The Song of Winter
By MADJACKc1940
This work is original to GRRM, I claim no credit to his books or the show.
Chapter 3
The great hall of Winterfell was packed. Northern lords, Valemen, and wildling leaders shared a room without conflict. At the head of the congregation sat the figure of their unity: Jon Snow, the King in the North. No crown adorned his brow, but the combined hopes and faith of all of those in the room, and all they represented, rested on his shoulders. Such confidence was a worthier symbol of authority than any rod or headpiece. Few monarchs of Westeros had ever held such deserved esteem, most were elevated to their position by birthright. The Bastard King in the North had no true birthright.
Jon sat in a nondescript chair on the dais where the head table normally rested. His elevation, the stoic figure of his sister standing behind him to his right, and the albino direwolf the size of a small horse resting at his feet were his only visible symbols of authority, but they served their purpose well. The gathered leaders who had been talking and arguing before his entrance quieted when the three entered the great hall. Brienne of Tarth took a position off the dais, but towards the front and facing the assembly.
Jon took note of the gathering for several moments before deigning to speak. Alys Karstark and Ned Umber, the scions of Karhold and Last Hearth respectively knelt in chains before the dais. The Karstarks and Umbers had declared for the Boltons out of spite of the Starks for actions taken during the War of Five Kings, but the two before him were a young boy and girl. Alys Karstark, the elder of the two, couldn't have been more than three and ten. Ned Umber, named for Jon and Sansa's late father out of affection in once happier days, couldn't have been more than eleven. Jon did not remember ordering the pair to be imprisoned, they looked terrified, the boy had clearly been in tears. Littlefinger sat with his Valemen, face impassive as ever. He shot a quick glance to Sansa but returned his gaze to Jon. Lord Royce sat near him. Tormund the Giantsbane stood out like a candle in a dark room with his unkempt red mane and large personality somehow still drawing attention even when the man was silent. He was looking intently at the Maid of Tarth, an action Jon found him doing frequently when he did not decide to go speak to the large woman directly. Brienne ignored him, but it was clear she did so intentionally. Tormund was not deterred, if he was even aware of her dismissal.
The King decided to start with the chained children before him, an image he did not want to have associated with him. "Good afternoon, my lords and ladies, warriors, tribal leaders and guests. You all know why we're here. We have much business to sort. Firstly," he looked about the room, and his gaze settled on the children, "who put these two in chains and why was I not informed of these measures?" The hall was silent. The two children sat, faces pale. Umber started to quake, Karstark put her arm around the boy's shoulder, but she looked equally terrified. "I will say this again," his voice calm, but the anger started to bleed into his tone, "who chained these children in my own castle without my leave to do so?"
As if it could be a more convenient person, Petyr Baelish cleared his throat and spoke, "they're families fought against you, your Grace-ah ha-I took it upon myself to have them…detained, such that they might not flee from your Grace's justice," Baelish held out his hands, palm-up towards the dais from where he now stood amongst his lords, "Forgive me if I presumed upon your Grace's authority in your own house."
"Ah, Lord Baelish," Jon addressed, "I should say, you presume much…" He kept his face impassive, although Littlefinger was savvy enough to know when more was being implied. "This is an excellent topic to lead us into a separate order of business…unchain these children," he ordered, two guards rushed to carry out his command. The children were unchained, but their relief was short lived, their fates still unclear. "Lady Sansa, make your address."
Littlefinger's impassive face took a guarded turn when the redhead took a step forward, her hands clasped at her waist. She looked at the small man, her expression frosty. She didn't mince words; this wasn't the court of the Iron Throne. "Lord Petyr Baelish, I formally declare you a murderer, for casting my late aunt, Lady Lysa Arryn, from the Moon Door of the Eyrie. You murdered her to consolidate power in the Vale and you threatened my life if I spoke to the contrary!"
Silence pervaded the hall for several breaths. The assembly looking between themselves. Jon decided to hurry things along, "Lord Baelish, how do you respond to these charg…"
"Lies!" sputtered Baelish, cutting off the king, "she lies! My lords, I loved my Lady wife and would never do any such thing! Surely you can't believe this…" he was about to give insult to belittle her station, but paused in realization that he was calling the Lady of Winterfell a liar in front of her brother the King. "I rushed to your aid when all hope was lost!" he cried, "you wouldn't be sitting up there if it weren't for me!"
