Author's Note:
More images, behold!
(The Greycloaks --->)
(The Winter Guard --->)
(Ser Ellard Karstark --->)
(Ser Desmond Manderly --->)
[The Riverlands, Riverrun, 2nd Moon, 299AC]
The morning after the battle came with a solemn silence.
It came slow and grey, with a low mist clinging to the ground as if the land itself had not yet decided what to do with what had happened upon it. Dorren Snow walked through it in silence, his boots pressing into earth that had been churned soft by thousands of feet, hooves, and falling bodies, the ground still damp where the blood had soaked deep into it.
The battle had ended, but the field did not yet feel like something finished. It felt like something that had simply stopped moving.
Men were already at work.
Not loudly or with the sharp urgency of battle. But with the quiet, steady purpose that followed it. Lines of Northern soldiers moved among the dead, turning bodies, checking faces, separating friend from foe with practiced care. Others worked to gather the wounded, laying them out in rough rows near the remnants of the Lannister camps where the ground was less torn apart. The Winter Guard had already formed a perimeter of sorts, not rigid, but present, ensuring order held even here.
Dorren moved past them without speaking at first, his eyes taking in what lay before him.
There were far more red cloaks than grey.
That struck him more than anything else.
Not because he had expected otherwise, he knew the numbers, knew the plan, knew how it had unfolded, but seeing it laid out like this, still and final, made it feel… real.
The Lannister men had died in clusters, where they had tried to form lines that never quite came together, their shields broken, their spears scattered, their banners trampled beneath the weight of the fight. The Northern dead were far fewer, though no less real, laid out with more care, already being gathered for burial or transport.
It had not been a fair fight.
Dorren knew that.
It had not been meant to be fair, any half-decent strategist sought to create a one-sided slaughter, favoring themselves.
He stepped over a fallen horse, its flank stiff now, and moved deeper into the field until the shape of the ground changed, until the signs of struggle became something more concentrated, more violent in a single place than anywhere else.
He stopped there.
The ground was torn open, grass ripped away entirely in places, the earth beneath dark and wet where blood had pooled and settled. There were marks in the soil where boots had shifted and turned, where weight had been driven down and forced back again and again.
This was where it had happened.
Dorren stood there for a long moment, looking down, seeing it again as it had been, not in the way it would be told later, not in the way men would speak of it over cups and fires, but as it had been in truth.
Jaime Lannister had been faster than any man he had ever seen.
He fought with the ferocity of a cornered lion, utilizing his gods given ability with a frightening efficiency.
His movements had not been reckless or wild, but utterly controlled. Each strike well placed, each movement deliberate, forcing his brother to react, to adjust, to learn in the space of heartbeats what others would take years to understand.
And Alaric for his efforts had nearly died at the mans hand.
Dorren's jaw tightened slightly as the memory settled in.
That moment, when the blade had come for his brothers throat, had not left him. He had seen it clearly, had felt the certainty of it in his chest before it had even happened, and for that brief, sharp instant, he had been sure it was over.
"He nearly had you, big brother," Dorren said quietly, though no one stood beside him.
That was the truth of it.
Not the version that would spread. Not the version that would grow into something larger than life.
The truth.
Jaime Lannister had been exactly as dangerous as the stories claimed.
And Alaric had still managed to kill him.
Dorren crouched slightly, running his gloved hand over the disturbed earth where the final shift had happened, where footing had faltered just enough to create the opening.
A small mistake.
A single misstep.
In a fight like that, it had been enough.
He rose again and turned away.
There were still men who lived, men who needed attending too.
The wounded had been gathered near what remained of the outer camp, where the ground was less broken, and the work could be done with some order. Dorren could hear them before he reached them, the low murmur of voices, the occasional sharp intake of breath, the quiet instructions of maesters and healers moving between them.
He stepped into that space without ceremony, his presence noted but not remarked upon, and began to walk the line.
A man with a bandaged leg looked up at him as he passed.
"We did well, right ser?" he asked, his voice strained but steady.
Dorren met his gaze.
"Aye," he said simply. "You all did brilliantly."
The man let out a breath that might have been relief, might have been exhaustion.
"Good," he said, and closed his eyes again.
Dorren moved on.
Further along, he found the Karstark section, their wounded gathered together as much as possible, their men watching over them with a quiet intensity that spoke of more than simple duty.
Torrhen Karstark sat propped against a rolled cloak, his face pale but set, his left arm bound tightly at the forearm where it ended. The bandages were clean, freshly wrapped, but there was no hiding what had been taken.
Torrhen looked up as Dorren approached.
"You took your time," he said, his tone dry despite the circumstances.
Dorren crouched beside him.
"I was making sure you hadn't died while I wasn't looking," he said.
Torrhen gave a short, humorless huff.
