299AC - Winterfell - Third Person POV
In the great hall of Winterfell, the air was thick with the weight of war. Torches cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, and the banners of the North hung proudly above the gathered lords. At the head of the long table sat King Aemon Targaryen, his dark eyes steady despite the storm brewing within him. To his right sat Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, his face carved from granite, a man returned from the jaws of death. To his left was Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, his auburn curls framing a face already hardened by battle. The lords of the North filled the hall, their voices a low rumble as they debated the path ahead.
The war council had been raging for hours, plans and counterplans clashing like swords. Lord Umber's booming voice called for a swift march south, while Lord Karstark urged caution, warning of Lannister ambushes. As the debate grew heated, Eddard Stark raised a hand, his presence commanding silence.
"My lords," Ned began, his voice low but firm, "we cannot ignore the western coast. The Greyjoys are vipers, and these troubled times are their chance to strike. They'll raid our shores, burn our villages, and take what's ours if we leave the West undefended. I propose we send a third of our levies to guard the coast against the Ironborn."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall. Lord Manderly, his jowls quivering, nodded vigorously. "Wise words, Lord Stark. The Ironborn are opportunists. We'd be fools to leave our flanks exposed."
"Aye," growled Greatjon Umber, slamming a fist on the table. "Let's keep those squid bastards at bay. A third of the levies should hold them."
The decision was made swiftly, and the lords turned to other matters: supply lines, scouting parties, and the best routes south. Hours later, with plans set and oaths sworn, the war council dissolved. The North began its march, a river of steel and fur flowing south under the direwolf banner.
At Moat Cailin, the northern army paused, its ranks swelling as stragglers caught up. It was here that Catelyn Stark, travel-worn and weary, arrived with her retinue from the south. When she saw her husband, alive and whole, standing among the banners, her composure shattered. Tears streamed down her face as she rushed to him, clutching his cloak.
"Ned," she whispered, her voice breaking. "The gods have answered my prayers. I thought you lost, imprisoned or worse in King's Landing. How did you escape?"
Ned's arms enveloped her, his voice soft but steady. "It was no easy thing, Cat and the gods were kind. But we've no time for tales now. The North marches, and we've a war to win."
Catelyn nodded, wiping her eyes, but her relief turned to shock when she learned the truth about Aemon Targaryen. Robb, standing nearby, explained in a low voice, "Jon's no bastard, Mother. He's Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. He's our king."
Catelyn's face froze, her lips parting as if she were a fish taken out of water. Her mind reeled, replaying every cold glance, every harsh word she'd aimed at the boy she'd seen as a stain on her marriage. She approached Aemon, her steps hesitant, her voice stiff. "Your Grace… I… I congratulate you on your claim. The North is fortunate to have such a king."
Aemon's grey eyes met hers, unreadable. "Lady Stark," he said coolly, "the past is done. We fight for the future now." His words were polite, but there was no warmth in them. He turned away, leaving Catelyn to grapple with her guilt.
A moon later, the northern army reached the Twins, the looming towers of House Frey straddling the Green Fork. An envoy arrived, bearing a message: Lord Walder Frey was willing to discuss terms for passage. Aemon, Eddard, and Rickard Karstark, accompanied by guards, rode to the Twins under a banner of truce.
The great hall of the Twins was dim, its air sour with the scent of damp stone and cheap wine. Walder Frey, ancient and shriveled, sat hunched in his high seat, his beady eyes glinting with opportunism. His numerous kin flanked him, a sea of pinched faces and calculating stares.
"Well, well," Walder croaked, his voice dripping with disdain. "The King in the North himself, and the great Lord Stark. To what do I owe this honor? Come to beg passage through my bridge, have you?"
Eddard stepped forward, his tone measured. "Lord Frey, your liege lord is under attack by the Lannisters. It's your duty to send men to fight for House Tully, to defend the Riverlands and the realm."
Walder scoffed, spitting into a cup. "Duty? My duty is to my family and my people, and they're safe right where they are, thank you very much. I see no profit in joining your little war. Lannisters, Starks, Baratheons—makes no difference to me. What's in it for House Frey?"
Rickard Karstark, his patience thin, crossed his arms. "Speak plain, Frey. What do you want?"
Walder's lips curled into a sly grin. "The king's unwed, isn't he? A king needs a queen. I've got daughters, granddaughters, plenty to choose from. Pick one, Your Grace, and make her your queen. Oh, and I'll have one of my grandsons as your squire, to serve at your side."
Rickard's face reddened, his voice rising. "A Frey queen? By the gods, if a Frey woman sits the throne, the world's surely coming to an end! You overreach, Later Walder."
Walder's eyes narrowed, but he waved a hand dismissively. "Fine, fine, no queen then. But I've another proposal. Lord Stark, your eldest son, Robb, is unwed. And your youngest daughter, Arya—she's of age, isn't she? Give me Robb for one of my granddaughters and Arya for one of my grandsons. A fair trade, don't you think?"
Eddard's jaw tightened, his honor warring with necessity. He opened his mouth to agree, knowing the army's passage hung in the balance, but Aemon raised a hand, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade.
"Enough," Aemon said, his eyes locked on Walder. "We'll not barter our kin like cattle. You speak of profit, Lord Frey, but you forget who stands before you. I am Aemon Targaryen, King in the North, and I do not beg. If you will not open your gates, we will make a passage of our own."
Walder's smirk faltered, his eyes darting to the guards lining the hall. "Bold words, boy. But words don't cross rivers. You need my bridge, and you'll pay my price. There has never been an army that has conquered the Twins."
Aemon stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous. "I am no boy, and I need nothing from a man who'd sell his loyalty like a peddler's wares. The North remembers, Lord Frey. Pray that you will survive until tomorrow's end."
With that, Aemon turned, his cloak swirling, and strode from the hall, Eddard and Rickard following. Outside, the northern army awaited, its banners snapping in the wind. The Twins loomed behind them, but Aemon's resolve was iron. The North would find its own way south, and Walder Frey would learn the cost of crossing a Targaryen.