The War of the Wolf-Chapter 1 of the Wolf King Trilogy

by Ranma789

Did you wish Robb Stark's story ended differently? If he could avoid just one or two mistakes, huge changes will occur to Westeros. Can Robb win the War of the Five Kings? Will Sansa, Arya and Bran be able to play a role? Get ready for a mix of old and new story. HUGE changes to the fate of some main characters. Alternate pairings. First chapter of the planned Wolf King Trilogy.

15. Politics Continues War by Other Means

Chapter 15: Politics is the Continuation of War by Other Means

Robb Stark was visiting Kevan and Daven Lannister for the last time. Tywin's brother seemed to have aged ten years since hearing that Stannis Baratheon had burned Lancel, his eldest son, alive. However, he seemed to have acquired a certain serene resignation since then.

Daven, on the other hand, was as fiery as ever, refusing to give the Young Wolf the satisfaction of seeing them broken in spirit. Robb, however, had the impression that Daven, deep down, had a fatalistic nature and a certain sense of humor. In that regard, he reminded him of Addam Marbrand.

"Have you come here to mock us one last time, Stark? If you think we'll call you Your Grace, you're sorely mistaken."

"Well, I AM the new King of the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Daven, whether you like it or not. Frankly, I couldn't care less about your courtesies."

"Show some respect, Daven," Kevan rebuked him. "Whether we like it or not, Robb Stark has won the war, and we must accept it. Behaving like this only makes you look foolish. In fact, it makes all the Lannisters look rude."

"I suspected you were the voice of reason in your family, Ser Kevan," the King remarked "though… that didn't stop you from supporting your brother in every atrocity he decided to commit. I wonder if you were really all that different."

"My brother was very capable," Kevan replied, serene. "And following what he wanted to do often turned out to be the correct decision."

"Correct doesn't mean right," Robb retorted. "And even then, only for as long as his success lasted. But I didn't come here to debate."

"Then why have you come?" Daven asked, suspicious.

Robb looked at him more closely. His hair and beard had grown wildly, giving him the appearance of a true lion's mane, like the sigil of his house.

"I had almost forgotten that you'd sworn not to cut your hair until you avenged your father," Robb observed.

"Indeed, and now I'll never get the chance," Daven shot back, "since your Roose Bolton killed Rickard Karstark when he betrayed you. That old madman also beheaded my cousin Jaime… I had several scores to settle with him. Too bad Roose Bolton couldn't do the same to you…"

"I, on the other hand, am glad you won, whether you believe it or not," Kevan interjected, "because that vile Stannis Baratheon, the man who burned my poor son Lancel alive, got the fate he deserved."

"Yes, it's true," Robb continued. "It seems, gentlemen, as I told you the last time we met, it's hard to obtain justice directly. Almost always, our revenges are carried out by someone else. It was the same for me."

"But Jaime hasn't exactly been avenged. The order was yours," Daven replied.

"He threw my brother from a tower. He brought it on himself.

"That said, Ser Daven, all that hair and beard will serve you well where I'm sending you. It'll protect you from the cold."

The man's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm sending both of you to the Wall, up North, along with the lackeys who've shown they're too loyal to you. There's a great need for men up there… to protect the Realm from Wildling invasions… and even from darker things, whether you believe it or not."

Daven was speechless, but Kevan seemed less surprised—not that he hadn't expected it, but as though this move proved the Young Wolf was sharper than they thought.

"Are you planning to use us to defend your lands?" he asked instead.

"You and others," Robb confirmed. "Besides a number of men from the Westerlands, I'll send to the Wall the prisoners I've taken from House Frey—practically all surviving males over the age of twelve—as well as other traitors like the Boltons, the Ryswells, the Brackens, the Florents who sided with Stannis, some men loyal to the Red God, and even a couple of Karstarks, cousins of the one you hated so much.

"My former enemies… will become the first line of defense for the realm against the Wildlings. You'll keep your lives and continue your trade as warriors… but you'll bleed first, so that my people don't have to."

"I see," Kevan Lannister said. "But haven't you considered that such a large number of hostile Houses… could cause problems up there?"

"If you're referring to the possibility of them stirring rebellions, yes, I've considered it. Sending defeated enemies to the Wall was common practice, but it's rarely done anymore… Besides, only seven hundred men remain up there, and their quality isn't what it used to be.

"In the past, it happened that men newly sent to the Night's Watch have rebelled, causing trouble for the Starks of Winterfell."

"And so?"

"I'm not a fool, Ser Kevan. First of all, these men belong to houses that have been at war with one another for a long time, on different fronts… It's unlikely they'll get along.

"Second, I've arranged for the old men up North, those with large families and little food—who, in winter, would usually go hunting to let themselves die, so as not to burden their loved ones—yes, I imagine such dedication is hard for you Southerners to understand—to instead enlist in the Night's Watch.

All those tough Northern men, often veterans of the Rebellion—at least a thousand people—will counterbalance the former rebels and help ensure they behave.

"Finally, I've decided to implement a major reform. Since feeding all those people would be difficult, I plan to make better use of the Gift, the wide strip of fertile land belonging to the Night's Watch. It's meant to grow food for the Watch but is currently abandoned.

I'll send the wives and children of the men I condemn to the Wall to settle villages there, like Mole's Town, and to cultivate the land—which is surprisingly fertile until late autumn—to produce food for all of you.

"And those villages will be just a couple of days' ride from Umber lands."

The men fell silent at this revelation. Not only was it a clever move, but it could prevent rebellions: if anyone tried, the women and children would be caught in the middle, between them and the Umbers… practically hostages.

"What sort of…"

"Tsk! Well thought out," Kevan admitted.

"But it's not just a precautionary measure," Robb continued. "Often, the Night's Watch, though they shouldn't, sometimes ride to Mole's Town for personal amusement.

Some of them, instead, will know where their families are… and will know they must fight to protect them from the Wildlings first and foremost. That way, they'll better understand the purpose of their mission."

"So you'll send my other children there as well?" Kevan asked. "Because depending on the answer, I might prefer you cut off my head and end this right now."

"Your children are not to blame, Ser Kevan. In fact, if you accept going to the Wall, they might receive more favorable treatment instead of going with you or becoming mere squires to some minor lord..."

"Like what?"

"Martyn will be betrothed to a Lannister of Lannisport, and Willem could remain at court as my cupbearer."

"Uhm… Those Lannisters of Lannisport have always dreamed of supplanting us as the main House… and now, thanks to you, they'll succeed.

But I admit, these are generous terms for my boys. I accept without hesitation, Robb Stark… Your Grace."

"Very well. Because there's something you don't know about those of Lannisport… It's true that I plan to use them to supplant you as the main house… but there's something they don't know either…"

---

"Bah! I'm not convinced at all," the elderly woman snapped, her tone sharp and peevish. "We're not gaining as much from this alliance as we should."

Margaery Tyrell helped her grandmother Olenna sit on a bench, then took a seat beside her.

"Why do you say that, Grandmother? My marriage to Robb Stark will make me Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Isn't that what you've always wanted? What we've worked for? To unseat the Lannisters as the dominant House?"

"Yes, and I must admit that, as much as I dislike the idea of you marrying a Wolf from the steppes, it could've been worse. Certainly better than being married to Renly… who would've preferred your brother over you, or that mad Joffrey… I've heard stories about him that make my skin crawl. We'd have had to deal with him sooner or later if you'd been wed to him.

Or even to that drunkard fatass of Robert Baratheon… The original plan was to convince him to repudiate Cersei and marry you instead, did you know that? Pure madness.

No, it hasn't gone too badly, my dear… Your father is too soft with you all, but in the end, he's right about one thing: your happiness also matters."

"Then what's the problem?" asked the girl.

"And you have to ask? In theory, this Young Wolf was supposed to be a simpleton for you to manipulate… but instead, he's holding his head high and making demands. I can almost hear him howling at the moon, awoo, awoo—" her granddaughter laughed at the imitation— "and that won't do. But I'm sure it's the influence of his mother and sister. In cases like these, it's always the women who are truly in charge."

Look who's talking, thought Margaery.

"For example," Olenna continued, "why should his family members be called Princes and Princesses? Prince Bran 'the Broken,' Prince Rickon 'the Beast's Brat,' with that direwolf he drags everywhere, damn him to hell, Princess Arya 'Mudgrubber,' and Princess Sansa… the only one who, in truth, seems worthy of the title."

"It's because in the North, they began calling them that when Robb was declared King in the North," Margaery explained patiently. "So now his vassals expect it to continue."

"Then why shouldn't YOUR brothers be called Princes?" Olenna retorted.

