WebNovels

The Great King of Winter (ASOIAF)

shifufufufud
21
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 21 chs / week.
--
NOT RATINGS
3k
Views
Synopsis
Haunted by Lyanna’s death and the North’s losses, Eddard Stark returns to Winterfell with a bastard child and a vow: never again will the North be weak.
VIEW MORE

Chapter 1 - The Oath of the North

The singers will call it victory. They will sing of Robert's hammer and the fall of the dragon prince, of the Mad King's death and the end of his line. They will sing of crowns won and kingdoms united. But I know the truth. Victory tastes of ashes.

Lyanna is gone. My sister lies cold in her shroud, and I carry her bones northward. In my arms I bear another burden, a boy swaddled in silence, my blood but not my name. Robert sits the Iron Throne, yet what has the North gained? The Lannisters profited most, the Riverlands bled, and the sons of the North lie buried in southern soil. Once again, the South played its games, and we paid the price.

I turn the memories over and over, each sharper than the last. Had the Freys joined us sooner. Had we marched a day earlier. Had we brought healers to the Trident. Had our banners been swifter to gather. A thousand small failures, each one a knife. If we had been stronger, perhaps Rhaegar would never have dared, perhaps Aerys would not have wronged us. A million ways it might have been different.

"Never again," I whisper to the wind. The words are for Lyanna, for Brandon, for Father. For all the dead who will never return.

Lyanna's coffin was borne aboard ship for her last journey home. I stepped onto the same deck, bound for Winterfell, bound for the life my father had left me. Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North. The words feel heavy, heavier than any sword I have ever lifted. My journey, and the North's, will be longer and greater than any man can yet see.

The voyage to White Harbor is uneventful, but the stillness of the sea gives me no peace. I keep to myself, speaking only when courtesy demands. My companions try, at first, to draw me into talk of the war, of Robert's triumph, of the new reign. I give them little. My thoughts are company enough, and they are grim.

At night, when the crew sleeps and the sea is black glass beneath the stars, I walk the deck alone. The salt wind stings my face, but it is the weight of duty that presses heavier. I think of my father, of Brandon, of Benjen still at Winterfell, of Lyanna in her coffin below. I think of the boy in the cradle, and of the son Catelyn bore me in my absence. Robb and Jon. Brothers, though one will never bear the name.

I imagine their voices, years hence. "Why is he Snow and I Stark?" one might ask. "Why does he sit at table with us, yet never share our name?" The questions will come, and I will have to answer them. But not now. Now there is only the sea, and the vow I have made.

The North is vast. As large as all the rest of the kingdoms together, yet weaker than them all. We have more folk than Dorne, yet scattered so thinly that Dorne can raise twice the spears in half the time. The Ironborn, fewer still, have their fleets and their plunder. The Lannisters have their gold. The Reach has its harvests. The Vale and Dorne have their mountains and ports. And what have we? Hard men, scattered villages, too few towns, too little wealth.

I speak the thought aloud once, to no one but the gulls. "We are too many miles and too few men." The gulls only wheel and cry, as if mocking me.

Gold alone is no answer. The mines of Casterly Rock will one day run dry. But people—industrious, prosperous people—are the true strength of a realm. Without them, fields lie fallow, forests uncut, rivers unfished. With them, harvests become wealth, and wealth becomes roads, bridges, markets, ships. Prosperity builds upon itself, renewing with each season. That is the foundation of greatness.

I think of White Harbor, the one true city of the North, and how it thrives on trade with the Vale and the South. I think of the Neck, a mire that might yet be drained into fertile fields. I think of the Gift, abandoned and empty, and of the Wall, manned by fewer men each year. I think of the scattered hamlets where a smith cannot be kept, where a healer is a rarity, where men live and die without ever seeing a market.

The North has too few. Too many hamlets that feed only themselves, too many villages too poor to keep a craftsman. That must change.

I lean on the rail of the ship and watch the gulls wheel above the waves. The wind smells of salt and pine, and I think of Winterfell's godswood, of the heart tree's red leaves whispering in the wind. I think of the old gods, and of the vows I have made before them.

"Never again," I say once more, softly, so that only the sea might hear. "Never again will the North be so weak, so scattered, so easily used."

I imagine Father's voice, stern and steady. "Then see it done, Ned. See it done."

I imagine Brandon's laughter, sharp and mocking. "You were never meant for this, little brother. But it falls to you now. Do not fail us."

And Lyanna's voice, softer than the rest. "Promise me, Ned."

I close my eyes. "I will," I whisper. "I swear it."

When I return to Winterfell, I will not rest. The work of a Lord Paramount awaits me, and I will see it done.