(Ser Harald Stark --->)
[The Riverlands, Riverrun, late 2nd Moon 299AC]
The road to Riverrun had never felt longer.
Ser Harald Stark rode at the head of a small, quiet column, his cloak stained with mud and travel, his armor dulled by weeks of movement through terrain that most men would not have thought to cross at all.
Around him, the crannogmen moved with the same ease they always had, slipping through brush and low ground as though the land itself had shaped them for it. They spoke little, and when they did, it was in low tones that never carried far.
It suited Harald well enough.
He had never been a man for idle words.
Still, his thoughts had not been quiet.
They had been in the west for some time now, scouting and noting any useful information at Alaric's behest.
Through stone and hills and the long ridgelines that marked the edge of the Westerlands, on the passes that most armies would never consider, on the narrow cuts between rock where a few men could pass unseen while thousands marched elsewhere in full view. He had walked those paths himself, marked them, committed them to memory. He had watched patrol patterns, counted riders, and noted where vigilance failed and where it held.
Alaric had not sent him west to confirm what they already knew.
He had sent him to find what others would miss, an honor he was thankful for, it showed just how much his lord trusted him.
And he had honored that trust in full, now returning with a ledger full of what he hopes will be useful information for whatever Alaric has planned.
Harald shifted slightly in the saddle, his gaze lifting as the towers of Riverrun came into view at last, rising above the meeting of the rivers, the castles' red sandstone walls catching the dull light of the overcast sky. There were banners upon the walls, Tully, Stark, and others, and even from this distance, he could see movement, men along the battlements, gates open.
'Open gates, huh?' he thought with a smirk, noting the different formations of men shuffling about, mostly northern from first looks.
That alone told him enough.
They had broken the siege.
He did not smile.
He simply nodded once, to no one in particular.
"Of course he did," he murmured, laughing to himself.
One of the crannogmen beside him, a lean man with dark eyes and a face half-hidden beneath a hood, glanced over.
"You sound as though you expected nothing less," the man said.
Harald did not look at him.
"Of course, if there is anyone who I trust wholeheartedly in this world, it would be our lord Alaric Stark," he replied.
The crannogman gave a small grunt that might have been agreement.
"Then we came back to the right place," he said.
Harald did not answer.
They rode on.
The closer they came, the clearer the signs became.
The ground before Riverrun was churned and broken, the remnants of what had been a battlefield still visible in the trampled earth, in the blackened patches where fires had taken hold, in the scattered debris that had not yet been cleared. Men moved across it now in ordered patterns, gathering what remained, separating the living from the dead.
Harald's eyes moved over it all as they passed.
He saw the shape of the fight.
Three points of pressure, with a collapse inward, no time to recover.
Clean.
Decisive.
Exactly as Alaric would have planned it.
He dismounted at the gate without ceremony, handing his reins off to a waiting boy before stepping forward into the flow of men entering and leaving the castle. No one stopped him. No one questioned him.
They knew him.
Or if they did not, they knew the look of a man who belonged, or more likely, they recognized the direwolf sigil upon his armor.
Inside, the courtyard was alive with movement, wounded being carried, armor being repaired, officers issuing orders in voices that were tired but steady. The North had not descended into chaos after victory.
It had continued onward.
Harald approved of that.
"Ser Harald."
He turned at the sound of his name.
Dorren Snow stood a short distance away, arms folded, watching him with a look that carried more weight than his posture suggested.
"You took your time," Dorren said.
Harald walked toward him, his stride unhurried.
"I was where I needed to be," he replied.
Dorren's gaze flicked briefly over him, taking in the travel-worn state, the quiet readiness.
The two sized each other up for a moment, the men around them growing tense for a spell, and just as the two seemed like they were about to say something else, they both broke their grim looks and laughed, embracing one another with a familiarity that years together in Winterfell could only bring.
"It's good to see that you made it back in one piece," Dorren said as they released from one another, nodding toward Harald's cranogmen companions as well.
"Aye, it wasn't easy, but we made do, and hopefully, Lord Stark is able to make use of the information we have gathered around the entrances to the Westerlands. I would pay as many gold dragons as needed to see the look on the Old Lion's face for what's to come." He said with a laugh
"You should've seen the battle, it was nothing short of brilliant, the lions hadn't known what hit them before they were cut down to half their numbers," Dorren said with a grim chuckle.
Harald nodded at that, taking another look around the churned mud and grounds stained brownish-red. He could only imagine the level of slaughter that occurred here just a couple of days ago.
"So, what became of the Kingslayer?" Harald asked, curious as to whether they had managed to catch the bastard or not, he knew all too well how good the golden-git was with a blade.
"You haven't heard yet, Alaric killed him in single combat," Dorren said.
"Truly? Well, that is some welcome news. I knew he would grow to become one of the best swordsmen of our time." Harald laughed with pride, having been one of the men who had helped train their lord when he was still a boy, although he hadn't won a duel against Alaric since he was around 3-and-10, but that's besides the point.
"You aren't surprised?" Dorren asked, after all, many riverlords who had arrived following the siege had expressed their initial disbelief to the claim, of course, none did so in Alaric's presence.
