The most notable families in the land were the royals and wardens. As the sun dipped behind the ancient pines that marked the edge of the western ridge, the grand hall—known across the regions as the greatest structure ever raised by mortal hands—began to fill. People came in droves, traveling from the North, South, and West, even wanderers and wayfarers from the deserts and coasts of the far reaches. The air was thick with incense, roasted spices, and a strange, sacred energy that seemed to pulse with every footstep.
The grand hall itself knew no king. No noble was higher than another within these walls. Before the gods, all were equal—be they crowned or barefoot, armored or in rags. The hall stood as a hallowed reminder: men are dust, the gods eternal. The gods could take life as easily as they gave it, and in this truth, there was terror and awe. It was a place where power, pride, and pretense were stripped away, and only reverence remained.
The sacred feast would begin at first light. Drums beaten by high priests would mark the hour, thundering through the air like a war cry, but unlike war, this was meant for peace—peace with the gods. The people were given the night to rest, to pray, to reflect and steel themselves for what was to come. Some wept, others fasted, and many stood beneath the moonlight whispering prayers to Odin and the host of the old gods.
In the royal tent of King Alphonse Stark, Ned was restless. The boy sat on a cushion made of bear hide, his wide eyes shimmering with innocent excitement. He had imagined this day for as long as he could remember. He'd heard stories—tales of divine voices, of lightning striking the earth as gods appeared in the flame. He had asked his tutors, maids, even the guards, what it felt like to witness the sacred sacrifice. But nothing could have prepared him for the truth.
His mother, Queen Matilda, sat nearby. She watched her son with a quiet, sorrowful smile, her fingers gently weaving a golden braid into her hair. Behind her, one of the maid-slaves quietly tended to the tent—arranging furs, smoothing bedrolls, and lighting candles shaped like coiled serpents.
The King's guards stood at the entrance, still and sharp as statues. Each wore obsidian armor etched with the crest of House Stark—a direwolf under moonlight. One of them was different. He stood slightly taller, a deep scar running from his eye to his jaw. He was known as the Hound, the King's personal bodyguard and executioner. Feared across the realm, he had never failed in his duty.
In the neighboring tent, the King drank with his nobles. These were not mere lords—they were his most trusted: his Hand, his counselors, his Lord Commander of War, the chiefs of each major clan, and the wardens of the realm. The flickering fire cast their shadows like giants against the linen walls.
"Who says there can't be a feast before the feast?" King Alphonse roared, raising his curved horn. Laughter exploded in the tent, hearty and unrestrained.
"Even Odin would agree!" he joked, and the men howled again, slapping each other's backs, sloshing ale over furs and polished steel.
His horn was filled without needing to ask. "What are you waiting for? My permission? Come on, lads!" They raised their cups. "Skol!"
"Skol!" they echoed in unison, downing their ale as though it were a contest. The King exhaled with satisfaction. "Ahhh. Some more."
"Your Grace," said his Hand, a lean man with salt-gray hair and eyes like flint. "That should be enough for now. We must be sharp before first light. The feast of the gods waits for no man."
"You have a point," Alphonse nodded, "but one more round of ale won't bring our end—at least not tonight." They laughed again. "Skol!"
"Skol!" the men echoed, finishing their final round.
He dismissed them with a nod. "Rest well. Tomorrow, we meet gods."
"Aye!" they chorused, standing as the King left the tent, flanked by the Hound and two others.
Back in the royal tent, time moved sluggishly for Ned. He lay on his bed, eyes wide open. His heart raced, not with fear, but with anticipation.
Matilda came and sat beside him. Her hand reached gently under his chin, turning his face toward hers. She studied his eyes carefully, as though seeking something long lost. "You need to rest, as your father and I must. Tomorrow will be a long day."
"But Mother—" he began.
She hushed him softly. "I know. I'm curious too. This is also my first time. We share the same wonder, you and I. But we won't be curious after tomorrow." She smiled, though it trembled at the edges. "Sleep, little wolf."
