General POV
If tension were a physical thing, you could have picked it up and stabbed someone with it.
The Northern Lords were gathered, standing stiff and formal, the way men do when they suspect bad news but don't want to be the first to ask. There were banners everywhere—direwolves flapping in the wind like they had a stake in whatever was about to be said. And in the middle of it all, looking as grim as a man announcing his own execution, stood Eddard Stark.
Ned wasn't one for speeches. He preferred action, or at least conversations that didn't involve so many people staring at him like he was about to sprout wings. But today? Today was different.
"Men of the North," Ned's voice cut through the murmurs like a sword through fresh snow. "I have called you here to announce a momentous occasion in the history of our house."
The lords shuffled. Some frowned. Some exchanged looks that clearly said Momentous occasion? Is this a good momentous or a bad momentous? The last time they had one of these meetings, Robert Baratheon had been in a mood and someone lost a head. So, you know, expectations weren't great.
Ned pressed on. "For too long, the North has lacked certainty in its future. That ends today." He took a breath, bracing himself. "I am proud to present to you Lord Cregan Stark, trueborn son of Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne-Stark."
And there it was. The verbal equivalent of setting the entire tent on fire.
The lords did that thing where they looked at each other, waiting for someone else to react first, because what.
Brandon Stark had a son? With Ashara Dayne?
Roose Bolton's eyebrow quirked just a fraction—just enough to say, Oh, this is going to be interesting. The Greatjon nearly dropped his goblet. Galbart Glover blinked rapidly like he was doing complex math in his head.
And right there, next to Ned, sitting comfortably on his mother's hip, was the subject of the announcement himself—Cregan Stark.
At one year old, Cregan already had a full head of dark hair, Brandon Stark's hair, and eyes like the coldest, most judgey winter morning. He sucked on his fingers thoughtfully, assessing the gathered lords like he was deciding which one of them was going to be his first enemy.
There was silence. A long, awkward silence. Until—
"So what you're saying," Greatjon Umber rumbled, "is that the North has a one-year-old Warden now."
Cregan took his fingers out of his mouth, wiped them on his tiny tunic, and very solemnly held up one fist. The way a man does when he's about to punch someone in the face.
"Aye," Ned said, voice steady, "That's what I'm saying."
"Excellent," Cregan announced, with all the confidence of a king addressing his court. "I accept your undying loyalty."
…And the tent exploded.
Greatjon actually threw his head back and howled with laughter. The Manderlys wheezed. The Karstarks looked like they'd been hit over the head with a hammer. Even Ned had to glance down, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting every life decision that had led him to this moment.
"Gods," Arthur Dayne muttered, standing at Ashara's side. "He's already more terrifying than his father."
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, looked like a man who had seen war, faced down legends, and yet still found himself slightly unnerved by the pint-sized tyrant currently smirking at his assembled bannermen. His blond hair was neatly tied back, his armor pristine, and his expression was something between admiration and I might need a drink after this.
Meanwhile, Roose Bolton—who had, until now, been enjoying the show in eerie silence—finally spoke.
"Lord Stark," he began in that slow, deliberate way of his, the kind of tone that made men check if they still had their throats intact, "forgive my curiosity, but the circumstances of Lady Ashara Dayne's marriage to Lord Brandon Stark… this is the first we have heard of it."
And there it was. Roose Bolton, everyone. The human embodiment of a dagger hidden in a warm handshake.
Ashara, to her credit, did not so much as blink. If anything, she looked bored, which was never a good sign.
"Lord Bolton," Ashara began, her voice smooth as silk, "if I had known you were so invested in my love life, I would have invited you to the wedding."
Roose's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More of a Yes, alright, I respect the attempt expression.
"Elia," Ashara turned her head slightly, and Princess Elia Martell stepped forward.
Now, if Ashara was regal, Elia was majestic. The kind of woman who could walk through a battlefield untouched just because she refused to acknowledge the existence of stray arrows. Dressed in Martell colors, she looked at the gathered lords as if she were addressing children in need of correction.
"I was there," Elia said. "I bore witness to their marriage, under the traditions of the First Men. Their vows were spoken before the Old Gods, their union recognized by the trees themselves."
And that was checkmate.
Because if Elia Martell—a Princess of Dorne, a woman who had survived Robert's war and stood before them still—said it was true, then by the gods, it was true.