Harald's expression did not change.
"No, especially after having seen him dance with Ser Baristan 'the bold' during the royal procession to the north, it was only a matter of time before he made his mark in such a memorable way," he said again.
"I suppose that's true, the men have even taken to calling him different epithets such as 'lionslayer', 'Wolf Lord', and even 'The Raging Wolf' for the sheer number of men he slew and his duel with Ser Jaime.
Harald laughed at that, imagining the look on Alaric's face as men called him by those epeithets, no doubt unamused.
"Im sure he's just loving that, now isn't he?" Harald added, laughing a little hard
Dorren chuckled while shaking.
"The first time someone called him the Raging Wolf in his presence, all he did was sigh with a tired grin, no doubt knowing nothing he did could change the nature of men wanting to glorify a victorious commander," Dorren said while gesturing to the other men around them who ducked their heads in mock shame.
"Ha, well, either way, he deserves it for such a feat!" Harald exclaimed, roars of approval ringing out around him for a moment.
"Aye, while I'm proud of my brother, one truth remains, during the duel, he had nearly died at the Kingslayer's hand," Dorren said, his eyes becoming ever so darker at the mere thought of losing his brother.
Harald's eyes shifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge the weight of that.
"Then I hope he learned what he needed to from the exchange," he said.
Dorren's brow tightened faintly.
He was quiet for a heartbeat, then shook his head once.
"You haven't changed," he said with a light grin.
"No," Harald agreed, clapping Dorren on his shoulder. "I haven't."
He glanced past Dorren then, toward the inner yard.
"So, where is our great Wolf Lord?" he asked.
"In the hall," he said. "With the lords, northern and riverlander alike. Deciding what comes next."
Harald nodded.
"Good," he said.
He moved past Dorren without another word.
Dorren watched him go, shaking his head before returning to his duties.
The great hall of Riverrun was not built for silence, but it held it now in a way that spoke of more than simple restraint.
The lords were gathered.
Northern banners hung alongside those of the Riverlands, the space between them filled with men who had come from both sides of that divide and now stood uncertain of what would bind them going forward.
Harald entered without announcement, his presence noted but not remarked upon, his place among the sworn men of House Stark understood without question.
Alaric stood at the center of the hall, a commanding presence among the many surrounding lords.
He was not armored.
Not fully.
The signs of the recent battle were still there, the stiffness in his movement, the faint tension held in his shoulders, but he stood straight, his gaze steady as he listened to the voices around him.
Lord Tytos Blackwood spoke first, his tone measured, his words deliberate.
"The Lannisters have been struck hard," he said. "There is no denying that. Their strength in the Riverlands is broken, at least for now. But that does not end this war."
"No," Jonos Bracken replied, his voice carrying a harder edge. "It doesn't. And we would be fools to pretend otherwise."
He looked directly at Alaric then.
"You've been proclaimed king," he said. "That is no small thing. But the Riverlands are not the North."
'He what!' Harald mentally shouted, cursing that brat Dorren for not relaying such important information to him earlier.
A murmur ran through the hall.
Alaric did not react.
"Nor have I claimed them to be," he said.
Bracken's eyes narrowed slightly.
"No," he said. "You haven't. But that question still stands. What are we to you? Mere pawns? Or maybe subjects of yours?"
"Neither," Alaric replied. "But I would say allies against the lions would be a good start, if you choose it."
That drew more than a few looks.
"Explain," Edmure Tully said, stepping forward.
Alaric met his gaze.
"You are not my subjects," he said. "I will not claim what is not mine by right or by blood, and frankly, I have no desire to rule over you lot. But you are not alone in this war either. You stand with us, or you stand apart and face the Lannisters as you have been."
"And if we stand with you?" Blackwood asked.
"Then we fight as allies," Alaric said. "You hold your lands. You rule your people. And we ensure that those who would take both from you are driven back or destroyed."
"And after?" Bracken pressed.
"After," Alaric said, "you decide what comes next for yourselves, whether the riverlands splinter as they are prone to do, or you elect to choose a King of your own, I care not, all I care for is seeing the lions bleed."
The hall was quiet again.
Harald watched it all, his gaze moving between the speakers, measuring reactions, noting who leaned forward and who held back, who listened and who prepared to argue further.
He had seen councils like this before.
Men deciding the shape of things they could not fully see.
Blackwood nodded slowly.
"That is a fair offer," he said.
Bracken did not look entirely convinced, but he did not argue further.
"We'll see it through," he said. "For now."
Edmure exhaled.
"Then we stand together," he said.
Alaric inclined his head once.
"For now," he agreed.
[Later that day]
After having relayed what he found and having a short conversation with Alaric, Harald now found himself standing in the godswood of Riverrun, preparing to crown the first King in the North since before Aegon and his dragons came to their shores.
As he stood there, before the heart tree, he looked around. The godswood was quieter, more tranquil than the great hall.
It always was.
The trees stood older there, their leaves whispering softly in the wind, the ground beneath them less disturbed, less touched by the constant movement of men and war.
Harald stood at its edge, the Crown of Winter in his hands.
Not some replica, but the original crown, ancient and true.
It was heavier than it looked.
