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Chapter Forty-Seven: The Weight of a Crown
Winterfell had always been home.
For fifteen years, Jon Snow had walked these halls, trained in these yards, found solace in the godswood.
But Jon Snow no longer existed.
Now he was Daeron Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Now he was King of the North and rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
And the weight of it pressed against his shoulders like a mountain.
The change in how people treated him was almost immediate.
The castle guards, the stable boys, the serving women—men and women who had known him since childhood—bowed their heads as he passed, murmuring Your Grace instead of my lord. The Stark bannermen, great lords who had once tolerated his presence as Ned Stark's bastard, now looked at him with respect, with loyalty.
Jon—Daeron—was still adjusting.
It was a large leap, after all, from Ned Stark's bastard to King.
He sighed, pushing the thought away as he made his way toward his uncle's solar.
He had no time for doubts.
The war was upon them.
When he entered the solar, the others were already waiting.
His uncle Ned sat at the head of the table, as composed as ever. Benjen sat at his right, his face tight. Beside him, his wife, Dacey, leaned back in her chair, arms crossed.
Catelyn sat to Ned's left, watching Daeron carefully as he entered.
Robb stood near the hearth, his arms folded across his chest. His expression was serious, but when his eyes met Daeron's, there was warmth.
Daeron took his seat.
The discussion began.
Benjen was the first to speak. "We've finished taking full count of our forces," he said. "Winterfell alone has raised five thousand men."
Daeron listened carefully as Benjen listed the numbers.
"That includes the one thousand Stark household guards, knights, and men-at-arms sworn to House Stark," Benjen continued. "The rest are levies raised from lands near Winterfell. If needed, we could call on three to four thousand more men from Wintertown."
Ned nodded. "I am taking only three thousand of them with us when we march south," he announced. "The remaining two thousand will stay in Winterfell under your command."
Benjen's jaw tightened.
It was obvious he didn't like the idea of being left behind while Ned, Robb, and Daeron rode to war.
But Daeron could already see where Ned's mind was going.
His uncle had always been careful, always thought two steps ahead.
And his instincts were rarely wrong.
"House Greyjoy is hungry for blood," Ned continued. "With Euron and Theon dead, Balon Greyjoy will want revenge. The Ironborn are proud, and they have not forgotten the Greyjoy Rebellion. With most of the North's military strength marching south, this is the perfect opportunity for them."
Benjen exhaled sharply, but nodded. "You think they'll attack?"
"I think they will try," Ned said. "Which is why I need you here to defend the North. I need someone experienced to guard Winterfell."
Daeron could see the struggle on Benjen's face. He wanted to be with them, to fight beside his brother and nephew.
But Winterfell needed a Stark.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.
Benjen sighed, then finally gave a reluctant nod. "Very well. I'll stay."
Ned's expression softened, though his tone remained firm. "A few days ago, I received a raven from Lord Commander Mormont of the Night's Watch. He warns that the wildlings are gathering in mass beyond the Wall. Be on guard. If the Night's Watch calls for aid, answer it."
Benjen frowned, but nodded again.
Daeron leaned forward slightly. "And the rest of our forces?"
Ned turned to him.
"All together, the North has raised twenty thousand men in Winterfell," he said. "As we march south, another five thousand will join us from the remaining bannermen."
Twenty-five thousand men.
That was the strength of the North that they could gather in haste.
Daeron exhaled.
This was not just Ned Stark's army.
This was his army.
These men were not just fighting for the honor of House Stark.
They were fighting for him.
His uncle Ned—Lord Stark, Warden of the North, the man who had always put honor and duty above all else—was willing to risk the lives of thousands of Northern men to support Daeron's claim.
He believed in him that much.
Daeron's hands curled into fists.
He would not take that lightly.
This was a huge responsibility.
The fate of these men was in his hands. He would not allow them to die needlessly for his crown.
If war was inevitable, then he would end it as swiftly as possible. Even if that meant raining fire and death upon his enemies.
The discussion continued late into the evening.
They spoke of supplies, of battle plans, of reinforcements and allies. Benjen laid out the defenses that would be put in place at Winterfell.
Catelyn voiced concerns about the war's toll on the Riverlands.
Dacey Mormont, fierce as ever, argued for an aggressive campaign rather than a slow, defensive one.
Ned listened to everyone's counsel, but ultimately made the final decisions.
By the time the meeting ended, the war was truly set in motion.
They would march within days
Later that night, Daeron stood in the godswood.
Ghost sat beside him, silent and watchful.
The direwolf had been more alert than usual since the letters had been sent.
As if he knew that war was coming.
Daeron exhaled, staring at the heart tree.
"Father… Mother… what would you have wanted?"
The old gods did not answer.
But he did not need them to. He already knew what he had to do. He would not allow the North's loyalty to be in vain. He would not allow their faith in him to be misplaced.
He would win.
Not for the sake of a throne.But for the men who had sworn their lives to him.
For the North.
For House Stark.
For his family.
Daeron Targaryen clenched his fists.
No matter what it took—
He would end this war.