Ned nodded. She kissed his head and stood. A maid led him to the sleeping quarters where his brothers already lay in silence, their breathing calm, their bodies still. Outside, the air hummed with priestly chants carried on the wind from the inner temple.
Then came the drums.
At first light, the deep booming of sacred drums shattered the silence. The sound was ancient, primal—like the heartbeat of the earth itself. It stirred the soul and chilled the spine.
The gods were near.
People emerged from their tents. Smoke rose from the inner sanctum, thick and dark, curling like fingers toward the heavens. The square outside the grand hall began to fill—commoners, warriors, kings, wanderers, slaves, and seers. No one spoke above a whisper. The air was sharp and still, heavy with omen.
From the inner sanctum, the chief priest emerged, his robe the color of dried blood, his crown shaped like twisting antlers. He lifted his arms, and silence fell like a shroud.
"We gather here," his voice thundered, "to feast with the gods. Today, the gods are with us. They have left Valhalla to walk among mortals."
A chorus of chanting priests flooded the space behind him, speaking in tongues lost to most but sacred to all. Their voices echoed like wind through a canyon.
"We give thanks," he continued, "for rain, for grain, for victory in war, for the heads of our enemies, and for the divine favor of joining Odin's hall upon death. For this, we make sacrifice."
"Aye!" the people cried.
"Slaves," the priest said, pointing to the left. "Step forward."
A great many moved—young and old, beaten and hopeful, wide-eyed and weary. Nearly half the crowd gathered to the left.
The priests raised their hands. "The gods are merciful. From this day, you are free men and women. If you choose to serve your old masters, let it be by choice and not by chains."
The people wept. Joy and disbelief mixed on their faces.
"Bring forth your offering," the chief priest said.
Each freed slave returned with a spotless lamb bound in rope. It took long hours to gather and place them in the sacred wooden pen. Once done, the priest turned solemnly.
"Now, the human sacrifice."
The crowd gasped. People clung to one another. Families gathered close. Mothers held children tighter.
"Those who would offer themselves for the eternal favor of the gods—step forward. Be judged by Odin and welcomed by the Valkyries."
One by one, they emerged.
A boy turned to his mother. "I wish to give myself."
"No," she wept. "You're too young."
"I am ready."
His father, a grim warrior, hugged his son. "May the Valkyries ride with you."
Some former slaves offered their lives in place of their masters—tears flowed freely. The sacred enclosure for sacrifice filled slowly.
Then came the unthinkable.
King Alphonse Stark stepped forward.
Gasps erupted. Matilda screamed, clinging to him.
"No. You are the King. Your people need you. Ned needs you."
"I have always served my people," he said. "This is my final service. I've faced death a thousand times and lived. I will not wait to die old and weary in a bed. Let me go to the gods in honor."
He knelt, turned to the people. "I, King Alphonse of House Stark, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Realm and Protector of the North, renounce my crown. I pass my legacy to my heir, Ned."
Ned's world collapsed. His father's voice grew distant. The words didn't make sense. He sobbed uncontrollably, clinging to the memory of his father's hand on his shoulder.
The King'sguard stood with heads bowed. His councilors embraced him, even the Kings of the South and East—King Varric of Halford and King Dagon of Eldmere. They remembered the old wars, the alliances forged in blood, the legends whispered beneath moonlight.
Alphonse was led away with the others. Lightning split the sky. The gods had arrived.
In a sacred chamber, they bathed in oils, anointed and dressed in white robes. Each took a final breath of this world.
One by one, they stepped onto the wooden platform. A priest raised the sacred knife, carved from the tooth of a sea dragon. The sacrifices knelt, eyes to the sky.
A clean stroke. Blood flowed. The people wailed.
When Alphonse stepped forward, time slowed. Ned's uncle—his father's Hand—gripped his shoulder.
"Look," he whispered. "You must. You are the King now."
Ned watched.
The blade fell. His father's throat opened. The blood poured into the sacred bowl. A piece of Ned died.
He turned away as the priest carried the blood into the temple, whispering, "Let it be done."
And with that, the world was never the same again.