Dark iron and bronze, worn with age, the runes etched along its surface faint but unmistakable, their lines catching what little light filtered through the branches above.
He had not asked where Alaric had gotten it.
He did not need to.
There were things Alaric did that were not meant to be spoken of openly.
Harald respected that.
He stepped forward when called.
The others were already gathered.
Northmen, the riverlords, and the companions Alaric had fostered since he was a boy, and those he had grown closer to through the course of the war.
He saw them all in passing, Ser Desmond, Ser Ellard, Ser Lucion, the Umber brothers Smalljon and Derrick, Eddard Karstark, a newer addition to the group, Dorren as well, who stood close to Alaric at his side, and Torrhen Karstark stood among them as well, his arm bound, a small shield strapped where his hand had once been.
Harald's gaze lingered on him for a moment.
"You should be resting," he said as he passed.
Torrhen snorted.
"I've done enough of that," he replied. "I'm not done yet, I can't still fight, my sword arm is still just as strong as ever, besides, now all I have to worry about with this arm is blocking blows," he continued, banging the buckler with his right fist as well.
Harald gave a small nod.
"Good man, be sure not to get yourself killed. Alaric will need as many good men as he can get around him in the coming future," he said.
Torrhen nodded to his words, turning back to the coming ceremony
Harald looked back toward Alaric, noticing a man who looked to be around 3-and-20 coming toward him.
Ser Daven Blackwood, Lord Tytos's nephew, came forward then, kneeling before Alaric.
"My lord," he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "My house thanks you for helping us stand against our shared enemies. If you'll have me, I wish to stand with you now. My sword is yours, if you will have it."
Alaric looked at him for a long moment.
"Why pledge yourself to what is essentially a foreign ruler?" he asked.
Daven did not hesitate.
"Because this war is not ending soon," he said. "And I would rather stand with a man who leads from the front than one who sends others to die in his place." No doubt alluding to Edmure Tully's less-than-stellar performance so far in the war.
To his credit, Lord Tytos didn't seem displeased by his nephew choosing to enter into Alaric's service, all Harald could see were the eyes of a man who was proud of his kin for forging their own path.
There was no flourish in it.
No grand declaration.
Just truth.
Alaric nodded once.
"Then stand, Ser," he said. "And prove to me the weight of your oath, we have lions to kill, and I would be glad to have you by my side."
Daven rose.
Harald watched him take his place among the others.
Another sworn sword added to Alaric's guard, 'Good, he'll need as many good swords as he can get.' Harald thought, looking toward the future.
After a moment longer of silence, the wind rustling between the trees and men standing around them, some in anticipation, others in apprehension, the informal ceremony began.
Harald stepped forward at last.
Alaric stood before the heart tree.
He did not kneel.
He did not bow.
He simply stood there, as tall as the very weirwoods around them.
As he always had.
Harald raised the crown.
"This was not made for ceremony," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the quiet of the godswood. "It was made for kings who ruled with more than words."
He met Alaric's gaze.
"You carry more than a name now," he said. "You carry what comes with it."
Alaric did not look away.
"And I shall do everything in my power to honor my name and duty, as my ancestors did before me," he said.
Harald nodded, lowering the crown.
Just as the crown was about to touch Alaric's head, that's when he sensed something happening.
The sky shifted.
A murmur rose.
Harald did not look up immediately.
He felt it first.
The change.
Then he saw it.
A streak of red across the sky.
A gorgeous and blinding blood red comet.
And in his hands, as the comet streaked across the sky, the runes on the crown began to glow.
Faint at first.
Then brighter.
The runes along its surface lit with a pale, cold light that did not belong to any forge or fire Harald had ever seen.
He did not hesitate.
He lowered it on Alaric's waiting head.
The moment it touched Alaric's head…
Light erupting from the runes.
Not blinding or overwhelming, but luminescent nonetheless.
Harald did not flinch.
He watched.
Alaric did not move.
His eyes, too, began to glow that same eerie light
Pale Ice blue.
For but a heartbeat, the light flashed in his eyes, everyone around them saw it. Some murmured, others prayed to their gods, then as soon as it came, it was gone.
Alaric's two great beasts, Tempest and Cinder, who had been diligently sitting behind him in silence, both simultaneously lifted their heads, snouts pointed to the heavens, and they howled, a deep melodic sound, soon joined by the other Direwolves in attendance.
The wolves howled for what felt like an eternity before coming to a stop and looking toward Alaric, a chilling flash of intelligence and anticipation reflecting in the beast's eyes.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Complete.
Harald stepped back.
"It is done," he said.
Alaric turned.
He looked at them all, looking every bit as imposing as the many statues, tapestries, and portraits of Winter Kings of old had.
He stood there among them, not as he had before.
Something had shifted.
Not in form.
But in his very presence.
"We have work to do," he said.
And then, to the shock of many
Alaric smiled.
Not a cheerful or innocent smile, no, it was a large, wolfish smile that made him look even more like the dangerous direwolves behind him, it was a smile that sent chills down the backs of experienced men and made lesser men buckle at the knees.
Harald watched him for a moment.
And understood immediately.
This was only the beginning.