Andrew
The Hornwoods came in on a cold windy morning, bringing a hundred horsemen and near thousand foot from their castle at Hornwood. The steel points of their pikes winked in the pale sunlight as the column approached. A man went before them, pounding out a slow, deep-throated marching rhythm on a drum that was bigger than he was, boom, boom, boom.
Andrew watched them come from a guard turret atop the outer wall, standing vigil near the dragon's head. Lord Halys himself led them, his son Daryn riding beside him beneath orange banners sporting the black bull moose of their House.
They were the last, he knew. The other lords were already here, with their hosts. Once Andrew would have loved to ride out among them, to see the winter houses full to bursting, the jostling crowds in the market square every morning, the streets rutted and torn by wheel and hoof. Once when these men came under his father's command. They were his men now, not his father's and Andrew wasn't sure if he yearned to meet them as he once did.
He had met all these lords with their banners before, when they had come to Winterfell to fight wars and meet father. Thrice his father had fought Rhaegar in war and thrice he defeated the dragon king in the wars between their kingdoms. Andrew remembered seeing them and their banners twice when they came to Winterfell to march for battle. He had only been a babe at his mother's breast the first time his father called his banners against the Targaryens but the next two times he remembered seeing all of them in the yard, once perched at his mother's hip and the last clutching at her skirts. It almost seemed strange seeing them here now coming under his call. He remembered the mailed fist of the Glovers, silver on scarlet; the black bear of the Mormonts; the hideous flayed man that went before Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort; the white ironwood with the black sword for the Forresters; a battle-axe for the Cerwyns; three sentinel trees for the Tallharts; and the fearsome sigil of House Umber, a roaring giant in shattered chains. All of them, his father's men and now his men.
A year ago, before, he would have gladly visited them in the yard and received them as his father would do. In those days he was not much aware of what he might say to them when he sees them. Now that the moment was very much nearing he dreaded the whole thing. They brought the armies with them though, that thought should comfort him the very least.
And soon enough he would see their faces again, when he would have to show himself for the lords and their sons and knights who had come to Winterfell to see him. He wondered if the Great Hall would be large enough to seat all of them at once. His father used to seat all the lords and their sons inside, that might do.
"How many is it now?" Andrew asked Maester Walys as Lord Hornwood and his son rode through the gates in the outer wall.
"Fourty thousand men, or near enough as makes no matter."
"They are all here?"
Without a doubt," the maester said with a hint of smile. "I remember the day they came to see you for the first time. Even that day I had not seen as many people as they have come to see you now. Your father and mother showed you to all the great houses of the north and everyone here have seen you before. No doubt you've grown up a little now but that would not cause any problems."
"Aye," sighed Andrew. "No longer a babe and no longer have my parents with me."
Maester Walys sighed. "My lord, it only took one look for the people to see you who you are. The north remembers. Your father and mother are remembered still, there is no doubt of that."
"Yeah, but do they remember me though?" Andrew asked thoughtfully. It was one thing to show himself to the castle folk who saw him everyday and an entirely different thing to come before the people who saw a babe in swaddled clothes.
"They would remember you well enough to see you as Ned Stark's son," Maester Walys said. "You should meet them soon enough, your grace. The sooner the better."
"I'll be there today," he told the master. "I need to see them first."
"As you wish," Maester Walys said.
Andrew felt as miserable as he must have looked. The only family he had left remained in the cold halls of the crypts. He wanted to see them before he saddle the horse he meant to ride.
A series of chisel-cut handholds made a ladder in the granite of the tower's inner wall. Andrew went down in silence, hand under hand. Once he might have found another way down from the tower, a quicker way and more dangerous, but he was not an assassin anymore. He was expected to act the king.
Even Winterfell itself was crowded. The yard rang to the sound of sword and axe, the rumble of wagons, and the barking of dogs. The armory doors were open, and Andrew glimpsed Mikken at his forge, his hammer ringing as sweat dripped off his bare chest.
For near a full moonturn there had been so many comings and goings that he ordered both portcullises kept up and the drawbridge down between them, even in the dead of night. A long column of armored lancers was crossing the moat between the walls when he emerged from the tower; Hornwood men, following their lords into the castle. They wore black iron halfhelms and russet woolen cloaks patterned with the black moose head. Andrew slunk away from their sight and walked to the crypts in the shadows.
