The arrival of Jon Snow was like pouring a bucket of icy water into an already boiling cauldron.The great hall of Riverrun, thick with the heat of clashing tempers and the pounding of fists upon oak tables, fell momentarily still. The roar of voices that had echoed from the stone walls only moments before was abruptly muted. A hush swept over the chamber as eyes turned toward the young man standing at the doorway—bastard of Winterfell, ward of Lord Eddard Stark, and now a soldier who had returned from the fury of battle with scars upon his body and fire in his gaze.Greatjon Umber, who had been in the midst of another booming declaration, grumbled irritably as his thunder was stolen. The enormous man thumped his fist against the table, rattling cups of ale."Stannis is nothing!" Greatjon bellowed, unwilling to yield his ground. "Nothing! We Northerners need no southerner's crown. We've only just marched south and already achieved two victories. Are those victories to be forgotten simply because Renly Baratheon fancies himself a king?"The declaration drew rumbles of agreement from many lords gathered in the hall. To them, the victories at Riverrun and the Green Fork were proof that the North, united under the Stark banner, had no need to bend knee to southern claimants.Truthfully, the so-called victory at the Green Fork was little more than a bloody stalemate, but that mattered little in the heat of this gathering. What mattered was pride, and Greatjon knew how to feed it.Robb Stark sat at the head of the hall, his youthful face lit with the excitement of hearing his bannermen praise his deeds. His green eyes glowed faintly in the torchlight, though he tried to keep his expression stern. Beside him, Catelyn Stark clasped her hands tightly together. She fixed her gaze not on the roaring lords, but on Jon Snow. Her lips moved soundlessly in prayer: let him find the words, let him speak well enough to temper this wildfire of independence.In the shadows, Ser Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—watched silently. His weathered face gave nothing away, but his eyes were sharp, measuring each movement, waiting for the moment to strike with words that could cut deeper than any sword.Jon, ignoring the clamoring of the lords, strode forward with quiet confidence. He turned to Greatjon, his grey eyes steady and questioning."Unworthy, you say? Stannis Baratheon is unworthy?" His voice carried clearly, calm but sharp enough to silence several murmurs. "If Lord Eddard were here, would you dare to say such a thing in his presence? If King Robert were here, would he look kindly upon those who break apart the realm he fought to unite?"The hall stilled further. The names of Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon hung heavy in the air, ghosts that none dared dismiss. Jon knew well that his own standing was frail; as a bastard, he lacked the authority of blood. But invoking the memories of two men revered for their honor and strength—that was common ground every man in the hall could respect.Greatjon opened his mouth, then hesitated. The enormous man stood like a bear suddenly robbed of its roar. His jaw worked, but no words came, until finally he muttered with a touch of frustration:"Jon, you're a good lad, that I'll grant you. But why in the seven hells do you always stand against us?"Unable to muster more, the Greatjon sat back, muttering under his breath.Jon pressed no further against him, for already another voice cut through the silence.Lord Rickard Karstark, his snow-white beard meticulously combed, rose to his feet. His bearing was austere, his tone cold and pragmatic."Northerners should not meddle in the affairs of Southerners," Rickard said firmly. "Duke Rickard, Brandon Stark—aye, there is precedent enough. Our forefathers ruled themselves before the dragons came. It was fire and blood that bound us to the Iron Throne. And now the dragons are gone. Why should we bow any longer?"His reasoning was clear: independence meant power. Power meant less coin flowing south in taxes and more authority concentrated in the North. If Robb Stark took a crown, then men like Rickard might rise higher still—his House Karstark elevated, his line remembered for ages. The temptation was plain on his face.Jon met his gaze. "Will the Southerners you speak of simply stand aside? You think they will watch quietly as the North declares itself free? The Seven Kingdoms were bound together with iron and blood, aye, but that blood still flows in these lands. Even Robb himself is tied to the Riverlands. Even I was brought north from the South by Lord Eddard's hand.""That is different!" Rickard snapped, stubborn as stone."Different?" Jon pressed, his voice rising. "Perhaps. Yet our enemies still stand against us, swords drawn, banners raised. Why create more foes before we've dealt with the ones already before us?""We Northerners are not afraid!" shouted Greatjon, rising again."Aye! Not afraid!" echoed Lady Maege Mormont, her voice fierce, her eyes blazing with loyalty to House Stark.Rickard slammed his palm on the table. "We are not afraid of southerners!"Jon's reply was swift, his words laced with reproach. "Fear? This is not about fear. It is about the price of war. More battles mean more graves. Tell me, my lords, do you have sons enough to spare for such folly?"The words landed like a blow. Rickard's jaw clenched, his face darkening. Two of his younger