"You're the Queen; the two families should be equal. And this brings me to another sore point.

The Coronation. It's been decided that Robb Stark will be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms in the Great Sept of Baelor, receive the acclaim of the people, and swear an oath on the Iron Throne, naming all his vassals and his Small Council…

and only AFTER that, three whole days later, he'll marry you again—with two ceremonies, one in the Godswood, poor us, and what will the High Septon think… I just hope he doesn't insist on a banquet for each wedding—well, I don't like it.

It would've been a perfect opportunity for you to be proclaimed Queen as his equal, not just as his wife. You could've ascended the Iron Throne together."

"You know well that his vassals wouldn't have accepted it. Neither would ours, perhaps. A Queen ruling equally with a man isn't well-regarded—not officially, at least. And recently, dear Cersei Lannister has sown distrust and suspicion about women in power. But that doesn't matter.

As you've always taught me, Grandmother, it's not important who rules in public… but who makes the decisions behind the scenes."

She gave her grandmother a knowing smile.

Olenna softened. She wasn't truly dissatisfied; she just wanted to complain and be reassured, but she knew all of this better than anyone. Besides, in any negotiation, aiming high at the start was the way to gain a little extra when compromises were made.

"I've taught you well, my little one."

"Yes, Grandmother, you have."

"But are you sure your little wolf will listen to you? You haven't had much chance to… work on him, and as we've said, he listens plenty… but only to the women of his family."

"It's true; he listens a lot to his mother and sister. That, in fact, is another reason to keep a low profile for now. There's a risk that rumors could spread of him being a weak King, controlled by women, and that would weaken him—and, in turn, us. I'd rather support him at this stage and work on him in the long run.

After all, he's already seen how valuable our support—my support—can be, and he's the kind of man willing to listen. In a few weeks, his relatives will return to the North, and he'll be all mine."

Olenna gave her a sidelong glance. "And how are things between you two?"

Margaery feigned modesty. "Not bad, I'd say. There's still room to work on it… but not bad at all, for a start."

"Pff! Just be careful not to swing from one extreme to the other. It seems you don't mind him, after all. Be careful not to start charming him… and end up charmed yourself."

Margaery seemed amused by the idea. "Don't worry, Grandmother. It's true, it could've been worse, and I'm not complaining… but I haven't lost sight of the goal."

"Well, at least he seems capable. A strategist and a conqueror, but not a politician. That's where you come in, my dear. Do the things he cannot.

And never forget another thing.

You can only trust your family.

Unfortunately, even though we would've won the battle anyway, from what I hear, those Arryns showed up again to spoil things… minimum effort, maximum gain… so they'll have some influence at court… but remember this:

For all that he proposed the alliance… Littlefinger only thinks of himself. He's the kind of man who makes you do what he wants, while making you believe you're doing what you need. He can be useful, but… never trust him."

"I'll remember, Grandmother."

---

Robb was standing in a massive, blazing forge. Several molds had already been prepared, and the fire roared beneath each of them. The heat was becoming unbearable.

Behind him stood Gendry and Tobho Mott, his former master, reunited after so long. Mott had saved Gendry by urging him to flee to the Night's Watch when the Queen's guards began asking questions.

Although he had taken the boy as an apprentice only because he'd been paid to do so, years ago, he had grown fond of him like a son and must have sensed the secret of his origins.

The smith had also been questioned, as had all the blacksmiths in King's Landing.

It seemed a mysterious man had paid them handsomely to craft weapons and armor for the Warrior's Sons… threatening them with dire consequences if they refused. And indeed, the menacing assembly of Poor Fellows outside their shops had forced them all to comply.

But who could that man have been? And why had he done it?

Robb hadn't forgotten, but now he was there for another reason.

"And so we're ready," he said. "You confirm that the furnaces are hot enough, Master Mott?"

"They are… Your Grace."

Robb approached a table where several items lay covered by a cloth.
He pulled it off with a dramatic flourish, revealing a remarkable sight—beneath it were all the crowns of the kings from the War of the Five Kings.

Robert Baratheon's antler-shaped crown, Stannis's red one with flame-like points, Renly's more elaborate golden crown shaped like blooming flowers, Joffrey's solid gold crown, and the simpler iron one with sword-shaped points that Robb wore as King in the North.

Finally, there was a crown made of intertwined pieces of driftwood, which clashed with the rest. It was the Salt Crown of Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, so light it weighed no more than a scroll of parchment. Paxter Redwyne had in fact sent it to him with a raven, after conquering the Islands.

Robb picked it up first, contemplated it briefly, and then tossed it into the fire to stoke the flames.

Behind the kings' crowns were the queens' crowns: Cersei's, Margaery's first crown, and the circlet used by Selyse Florent.

Gendry noticed that all the gemstones had been removed from the crowns.

"And so this is how you plan to proceed, Your Grace," the smith confirmed.

"Indeed, Master Mott. I've received advice… good advice.

It was pointed out to me that, until now, the kings on the Iron Throne have merely followed the traditions of those who came before them… like Robert Baratheon, who, despite hating the Targaryens, repeated their customs.

But I was told that if I want to mark a difference, to create a new dynasty, I must establish new traditions as well. And that includes crafting new royal symbols, visually distinct. Proceed."

The various crowns were placed into large, round molds, where they began to heat up, waiting to deform and eventually melt.

They would all be melted together, creating an indistinguishable alloy symbolizing the unity that should exist among the Seven Kingdoms, transcending divisions, and the supremacy of the one who would ultimately wear the crown forged from them—encompassing them all.

Nearby, molds of various shapes waited to receive the molten material. Since there were so many crowns, the material would be sufficient not only for the new crowns for the King and Queen but also for other new royal symbols: two identical necklaces with pendants shaped like Seven-Pointed Stars and a scepter.

Finally, two smaller molds waited—one for the new Hand of the King's pin and one for a large key.

"And are you certain… you want to proceed with the other project as well?"

Robb's expression darkened as he looked to his left.

Two large blocks of gleaming metal stood on a table, far from the furnaces and the prepared molds, ready to be shaped into two swords.

When Robb had received word that Joffrey, in one of his last orders before the siege, had commanded the melting of Ice, the ancestral sword of his family, to craft two swords—one for himself and one for his uncle Jaime, as Captain of the Kingsguard—Robb had roared with grief and fury at the outrage. It felt as though they had taken his father from him a second time, spitting on their ancestors.

That little bastard Joffrey managed to hurt me even from the grave. But in the end, it was just a sword. My father's bones rest in the crypts of Winterfell—that's what truly matters.

However, he said instead:

"Symbols do matter. Ice has been the ancestral weapon of my family for hundreds of years. Joffrey had it melted down to make two swords, convinced they would win the war and that his uncle...father would return home alive. Things didn't go as he planned.

Since the weapon has been reduced to two blocks of metal, turning it back into a single weapon is impossible; that's why I came to you in the first place. You confirm it can't be reforged into one blade?"

"Well, unfortunately, no, Your Grace. But with my expertise, I can certainly craft two new weapons from those blocks… a rare and unique opportunity, even for me… weapons worthy of a KING, I assure you."

Robb watched as the two blocks of Valyrian steel melted into some of the molds in the furnaces.

New traditions. The new replaces the old.

Then an idea struck him. He asked:

"Valyrian steel… can it be alloyed with other metals? Without damage?"

"Huh? Well, yes… quite effectively, actually. But why?"

Robb took a ladle and scooped some molten steel from one of the molds. After all, Ice had been absurdly large, an executioner's sword rather than a weapon for combat. There was more than enough steel.

He poured a bit of the molten metal into each of the other molds: those for the two crowns, the two necklaces, the scepter, and the pin.

"The weapon of my ancestors will remain with me and my descendants, in various forms."

But there is no reason to forget the Old. It is the foundation of the New.

---

Robert Stark, First of His Name, swore his oath as King on a splendid, bright, and cool morning, with only a few white clouds scattered across the blue sky.

A solemn procession, comprising every great and minor Lord of the Seven Kingdoms (with the notable exception of the Dornish), made its way steadily—but visibly—to the Great Sept of Baelor.

For the occasion, some splendor was permitted: Robb wore an off-white doublet emblazoned with his new heraldic sigil—a crowned direwolf's head in gray; his mother, Catelyn, looked stunning in the red and blue of House Tully (and whispers among the Lords had already begun, urging the widowed Stark to emerge from her mourning and remarry); his daughter Sansa turned many heads in an azure dress with a modest neckline, reminiscent of the color of House Arryn, where she had spent time, just as her father had years earlier.