Ned, wisely, decided this was the best moment to drop another bomb.
"By decree of King Robert Baratheon," he said, "Princess Rhaenys Targaryen is betrothed to Cregan Stark."
Silence.
And then—
"WHAT?"
It was hard to say who said it first. Probably everyone at the same time.
Roose Bolton's smile didn't widen, but somehow, it got sharper. Elia's expression was unreadable, but her fingers curled slightly. Arthur Dayne was stone-faced. And Ashara?
She turned to her son, adjusting him on her hip. "Well?" she asked him, like this was a normal conversation and not a political maelstrom.
Cregan looked at his mother. Then at Ned. Then at the lords, who were all waiting for his verdict.
He shrugged. "I'll allow it."
Absolute silence.
Then Greatjon Umber, unstoppable force of nature that he was, actually collapsed onto a chair, gasping for air between his roars of laughter.
Ned sighed. Arthur sighed. Ashara looked suspiciously like she was holding back a smirk.
And somewhere, deep in the recesses of his soul, Roose Bolton—ruthless, calculating Roose—decided that perhaps, just perhaps, he should keep a very close eye on Cregan Stark.
Because a one-year-old who could already land a savage burn?
The North was in for a wild ride.
—
The laughter finally died down—though not without a few rogue chuckles sneaking in—leaving behind an atmosphere so tense it felt like waiting for a storm to hit. The lords of the North were gathered in the dimly lit tent, their faces twisted into expressions that screamed "we'd rather be fighting wildlings than this." And honestly? They might've preferred that. After all, they knew what to expect from wildlings. Dragons? Not so much.
Lord Umber, the massive, grizzly bear of a man whose beard looked like it could harbor an entire wildlife ecosystem, slammed his hand on the table with such force that it made every mug on the table jump in the air like they'd just seen a ghost. "A Stark should marry a woman of the North!" he growled. His voice was as rough as the snowstorms outside, and you could practically hear the wind howling through his words. "Not some fancy southern lady with dragon dreams and hair like a crow's feathers after a bad winter."
The other lords nodded vigorously, as if they were all rehearsing their grumpy expressions in front of a mirror. One by one, they threw in their two cents, which mostly involved either insulting the Targaryens' haircuts or recalling every bad story they'd ever heard about dragonfire.
Then, standing up with all the grandeur of a man about to make a very dramatic point, a younger lord with a cloak that billowed just the right amount (like he practiced it in the mirror, which he probably did) sneered. "What good is a marriage to the Targaryens? Dragons are gone, and all they've got left is their name. A name and a whole lot of problems."
At the head of the table, Eddard Stark—Warden of the North, father of direwolves, and overall stone-faced brooder—stood up. When he spoke, it was like the world decided to listen. Not because he had any special magic or persuasive gifts, but because Ned Stark didn't waste his words. His voice was calm, but you could tell that if he wanted to, he could make a grown man wish he'd stayed in bed this morning.
"I didn't call this meeting to turn it into a brawl of insults." He paused, and the room fell silent. "This marriage serves a purpose. Not just for the Targaryens, but for the North."
A few skeptical glares followed, but Ned wasn't the kind of man who shied away from staring down a room full of angry Northmen. "King Robert Baratheon has pledged a dowry to House Stark," he continued, and you could almost feel the room's collective eyebrows shoot up.
"A dowry?" Lord Greatjon Umber—who was so large, he looked like he could probably bench press a bear—grunted from the back. "And what exactly is this dowry? A bunch of gold, some fancy toys, or a fleet of ships?"
Ned's face softened just a fraction—only the faintest hint of a smile, like he was about to reveal the best kept secret in Westeros. "The dowry is the restoration of Moat Cailin." His voice didn't rise, but somehow, everyone heard him.
Moat Cailin. That place. The key to the North's defense. The one thing that could keep every invader from waltzing across their borders without breaking a sweat.
Suddenly, the room felt like it had just been hit with a bucket of ice water. Even Greatjon, who'd been ready to argue his point until the cows came home (or, in his case, until the mammoths came home), scratched his thick beard thoughtfully and muttered, "Moat Cailin? Fortified? Now that... that's something."
Ned took a step forward, his gaze hardening like he was preparing for another battle. "Moat Cailin, restored and fortified, would make the North's borders impenetrable. And not just for a season, but for generations."