Two stone wolves stood guard at the entrance to Winterfell's crypts. As he stepped inside the blinding darkness, Andrew put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. Ghost came loping out from the godswood. The presence of the white wolf near him gave him the strength and comfort he needed.
He walked down a long dim hallway, Ghost padding easily beside him. The white wolf glanced up from time to time, eyes smoldering like bright burning embers. The hallway was lit with enough lanterns hanging from the walls on either side. Andrew walked past the stone kings on their thrones, eying him with their cold dead eyes as he passed. He hoisted the flowers in his hands when he reached his destination. The roses he had kept yesterday had already withered. He took them away and placed the fresh one in his mother's arms.
He stayed there for a while. The crypts was an island of peace in the sea of chaos that Winterfell had become. He needed the peace, needed them more than that.
Ghost nudged his head against his chest when he stood there forgotten of the time and his life. He rubbed the wolf under the jaw and made his way out, his shadow towering over the old kings of winter as he left them in their cold hall.
Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they had buried his grandmother Lyarra. Next to her grave, he had buried the men who had died the day he took back Winterfell. He should do it atleast for them else their deaths would've been for nothing.
When the sun was right above his head, he left for his solar hiding away from all the stranger eyes in Winterfell.
He would want to meet the lords today no matter how hard it is for him. That's why he had come back here. The sooner it is done the sooner he can march south to get justice for his father and mother and . . . her.
Besides, it was his duty as the son of King Eddard Stark and Queen Ashara Dayne. His father never once shrunk away from his duty, no matter how hard it was. Andrew had seen it with his own eyes. How hard it was for him to leave mother and go to war. He wished he was here now. I must be strong like him as well, especially now.
He discarded his jacket and shirt and wore a brown coat befits a king. He would want to look kingly tonight before all those great lords. Once he laced his boots he turned around and looked at his father's crown on the table. Andrew ran his fingers gently over the circlet. The iron was engraved with ancient runes all over it. He wondered what they meant. Father would've known else he wouldn't have kept it. Maybe he should ask maester Walys about it.
By the time he was dressed and done, Ghost was curled up asleep beside the door, but he lifted his head at the sound of Andrew's boots. The direwolf's red eyes were darker than blood and wiser than men. Andrew knelt, scratched his ear. "Come on, boy. It's time."
Ghost sniffed at his face and tried a lick. Andrew smiled. "You're the one deserves an honor to be the king," he told the wolf . . . and suddenly he found himself remembering how he'd found him, that day in the wolfswood. His mother had died protecting Andrew and his mother from wildlings. For the sake of his dead mother's sacrifice, Queen Ashara had convinced his father to let Andrew keep him. They had raised him together too, him and his mother. And Ghost has saved his life more times than he could count.
"I need you there with me, Ghost," he told the white wolf.
He was about to walk back to take the crown when a knock at the door came.
Maester Walys' voice came through the door. "Your grace, you have a visitor."
"I told you I was coming down."
"Yes, sire. But you might want to meet him now."
"Very well. Send him in."
Andrew crossed the table and stood on the other side of the table. Vaguely he thought who would want to meet him now. Howland Reed, his father's friend, perhaps or jolly lord Manderly or . . . The door flew open and Andrew looked up.
His feet stuck to the floor and Andrew stared at him for some seconds. He could see utter amazement in the man's old and hardened face. Grey eyes watched him curiously and Andrew could not have felt more happier to see anyone else at that time. His white hair had grown past his shoulders and his snowy beard wild and unkempt, very much unlike the last he had seen him. Though older than any men Andrew had known in his life, he held himself atrongly as if to show that he had some years of life still left in him with his back straight as spear, the back where once he'd slung himself as the old man marched him around, both of them laughing.
He took a step forward and reached him to see if he was real, standing before him, and all of it was not a dream. He saw the old man's lips grow wide in a smile and Andrew could not help but return it. "My boy," his great-grandfather pulled him into a tight hug.
Andrew returned the embrace warmly and held onto the only family he had left. Rodrik Stark held him at arms length and looked at him from head to heel. "By the gods, you've grown."
"So are you," Andrew said with a smile.