Even Arya was compelled—begrudgingly—to wear a dress for the first time in years: a silver, fish-scaled gown that did not look half bad on her. She had begged to wear men's attire for the coronation, promising to don a dress three days later for the wedding, but her mother had been resolute. Her hair was styled in an elaborate bun.

Bran followed his elder siblings on a mare, thanks to the special saddle crafted for him years ago, while Hodor led Rickon's pony by the reins and carried Bran's wheeled chair—designed by Willas—to push him on it once they reached the Sept. The direwolves followed the procession, making the horses uneasy, except the pony with Rickon on its back, that was almost used to them.

The Tyrells came next, all stunning in their coordinated green and gold attire that accentuated their natural beauty.

Unsurprisingly, Margaery sparkled more brightly than the sun, though her dress was relatively simple, undoubtedly reserving her finest for the wedding three days later.

Behind them marched all the other houses, first the loyalists and then the subdued, one by one. All wore their finest attire and bore no weapons, surrounded by a triple line of guards—though there was no real need.

The combined effect of relief at the end of the long war, the fall of Stannis the Godless (whose forces had twice ravaged the city), the Tyrells' bountiful food supplies, and the sermons of the new High Septon—who praised the new King for having "protected the Faith, even without believing in it" (a sentiment later enshrined by the Faith as the Doctrine of Indirect Piety )—had made support for the Wolf King overwhelming. Or perhaps the people simply wanted to celebrate and believe in the future again.

Two lines of jubilant citizens cheered and blessed the procession with fervent affection.

Stories and legends of the King's deeds—his vengeance for his father, his family's adventures, and the romantic tale of his beautiful bride—were already spreading like wildfire. For societies, after all, are built on the stories they choose to tell themselves.

Almost three years after Robert Baratheon had come to Winterfell, another Robert—of House Stark, First of His Name, King of the First Men, the Andals, and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—officially swore his oath after being anointed with the Seven Oils in the Great Sept of Baelor.

The High Septon crowned him with a simple but beautiful crown made of various metals alloyed together, the predominant color suggesting silver. It was adorned with seven gemstones of different colors: a diamond in the center for the Stark white, an aquamarine blue for the Tullys, an emerald for the Tyrells, a sapphire for the Arryns, a ruby for the Lannisters, a topaz yellow for the Baratheons, and an orange opal for the Martells.

In addition, and as a ceremonial innovation, the High Septon draped a necklace around Robb's neck, ending in a pendant shaped like a Seven-Pointed Star—representing either the Seven Gods or the Seven Kingdoms.

When Robb turned to face the congregation and swore to be a just and tireless King for his people, the entire hall erupted in a chorus of his name.

Even greater cheers greeted him as he emerged from the Sept, welcomed by an enormous crowd to whom he promised protection and a tireless effort to erase the scars of war.

These cheers echoed in every square of the city as the procession made its way back to the Red Keep.

Though not everyone in the procession approved, Robb also swore an oath in the Godswood, before the Heart Tree. After leaving the direwolves in the Godswood to avoid incidents among the dense crowd, they entered the Throne Room.

---

Before a thousand witnesses, Robb Stark ascended—step by step, and with visible emotion—the stairs to the Iron Throne.

For a moment, the steps seemed impossibly high, as if they stretched into the heavens. Each step made his legs feel heavier. But he climbed them all, turned, and finally sat upon the cruel seat.

At the sight of him seated on the Iron Throne, a spontaneous motion swept through the hall: everyone knelt simultaneously.

The enormity of the moment made Robb feel dizzy, and he was grateful no one could see the sweat glistening on his brow.

It was, indeed, enough to make anyone's head spin.

After a few moments of silence, a booming voice broke through the air. It was Greatjon.

"Long live Robb Stark, THE KING FROM THE NORTH!"

In an instant, the entire hall roared the same chant, repeating it three times, each louder than the last:

"THE KING FROM THE NORTH!"

Robb let the echoes fade and took a deep breath.

His family, seated in the front rows, noticed his hesitation.

But then Robb gestured to a page—young Willem Lannister, Kevan's youngest son—who hurried to retrieve a jeweled scabbard containing a sheated sword, along with two other objects, a sheated dagger and a scepter. Nervous but determined, the boy climbed the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him and handed them to the new King.

"Thank you, Willem. You may go."

Robb Stark sat on the Iron Throne, the sword and dagger resting across his lap, the scepter firmly in his hand. At last, he spoke:

"Lords and Ladies. Knights and Gentlewomen.

Some of you are my vassals. Others, my kin. Some are friends, while others were once my enemies. But today, you are all here for the same purpose.

Because a new era begins. An era of peace for the Seven Kingdoms and all its people. A peace born from a disastrous war, which must surely be defended against threats from within and without. Yet peace, nonetheless.

I wish I could promise you I will be a good King. I wish I could vow to be just, strong, merciful, pious, and kind. But the truth is, I cannot know if such a promise is within my power.

If recent events have taught me anything, it is that men and women are as just and good as their nature allows—but also as much as the circumstances in which they live permit them to be.

And if circumstances do not always allow for goodness, my nature compels me to be honest—even when it would be easier not to be.

So, I will be honest with you now: I will try. I know I am not perfect. But I also know that those I trust will help me remain on the right path. And though my decisions may falter, my intentions will not: to always do what is best for the Seven Kingdoms and all its people, without distinction."

A new roar erupted in response to these words.

Then Robb lowered his gaze.

"Today, we inaugurate a new era. With the fall of the Mad King, we hoped stability would reign in the Seven Kingdoms… but, unfortunately, that was not the case. War came again soner than expected. Now, you all know that I am a skilled commander and strategist. But it is a bitter gift, one that one would rather not have to use; and while I guarantee that I will wield it again against any enemy of the Seven Kingdoms, I would prefer disputes to be resolved without force. The only way to ensure this is for my dynasty to last long.

On that note, I ask all of you to offer an applause to my stunning wife, Margaery of House Tyrell, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, whom I shall wed again in three days in the Sept of Baelor, in the presence of all of you, and who I hope will soon bless me with children."

Margaery rose, turned, and offered a modest bow to the crowd, who cheered her. Then she cast a smile at her King, one capable of melting the Wall itself.
Robb continued.

"But as we celebrate life, we must also remember those who are no longer with us. All who fought and died in the war or because of it, those we loved or merely met for a moment, and who cannot share this day with us.

I invite you all to join me in a moment of silence for them, and, if you allow me, I would like to dedicate this moment to the person most important to me: my father, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, who died in this city two years ago. I miss him more than words can express."

"He taught me to do what is RIGHT, not what is EASY," the King resumed, "and that is the principle upon which I will build my reign."

The moment of silence was heartfelt, in varying degrees, by those present, each for their own reasons.

At that point, Robb seemed to contemplate the sword resting on his knees.

"When my father was killed, the ancestral blade of House Stark, Ice, was… melted down by the infamous Joffrey Baratheon, the abomination born of incest, who sought to forge two weapons from it—one for himself and one for his uncle… though, as you now know, Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, was in truth his father. Yet, as you also know, events did not go as he planned.

And so, from death must come life, and from tragedy, hope. I did the only thing possible: I commissioned one of the few smiths capable of working Valyrian Steel, Thobo Mott—stand, along with your apprentice, Gendry."

At those words, the two men stepped forward from a corner of the hall, drawing glances from the assembled lords. Surely, the smith could already taste the flood of commissions that would follow this presentation.

"I tasked them with forging a new sword for my family and dynasty."

Robb stood, leaving the other objects on the Iron Throne, and drew the sword in a single motion, letting its blade gleam in the light streaming through the windows.

Spontaneous gasps of awe rippled through the room. It was a magnificent weapon, a masterpiece worthy of legend—a smoky gray longsword, crafted for one and a half hands.

"This is SILVERFANG," proclaimed the King, "and from today until the end of time, it shall be the Sword of the King of my dynasty, the Starks of King's Landing!"

All eyes were fixed on him, mouths agape.

"Bronze" Yohn Royce seemed particularly satisfied. It had been his advice to his King to create new symbols that could inspire both lords and the common people alike—not to rely solely on existing traditions but to establish his own.

An unusual suggestion, coming from a man who still wore battle armor inscribed with runes of the First Men, rumored to hold magical properties.

Perhaps no one understood the importance of symbols better than he, whether they were old or new.

"And it shall be," the King continued, "along with the Crown, this Necklace i wear and this Scepter that will be held during official times, one of the Regal Symbols of my House, the House Stark of King's Landing, which must become separate from the Starks of Winterfell, as I cannot govern both directly due to my new responsibilities.