The room grew quieter than a mouse in a library. For a second, even Lord Umber looked impressed—though, to be fair, you couldn't really tell if it was because he was thinking about the fortifications or because his beard was suddenly weighed down by the implications.
"Alright," a voice from the back piped up, sounding just a little more conciliatory than before. "That's... worth considering."
Ned raised a hand, cutting off any further discussion before it could really take off. "There's one more thing."
The lords all glanced around, frowning, as if to say Oh great, this is the part where it all goes south.
Ned's gaze shifted toward the figure standing near the fire—Elia Martell. She looked like she had been carved out of stone, her posture as regal as any princess in the Seven Kingdoms. But the way her eyes flickered over to Ned told a different story. Her calm exterior was just a mask for a mind working through a thousand things at once.
"Upon the marriage of Cregan Stark and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen," Ned said slowly, as though each word had to pass through some invisible gauntlet of reason, "Prince Aegon Targaryen will have two choices. He can take the Black... or join the Maesters."
The words dropped like a boulder into the middle of the room, making everyone stare at him like he'd just suggested they all go to war with the sea. The lords of the North shifted uneasily.
"The Black?" Greatjon's voice thundered, low and incredulous. "A child that's barely learned to walk and you want to send him to the Wall?"
"Or the Maesters?" Lord Manderly added with a snort, his voice dripping with disdain. "What's next, sending him to the Citadel as soon as he speaks his first words?"
Ned's face hardened. "It is the king's will."
Before anyone could argue further, a voice broke in—Elia's. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp, as if cutting through the tension like a blade. "The safety of my children has always been my first concern. If this is what must be done, then so be it."
There was no fire in her words, no flare of rebellion. Just cold, resigned acceptance. It made the room quiet in the way that only real grief could. Elia Martell had suffered more loss than any woman should, and it showed. There was no bitterness, no anger—just a resignation that she had learned long ago to carry.
The lords were silent for a long moment, but it wasn't the uncomfortable silence of a bunch of old men who'd forgotten how to argue—it was the kind of silence that happens when you realize there's no real way out of a bad situation.
As the lords began filing out of the tent, muttering among themselves, Cregan—still too young to understand much about politics, but already a master of savage burns—let out a single, resounding belch.
"I bet that's how all this'll end," he said, his face scrunched up with the intensity of a one-year-old contemplating world domination. "A dragon-sized mess."
Elia, for the first time all day, cracked a smile.
"Maybe," she said softly, "but the North will survive."
And with that, she turned back to the fire, her thoughts as complicated as the choices ahead.
—
The tent was still heavy with the sound of murmurs and disgruntled huffs as the last of the lords shuffled out, muttering about Targaryens, dragons, and, honestly, whatever the weather was doing this time. Ned Stark—our favorite brooding, honor-bound, no-nonsense Lord of Winterfell—shifted his gaze from the retreating figures to the few souls who remained behind, their expressions somewhere between curiosity and mild confusion.
You know when someone says, "We need to talk," and your stomach drops like you're about to be handed a test you didn't study for? Well, this was that kind of moment.
Ned cleared his throat, trying his best to channel the sort of gravitas only a Stark could muster. "Princess Elia, Cregan, Ashara, Ser Arthur," he said, looking around the small group. His tone was serious—like really serious, the kind of serious that made you wonder if you'd accidentally stepped into a secret meeting of the North's most important council… or maybe the plot of the next big crisis. "We've got some things to talk about—things that could change the future of House Stark. And, you know, the North."
Cue the collective silent gulp. If this was a scene from a play, the audience would be holding their breath right about now.
Ned looked straight at Elia. She stood there, graceful as always, but you could tell something had shifted. Her world had been tilted off its axis thanks to her charming husband, Rhaegar, and his questionable decision-making.
So, Ned did what Ned does best—he dropped the bomb. "There's something you should know," he said, his voice practically cracking with the weight of it. "Lyanna and her child are alive."
And boom—the room was suddenly as quiet as a tomb. I mean, I'm pretty sure even the wind outside stopped for a second.
Elia's eyes went wide, her jaw slack in that way that only happens in the most dramatic of soap operas. "Alive?" she whispered, her voice catching on the word like it was the most impossible thing she'd ever heard. And yeah, fair enough—it totally was.