"The circumstances of my coronation aside, Lord Baelish, my method of ascension has no accused duplicity," stated Jon.
"But you were the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch!" yelled Littlefinger, "you forsake your vows to claim power." He hadn't intended to call Jon's legitimacy into question at any point, but he was flailing at the suddenness of his loss of control of the situation.
Jon shifted on his chair. Many in the room muttered in agreement, their own curiosity on the details of that issue had yet to be sated. Most were either prepared to ignore the issue or weren't comfortable risking their own necks questioning the new king's legitimacy. Sansa looked at Jon, but her expression didn't give anything away.
"King Snow sits there in violation of no vows," bellowed a breathy voice from the middle of the room. Davos Seaworth, the minor lord and former hand to King Stannis declared, "I was there the rumored night of his resurrection. The man was dead as a door nail and was raised again with the magic of the Red Witch. His Watch was ended, he gave his life for the Watch. The fact that he got his life back is not in the vows!"
"I will also speak to the truth of that statement!" yelled Tormund, "I was there as well. Snow's whole bloody chest and back looked like a carving board. He was cold as the stone he laid on, and then the Witch performed her magic and his wounds were healed and he rose from the table!"
More murmuring broke out amongst the assembly at these declarations. Jon stood from his chair and promptly took off his cloak. He quickly pulled his tunic over his head and brought the room to silence once again at the carnage written across his body. He stood before them displaying the aftermath of the daggers of his brothers. This reveal had not been intended, but it was another matter he had been unsure how to broach. He understood any questions about his leaving the Watch. He had personally seen his father execute several former Crows for desertion. This was a loose end that couldn't be left unaddressed. Likewise, he himself was often in disbelief at waking up on the stone slab and the mincemeat that was his chest. He couldn't explain it beyond its reality and said as much to the assembly before him. "Choose for yourselves if you think my vows were truly broken," he yelled, "I say only this. I cannot explain what happened to me. I remember the attack from my brethren and waking up. I see my own wounds and can only conclude that I was killed, yet here a stand. If any of you feel that I shouldn't stand before you as king considering this controversy, now is your time to address the issue, it will not be brought up again. Before I was a king, I was only ever a man of my word, and I still am. If I didn't personally think that my vows were satisfied, I would still be wearing a black cloak."
There was more silence, which mostly consisted of the mass gaping at their king in disbelief, Sansa included. Her heart broke at her brother's wounds. She wished she could embrace him, either to comfort him or herself, she was unsure. It was absolutely the wrong time, so she did not, but she had been caught just as off-guard as most of the gathered leadership. With no one speaking out, Jon put his tunic back on and seated himself. "We will not hear of this issue again," he declared, "Lord Baelish, do you have anything to say in your defense regarding the charges against you from the Lady of Winterfell?"
Baelish stuttered and looked about. "…I demand trial by combat," he declared weakly, unsure of any other options before him, "I choose Lord Royce as my champion."
"I refuse," Royce answered simply. All the other Vale lords looked to the Lord of Runestone, some in surprise, most in solidarity. Lord Royce was indeed not exaggerating his statement that Littlefinger's hold on the Vale was tenuous.
"You cannot!" Littlefinger declared, "I order it!"
"In light of your charges, Lord Baelish, we must recuse ourselves from this matter as it is not about a personal member of the Arryn family." This was not technically true according to the old tradition, but no one questioned the wizened old lord, and champions had to be willing volunteers anyway. Royce had already been planning on taking control of the assembly and declaring a trial for Baelish, the King seemed to have beat him to it. Lord Royce was fine with this development.
"Fine!" cried the little schemer, "anyone! I have gold, I'll make you filthy rich! I was the Master of Coin for years!" The assembly watched his breakdown in silence.
"Lord Baelish," Jon answered above his pleas, "your demand for trial by combat is granted. As no one seems willing to be your champion, you shall fend for yourself." The Regent of the Vale went white at this statement. "Is anyone willing to represent the Lady of Winterfell?" A few hands flew in the air, mostly minor northern lords looking for the honor of defending their Lady.