Therefore, I have decreed that one of my brothers shall become Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North and also my temporary Heir to the Throne, until such a time as I have a male heir who has reached the age of six.

Some of you know that my brother Bran has distinguished himself in making decisions to protect the Stark lands… he is a worthy son of our father and a true heir to his ancestors.

However, it is with a heavy heart that I announce that, due to the injuries he suffered during the attempt on his life by the Kingslayer—having witnessed the vile incest with his sister that started this war—he will not be able to have children. And therefore, he cannot carry on the line."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd at these words, but Bran's face remained stoic.

"Rickon Stark, my brother… step forward."

The young Rickon, just six years old, shuffled forward hesitantly, gently nudged along by Hodor and his sisters.

Robb sheathed his sword and rested it on the steps before drawing a smaller weapon from its jeweled scabbard.

"This," he declared, "is SILVERCLAW, the twin weapon to Silverfang… forged from the same Valyrian Steel as Ice.

Small fragments of that ancient sword are also embedded in the Crowns, Necklaces, Scepter, and into the Hand's pin.

This shall be The Dagger of the Heir, and its possession will symbolize that the one who wields it is the designated heir to the throne."

Robb sheathed the blade again and descended the steps, moving gently toward his younger brother to avoid frightening him.

Kneeling before him, Robb said, loud enough for all to hear:

"My brother, I entrust this dagger to you. But know this: when the firstborn son Margaery gives me reaches the age you are now, six years old, you will journey from Winterfell to King's Landing to present it to him."

Rickon, still unsure but somehow sensing the gravity of the moment, nodded solemnly. He accepted the dagger by its hilt—though its weight made him wobble—and then returned to sit by his mother, who embraced him with tears in her eyes.

The Tyrells had listened with satisfaction. They already knew all of this, of course. The men of the North were pleased because a Stark was the temporary heir;

conversely, the Tyrells were pleased because, in descending to the capital to hand over the dagger, Rickon would essentially be submitting to Margaery's future son.

But Robb's gaze turned silent and steady upon his other brother, Brandon Stark.

Catelyn lowered her eyes, groaning. She already knew what was coming; Robb had told her days before. Yet she still couldn't reconcile herself to the idea.

She had been separated from her children for far too long, and if there was one thing she could not bear, it was for her son, the King, to take more of them away from her.

It wasn't that she didn't understand the reason—she understood it perfectly. It was just that, after everything that had happened, she no longer wanted to think about duty, logic, or anything else. For once, she wanted to be selfish and think only of her own heart.

But she couldn't.

"Brandon Stark, my brother," the King resumed, "I owe you eternal gratitude for saving our lands. You have shown acumen, wisdom, and decisiveness. Even though my heart weeps knowing you will not be able to fulfill your dreams.

But your intellect must be utilized for the realm, and your dedication rewarded: I decree that one month from now, you shall go to the Citadel, where you will study to become a Maester... and in a few years, you will sit on my Small Council as my advisor...

because I decree that, from now on, the Iron Throne will directly select the Maester who will sit on the Council... to avoid another Pycelle."

Various exclamations of surprise rose at that declaration, but no one said anything.

Olenna sighed and muttered under her breath, "Tsk! And now we'll have to mollify the Citadel, too. Your husband is overreaching, my dear."

But Margaery just smiled. She knew what was coming next and wanted to enjoy the moment.

"Moreover," King Robb continued, "the members of my family, as my brothers and sisters, are Princes and Princesses of the royal house: and it is with such titles that you shall address them from now on.

And like all royal Houses, mine too will need adequate protection. To that end, I have established a reform regarding the Kingsguard. Come forward."

At those words, the door at the rear exit of the enormous hall opened, and five figures entered with a martial stride, positioning themselves in front of the throne, standing tall for all to admire.

Their armor was custom-made, a shimmering silver-gray, and each wore a brightly colored cloak unique to them.

"Many of you know these people, but I will explain why they were chosen.
I believe that there should be Seven Guardians for the Seven Kingdoms: since the Throne rules over different regions, each must be represented in the Kingsguard.

Upon the death of one of them, the Throne will announce a tournament open only to warriors from that region, among which the King himself will select a replacement."

Many murmurs and comments, some hushed and others not, arose at the sight of who the chosen ones were, but they all stood motionless and silent.

"Their oath will be modeled on that of the Night's Watch: they cannot own lands, hold titles, marry, or father children; but I add that the requirements will not include gender or knighthood, as this pratice is not common everywhere. They may also be replaced for old age or inadequacy.

They shall simply be called the Sworn Shields: for their primary duty is to protect. Furthermore, we shall pair each of them with a member of the royal family, whom they will protect during official occasions.

Additionally, each Kingdom will be represented by a different color of cloak: White for the North, Azure for the Vale, Blue for the Riverlands, Red for the West, Gold for the Stormlands, Green for the Reach, and Orange for Dorne, when the warrior representing that kingdom arrives."

Indeed, it was evident that one was missing.

"As you can see, they are: Sandor Clegane for the Westerlands, Brienne of Tarth for the Stormlands, Dacey Mormont for the North, Lucas Blackwood for the Riverlands, and Mychel Redfort for the Vale."

[ A few days earlier.

"But are you absolutely sure, Dacey?" Robb had asked her in a private meeting.

"I mean, I'm flattered, and there's almost no one more suitable than you, but… you're such a beautiful woman. Are you really sure you want to join the Kingsguard? This means you'll never marry or have children. You might... regret it someday, having to give up that kind of joy."

Dacey Mormont, eldest daughter of Maege of Bear Island, raised an eyebrow, flattered. Her King had never complimented her appearance before. Tall at nearly six feet, slender, with long, straight dark hair and a sharp yet pleasing face, she truly was a beauty.

"Thank you, Robb, but don't worry about that," she decided she could allow this one moment of familiarity. "After all, it wasn't expected that my mother's line would inherit the rule of Bear Island, and though I'm the eldest, at twenty-five years of age, I would find it terribly boring to stay there my whole life. My sister Alysane is only two years younger than me, the spitting image of our mother, and already has two children. I think she's far more suited to succeed her. All I desire is to serve my King and live a full and adventurous life." ]

As the people applauded, Sansa thought of poor Mya Stone, Robert Baratheon's bastard from the Vale (who had come to the capital with her as an attendant), hopelessly in love with Mychel Redfort (despite him being two or three years younger than her). Now it was absolutely certain he would never marry her.

However, Robb modeled the new oath on that of the Night's Watch, the girl observed. It only says they cannot marry or have children… it's not explicit about other activities they might engage in...

There were another couple of novelties: Dacey, instead of a sword, carried her iron mace at her side, while Lucas, in addition to his sword, displayed bow and arrows.

Someone muttered comments almost audibly from the first rows.

"Tsk! How disgraceful! To think the Hound was once Joffrey's guard dog, a loyal servant of the Lannisters! And now..."

"How can there be... not even one, but TWO women in the Kingsguard? The new King must be mad!"

"Well... one doesn't even look like a woman... but the other is very pretty! What a waste!"

"They say the ugly one killed Stannis Baratheon..."

"Really? I heard she killed Renly instead!"

"And the boys from the Riverlands and the Vale? They're both seventeen."

"I've heard of them, though; they're said to be quite skilled."

"Bah! But still… what kind of Kingsguard is this… a Kinslayer, that Clegane, and a Kingslayer… I mean, sure, there was one before too…Jaime Lannister... but the standard's even lower now…except the overall quality of the fighters is better than Joffrey's Guard."

"There's no one from Dorne! I wonder who it'll be! And then..."

Indeed, the absence of nobles from Dorne at the coronation was apparent to all.

The King continued: "But of course, there can be no Kingsguard without a Commander; the individual who, I predict, will be assigned to protect my beautiful wife. The Knight from the Reach.

Step forward, Loras Tyrell."

A roar erupted as the Knight of Flowers stepped forward: no one had objections to him. Loras smiled, positioned himself among his subordinates, knelt, and was the first to be appointed by his King (who told him, "When the war began, you were a boy, Loras Tyrell. Now you are a man"), followed in turn by all the others, who knelt and received two taps of the sword on their shoulders, though they were proclaimed not Knights, but Sworn Shields.

Loras would never marry and already planned to spend his life protecting his sister. But he was pleased that the new King had adopted a color-coded system inspired by him: a different color for each warrior.

It wa salso announced-and not without surprise-that, in formal occasions in which all of them were present-which meant, in practice, not really often-each Shield would be assigned to a specific member of the Royal Family.

Lucas Blackwood to Catelyn Stark.

Mychel Redfort to Prince Rickon Stark.