"The others take me!" Rodrik Stark boomed when he looked him all around once again. "I cannot believe my eyes. You're here, alive and well."
"It's me, of course," Andrew told him, "at least as far as I know of it."
That made his great-grandfather grin. "They told me you were dead. How did you escape?"
"Mother saved me," Andrew said softly. "She gave herself to protect me." He then told the old man about Syrio and Illola and the girls patiently. He left Joy away from the story. She belonged in his heart and there she will stay until it stops so he could join her. He told him about Rhaegar and Braavos and how he reached here.
"Well, that's good," Rodrik Stark said thoughtfully when he was done. "You're back now, that's all that matters now."
"How did you survive?" Andrew asked. "I thought Rhaegar left no one alive."
"I wouldn't have survived," Rodrik Stark said, "but for your father's southern friends. Dondarrion and the Red Priest. They are with me as well and your cousin too, your mother's kin."
Edric. It's been years since Andrew had seen his cousin. It warmed his heart to know that he had some of his family left.
His grandfather eyed the crown on the table. "I see that you're the one responsible for Waterspring and the dragon's death."
"Yeah. I had some help as well." Help of some good folks who gave their lives to protect mine.
"Quite a way to come back from hell, son." His grandfather sat in the chair. "The whole north speaks of you. They are very eager to meet you, very much like me."
"Well," Andrew sighed and walked over to the hearth. "I don't think they'll be much impressed with what they see."
"Impressed?" Rodrik Stark said grimly. "Which of these lords could claim that he's killed a dragon? Who can say that he fought to free Winterfell? If anyone has any qualms in seeing you as Ned's son they can very well come and settle it with me. Though seeing your wolf here, I hardly find any reason for it."
"That's reassuring."
Rodrik Stark came near him. " I know things have been difficult for you. I know what you're feeling. Ever since you were a little boy, you've been living with so many unresolved things. Well, take it from an old man, those things send us down a road. They make us who we are. And if anyone's destined for greatness, it's you, son. You owe the people your gifts. Like your father did when his time came." Andrew turned to look him in the eye. "I see so much of your father in you. And your mother. I know that they would be very proud of you."
Andrew was tired. I need sleep. He had been up half the night discussing with Maester Walys and pondering over things that would happen tonight. Even after stumbling into his bed, rest had not come easily. He knew what he would face today, and found himself wondering restlessly. He brooded on his great-grandfather's words for some time.
"I'm ready," he said finally.
Andrew fastened his coat and strode outside. He left the crown on the table. I'll go to them as Ned Stark's son, not as a self styled king. Ghost left his place by the hearth and bounded to him at once. He walked to the Great Hall where the lords of the north has gathered. Ghost padded before him. He stopped at the heavy doors to the Great Hall and looked back for him with blood red eyes.
When the doors opened all eyes turned to him. They lords of the north were already at their places when Andrew walked in the centre, Ghost padding at his side. His great-grandfather followed him closely. He could hear people talking in low voices and all the eyes in the hall followed him as he passed. Two of lord Karstark's sons backed in their seat when they saw Ghost. He reached the high seat and allowed himself to sit in it proudly as his father had once sat. Ghost walked up to him and curled up around his feet, his red eyes scanning the room for any danger. Andrew saw Lord Beric and Thoros of Myr give him a smile as they came to his side beside Rodrik Stark. The boy at Lord Beric's side must be Edric. He was all grown up, not the little boy Andrew remembered. He had the Dayne coloring like aunt Allyria and uncle Aaron. Though his eyes were more indigo than the violet of his mother's. If that was not enough, the smile he gave when he saw Andrew told him enough. Andrew could feel the eyes of every man in the hall. Both people he had seen before and strangers alike. They were both afraid and amused to see him as they had been when they saw Ghost. It had grown quiet. "My lords," Poole announced, "His Grace, Andrew Stark, of Winterfell."
The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled with the lords of the north and their sons and their favored friends. Long trestle tables were arranged either side of the hall all occupied by men old and young alike. Andrew looked down at them from the high seat of the Starks, with Rodrik Stark at his side, and his father's bannermen arrayed to right and left and along the side tables. Word of the dragon's death and the victory at Winterfell had spread as far as to even reach the mountain clans, drawing them to Winterfell. Flint, Norrey, Liddle, Knott and dozen others. Andrew saw Buckets in the benches along with Howland Reed. Both Theo Wull and Lord Reed had been old friends of his father. Lord Wyman Manderly arrived from the White Harbor in barge and litter, his sons Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel accompanying him.