Jon's gaze went to Brienne of Tarth's lifted hand, he opened his mouth to speak, but Tormund, whose gaze had been habitually rested on her, boisterously broke in to do it for her, "Let me fight the little man, Snow!" Petyr Baelish looked as if he was about to pass out.
"Tormund…perhaps the Lady of Tarth is more familiar with dueling etiquette…"
"I choose Tormund Giantsbane as my champion," declared the Lady of Winterfell. Tormund's grin looked like it was about to split his face as he made eye contact with Brienne, hoping this would curry her favor. She pointedly ignored his gaze again, totally uncomfortable with the irrepressible wildling. Petyr Baelish turned to bolt away. The Vale lords around him grabbed the small man. Many of the assembled leadership had grins of approval at this turn of events, even though one of their own was to fight-and almost assuredly be killed-at the hands of the huge wildling man. Petyr Baelish was not popular.
As the room was cleared in the center for the two men to face each other, Sansa's chosen champion approached the dais. "Didn't think I was going to have the chance for a little action today, Lady Wolf," the red-maned wilding boasted to Sansa, totally uncaring of his lack of formality. He was Free Folk, after all, a difference Sansa diplomatically ignored. Inwardly she smiled at the fresh form of address. Generally, she liked Tormund and his complete loyalty to her brother, she did sympathize with Brienne for his incessant advances, however. But she didn't know how Brienne would respond if she intervened on her behalf, not wanting the stout woman to think that Sansa doubted her ability to handle herself with men. So, she decided to let the issue resolve itself. If it got violent, she was confident in her guard's abilities.
"Please make it quick, Master Giantsbane," Sansa requested of the big man. This was the mercy she was going to show Petyr for helping her escape King's Landing. That debt was mostly erased with her marriage to Ramsay Bolton at his arrangement, but she would at least grant the man a quick end, better than Ramsay ever did for any of his victims.
Tormund roared with laughter at the title she used to address him. "Oh, that's no fun, but I'll do as you ask. You know, I do like you, Lady Wolf! A little more blood-thirsty under that cold armor than you let on, aren't you? You'd have to be to pick me over one of your fancy knights! You know what they say about we who are kissed by fire?" he declared, pointing to his red mane in solidarity with his fellow redhead. Sansa knew not what to say. She, in fact, did not know what was said of those who were kissed by fire.
The King almost sputtered, once again comparing his sister to his deceased lover in his mind, she had also been kissed by fire. She's your bloody sister! He reminded himself once again. He tossed that thought quickly. The room was ready for the trial. "Duelists to the center!" the king yelled. Tormund drew his big broadsword. Someone had the mercy to loan Baelish a sword of his own, that person didn't think the term on this loan would be for too long. "May the outcome of this match be an accurate portrayal of the clash of truth versus untruth as decided by the old gods or new, whichever you keep. Whichever party wins shall be accepted as the speakers of the truth determined by the gods and this matter shall be forever settled! Let the trial commence!"
Giantsbane roared in fury as he charged at Baelish, who stood limply, his sword held in front of him. He weakly raised the blade to defend the chop that would easily remove his head from his neck. The sword flew from his grasp, but he managed to duck the edge of the crude wildling blade, just barely. Within the huge wilding's guard, the smaller man grasped hold of the wildling's sword arm, attempting to pin his blade and prolong his life by precious seconds. Tormund laughed and lifted the small man wholly off the floor several inches from where he dangled on his forearm. "It seems I've caught a thistle!" cried the Giantsbane. Some of the assembly grinned at the dark humor of the scene.
Suddenly Baelish pulled a jeweled dagger from within his clothing, one arm still used to dangle from Tormund's elbow. He lunged to take a quick stab at the huge wildling's chest, but Tormund wasn't one of the best fighters beyond the wall for nothing and had experienced all manner of underhanded tactics. At the last second, Tormund saw the blade and flung out his arm, causing Petyr's blade to go wide. The dagger grazed Tormund's ribs drawing blood, but nothing more. Baelish lost his grip on Tormund's elbow and was thrown to the floor, landing atop the dagger which was driven into his own shoulder. He cried out in pain and clutched at the blade buried to the guard in his shoulder as he came weakly to his knees. Tormund kept true to Sansa's request; without fanfare he stepped forward and removed the head from Petyr Baelish's shoulders. The trial was over, justice was done.