Ned nodded, stone-faced as usual. "Yes. And I know about you and Rhaegar marrying Lyanna. You two made her his second wife."
And there it was—the elephant in the room had just been shoved in everyone's faces. The secret no one dared mention for years was finally out, like someone had cracked open a can of worms and was now pointing at them. Elia blinked, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and, dare I say, relief?
"It's true," she said slowly, like she had just uncorked a bottle of old wine and was letting the truth breathe for the first time. "Rhaegar and I… we married Lyanna in secret, bound by the old First Men traditions."
If you're trying to picture this scene, it's like when you walk into a room and someone casually drops that they've been hiding an ancient family heirloom for centuries. That awkward, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" feeling. But this wasn't just any heirloom—this was a huge, potentially world-shaking truth.
Ned, ever the master of poker faces, took the revelation in stride. "I suspected as much," he muttered, clearly chewing over that little nugget of information for a while now. "But I needed to hear it from you."
Of course, that just left everyone standing there, staring at each other like the world's most awkward dinner party. No one knew who should speak next. Even Cregan, the one-year-old kid who probably had the intelligence of a hundred-year-old sage (no, seriously, don't ask how), was taking this all in like it was just another boring family drama.
Ashara, ever the empathetic one, was giving Elia a look of complete understanding. It was the sort of look that said, "I get it. You've been through so much," without her actually saying anything.
And then there was Arthur Dayne—"the Sword of the Morning," but you wouldn't know it by the way he looked like a stone statue that had been sculpted into a person. You'd never know what was going on inside his head. If you needed to play poker with someone who would never give you a hint, Arthur Dayne was your guy.
Elia blinked, clearly wrestling with a thousand emotions, before she broke the silence. "Lord Stark," she began, her voice tight like she was about to walk into a storm. "What happens now? If you tell Robert about Lyanna and Rhaegar's child, it could... well, let's just say it could reignite some very unpleasant feelings."
Ned let out a breath that would've been considered dramatic if he wasn't just so downright Ned Stark about it. "I will do what I must to protect Lyanna's child," he said firmly, like he'd just signed a contract with the Devil himself. "Robert's thirst for vengeance isn't going to decide the fate of an innocent child."
Elia's shoulders seemed to drop as though a giant weight had been lifted off her. "Thank you, Lord Stark," she whispered, the kind of quiet gratitude that only a life-or-death situation can elicit. "Your mercy gives me hope for the future."
Ned gave her a small, tight smile—as much of a smile as Ned Stark ever gives anyone—and nodded. "You have my word, Princess." His voice turned ice-cold, the sort of tone that said, "I'll burn the world down if I have to." "I'll protect Lyanna's child. No matter the cost."
And that, folks, was the moment where everyone in the room breathed a little easier. For the first time in what seemed like forever, things didn't feel quite as dark.
Now, remember that secret that had been almost forgotten? Well, Ashara, who had been holding onto it like a life-or-death secret since time immemorial, leaned forward and dropped the next bombshell. "Lyanna named him Jaecaerys."
Cue mic drop. And let's not forget the historical weight of that name. "Jaecaerys." Yeah, you couldn't have picked a more loaded name if you tried. Not only did it honor the Targaryen side of things, but it also came with a huge slab of baggage. The legacy of Rhaegar. The weight of everything.
Elia closed her eyes for a long moment, as if testing the name on her tongue. "Jaecaerys," she repeated softly, like it was something sacred. "A fitting name for a child born of love and hope. In a world full of war."
And even though her voice was laced with sorrow, there was a little spark of something in there. A flicker of hope, maybe? Could it be that the world wasn't entirely doomed?
Everyone just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle in. Secrets had been spilled. The past had been unwrapped. But, for the first time, it felt like they could actually move forward.
And I don't know about you, but that's when I realized: There was still hope for this mess of a world after all.
—
Elia looked down at Cregan like he was the world's most adorable puppy—if puppies could drop savage burns and talk like they were plotting world domination. "Cregan," she said softly, her voice practically glowing, "I'm your Aunt Elia. Now, I know, I know—it sounds a little weird. We're not technically related by blood, but you know, family is about more than just blood, right? It's about who's got your back. And, in this case? That's me."
Cregan blinked up at her, brow furrowed, clearly doing the mental gymnastics to process this. "Aunt Elia?" he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like he was testing it out, trying to figure out whether it was a compliment or a trap.
