77 AC
Winterfell
In Lord Theon Stark's solar we can see grim faces of the Stark family. Lord Theon sat behind his desk, the unwelcome letter from King's Landing lying before him like a harbinger of ill fortune. His wife, Lady Diana, stood beside him, her expression a mirror of his own. Their sons, Artor and Harrion, stood before them, their youthful faces etched with concern.
"The message is clear," Lord Theon began, his voice low and heavy. "The King will not rescind the decree. The land south of the Wall is to be granted to the Night's Watch, regardless of the consequences."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Harrion clenched his fists, his frustration barely contained. "So, the South believes a few empty words will appease our lords? A token gesture of 'help' after they've already taken what they want?"
Artor, ever more measured, spoke with a quiet intensity. "It's an insult, Father. They offer us crumbs while stealing the loaf. The lords will see this for what it is: a blatant disregard for their rights and their power."
Lady Diana stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over her sons. "They underestimate the North. They believe we will meekly accept this affront, that a few trinkets or titles will soothe our anger. They do not understand the pride and the resilience of our people."
Lord Theon sighed, running a weary hand over his face. "They believe they can dictate terms from afar, that the Iron Throne's word is law, regardless of the consequences to the North. They fail to grasp that the North is not some conquered territory, we had bent the knee for our people not because we were afraid."
Harrion's voice rose, his anger barely leashed. "They speak of helping us 'appease' our lords. As if we are unruly children who can be pacified with sweet words and empty promises. They treat us with contempt."
Artor placed a calming hand on his brother's shoulder. "We must not let anger cloud our judgment, Harrion. We need to be strategic, to channel this fury into a unified response."
Lady Diana nodded in agreement. "Artor is right. We must tread carefully. A rash move could play into the South's hands, giving them the excuse they need to intervene directly in the North."
Lord Theon rose from his desk, pacing the length of the solar. "We must summon the lords. A Great Council. We need to gauge their reaction, to understand the depth of their anger, and to forge a united front."
"And what of our response to King's Landing?" Harrion asked, his voice sharp. "Do we simply thank them for their 'generosity' and accept this injustice?"
Lord Theon stopped pacing, his gaze hardening. "We will send a message. After speaking to all the lords of North."
Artor added, "We must also remind them of the North's strength, of our long memory, and of our unwavering loyalty to the Seven Kingdoms… but not at the cost of our honor."
Lady Diana's voice was firm. "We must speak with one voice. The North must stand united against this encroachment. We cannot allow the South to divide us."
Theon nodded. "Agreed. Ravens will be sent to every holdfast in the North. We will gather at Winterfell and decide our course of action. The future of the North hangs in the balance."
Harrion's anger began to give way to a grim determination. "Then let us prepare, Father. Let the South know that the North remembers, and that the wolf still has teeth."
Artor stood tall, his gaze resolute. "We will defend our lands, our people, and our traditions. The North will not be broken."
Theon looked at his sons, pride and concern mingled in his eyes. "The burden of leadership falls upon you now, as it will one day fall entirely. You must be strong, wise, and unwavering."
Diana placed a hand on Theon's arm. "We will face this together, as we always have. The Starks have weathered many storms, and we will weather this one too."
Theon looked at his family, a flicker of hope amidst the grim determination. "The North is strong, and its people are resilient. We will not yield. We will not be broken."
The Stark family stood united, their faces set, their hearts heavy with the weight of responsibility, but their spirits unbroken. The North would not be easily swayed.
After Seven Days
The Great Hall of Winterfell, usually a place of warmth and boisterous camaraderie, was heavy with a tense silence. Night had fallen, and the hall was filled with the lords of the North and their heirs, gathered at Lord Theon Stark's summons. But the atmosphere was far from the usual cheerful gatherings. The long tables, though laden with food and drink, were largely untouched. The usual boisterous laughter and friendly banter were replaced by hushed whispers and grim pronouncements.
Seven days had passed since the ravens had flown, carrying the news of the King's decree and Lord Stark's urgent call. Now, the lords had arrived, their faces reflecting the long journey and the weight of the news they carried in their hearts. They had learned, before even entering the council chamber, the purpose of this gathering: the King's unwavering decision regarding the land grant to the Night's Watch.
Each lord carried the burden of this decree, the implications for their own lands, their own people, etched into their features. Some faces were grim, hardened by years of facing the harsh realities of the North. Others were flushed with anger, their voices low and dangerous as they spoke of broken promises and encroaching southern influence. The air crackled with a barely suppressed fury, a collective sense of betrayal that threatened to spill over into open defiance.
Lord Theon Stark, his face as cold and unyielding as the northern winter, rose from the high seat at the head of the Great Hall. His gaze swept across the assembled lords, each face a study in grim determination. The hall, usually echoing with warmth and camaraderie, was now heavy with a silence broken only by the crackling of the hearth fires.
"My lords," Theon began, his voice resonating with a quiet authority that commanded attention, "I thank you for answering my summons with such haste. I know the journey was arduous, and the news that brought you here weighs heavily on us all. We all know why we are gathered, but for those who are not fully aware of the details, let me speak plainly."
He paused, his gaze lingering on each lord in turn, ensuring his words carried the full weight of their import. "The King, in his wisdom, or perhaps in his ignorance, has decreed that twenty-five leagues of land south of the Wall are to be granted to the Night's Watch."