Brienne of Tarth to Princess Arya Stark.

Sandor Clegane to Princess Sansa Stark.

The new knight soon to come from Dorne to Prince Brandon Stark.

Loras Tyrell, as mentioned, to Queen Margaery Tyrell.

Dacey Mormont to King Robb Stark.

When the Sworn Shields moved to the side of the hall, Robb resumed his proclamations.

"But even the Capital requires protection: I name you, Robett Glover, the new Commander of the Gold Cloaks, tasked with reforming the institution to better safeguard the city."

The vassal stepped forward and knelt, accepting the appointment. Robb continued.

"I also decree that your wife and children may come to live here with you, should they wish to do so. Since your brother Galbart is unmarried, I further declare that your son, Gawen, will inherit Deepwood Motte after him."

The session went on, reorganizing the power structure of individual Houses, region by region. But first, Robb had an important, general announcement to make:

"I understand that among those who fought for my enemies, there were individuals driven by different motivations—some believed they were doing the right thing by supporting the heir of Robert Baratheon.

Well, I declare today that being the rightful King is not enough if one behaves like a madman toward their people and vassals. This held true for the Mad King, and it holds true for anyone else.

That said, those who initially supported Renly but later switched to Stannis cannot use this as an excuse—they should have supported him from the start.

However, I believe that deliberately withdrawing support and abandoning Stannis the Godless should be considered a mitigating factor.

Therefore, there will be harsher punishments for those who remained loyal to him until the end.

I decree today that the Stormlands and Reach lords who fought for Stannis Baratheon, as well as those of Dorne who remained neutral, shall pay a special tax amounting to 5% of their treasures, which the Throne will use for state needs.

Furthermore, Stormlands and Reach lords who fought with him in the first battle will face territorial reductions and must cede their border fortresses to their more loyal neighbors.

Lastly, Stormlands and Reach lords who also stood with Stannis at the Trident must surrender hostages to Houses of the Throne's choosing."

The King paused to let his message sink in. The punishment was severe but not excessively so, and the fact that it was scaled based on the degree of involvement was a surprise—though a welcome one, seen as a gesture of clemency (in general, though not by those who suffered it, having considered Stannis legitimate).

"Instead," Robb resumed, "the houses that betrayed their alliance with the King must be punished.

I decree that the lands of the extinct Bolton house shall be divided among the Stark, Umber, Karstark, Hornwood Hoises, and the costal area will go the Flints. The Dreadfort shall be burned to the ground and razed entirely.

The Ryswell lands known as Seadragon Point shall pass to the Glovers, while the region around the lakes will be granted to the Tallharts. Roger and Roose Ryswell shall be sent to the Wall, and the house shall pass to the middle son, Rickard.

The Twins shall be granted to House Mallister, who will also take control of the lands bordering the Neck, while the remainder of Frey lands will be divided among the Vypren, Charlton, and Haigh Houses.

The lands of the Brackens north of the Blue Fork shall pass to the Blackwoods"—Lord Tytos's jubilant cheer could almost be heard—"while those south of the river will fall under the direct control of House Tully, who will also inherit the lands of the late Lord Lychester."

Robb had realized that one of the reasons for the chronic weakness of the Tullys compared to their vassals was that many of them were richer and could recruit more men. This needed to be remedied.

"Any cadet branch of Riverlands houses that married a male Frey is hereby disinherited."

Not that it made much difference—all the Frey males had been sent to the Wall anyway.

"Since Lady Whent has been unable to hold Harrenhal, I grant the fortress to a man of proven worth, who is also her relative through her mother: my great-uncle Brynden Tully.
He shall inherit the lands surrounding the castle and will found House Blackfish there. He may marry, should he wish, or allow the House to rise and fall with him, perhaps ending the fortress infamous legend."

Later, the King summoned two young men who had been born bastards but were the last heirs of noble houses in the North and Riverlands. He had them kneel and legitimized them.

Larence Snow became a Hornwood and inherited his father's lands, and he was betrothed to Willa, the second daughter of Wylis Manderly (ensuring the Manderlys maintained influence in the area). Jontos Rivers became a Darry and inherited the otherwise extinct house.

The King also decreed several other betrothals: Dumfryd Dustin would replace the widow of his nephew as Lord Dustin, and Lady Jonella Cerwyn would be his bride—his loyalty would be rewarded with a larger fief than the one she had refused to steal from her younger brother, Cley, who in turn was promised to Beth, daughter of Rodrik Cassel.

"To Davos Seaworth, who refused to endorse Stannis Baratheon's black magic, withdrew from the war, and convinced the fleet to surrender, I grant lands ten times larger than his current holdings, with which he shall found House Seaworth, taking part of the Whitehead lands, and becoming a Lord."

The old smuggler was relieved, especially for his surviving sons and daughter. He feared his moral choice of abandoning Stannis might have ruined them. And if the other lords called him "Lord Turncloak" for it...well, he couldn't care less.

"As for the Westerlands," Robb continued, and all leaned in to listen, "since there is no longer a House Clegane, those lands shall be divided between the Serrets and Swyfts. Lands north of the Lannisters shall pass to the Sarsfields, while those to the northeast will go to the Lydens.

Moreover, the remaining Lannister lands shall be divided horizontally: from Casterly Rock down, they shall belong to the Lannisters of Lannisport, who are now a separate House."

The Lannisters of Lannisport were ecstatic. The fall of their region during the war had turned out to be their fortune, allowing them to supplant the hated cousins of Casterly Rock and become the new major branch of the family.

[ A few days earlier, a private meeting.

Robb had sought his wife's help with this delicate matter.

"I need to figure out…how best to arrange the marriages. On one hand, I don't want these lands rebelling against me in the near future…but they've already lost, and I can't humiliate them too much—I understand that…I need to maintain balance. Kevan's eldest son must be compensated, and I must ensure the loyalty of Lannisport, which provides me with a fleet…they need to be strengthened, but not excessively."

Margaery was pleased that her husband relied on her for this sort of task.

"Well, let's see…you could exploit their ancestral rivalry by granting them prestigious but ultimately less beneficial marriages, as long as you keep them marrying each other—second and third cousins. They'll feel they've supplanted Casterly Rock, but it will yield less than if they married into other houses, extending further influence over the region…and then…"]

Darma Lannister of Lannisport, married to a Greenfield, saw her children Lanthos and Isabel Greenfield secure advantageous marriage agreements.

Lanthos with Lanna, daughter of Damion, the last cousin from Casterly Rock; his sister Isabel with Addam Marbrand.

Lanna's brother, Lucion, was betrothed to Joanna of House Swyft.

Tyra, daughter of Lannos, the forty-year-old heir of Lannisport and master of the western fleet, was promised to Martyn, the eldest remaining son of Kevan.

But it was Tyra's brother, Tygett, heir to his father and future Lord of Lannisport, who received, in their eyes, the most prestigious match.

"I have sent emissaries and diplomats to Sunspear," the King announced, "and I confirm that Myrcella Baratheon will return to King's Landing… where she will be betrothed to Tygett Lannister of Lannisport… and both will remain here at court as guests of the King."

Another roar erupted at the announcement.

So, the fact that she was herself a bastard born of incest was conveniently ignored when it suited them?

Surely, to the Lannisters of Lannisport, it seemed like a prestigious marriage, legitimizing them with a member of the former royal family...

And what had the King promised Doran Martell in exchange for the girl?

It did not escape notice, far more sinisterly, that by keeping the young couple, Tygett and Myrcella, at court—essentially as hostages—Robb would never be without the ships of her father.

When the various implications were digested and both joy and indignation had been equally expressed, Lannos Lannister asked:

"Very well, Your Grace; but can we know to whom Casterly Rock will be assigned?"

"For the moment, to no one," Robb replied with a sly grin, expecting the question. "Although it will remain vacant by royal decree, it belongs, in fact, to the Lord Paramount of the West…

…who is about to enter this hall. Step forward…"

And from the same back door came a small, stocky, staggering figure with a heavy step and a sullen expression, unsure of the effect his presence would have—a figure many had almost forgotten.

Tyrion Lannister.

It was still him, possibly even uglier, with his nose entirely cut off by a sword and the cavity exposed, but it was undeniably him.

Keeping order in the room amidst the shock was difficult.

Even within Robb's family, although aware of the theatrical twist, there were mixed reactions.

Catelyn remembered him as the man she had recklessly captured, sparking the war, and then lost.

Sansa recalled him as one of the few who had been kind to her and protected her while she was a hostage.

Bran thought of him as the kind man who had designed his special saddle.

When the murmurs had nearly subsided, the King raised an arm to call for order.