Elia smiled down at him, her heart doing that softening thing it only did when she saw a kid look at her like she held the secret to the universe in her hands. "Yes, little one," she said, her voice dripping with affection. "I'm your Aunt Elia. And I'll always be here to look out for you."
Ashara, standing off to the side, couldn't help herself. She slid in with that big-sister energy that could give even the fiercest of warriors a run for their money. "Aunt Elia is like a sister to me, Cregan," she said, her tone warm but authoritative. "We've been through everything together—good, bad, and really ugly. And her bond with you? It's just as strong as anything blood could give. You can trust her like you trust me."
Cregan's expression was a mix of confusion and determination, like he was trying to figure out if this was some sort of political alliance or just a family meeting. "Trust her like you trust you?" he repeated, his little voice deep in thought.
Ashara raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a grin. "That's right. You can trust Aunt Elia like I trust myself. And trust me, you don't want to mess with that."
Cregan gave a serious nod, though his face said he wasn't entirely sure how to process the idea of trusting someone with his tiny life. But he smiled anyway, probably because smiling was the easiest thing to do when you were one and had no idea what the heck was going on.
Elia's eyes softened, and she bent down to Cregan's level, her voice taking on that sweet-but-mischievous tone. "Would you like to meet my children?" she asked, as if offering Cregan the keys to the kingdom. "My daughter Rhaenys will be your special friend. You two will get along so well."
Cregan's eyes lit up like she'd just promised him an all-you-can-eat candy buffet. "Is it true that Rhaenys is my... bet-rotted?" he asked, squinting up at her, his voice full of the kind of wonder you only get when you're one year old and everything sounds both funny and important.
There was a beat of silence before everyone burst into laughter. Even Arthur Dayne, the Silent Knight himself, couldn't help but let out a short, restrained chuckle. Cregan might be tiny, but man, was he already mastering the art of timing.
Ashara quickly covered her mouth, trying to stifle the giggles. "Oh, sweetie," she said, in that voice you use when talking to a kid who's just said something adorably wrong. "It's pronounced 'betrothed,' not 'bet-rotted.'" She sighed, putting on her best "patient teacher" face. "It's a fancy word for someone you're going to be really close to. Like your best friend forever, except, you know, with more responsibility."
Cregan blinked, processing that like a sponge absorbing water. "Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a switch had flipped inside his head. "So, Rhaenys is like... my forever buddy?"
Elia smiled at him, a little proud of how fast he caught on. "Exactly. Rhaenys will be your best friend, your partner-in-crime, your ride-or-die. Someone you can trust more than anyone else. She's family, little one."
Cregan's eyes practically exploded with excitement. "Can I meet her now, Aunt Elia?" he asked, practically bouncing on his feet like he was on a sugar high. "I wanna meet my forever buddy!"
Elia couldn't help but laugh, her heart swelling with warmth. "Of course, little one," she said, a playful glint in her eyes. "Let's go meet your future best friend—before you start planning a wedding or something."
Cregan, ever the pragmatic child, didn't skip a beat. "Do I get cake?" he asked, his voice full of that innocent, single-minded focus only a one-year-old could manage.
Elia threw Ashara a glance, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I think cake can be arranged," she said, already knowing full well that cake was practically a given when you were dealing with Cregan's level of enthusiasm.
And just like that, the atmosphere lightened. The weight of the world wasn't gone—not yet, at least—but for the moment, everything felt a little brighter, a little easier. Cregan, somehow, was the one holding the reins to the day's happiness. And with that, they set off, ready to introduce the future best friends, Cregan's new "forever buddy," and a whole lot more cake.
—
So, there was this totally awkward silence hanging between Arthur Dayne and Ned Stark, like two really uncomfortable guys at a family reunion who don't know if they should hug it out or just exchange pleasantries. The air felt thick, like someone had thrown a damp towel over the entire situation. Seriously, if this were a movie, you'd expect some suspenseful music to start playing, and the camera would zoom in on their faces in slow motion—cue the ominous tension. But nope, no dramatic movie score. Just two guys standing around, looking like they were about to break some really bad news to each other.
Arthur broke the silence first with that tone of voice that made you realize he wasn't just saying things to fill the space. This was serious.
"We need to protect Rhaegar's children," Arthur said, his voice as serious as a Stark winter. "At all costs."