"The Lady of Winterfell is the winner, as determined of trial by combat!" declared Jon, "Tormund, would you bring that dagger over here?" The King had seen something familiar in that hilt as it stuck out from the headless torso of the late Regent of the Vale. The wildling placed his boot on Baelish's chest and pulled the dagger free.
"Someone burn this body before we have a skeevy little wight running around pulling daggers on us!" declared Tormund, as he approached the dais.
"You would have us burn the corpse?" asked Lord Royce in distaste. He didn't like Baelish, but he wasn't in favor of desecrating his body.
"Do it." Jon ordered, "Lord Royce, I will explain later in this meeting." Bronze Yohn Royce wasn't pleased, but he nodded, accepting that he would get his explanation. Jon paused in thought, "Actually…put the corpse in a strong box and seal it with nails and hoops of iron, have the box brought north as far as the Gift. Whatever you hear from within, do not open the box!" he declared. Tormund looked at Jon questioningly but shrugged his shoulders as he handed him the dagger. The assembled lords looked to each other in confusion at this strange discourse of burial but dropped the issue.
Sansa thanked Tormund for being her champion and apologized for the cut he had received, he shrugged her off and asked that she put in a good word with "the big woman" on his behalf.
Sansa drew near Jon and examined the bloody Valyrian steel dagger with a gasp. "This is the dagger that was given to the assassin meant to kill Bran," she proclaimed, "it seems we were correct in determining that it was likely that Baelish has committed even more unknown treachery against our family."
Jon nodded. "There isn't much point in trying to prove his guilt for that issue now, but we can at least gain some comfort that even if the chain of custody of this dagger never started with him, he was at least likely to have been involved. Think, it's arguable that this dagger is what started the War of the Five Kings. We just exacted justice for Robb, Bran, and your mother." Jon gave the dagger to a nearby servant. "Have this dagger cleaned and have a new sheathe made for it, then give it to Lady Sansa."
Sansa looked to Jon. "Ladies don't carry weapons," she said, "thinking of this old argument she'd had with her sister countless times."
"I armed Arya," Jon replied, "now let me arm you. Keep it with you, Sansa. It would give me comfort knowing that you had it, and perhaps it would help you rest easier if you had it under your pillow. Would you do this for me, sister?"
Sansa met his gaze and warmed, "I suppose I don't have to follow the trends of the Southern court anymore."
"You are the leading lady of the Realm," he smiled. Sansa flushed, that statement almost sounded like she was his queen. "You'll have all the Northern ladies wearing daggers and swords within a few months. You're about to make the Mormont women very angry indeed, they won't be unique anymore." He squeezed her hand quickly but ended their sidebar, they were still in front of their assembly. "On to the next order of business!" Jon declared; he had their attention.
Baelish's remains had been removed. "With the death of Lord Baelish, and the concurrence of the present Vale lords, I would recommend naming the Lord of Runestone as the new Regent to the Vale to see to its success for the cousin of my sister, the Lady of Winterfell."
"Your Grace," Lord Royce yelled, "we want to thank you for your aid in exposing the treacherous Lord Baelish for his misdeeds against the House of Arryn. Considering the bond between Lord Arryn and his cousin Lady Sansa, and the integrity of your House, and for the affection I had for your Father: I would like to formally declare the fealty of the Vale of Arryn to you, the King in the North! We want nothing to do with the Iron Throne, the North and the Vale are lands of honor, we would declare for you over that bitch Cersei Lannister a hundred times if we could!"
"Hear! Hear!" yelled the other Vale lords. The rest of the North was taken aback, none of them ever expecting such a turn, Jon and Sansa included. The wildling leaders didn't realize the magnitude of such a proclamation. At best, Jon had been expecting a strong formal alliance, nothing close to fealty.
"I accept your fealty, Lord Royce, I can't thank you enough for your confidence…we will have much discussion in the coming days." Jon and Sansa exchanged a wide look.