The Greatjon had come from Last Hearth far up from the north to represent the Umbers, and then Galbart Glover from Deepwood Motte, Rickard Karstark and his sons from Karhold, Roose Bolton from Dreadfort, Lords Dustin and Ryswell, Tallhart and Hornwood and Cerwyn. Even Lady Mormont and her daughter had come from Bear Island. He spied Lord Forrester in the hall and thought of his childhood friend at Braavos wondering what had happened to him.
The hall was very quiet for a moment. Andrew found the silence too much and started to talk. "My lords," he said, "I'm glad that you all came to Winterfell on my word. It's an honor to sit here in this seat where my father once sat, and receive you all to Winterfell."
"We live to serve you, your grace," Lord Howland Reed said. "As we served your father."
"Let me stop you right there, Reed," Roose Bolton interrupted. "How would you even know that this is our prince. For all we know prince Andrew died with the king and queen and why not show himself out to us for all these years? Why now?"
Ghost lifted his head up from his paws and glared Lord Bolton. For a moment Andrew could almost sense the rage of the direwolf.
"How do we know he is Ned's son?" Rodrik Stark boomed from his side. "Are you blind as a bat Bolton? Look at him, you've seen Ned before. And if that's not enough for you, see the direwolf at his feet. Andrew was the only one who had a wolf with him."
"Lord Rodrik is right," Lord Hornwood said. "That's our prince. The gods have seen it fit to give him back to us now."
"Aye," boomed the Greatjon. "That's the King's son, our prince. I did see him with his wolf once."
"Are we crowning a king in the name of a wolf and the truth of an old man's word?" Rose Bolton argued. "It's not like Lord Rodrik is young and his eyesight is clear still. It's almost a decade since he last saw his great-grandson."
Rodrik Stark unsheathed his steel. "Are you telling me I can't identify my own great-grandson, Bolton?" Beside him Lord Beric's men had drawn their swords out as well when the Bolton men in the benches went for their steel.
The arguing raged on late into the night. Each lord had a right to speak, and speak they did . . . and shout, and curse, and reason, and cajole, and jest, and bargain, and slam tankards on the table, and threaten, and walk out, and return sullen or smiling. Andrew sat and listened to it all. His father always used to listen to the lords before talking.
Many of the lords bannermen agreed him to be his father's son. Some voiced their doubts but it took a single look at Ghost and they grew quiet.
"You want to see that he is Ned's son, Bolton," asked the Greatjon. "Take your icy eyes out your arse and look at his face and the wolf beside him."
"I can assure for it, my lords," Maester Walys said. "I was there with the Queen the day he born. I still remember the prince having King Eddard's face and Queen Ashara's hair even as a little baby."
"You cannot mean that, maester," Roose Bolton said. "Half the whores in Westeros has dark hair, not just Queen Ashara."
Andrew could feel the edge of his tone grating on saying his mother as a whore. Rage bubbled up inside him. But then he chose to deal it with words rather than his sword as his father would have. "Tell me, Lord Bolton," Andrew said, "these whores you speak of, do their sons have any reason to jump inside a castle and battle a dragon to death?"
There was no answer to that. The hall seemed quiet after a series of sounds and voices.
"I know most of you could not believe a dead man standing before you," said Andrew, troubled. "Hell, I wouldn't believe it myself. You have the right to doubt it. You want to know how I escaped? To know how I watched my parents die? It was not just my family who died at Starfall. Lord Galbart, your kin Ethan Glover was in my father's personal guard and so was your son, Lord Rickard. Lady Mormont, you daughter Dacey was my mother's own sworn sword. Martyn Cassel, Mark Ryswell, James Norrey, Jon Locke, Gait Cerwyn all died to defend my family that day. And now I see all of you here, shouting and arguing and spitting over their names. You don't have to follow me or anyone, you can go back to your keep just as you came and I'll not hold it against you. I'm going to march south and bring Rhaegar to his knees to answer for his crimes with or without your help. I mean to see that justice is won for everyone who died at Starfall."