"Disappointing, I know," he said. "The gods seemed to like me enough to let me live another day."
Dorren's gaze flicked briefly to the bandaged stump.
"How bad is it, Torr?" he asked.
Torrhen followed his look.
"Well," he said after a moment, "I won't be climbing any walls with this hand again."
Dorren's expression didn't change.
"You'll live, and at least he hadn't taken your sword arm, im sure you'll find away to stay useful," he said with a small smile, giving him a playful shove.
"Aye," Torrhen replied, a faint smirk grwoing. "Even with only hand im still a better swordsman then you, Snow."
For a moment, the two men laughed lightly, the heaviness of the situation lifting for but a moment until it ended.
There was a pause then, not uncomfortable, but weighted.
"He was fast," Torrhen said at last. "Faster than I thought. I stepped in thinking I could hold him, even for a moment. Just long enough for someone else to take him from the side."
Dorren nodded slightly.
"I saw," he said.
Torrhen's jaw tightened.
"I didn't even feel it at first," he admitted. "Just… nothing. Then I was on the ground, and my arm was somewhere else."
Dorren leaned back slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
"You're still here, Torr," he said again, quieter this time. "That matters more than the arm."
Torrhen gave him a look.
"You sound like my father," he said.
"Then listen to us, besides, your father is a much wiser man then I," Dorren replied.
Torrhen snorted faintly.
"I suppose I don't have much choice now."
Dorren allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.
"You never did," he said.
They sat in silence for a moment longer before Dorren rose.
"Rest," he said. "You've done enough Torr, you deserve some down time."
Torrhen nodded once.
"So do you, Dorren" he said.
Dorren did not answer that.
He moved on.
He found Ser Ellard Karstark and Ser Desmond Manderly not far from the wounded, both standing despite the bandages at their sides, speaking with a cluster of men over the placement of pickets and the gathering of supplies.
Ser Ellard noticed him first.
"You're walking like a man who's thinking too much," he said, a ghost of a smile upon his face.
Dorren stopped near them.
"Someone has to," he replied with a shrug.
Ser Desmond let out a low grunt.
"Thinking doesn't win battles," he said. "Steel does."
"Planning does, you and I both know that my brother would agree on that too," Dorren countered.
Desmond glanced at him, then gave a small nod.
"Aye," he admitted. "He would, and you two would be right."
Ser Ellard shifted slightly, his hand resting near the bandage at his side.
"He was something else," he said, not needing to name Jaime.
Dorren nodded.
"Aye," he said.
Ser Ellard's gaze moved out over the field briefly.
"Fastest man I've ever fought," he continued. "And I've fought my fair share."
Ser Desmond added, "And still not enough."
Dorren looked between them.
"He nearly killed Alaric," he said.
Ser Ellard met his eyes.
"Aye," he said. "The bastard sure did."
Ser Desmond's voice was quieter.
"But all that matters is he didn't, and despite all of his efforts, he still ended up being the one in the dirt, rather then our lord."
That was all that needed to be said.
Dorren soon found Alaric near the center of what had once been Jaime's camp, speaking with Lord Tytos Blackwood, the two of them standing over a rough layout of the ground, their conversation low but focused.
Tempest and Cinder stood nearby, both alert but calm now, their attention shifting between the men and the surroundings with quiet vigilance.
Dorren approached without interrupting, waiting just long enough to be acknowledged.
Shadow who had been quietly following him, soon walked over and joined Alaric's two companions, standing beside them, licking the blood off his paw lazily.
Alaric glanced toward him.
"Ah, Dorren, have you been walking the field?" he asked lightly, still favoring one of his legs.
"Aye," Dorren replied.
"And?" Alaric asked again, eyes locking onto his.
Dorren took a moment before answering.
"It was done cleanly," he said. "As cleanly as something like this can be."
Lord Blackwood gave a small nod.
"You hit them exactly where they couldn't hold," he said. "When we opened the gates and rode out, there was no line left to strike. Just men trying to survive, much to their failure."
Alaric inclined his head slightly.
"That was the intent," he said.
Lord Blackwood looked at him for a moment, then said, "You've changed the shape of this war."
Alaric's expression did not shift.
"It needed changing, the Old Lion for too long has thought himself invincible, now, following his defeat at Ser Jory and Uncle Ned's hands, along with our slaughter of his golden son and his hosts, the world shall see that the lion too can bleed," he said.
A wolfish glint soon flashed across his eyes, still not entirely satisfied but happy, "And bled heavily they have been, but it isn't enough, not yet." he finished, crossing his arms.
Dorren studied him then, noting the way he held himself, the set of his shoulders, the subtle stiffness in his movements that spoke of wounds he had not yet allowed himself to feel fully.
"You should see the maester," Dorren said.
Alaric's gaze flicked to him.
"I will," Alaric said, too dissmisively for his liking.
