the blood of the First Men, and the voice of the North. Remember your duty. Remember your honor."
Hadrian inclined his head beside him, the Skagosi lord quiet but listening. Behind him, his silent guards rode dark horses bred for the coast and the cliffside. None carried a banner, but the sea-scented wind that followed them seemed banner enough.
And then the gates opened, and Winterfell emptied its strength onto the Kingsroad.
The direwolf flew at the front, leading the ride south. Behind it, the sigils of the old houses of the North—trees and mountains, moons and chains, bears and flayed men—streamed behind like a stormfront.
The path to Harrenhal stretched far and cold. But the North had risen, united.
And the realm would soon hear its voice.
The Kingsroad stretched long and straight before them, bordered by pale birches and frost-touched fields. Though spring had technically arrived, winter still clung to the North's heels. The sky was grey more often than blue, and each morning began with a stiff wind that cut through fur and mail.
They did not rush. The pace was measured—dignified. The host moved like a long shadow, stretched across the land. At night, they camped off the road, erecting great northern tents, burning wood from local trees and trading old news with farmers too timid to linger long near the host.
It was around the fires that the journey's true nature took shape. There, the masks dropped.
Lord Umber, naturally, was the loudest—bragging about the strength of his men, the hardiness of the Last Hearth, and his views on succession, which changed depending on how much ale he had drunk. "Give me a king with a sword in his hand and fire in his belly," he barked one night. "Not some brooding child with silk for blood."
Lord Rodrik Dustin didn't take kindly to Umber's boasting. The two had clashed in their youth and the years hadn't softened them. "And what would you know of bloodlines?" Dustin snapped one night. "You breed your dogs better than your sons. Your swordhand knows nothing of law."
Tension rose like heat from the fire. Lord Cerwyn, seated between them, leaned forward with a tired sigh. "Let's not give the South the pleasure of hearing the North tore itself apart before even reaching Harrenhal. We are not here to brawl."
The others watched in silence: Hornwood, reserved and steady; Ryswell, calm but ever observing; Karstark, stroking his beard with a frown; Glover, muttering to his steward; and Manderly, who drank deeply and said little until he had more to say than all of them. Bolton sat in a corner with his men, pale and unreadable. Mormont chewed on a haunch of meat and scoffed at the entire affair.
And through it all, Hadrian sat near the edge of the firelight, silent more often than not, but when he spoke, the flames seemed to listen. "The past," he said one night, "has teeth. And it does not like to be ignored."
The lords paused, exchanging glances. Even Umber shut up for a moment.
"Viserys is the safe choice," Cerwyn said cautiously one evening, wrapping his cloak tighter. "A man. A Targaryen. Groomed for the role. The South already favors him."
It was Lord Rodrik Dustin who cut through the haze with cold certainty. "Safe?" he repeated. "By what right does the younger line leap over the elder?"
Heads turned. Even the fire crackled louder.
"She is Aemon's daughter," Dustin went on. "Firstborn of the king's firstborn son. That should mean something, unless we've truly forgotten how blood flows, and as far as I know many of you my lords still keep to the ways of the first man they ways of equal inheritance."
"She's a woman," Lord Glover muttered.
"A woman who married a Velaryon," Lord Mormont said, nodding. "A strong house. Dragons, ships, gold. She's not weak."
No consensus was reached. Not yet. But something shifted in that moment—uncertainty, like a faultline beneath their feet. The firelight flickered across stern faces, and the silence that followed was long.
Hadrian spoke only once more that night, almost to himself.
"Justice," he murmured, staring into the fire, "has many voices. But truth... truth is often silent, until someone dares to speak it."
The wind howled through the trees.
The vastness of Harrenhal came into view by midday, rising out of the mist like a fortress of bones. Its towers, blackened by dragonfire and time, loomed over the land like the ribs of a fallen giant. No castle was larger. None more cursed.
The northern host rode in solemn formation, banners flapping in a low wind as their horses slowed to a wary pace. Even the boldest among them—Umber, Mormont, Karstark—grew quiet as they passed beneath the shadow of Harren's Folly. The walls were too tall. The air too still. It felt like riding into the tomb of kings.
Their arrival did not go unnoticed.
Southerners and westerners watched from the walls and courtyards, whispering behind lace and steel. Pages rushed to announce them. Guards in green, red, and gold observed with careful eyes. The North, always seen as distant and rough-hewn, had come in full dignity—and the other great houses saw it.
Velaryon banners flew high—silver seahorses on sea-green—and their knights gleamed in polished plate.
The Hightowers had arrived already, bringing half of Oldtown's silk with them.
Lannisters strutted through the halls, golden lions proud and polished, already speaking of Viserys as though the crown were a gift to be claimed.
Redwynes, Rowans, Tarlys, Royces, and others crowded the great keeps and towers, their voices a murmur of ambition and speculation.
The northern lords were shown to chambers in the Kingspyre Tower, grim and cold despite roaring hearths. Yet none complained. Harrenhal was too large, too strange, to inspire comfort.
That night, the hall buzzed with cautious greetings and formal dinners. Stark exchanged polite words with Lord Hightower. Manderly smiled over wine with a Redwyne cousin. Cerwyn lingered near the maesters, fishing for southern rumors.
And always, the whispers flowed.
"Viserys is the heir—Baelon's boy."
"The king favored him before Baelon's death."
"Rhaenys is a woman. It has never been done."
"But she's the firstborn's daughter—by rights, she should sit the throne."
The question stirred behind every smile.
And in the high shadows of the tower, as the wind whistled through old stone, Hadrian stood at a balcony alone, gazing out across the gathered banners of Westeros. His eyes burned faintly with reflected firelight.
Tomorrow would bring debate. And the day after, decision.
But tonight, the North had arrived.
And the realm was watching.