The hall was very quiet when he finished speaking.
"Everyone of you here fought with my father. People from the north, the south, great lords with ancient names, brave common folk, good men, loyal men all fought under my father's name. I'll not ask or demand that you do the same for me. My father used to say that we find our true friends on the battlefield. Yes, I liberated Winterfell and removed the Targaryen power from the north, but the war is not done with it. The man who is responsible for this sits high in the Red Keep of his. The war is not done for me until I see Rhaegar dies by my sword. I came here for justice for my family and my people and I will get it no matter what."
There were some mumblings after that but it subsided soon enough. Once that was settled they started to take the piss again.
"If you're intending to start a rebellion against the current king," said Roose Bolton, "there has to be a realistic strategy. Strategy requires proper education, in the art of war, diplomacy and chivalry. Surely your royal father must have taught it to you, your grace. He after all was well educated."
"Aye," said one of Bolton's bannerman. "Is it not true that his grace was raised in a brothel?"
An inn, and by people wiser than you, he might've said. But he knew that it'll change nothing. Inn or brothel, it changes nothing.
"I demand to be given the command of the army," Bolton asked brusquely.
Greatjon Umber scoffed. "And what's next?" he asked. "If you're so set at rooting out the Targaryens, you should've done it before the prince killed the dragon."
Again the shouting began. Andrew sat dreading what they would throw at him next. He had come all the way here only to see them wage over the good people who died that day. If they would not listen still, they can keep their ears closed. He watched and listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled.
Beside him, his great-grandfather tried his chance. "Your son was butchered at the Starfall massacre, Lord Karstark, yet you refused to lift a finger for it." He looked around the hall at all the lords. "Everyone here had lost their kin at Starfall but none said anything for it. You king and queen, the people whom you celebrated got murdered and you ignored it. The north remembers and Andrew remembered it. Andrew Stark avenged the Starfall massacre and everyone who died in the castle, people who were your own blood."
That seemed to quiet them a bit. Andrew was thinking of his parents and Joy, when the Greatjon lurched to his feet.
"MY LORDS!" he shouted, his voice booming off the rafters. "Didn't we all swear an oath to Ned Stark? Didn't we swear to protect his family and fight for him when we are called? Wasn't that what we told ourselves when we bowed to the dragons who murdered our king through treachery? We have waited eight years to get justice for our king and queen. Eight years we have waited for a way and we missed it every time we got it. The dragon might've kept us down, but the north remembers. We know no king but the king in the north whose name is a Stark." He reached back over his shoulder and drew his immense two-handed greatsword and pointed to Andrew with the blade. "There sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to," he thundered. "I don't care if he was raised in a brothel, I don't care if he is not so highly educated as you all are, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins! He is my king from this day until his last day," he boomed. "The King in the North!"
And he knelt, and laid his sword at his feet.
"I'll have peace on those terms," Lord Karstark said. "My son died for your father. I didn't think we would find another king in my life time. I didn't fight for that because I didn't want more Karstarks dying for nothing. But I was wrong. You're very much your father's son, Ned Stark's son, my king's son. Andrew Stark avenged the massacre at Starfall, he is the White Wolf." He eased his longsword from its scabbard. "The King in the North!" he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon.
Galbart Glover rose up next. "I did not fight beside you on the field or in this hall, and I'll regret that until my dying day." His face grew soft in guilt. "A man can only admit when he was wrong and ask forgiveness."
"There is nothing to forgive, my lord," Andrew said.
Lord Glover looked at his fellow lords around him. "There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years and I will stand behind Andrew Stark." He unsheathed his sword, steel scraping on leather and pointed it to him. "The King in the North."
Lady Mormont stood. "The King of Winter!" she declared, and laid her spiked mace before him. And just like that the air was filled with the sounds of dozen swords drawn from their scabbard. The other lords were rising too, Manderly and Hornwood and Tallhart and Cerwyn and Dustin and Ryswell and Reed and Flint and Liddle and Norrey and Wull and Forrester and even Roose Bolton. Andrew watched them rise and draw their blades, bending their knees and shouting the old words that had not been heard in the realm for almost a decade, since his father died . . . yet now were heard again, ringing from the timbers of the great hall of Winterfell:
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"