Ned, who always looked like a man walking around with the weight of the world on his shoulders (seriously, have you seen Sean Bean play him? It's like he's one gust of wind away from breaking down), let out a long sigh. He crossed his arms, staring at the ground like maybe if he stared hard enough, he'd be able to come up with an answer to everything.
"We've been played for fools," he muttered, his voice flat like a pancake. And it was one of those moments where you just knew Ned wasn't talking to Arthur. No, he was talking to himself, to the universe, maybe even to the damn North. "But we'll learn from our mistakes. We owe it to Lyanna. To Cregan. To everyone who's been dragged into this mess."
Arthur narrowed his eyes like a guy trying to figure out if a piece of meat was cooked all the way through. "What do you mean 'played for fools'?" he asked, leaning in with that stoic, swordsman way of his that screamed "I'm not messing around right now". It was like someone was about to drop the hammer on this whole mess, and Arthur Dayne wasn't going to let it go unspoken.
Ned rubbed his temples like he was trying to find the answer in a maze of bad decisions and buried truths. "Robert had us all fooled," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "We thought the Rebellion was for Lyanna. That's what we all believed. But it wasn't. It was all about power. It was always about power."
Arthur, who had probably never been wrong in his entire life (except that one time he tried to tell a joke and no one laughed), looked at Ned like he'd just tried to solve a riddle using a completely different alphabet. "What are you saying?"
And then Ned, in that classic way he has of making things sound like they were the most obvious thing ever, dropped the bombshell. "It's not even an hour since he learned of Lyanna's death, and now I've heard about Robert agreeing to marry Cersei Lannister. What the hell was that about? He was supposed to be in love with Lyanna, and he's marrying the Lannister girl? The same Lannisters who sacked King's Landing? I'm telling you, it was never about Lyanna. It was all about securing Robert's place on the throne."
Arthur blinked, taking a second to chew on that idea. His face, which usually looked like it was carved from granite, softened just a bit. "So, Robert's war for Lyanna was a lie?"
Ned's voice dropped into that gravelly, "I've seen too much" kind of tone. "Exactly. All of it was a lie. The North bled for a cause that was never about her—it was about securing Robert's power."
Arthur took a step back, clearly processing what Ned was throwing down. His tall frame (seriously, how tall is this guy? He's like a walking skyscraper) stiffened. "And now what?"
Ned's eyes darkened, and there was that unmistakable Stark resolve in his voice. "The letter. The one from Lyanna to my father. The one where she says she went with Rhaegar willingly. That letter would've ended everything. It would've shattered the whole rebellion. If that letter had been found, the North would've never been on Robert's side. We would've never fought for this."
Arthur's face went from stoic to full-on furious mode. "A letter. A letter that could've changed everything."
Ned nodded. He was angry now, and it was a slow burn of rage that simmered under his usually calm exterior. "Yes. And now it's gone. Vanished. Someone made sure it didn't see the light of day."
Arthur's expression darkened. "Robert. Tywin. Jon Arryn. One of them buried the truth to keep the North in the dark."
Ned's hands tightened into fists. "The North was used, Arthur. Used and manipulated. And now... we're the ones left holding the bag. The empty bag."
Arthur's face was unreadable for a second. He took a long breath—like he had to calm himself before he did something stupid. His gaze locked onto Ned's, serious now. "So what do we do now?"
And that was when Ned Stark, the man who never seemed to have a plan unless it involved holding the line, let out a slow exhale, standing taller as if the weight of his ancestors was pushing down on him. "We make sure this never happens again. We protect our families. We protect the truth. And when the time comes, we make them pay for it. We're not done with this, Arthur. Not by a long shot."
Arthur stood straighter, determination flickering in his icy blue eyes. "We'll rise again. The North and House Targaryen—together. We will make them regret every piece of this lie."
Ned gave him a sharp nod, like a wolf acknowledging a fellow predator. "The North remembers," he said, his voice low and heavy with intent. "And when the time comes, we'll get our justice."
Arthur didn't say anything after that. He just nodded, his lips pressing together in that grim, warrior's way. The pact was made. Not with words, but with a shared understanding, a bond of two men who knew what was at stake.
Because when the North gets deceived? It doesn't forget.
And, trust me, those guys were ready to remind everyone of it.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!