"I understand your surprise; it was mine as well when I took possession of the Red Keep and discovered that he had been, all this time, a prisoner of Stannis, after suffering a grievous wound while fighting personally in the city's defense.

He lingered between life and death for a long time; perhaps that is why Stannis did not include him among his executions. Later, he remained in a cell for the rest of the war…

…But beyond my personal sympathies for him, which are scarce, I do not intend to overrule the laws of succession. He is the Lord of Casterly Rock, the last living heir of Tywin Lannister…

Even though he will remain here in the Red Keep as my honored guest."

Tyrion looked as though he wanted to be anywhere else.

The Lords of the West had varied reactions. Some were pleased there was still a member of the main Lannister line alive (except for those of Lannisport, who had hoped to claim Casterly Rock entirely for themselves). Others sighed in relief, because their rivals of other Houses had not been elevated instead…or in dismay, since for a moment they thought they had rid themselves of those Lannister tyrants, and were annoyed to see him.

But on one point, they were all in agreement:

"And so… the Warden of the West… will be a dwarf?" Harys Swyft asked, to the general dismay.

Robb had anticipated the objection.

"No, Lord Swyft. I have decided that the titles of Warden will no longer necessarily be tied to those of regional Lord Paramount, or at least, not in cases of necessity.

In this instance, the Warden of the West… will be Addam Marbrand."

The man in question was very surprised by the announcement. He had no particular fondness for Robb Stark and believed the feeling was mutual. But while the other Lords cheered the news—Marbrand was highly popular in the West as a great warrior—Addam realized that the King had made the decision not only for political expediency but also out of a certain respect for the old foe.

Tsk… well played, Young Wolf… I have to admit it.

With the distribution of power in the West settled, someone asked the King:

"Does this mean that the other three Wardens, too… will not be the regional Lords Paramount either, Your Grace?"

Robb nodded and explained:

"After all, you must remember that two of them are children, six and eight years old. On that note, I will now make the necessary announcements:

My brother Rickon Stark is Lord of Winterfell and the Lord Paramount of the North, but until he comes of age, which means for the next ten years, I decree that my mother, Catelyn Stark, will be his Regent and Guardian."

Catelyn briefly closed her eyes as all eyes turned toward her.

"While the Warden of the North… will be Great Jon Umber!"

The Northerners erupted in cheers for the massive man, who swelled with pride.

Privately, however, Robb had advised him to take Helman Tallhart as his deputy—a man of considerably more common sense—to balance his impulsiveness.

"And now, we turn to our friends and allies of the Vale," the King announced.

[ SOME DAYS EARLIER.
"I need your advice, Sansa. You've lived among them. You know who is loyal to Littlefinger and who is not. You understand what each of them wants and how not to offend them if I cannot give it to them. The Vale is one of our greatest allies, and I want it to remain so, directly, bypassing other intermediaries… especially those named Petyr Baelish, from what you've told me."

Sansa approached her brother and unfolded the map of the mountainous region lying on the table. The boundaries of the various Houses' lands were drawn, with their names written above them.

"Let's see," she began. "So far, in the absence of Jon Arryn, it's been Nestor Royce of a cadet branch governing the Vale… This hasn't sat well with his cousin 'Bronze' Yohn Royce, who is the most capable of the Lords and in fact has been made military commander of the Lord Declarants… but Littlefinger rewarded Nestor by giving him a House at the Gates of the Moon.

I think if you want to appoint someone else as Steward, you should offer Lord Nestor some compensation to appease him.

As for the others… Lords Hunter and Belmore are of dubious loyalty… I don't believe they've been bought yet, but they're potentially corruptible… they will stay loyal as long no one is there to tempt them…Lord Corbray is a good man, though he will be tied down by a marriage arranged by Baelish… the real problem is his younger brother, Lyn… and then…"]

"The Vale," King Robb continued, "has endured painful losses. It lost Jon Arryn, who left to fulfill his duty, to assassination. Then grief and despair claimed the life of his widow, my aunt Lysa.

Now my cousin Robert Arryn is an eight-year-old boy, recovering from his ailments, but he needs to be trained—trained to fight, to ride, to govern, and also needs to see his domains firsthand.

I have asked one son from the noble House Redfort, and now I give them another: I decree that Robert Arryn shall become their ward until he comes of age, and that they train him... with the intensity required. And they must occasionally have him visit the other Houses so that he knows his subjects."

The little Robert Arryn, standing in the second row with a runny nose, didn't seem to fully grasp the speech. He would soon find out.

"I confirm Lord Petyr Baelish as the Lord of the Eyrie and Regent until the Heir turns sixteen; but, alas, he will not govern the Vale directly as Lord Paramount because I need him at court."

Even the ever-unflappable Littlefinger seemed surprised by this declaration.

"To reward his skill in rescuing my sister and countering the schemes of our enemies, I name him my Master of Whispers."

None of the Lords of the Vale missed the fact that this was hardly an honor. Nor did many of them seem displeased to see Lysa's widower leave their midst.

"House Waynwood will govern the Vale in the meantime, and the Steward will be Lord Morton."

Littlefinger understood then that Lady Waynwood's debts would now be paid by the Crown—not by him. And certainly, in exchange…

"To reward Nestor Royce for his loyal service, I decree that his daughter Miranda shall marry Harry Hardying, Robert's cousin and direct heir."

A secret known by all is no longer a secret. Nestor could hardly complain about the compensation. But at the same time it was an empty honor, as that marriage wouldn't elevate his family above other Lords, unless, of course, the young heir were to die early.

Petyr searched the room for Sansa. This had been entirely her idea.

The girl had the shadow of a smile on her lips, as if to say: Go ahead, try to assassinate SweetRobin now that everyone knows Harry is his heir...

"Finally," Robb concluded, "since Lord Yohn Royce has done a splendid job commanding the Vale's armies, he shall be named Warden of the East."

A thunderous cheer followed the declaration. Everyone, in one way or another, was satisfied.

"In the meantime, however, the raids on villages by the mountain clans, whom the Lannisters armed with steel years ago, continue. I command the valiant Lyn Corbray to take two thousand men and go deal with them."

And just like that, power in the Vale was distributed equitably, leaving no room for easy usurpation.

After a few minutes, having caught his breath and allowing the announcements to sink in, Robb turned to his wife's family.

"Of course, we must not overlook the contributions of our closest allies, the Tyrells.

The kingdom's coffers are empty, and I will need a skilled administrator to refill them: and who better than Lord Mace Tyrell? I have the honor of naming him Master of Coin."

The lords under him—both those who had remained loyal and those who had betrayed him only to later pledge their loyalty and beg forgiveness—applauded the announcement, while Mace bowed to them, puffed up like a peacock.

"For the same reason, however, he cannot govern his lands while residing in King's Landing; I therefore decree that his son Willas, who performed excellently in managing Highgarden during the war, shall be confirmed as Regent of the Reach."

This, perhaps, was unexpected to some.

Olenna remarked, "That turnip of a son of mine doesn't even realize he's been outmaneuvered, does he? Who gave the King this idea, my dear granddaughter?"

"I truly wouldn't know," Margaery assured her. "I only suggested the next idea."

"As for Garlan Tyrell, the second son, his skill as a commander deserves recognition: I decree that he and his lovely wife, Leonette Fossoway, shall found their own cadet branch at Brightwater Keep, the former seat of House Florent."

"And due to his prowess, I also name him Warden of the South."

Applause and cheers followed.

Robb trusted Garlan far more than Randyll Tarly (despite recognizing his competence), who predictably wore a sour expression—actually, just his usual face.

"And now we move on to a matter of great importance. In times of peace, one often forgets about military affairs, but this is a mistake. We have just emerged from a long war, and I wish for a prosperous and peaceful kingdom, but I prefer to address potential problems now rather than regret it later.

I hereby establish a new position: Master of War. And the first to hold this title shall be Brynden Tully."

Gasps of surprise filled the room, but no one objected. Well, except Randyll Tarly—again.

"I also announce that the Crown will fund the creation and training of a small, semi-permanent force of ten thousand men, stationed in the Crownlands, to act as a rapid-response force for minor conflicts without forcing the lords to divert men from their fields and duties for war."

The innovation of this idea struck many as revolutionary (and not everyone took it well); at the same time, others realized it had deeper implications: the King could punish potential rebels without waiting months to gather troops. And with ten thousand soldiers stationed near King's Landing, he would always be well-protected.

"And the Supreme General who will train and command them in the field shall be Randyll Tarly," Robb announced. Perhaps the Lord of Horn Hill saw it as a meager consolation, but it was better than nothing.