A murmur of discontent rippled through the hall, a low growl of anger that Theon allowed to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "I sent a message to King's Landing, a message expressing the grave concerns of the North. I explained that this land is vital for our grain production, essential for feeding our people, and that the lords of the North would not take kindly to having it stripped away."
Theon's voice hardened, the coldness in his eyes reflecting the chill that had settled over the North. "The Iron Throne's reply was… unsatisfactory. They claim the decree has been passed, that it cannot be rescinded. They offer us, instead, 'favors' in return, as if trinkets and titles can compensate for the loss of our land and the insult to our honor."
He raised a hand, silencing the growing unrest. "They believe they can appease us with empty promises, that we will meekly accept their dictates from afar. They underestimate the North, its pride, its resilience, and its unity. They do not understand that we are not children to be bought and sold, but a people with a long memory and an unyielding spirit."
Theon's gaze swept across the assembled lords once more, his voice ringing with a quiet fury. "We are here to decide how the North will respond. We will not be dictated to. We will not be diminished. We will not be broken."
As Lord Theon's final words echoed through the Great Hall, a cacophony of voices erupted. The carefully maintained silence shattered, replaced by a torrent of angry pronouncements and outraged exclamations. The lords of the North, their faces flushed with indignation, rose from their seats, their voices overlapping in a furious chorus of dissent.
"Injustice!" Lord Manderly boomed, his usually jovial face now red with anger. "This is an outrage! To steal our land, the very sustenance of our people, and offer us mere trinkets in return? The South truly believes us fools!"
Lord Wull, his massive frame shaking with barely contained fury, roared, "Cruel! It is nothing short of cruel! That land has fed my people for generations! Does the soft King in his sunny south understand the hardship this will bring?"
Lord Mormont, Bigger in stature than many of the lords present, his voice cut through the din with steely resolve. "The Iron Throne shows its true colors. They care nothing for the North, nothing for our needs. We are but a source of taxes to them, and now, land to be freely given away!"
Lord Karstark, his face a mask of icy fury, spoke with a low, dangerous growl. "Broken promises! We have always been loyal to the Iron Throne, have shed our blood in their wars! And this is our reward? To be treated like conquered dogs?"
The younger lords, heirs to ancient houses, echoed the sentiments of their elders. "They think we will stand idly by while they carve up our lands?" young Lord Cerwyn exclaimed, his youthful idealism clashing with the bitter reality of the King's decree.
Lord Flint, his weathered face etched with years of hardship, spat on the stone floor. "Favors? What favors can they offer that will replace the grain that feeds our children through the long winters? Their gold is useless when our bellies are empty!"
The air in the Great Hall grew thick with anger, the collective fury of the North palpable. Lords pounded their fists on the tables, their voices rising in a unified cry of protest against the injustice they perceived. The very stones of Winterfell seemed to absorb their outrage, the ancient hall resonating with their defiance.
"We will not yield!" Lord Glover declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "The North will not be treated as a plaything of the South! Our land is our lifeblood!"
Theon Stark watched the outpouring of anger, his own face still and cold, but a flicker of grim satisfaction in his eyes. The North was united in its outrage. Now came the time to channel that fury into a decisive course of action.
A hush fell over the Great Hall as Ned Umber, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the flickering torchlight, suddenly stood. His voice, when it boomed across the hall, cut through the lingering echoes of outrage like the crack of ice on a frozen lake. All eyes turned to him, the assembled lords and their heirs watching with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.
"My lords," Ned Umber began, his gaze sweeping across the room, his voice raw with Northern pride and simmering resentment. "MY LORDS! Here's what I say to the King's decree." He paused, then with a guttural sound of utter contempt, spat onto the stone floor. "Jaehaerys Targaryen is nothing to me, nor the Iron Throne!"
A collective gasp rippled through the hall. Ned Umber's words were a stark declaration, a line drawn in the snow. He continued, his voice rising in defiance. "Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the south? What do they know of the Wall or the Wolfswood? Have they ever felt the bite of a true winter? Even their gods are wrong! Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again?"
His gaze then fixed upon the high table, upon Lord Theon Stark, the man who had summoned them, the man who carried the weight of their ancient lineage. "There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to: the King in the North!"
With a thunderous sound that echoed the defiance in his words, Ned Umber dropped to one knee, his massive frame bowing in fealty. "The King in the North!" he roared, his voice filled with a primal loyalty that resonated deep within the hearts of every Northern lord present.
A stunned silence hung in the air for a heartbeat, then, as if a dam had broken, the Great Hall erupted. Lords rose from their seats, their faces alight with a fierce, long-dormant pride.
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!" they roared, their voices joining Ned Umber's in a thunderous chorus that shook the very foundations of Winterfell. One by one, ancient lords and young heirs alike bent the knee, their fealty pledged to the Lord of Winterfell, the descendant of the First Men, the rightful King in the North.
The cries of "The King in the North!" echoed through the hall, a wave of fervent loyalty washing over the assembled lords. The air crackled with a newfound energy, the grimness and anger of moments before now transmuted into a fierce, unified purpose. The North had found its voice.
Finally, after the fervent declarations had subsided somewhat, Lord Theon Stark, his face now etched with a solemn resolve, rose slowly from his high seat. He looked out over the assembled lords, his gaze meeting theirs, a silent acknowledgment of the momentous decision that had just been made. He offered a single, curt nod.
"Rise, my lords," Theon commanded, his voice resonating with a newfound authority, the weight of kingship settling upon his shoulders. He paused, his gaze unwavering, his voice clear and strong.
.
.
.
"War it is."