sons had fallen in the recent battles. Jon's reminder stung like salt in an open wound.Fury overtook reason. Rickard unsheathed his sword in one swift motion, the steel catching the torchlight, its gleam casting a pale reflection across Jon's face."You insolent bastard!" Rickard roared, his voice echoing. "Say that again, I dare you!"Gasps rippled through the hall. Catelyn's heart pounded. She despised Jon, had always resented his presence in Winterfell, yet at that moment she found herself silently pleading that no harm come to him.Robb's hands tightened on the arms of his chair, ready to intervene, but Jon did not flinch. He stepped closer, meeting Rickard's fury with icy calm."Come then!" Jon challenged. "Strike me down! Kill the man who saved your son's life upon a battlefield already lost. Do it!"The hall held its breath. Rickard's sword wavered, but his arm would not move. Rage and grief warred within him, yet he could not cross that final line."Jon!" A sharp voice cut through the tension. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stepped forward at last. He planted himself firmly between the two men, his presence a wall neither could cross.Though Jon bore Eddard Stark's features, Brynden thought grimly, the boy's spirit burned like Brandon Stark's—reckless, eloquent, and unyielding. Brandon reborn, standing here to challenge the lords."Lord Rickard," Brynden said evenly, "the young man speaks with too much heat. Do not take his words to heart." He turned, his stern gaze fixing on Jon. "And you, Jon Snow. Your valor at the Blackwater is known to all, but that gives you no license to hurl insults at lords of the North. You will apologize."Jon recognized the trap. Brynden was the true danger here—not Greatjon's bluster nor Rickard's fury. Brynden was calm, reasonable, Robb's great-uncle, and possessed of authority Jon could not easily defy. To fight him here was to lose everything.He bowed deeply, his voice firm though laced with restraint. "Lord Rickard, I was too hasty. I offer you my apology."Rickard turned his head aside with a contemptuous snort, his beard bristling with the force of it.Brynden seized the moment, his voice carrying through the hall. "Jon, Robb's kingship is not simply a matter of crowns. It is about unity. North and Riverlands together, one voice, one strength. That is how we defend our lands. Division only weakens us.""Well spoken!" Greatjon roared, pounding his sword on the ground in approval. Lady Mormont added her own cry, and even Rickard inclined his head in grudging agreement.The lords murmured their assent, voices weaving together in a chorus of approval. Robb's eyes gleamed brighter, his posture straighter, his resolve firming as if a crown already rested upon his brow.Catelyn, however, felt despair gnawing at her heart. Not one of these men spared a thought for her daughters—Sansa in the clutches of the Lannisters, Arya lost in the wind. Their zeal for independence, their hunger for titles and freedom, drowned out her pleas. Only Jon, bastard though he was, seemed to remember her pain.Jon, watching Robb from the corner of his eye, knew his cousin's course was set. If Robb had wished to stop the debate, he would have done so long before. He desired the crown now, and nothing would turn him aside.But Jon was not yet finished. He raised his voice one last time."Hearts are like water, and a crown is like a ship," he declared. "Water may carry a ship forward—but it may also capsize it. There are no eternal liege lords in this world, only eternal bannermen."The words struck like a lash. Murmurs erupted into shouts of anger."What do you mean, boy? That we would betray Robb?""Bastard! You've grown too bold!""The Riverlands will never turn cloak!"Jon's lips curled faintly. Their outrage proved his point more than silence ever could. The Riverlands had bent the knee to Targaryen dragons, to Robert Baratheon, to whichever power held sway. They changed their lords as easily as changing cloaks, and all knew it.Yet Robb said nothing. His silence was answer enough.Jon stepped forward, drawing his sword with measured calm. He lowered himself before Robb, holding the blade across his chest in solemn salute."Robb," Jon said, his voice steady, "I am a bastard, a boy without a mother's name. Yet Winterfell is my home. I will fight for the North. I will fight for Winterfell. And I will fight for you. But I will not fight for a crown lost three hundred years past."With that, he sheathed his sword and turned his back on the hall. His boots echoed against the stone as he walked toward the doors."Jon!" Greatjon bellowed, striding forward. "Do not forget—you left the Wall without leave. It was Robb who spared your head!"Jon paused at the threshold. His voice was cold as the snows of the Wall. "I will return to the Wall when this war is done. If you cannot wait, then strike me down now."No man moved. Even the most impetuous of the lords knew Jon's worth. His defiance was not rebellion, but principle. And none could find the courage to spill the blood of a man who had saved their sons and fought beside them.So they let him go.Jon stepped into the daylight beyond the hall. The sun was bright, almost blinding, as if the world itself sought to swallow him whole.Robb watched him leave, his face unreadable, though deep inside, the weight of the crown pressed heavier than ever.---
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