"All hail Jon Snow, King in the North and Vale!" cried Davos Seaworth. The assembly applauded and repeated the statement enthusiastically.
"Thank you," Jon replied, "Now, Ned Umber and Alys Karstark, step forward." The pair obeyed, both looking terrified. Jon inwardly cursed, he'd been planning leniency, and they had just indirectly executed a man, the pair were rightly quaking where they stood. He should have settled their business before dealing with Littlefinger, a lesson he took for the future regarding prudent ruling. "You may both breathe easy," he started, "You will not be harmed." The pair visibly relaxed. "You are both the last of your respective families, families that fought against mine for grievances committed on both sides by predecessors who are now dead. Those grievances will die with those predecessors," Jon stated firmly, "Do either of you object?"
"No, your Grace!" they replied fervently.
"Good. Then take a knee and swear your fealty to House Stark and let our three houses come together as friends once more." Both children did as they were bidden and swore their fealty. "Now," Jon continued, "in light of your youth and the loss of the strength of your houses in the late conflict, I have decided to take you both as wards of House Stark until such a time as the Karhold and Last Hearth can be properly defended and the two of you are mature enough to rule them. Until then, those keeps will sit, any remaining household guard will be minimized, and the excess will be absorbed into surrounding keeps. Household staff will maintain the running and upkeep of the fortifications until you can resume them and rebuild their strength, which may not be for a while given the coming conflicts." The children nodded gratefully, happy at their turn of fortune. Jon would have been well within his rights to have them killed. Ramsay Bolton would not have made it quick.
"Now, to Tormund Giantsbane and the loyal Free Folk," Jon began, "I would address your aid." All the assembled nobility sneered in distaste at the small collection of wildling leadership. "Firstly, I will make this declaration. No Free Folk will be harmed without just cause and no provocation will be made to incite violence. The relationship between the Free Folk and the North is hereby changed. I grant them the lands of the Gift, that they may farm and settle as an independent nation on the condition that they let travelers to and from the Wall and that a formal military alliance is formed between the North and the wildling leadership in order to face the threat beyond the Wall." The assembled nobility grumbled in clear displeasure, the volume getting progressively louder.
"I will not be disobeyed!" yelled Jon. Ghost sprung to his feet and let out a wild snarling growl that silenced the assembly. Jon placed his hand of the direwolf's shoulder. "I recognize that our peoples have a long history of conflict! But I am telling you now, I have been beyond the Wall and can honestly say that our worst enemies are not south of the Neck!" This had the lords' attention. "Hear me and disregard at the expense of you and your families. Heed the word of a man who commands a direwolf and who you have accepted today has been brought back from the dead. Take my word as the king you proclaimed me to be. By the proof of the giant rotting out in the courtyard, believe this: what we were told as children about the monsters north of the Wall is not wholly false. With my own eyes and two hands, during my time beyond the Wall, I have fought a White Walker out of the old stories and slew him. But there are many more! And for every White Walker there are thousands of undead wights. All these forces are commanded by a mysterious figure known as the Night King. His goal is to tear down the Wall and descend upon the lands of the living, killing all things and plunging Westeros into an eternal winter."
"This is why I let the wildlings through the Wall as the Lord Commander," he reasoned, "and for that, my brothers killed me. But for every man, woman, and child killed beyond the wall, it is one more dead solider risen to fight the living. This conflict is no longer Northerner versus wildling, it is living versus dead. Infighting amongst ourselves plays into the hands of the Night King: we must be united!" The assembly was cowed into silence, most of the leaders were pensive, considering the word of the man before them and the implications of his irrefutable proof. They could not deny the direwolf, the giant, or the scars on their king's body. Why was what he was saying so far-fetched in view of these other circumstances?
"The details of this evening's decisions will be hashed out individually in the coming days," declared King Snow. Evening had drawn while they were assembled, it was time for dinner, which was ready to be served to the assembly. "Eat and retire to your rest, my guests. Think on what I have revealed to you. Make friends of the men and women in this room. All the men and women. The nights grow colder, and no one is exempted from the fact that winter is coming!"