"And now we move on to a subject very close to my heart: the navy."

[A FEW DAYS EARLIER: a meeting in Robb Stark's tent.

"GONE? How is that possible?" The King was livid, a rare sight in recent times.

"Well... it's unclear, to be honest," Mace Tyrell lamented. "Lord Paxter claims he arrived with his three hundred ships at the Iron Islands... and indeed, he found a hundred enemy ships ready for battle, which engaged him... and he defeated them all, decimating their crews, sinking half of them, and occupying the entire archipelago. You can't say he didn't do his duty," protested his Lord Paramount.

"Right. But then explain to me how it's possible that ANOTHER SIX HUNDRED SHIPS escaped his notice and headed south without him realizing it? Six hundred ships, Lord Mace! Not SIX!"

"And what if they were warned by someone from Lannisport? We can't necessarily trust them," suggested Randyll Tarly.

"That wouldn't make sense. Their fleet was positioned to prevent the contenders for the Seastone Chair from raiding to strengthen themselves... they hate the krakens even more than we do," corrected Brynden Tully.

"And what have the prisoners said?" asked Theon Greyjoy.

The poor Maester who had received the raven's message read it again:

"It seems... it seems that your sister, Lord Theon, Yara... was one of the candidates to succeed your father. She was fighting against... your uncle Euron Greyjoy... but she was at a disadvantage. It appears that Crow's Eye killed or had five or six other Ironborn Lords assassinated, yet their men... still sided with him. No one knows what he promised them...

However, when Yara was in grave difficulty... he left with the entire fleet. The Iron Islands are nearly depopulated now, with only a few adult men remaining, mostly women and children. It seems Euron had foreseen Lord Paxter's arrival far in advance... it almost seems like some kind of sorcery..."

Robb, clearly displeased, confronted him sharply:
"I want a better explanation."

The poor man sweated, swallowed hard, and then said:

"Well, Sire, perhaps there is an explanation. Two hundred years ago, before the Dance of the Dragons, Elissa Farman, a young woman who became a ship's captain, is said to have sailed westward into the Sunset Sea, far beyond the usual known routes... discovering islands with strange animals, according to those who returned. And then she went even farther, until she vanished."

"And what does this charming little story have to do with us?"

"Well, my Lord, perhaps Crow's Eye made his fleet take a wide arc westward, hundreds of miles into the open ocean, heading south... while Lord Paxter sailed northward, close to the coast, and thus couldn't see him... Euron may have override him."

A long silence followed.

"That would theoretically be possible," Mace Tyrell contemplated, "but to execute such a maneuver with six hundred ships..."

"It's something only my uncle Euron could ever manage," concluded Theon.

"And in any case, to do this, he must have received news of Paxter's arrival well in advance" commented the Blackfish. "Could it really be another sorcery?"

"In any case," Randyll Tarly reported, "Euron Greyjoy and his six hundred pirate ships have been spotted farther south, at the Shield Islands. They stopped briefly, almost only to resupply with water... they still killed a hundred people and abducted fifty women to make them salt wives... and then disappeared again into the waters near Dorne..."

"Damn them," Robb growled. "I will not forget this. We will hunt that pirate down, anywhere in the world if necessary."

"I've never been there," Theon said hopefully, "but isn't the Sea of Dorne a real nightmare of shoals, whirlpools, and contrary currents? Maybe half his fleet sank there."

"But someone from Dorne should have warned us," objected Brynden Tully.

"And finally, they were spotted by fishermen in the Stepstones a week later," concluded Petyr Baelish. "It seems they headed east, destination unknown."

"Even if they went as far as Yi Ti, they will not escape my vengeance," Robb growled.

"Sire, they are beyond our reach," Yohn Royce, silent until then, pointed out.

"It's possible Euron Greyjoy intends to use that fleet to become a large-scale pirate or mercenary. If he had wanted to attack us, he would have done so by now. I suggest we strengthen the Royal Fleet to defend ourselves in case he returns, and in the meantime, place a bounty to gather more information about him and his band." ]

Robb still fumed over the situation. He was more grateful than ever to have all that wildfire, which the Imp had used so effectively against ships. But so many things needed to be put in order.

"In times of peace, the Royal Fleet is a powerful deterrent against external enemies, as well as a means of ensuring the safety of diplomatic missions. In times of war, beyond naval battles, it is essential for rapid communication and troop transportation. Now, the fleets of the Seven Kingdoms are many and varied; nearly every region has one.

Therefore, I decree that the Master of Ships must be more of a political position, given to someone who can manage this resource and make our ship captains cooperate. Instead, from the individual regions, there will be a certain number of admirals who will have direct command of naval operations."

Many wondered about the purpose of this preamble.

"I therefore decree that the Master of Ships shall be Wyman Manderly, the skilled Lord of White Harbor who restored a fleet to the North after millennia.

The command of the Northern Fleet shall go to his second son, Wendel, while Wylis will take his father's place in leading their house at White Harbor.

Lannos Lannister, Ardrian Celtigar, and Gerold Grafton shall also become Admirals of the fleets of the West, the Crownlands, and the Vale.

There shall also be a First Admiral and a Second Admiral, who, in this order, will have overall command of the ships at sea.

The First Admiral shall be Paxter Redwyne, of the Reach's fleet, and the Second Admiral shall be Davos Seaworth, of the Stormlands' fleet."

Many were surprised by the complexity of this, but they noticed how it appeased many houses at once and even gave a small consolation to the Stormlanders.

Mace Tyrell sulked. Although Paxter was rewarded, he felt that he should have been made Master of Ships, not just First Admiral... as though he were being punished for Euron Greyjoy's escape, which wasn't his fault... or maybe Mace simply wanted to place as many of his pawns as possible on the Small Council...

"And I also decree," the King added, "that from now on Dragonstone, which obviously will no longer be the Seat of the Heir... shall become, due to its position and all the ships it can host... simply the Seat of the Admiralty."

This time, many had objections. It was like giving that old fatass from the North one of the most coveted fortresses in the Seven Kingdoms.

In truth, this was how Robb ensured secure protection for the capital and direct control over the wildfire stored there in secret.

The King then proceeded to name Theon Greyjoy the new Lord of the Iron Islands in his name (he would leave in a few days) and announced that he had offered Dorne a seat on the Small Council, offering Doran Martell the position of Master of Laws.

No one else knew, but the last one was actually Tyrion's old proposal.

Many doubted this would be enough for Prince Doran to recognize his authority, but evidently, the King had evidently plans for that.

When it seemed he was finished, some Stormlands Lords stepped forward:

"My King, may we ask a pressing question? Our lands supported first Renly and then Stannis, it's true... but only because they were Robert Baratheon's heirs... there was never any malice on our part... now that they are both dead... who will rule Storm's End? Who will become our new Lord Paramount?"

The silence fell over the hall. Whoever would've been chosen, jealousy and grudges would surely follow.

"You're right, my Lords," Robb said, "and I certainly don't forget that i bear the name of Robert Baratheon, First of His Name... my father Eddard Stark's closest friend. If things had gone as they should, there would always have been friendship between my House and yours.

I confess, I never wanted to fight against you, if i could help it.

But to answer your question... I do not intend to name one of you, only to provoke envy and rivalry. In truth, there is but one name that could unite you all... the name of a true heir of Robert Baratheon."

An uproar of questions and shaking heads erupted at this statement.

"But first," Robb continued, visibly pleased, "I have one last surprise for you today. Bring him in."

And from the small door at the back, for the last time, a figure entered.

Dressed in dark robes, his step uncertain. Weighed down, burdened by years.
To those who knew him, he must have seemed a ghost.

"But... but this is Cressen! The Maester of Storm's End!"

"I heard he was dead!"

"He poisoned himself trying to kill Melisandre!"

"How can it be him? It's a trick!"

"A deception!"

"Sorcery!"

"Silence, my Lords. SILENCE!" Robb ordered, raising his arms.

"I assure you there are no tricks, no sorcery, though I myself was astounded when I heard the whole story."

The old Maester began to recount, once the uproar had settled, for those—nearly everyone—unaware of it, how he, ever faithful to the Baratheons of Storm's End, had begged Stannis, whom he loved as a son, not to heed the sacrilegious and profane words of the Red Woman, Melisandre. But his king had not listened.

So Cressen, an expert in poisons and antidotes, had taken a desperate measure: he tried to poison the sorceress, even at the cost of his own life. He had her drink from his own cup but, as many nobles witnessed, he collapsed dead while she remained alive, convincing Stannis of her powers.

"Then why are you here?" someone asked.