"I rather you did sooner then later, brother," Dorren replied.
Blackwood let out a quiet breath, something like amusement passing through his expression.
"I'll leave you to that," he said, stepping back. "We'll speak again once the men are settled."
Alaric nodded.
Blackwood moved away.
Dorren remained.
"He nearly had you," Dorren said.
Alaric did not look away.
"Aye," he said.
"You expected that?" Dorren asked.
"Of course, Jaime Lannister didn't gain such renown for no good reason, so I expected him to be a challenge at the very least," Alaric replied.
Dorren frowned slightly.
"You didn't look surprised," he said.
"I wasn't, although I will say, I hadn't expected to struggle as much as I had, for a moment there, I truly thought my child would be born without a father," Alaric answered in a quiet tone, no doubt reflecting on the duel and his near death.
There was no bravado in it.
No pride.
Just a statement of fact.
Dorren studied him for another moment.
"And now, what shall we do?" he asked.
Alaric's gaze shifted toward Riverrun, its walls rising beyond the field.
"Now we move forward," he said.
Dorren nodded slowly.
"Aye," he said. "That'll do, for now."
They entered Riverrun before the day had fully settled.
The gates were already open from the sortie, the Tully banners hanging from the walls above as men moved to receive them, the atmosphere within the castle a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and something else that had not yet taken full shape.
Expectation.
Dorren walked beside the others as they passed through the gates, the sounds of the field fading behind them, replaced by the controlled movement of a castle returning to life after siege.
Inside the great hall, the lords gathered quickly.
Word had already spread.
Jaime Lannister was dead.
The camps were broken.
The siege was lifted.
But that was not all.
Dorren could feel it before it was spoken.
Something else was coming.
Lord Wyman Manderly stood near the center, his great frame impossible to miss, while Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord William Dustin, Lord Jorah Mormont, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Lord Galbart Glover, the mountain clan chiefs, and others took their places, the hall filling with men who had followed Alaric south and now looked to him for what came next.
The murmurs began quietly.
Stannis was named, his cause discussed and weighed as on option.
It was soon dismissed just as soon as it was brought up.
"Rigid, and now, a fire-god worshiper," someone said.
"Too far removed from the North and our struggles," said another.
Renly came next.
"Usurper," a mountain clansman muttered.
"Renly Baratheon is also merely a younger son, supporting him would no doubt set a terrible precedent," Wyman added, his voice carrying.
Dorren stood among the wolf pack, Robb and Jon beside him, Rickard, Osric, Harlon, Roddy Dustin, Torrhen seated further back, now up and walking around, Smalljon and Derrick Umber near the front, Lucion standing slightly apart but present all the same.
The tension built.
Not chaotic.
Not uncertain.
But focused.
Then Smalljon stepped forward.
He did not shout at first.
He spoke plainly.
"We've followed south," he said. "We've bled. We've fought. And now we're meant to bend the knee to another southern king who wasn't here to do any of it?"
Derrick stepped beside him.
"No," he said. "We shall do no such thing."
Smalljon nodded, his voice rising now.
"We have a king," he said, gesturing toward Alaric. "We've had one since we left the North."
The words settled.
Then spread.
Wyman Manderly was the first among the great lords to step forward.
"Aye," he said. "A king who wins his battles. A king who leads his men. A king who stands where he must."
Rickard Karstark followed.
"The North remembers," he said. "And the North follows its own."
Jorah Mormont inclined his head.
"Long has it been," he said. "But not forgotten."
The mountain clansmen raised their voices next, one after another, rough and unrefined but no less certain.
"A Stark for king!" Lord Wull shouted.
"A king in the North!" Lord Flint of the mountains added.
Dorren felt it then.
The shift.
Not sudden, but inevitable.
He stepped forward with the others.
"We follow you, brother," he said, his voice steady, carrying without force. "Not because we must, but because we choose to."
Around the periphery, the various riverlords shifted uncomfortably, seemingly foreign despite being in the castle of their liege lord.
Lady Catelyn Stark, along with Ser Brynden Tully and Edmure Tully also seemed taken aback by the suddenness of the declaration.
One by one, the voices joined.
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
The hall filled with it.
Alaric stood at the center of it all.
Not smiling.
Not celebrating.
Just standing, his gaze moving over the men who had made their choice.
"I suppose you lot know what you're asking," he said, a brief smile coming to his lips.
Wyman answered first.
"Aye," he said. "We do."
Alaric nodded once, his very presence seeming to grow by the second.
Then the hall answered him.
"We know no king but the King in the North who's name is Stark!" Lord Jorah roared, unsheathing his house's ancestral valyrian steel sword longclaw before declaring once more.
"The King in the North!" he roared, sword in the air
And soon the Northern lords all rose in unison, weapons unsheathed and pointing high.
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"