"A legitimate question," the old scholar replied, "and I am just as astonished as you. I owe my life to my years of study and to the loyalty of Pylos, my attendant... He had seen me with the poison in hand and deduced what I intended to do... and he didn't want to see me dead.

Over the years, I created an antidote for every known poison, and in some cases, if taken in advance, these substances act as immunizers: they prevent the poison from working, either partially or entirely. Pylos, unbeknownst to me, had warned Davos Seaworth of my intentions and given him the immunizer to slip into my cup unnoticed.

His purpose, of course," he clarified, "was to prevent the assassination entirely, not to let it happen and merely ensure my survival.

Ah, how the gods like to mock the plans of men. Davos put the immunizer into my jug, which I later used to serve Melisandre... Consequently, she, young and healthy, did not die... but I, alas, am old, and the poison took some effect nonetheless... just enough to make me collapse in a state of apparent death."

The hall roared with astonishment. So Melisandre had magical powers but was not as immortal as they claimed? This brought relief to many hearts.

Robb and Davos, however, knew the truth and had asked the Maester to adjust the story to reassure the Lords. Davos had put the antidote in Cressen's water, but the poison had been in the wine... That Cressen had survived was correct, but Melisandre should still have died.

Yet, for some reason, she had not.

And who knew where she was now?

"And then, my good friend Davos did me another favor, for which I will always be grateful... Under the pretext of burying me at sea, he instead had my 'corpse' taken by rowboat to the Celtigars of Claw Isle, my distant cousins... where I have remained hidden until today.

Sadly, I could do nothing to prevent my Lord, under the Red Witch's counsel, from committing unspeakable crimes... nor to save him from his eventual fate."

The hall was filled with murmurs, gasps, and debate.

Then someone said, "Alright, great story. So, you're REALLY Cressen, and have not risen from the grave. But what does this have to do with the heir?"

"It has everything to do with it, for I alone can recognize a true Baratheon," he replied. "I have known every Baratheon since they were children, going back to Robert's father, Steffon. I even cared for poor Edric Storm."

Robb then asked Davos and Arya to recount the full story.

How Stannis and Jon Arryn had uncovered Cersei's infidelity, seeking out some of the bastards fathered by Robert Baratheon, unaware of their true heritage...
How Arya had ended up with Yoren's group bound for the Wall... and how the Gold Cloaks, who had been killing Robert's bastards on Cersei's orders, were hunting them...

How, later, while with the Brotherhood Without Banners, the same Melisandre had taken one of those boys, traveling with him for a year, claiming he was King's Blood... planning to sacrifice him, as she had attempted with Edric Storm, confirmed Davos...

...who swore that Stannis himself had recognized the boy as one of Robert's bastards during their investigation in King's Landing... a blacksmith's apprentice...

...and how Davos had deserted Stannis to save the boy's life, helping him escape the Red Witch's clutches... and how, upon surrendering to Robb, they had pieced together the entire story...

Robb called Gendry forward, as the hall murmured and many already guessing the conclusion.

Cressen examined the young man.

"I confirm that this boy is the spitting image of Robert Baratheon in his youth. I truly believe he is of Robert's blood. He even resembles Edric."

At this declaration, the Storm Lords surged forward, crowding around Gendry, pulling him, touching him, tilting his head to scrutinize his face (to his great annoyance, and he used his strength to free himself more than once: he had felt like a slab of butchered meat for far too long), all the while making every sort of comment.

"All right," one man finally said, "let's say this boy truly is Robert Baratheon's bastard, Your Grace. One of many, one who survived Cersei Lannister's wrath. What difference does that make to us?"

"Very little, my Lord… or everything. It can prevent a succession crisis. It can stop further bloodshed. It can ensure that I do not cause the noble House of the King whose name I bear to go extinct."

Arya could barely contain herself.

"Kneel, Gendry Waters."

Hesitantly, Gendry turned and knelt before Robb. The king raised his scepter and laid it gently on Gendry's shoulders and head, much like a knighthood.

"Now rise… as Gendry of House Baratheon… Lord of Storm's End."

Another roar erupted as the bewildered young man stood up. It had all been a well-orchestrated performance. Some were pleased. Others were furious. But everyone had to agree it was a solid compromise.

The Baratheon line had started with Orys Baratheon, the bastard half-brother of King Aegon I Targaryen, the Conqueror, taking up the role of Lord of Storm's End and adopting the motto and heraldic symbol of the old Durrandon Kings.

Now another bastard legitimized would revive their line once again.

Gendry was struck by a sudden revelation and glanced at Arya.

Was it… hope?

Robb then turned to Cressen:

"My good Maester, your level of honesty and devotion is difficult for most people to attain. I pray that my counselors have even half your courage in speaking plainly to me when they think I am making a mistake. To be willing to kill and die in the name of the greater good is a very rare gift.

Cressen, it would be a waste for a man like you to return to wither away at the Citadel. I name you my Maester; you will sit on my Small Council as my Advisor until my brother is ready… or until your death, whichever comes first."

"You honor me, Your Grace. I gladly accept."

Robb stepped closer to him and said in a lower voice:

"Moreover, your expertise in poisons and antidotes will be invaluable to me… the previous Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, was poisoned… and I would like to avoid the same fate for myself or members of my court. Feel free to take on assistants if necessary. Anyone you trust and deem capable."

The elderly Maester merely nodded.

When order was restored, Robb Stark, First of His Name, returned to the Iron Throne and said:

"And before the oaths and the feast, my Lords, I imagine you are all wondering… who will be my Hand of the King?"

The crowd fell silent once more. A flurry of glances darted around the hall.

"Step forward… 'Bronze' Yohn Royce."

The elderly warrior with a white beard stepped forward, looking satisfied; he had expected this.

He climbed the steps to the Iron Throne, and King Robb Stark pinned the Hand's brooch to his chest.

The Lords all knelt to him in unison.

And then began the endless procession of Lords swearing fealty to the new King, one by one, and being told by an attendant their punishments-in cases they used to be enemies-or their rewards, for the faithful ones.

The feast did not began before eight in the evening.

---

Author's Note

This was one of my most anticipated chapters. I had to research long and hard prior to writing it, and for sure, one of the fun elements of GOT is to make your lineup of the Small Council.

I'm pretty satisfied with this, honestly. It's good, even though i had to make some adjustments-like the show only addition of Master of War, which fits perfectly, and it's a signal of new troubles to come in the future.

I researched a lot of Lannisters and invented one or two, and then let the surprise of Tyrion pop up. He has what he's always wanted, Casterly Rock, but is he happy? Most of his family has died.

Now, the Night's Watch is going to be reinforced a lot, as it needs.

I was eager to have Robb create new symbols and have a new Valyrian steel sword; i needed to anticipate the timing of Ice being melted for it, but it ends up being for the best.

Euron Greyjoy pops up much like in canon and wrecks havoc, much like in canon, but then disappears with mysterious motives...he will pop up again later, in the second chapter of this trilogy ;)

I liked Robb being shown as competent (reread the books recently, where he was maybe two-three years younger than in show, and i'm sort of following show timeline-and he really was good), but at the same time humble enough to ask for an advice by people who know more than him, whenever he needs.

Probably many of you are dissatisfied of Littlefinger as Master of Whisperers: the reasoning being that he 1) seems now to be loyal 2) needs to be kept away from the Vale, so that he doesn't sway them all to his side, and be kept under close control 3) has skills no one else has for that role and Robb needs someone like that

Personally, i'm aghasted nobody ever thinks at him in that role. Moreover, it's not like Robb does necessarily everything right...but he can only verify it with time

The whole Gendry being recognized thing seemed to me logical, since Robb must have heard from Davos and Arya and made 2+2. Plus, it pacifies the Stormlands.

I like Cressen very much, so i conocted this way for him not have died-not that in canon stuff like this doesn't happen and even worse-and for him now to be in the Council.

Bronze Yohn is a character i love, and Robb needs someone experienced who can keep the Council in order

Some of you may also be unhappy about Bran; but it only makes sense that the heir must have heirs of his own. And plus...

Next chapter is gonna be LAST of this fic, which is the FIRST of a Trilogy.

Trilogy will have The Wolf King as an overall title, and chapter 2 will be named The Reign of the Wolf and the Rose.

It will overall digress from the original story even more, save for same storylines of some characters, and then the third and final chapter will be 99% original

I'll start writing it soon and i have some ideas already in mind, but i will not keep this publishing rate of one chapter per week, it will be longer ;)

PS: The Title of this chapter is a subversion of a famous quote by Von Clausewitz, a Prussian 19th century general and theoric of war