Brandon Stark stood by the tallest window in Winterfell's great hall.
Snow flurries drifted past the stone arch, spinning and twirling in silent dance. The cold air seeped in, biting at his cheeks, but he stayed still, one gloved hand resting on the sill. His gaze fell upon the courtyard below. Men and women went about their business, some wearing the Stark sigil, others proudly displaying symbols of Lord Jason Lee's creed. A strange blend, he thought, yet one that felt almost natural now.
In the center of the yard, a handful of undead workers hauled crates of mortar and stone. Their hollow eye sockets glowed with faint magical light. Their bones clacked and scraped, but they never slowed, never complained. They lifted heavy loads like ants, guided by a single will far beyond mortal comprehension. Beyond them, a few living farmers led oxen to newly tilled fields outside the walls. Fields that had once been useless marshland, worthless to any who tried to plant so much as a grain of wheat. Now those fields thrived, turning green despite the lingering chill in the air. Nightfury and White-Shadow, Lord Jason's dragons, had scoured the ground not long ago, grinding rocks and burning old growth, leaving fertile ash.
Brandon's lips tightened. He remembered the day those dragons flew overhead, blotting out the pale sun. Their presence brought awe and terror in equal measure. Yet, after they left, he saw the results. Rich black soil appeared where muddy bogs had once prevailed. It was a gift from Lord Jason Lee, the Boner Lord, the God of Life and Death. The same God who had helped him secede from the Seven Kingdoms. The same God who made him King in the North.
A raven's caw broke his reverie. A black-feathered messenger perched on the edge of the window, as though reminding him of the letter that had come that morning. The letter from Daeron II Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, demanding an explanation. Demanding answers for an act so brazen it might plunge all the realm into war.
Brandon drew a slow breath. His heart thudded, steady but heavy. War loomed. He had known it since the day he knelt before Jason Lee, swearing the North's freedom from the Iron Throne. He had felt it in his bones like the onset of a winter storm. Now, the first gusts had arrived.
He glanced down at the parchment in his hand. The wax seal bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He raised it to eye level, scanning the neat lines again. Daeron's words were polite but firm. The King requested - no, demanded - Brandon Stark's presence in King's Landing, to explain himself and his "treasonous" actions. Failure to comply would mean war. The Crown would not suffer a rebellious North.
Brandon's jaw set. His fingers curled around the edges of the letter. The nerve of Daeron to summon him, as though he were a disobedient child. The North was no longer part of the Seven Kingdoms.
The North belonged to itself.
The North belonged to him.
The North belonged to Jason Lee.
He turned from the window, crossing the hall with purposeful strides. Each step echoed against the high ceilings. Servants hovered at the edges of the room, watching with sidelong glances. They sensed his tension, sensed the gravity of the news he held. Two of them bowed as he passed, but he barely noticed, lost in his thoughts.
He headed for the council chamber - a smaller, warmer room off to the side of the great hall. Inside, a roaring fire crackled in the hearth. The glow lit the faces of his closest advisors, men and women of the North who had rallied to his cause. Some wore the badge of House Stark. Others displayed the symbol of Lord Jason Lee - a stylized skull entwined with a dragon. A mix of old loyalty and new faith.
Brandon halted at the head of the table. He said nothing at first, letting the hush settle. All eyes turned to him. Then, slowly, he lifted the letter and let it unroll, the parchment stretching open in his hands.
"From King Daeron II Targaryen," he said, his voice resonating in the silence. "He demands I travel south. He demands an explanation for our secession. He demands our knees bend once more."
An uneasy shift rippled through the gathered lords and ladies. Some raised their eyebrows, while others clenched their fists. A few let out low, muted curses. Tension spiked like an arrow shot through the air.
Brandon allowed them a moment to absorb this. Then he cleared his throat, and they fell still again.
"We have chosen a different path," he said. "We have chosen independence. The Crown calls it treason. We call it freedom."
He tossed the parchment onto the table. It fluttered before coming to rest near an inkpot. "I will send a reply. I will not heed his summons. If he wishes to speak to me, let him come north and see for himself the land he abandoned. The land that has prospered under our new God's blessing."
He let his gaze drift across each face in turn. Lord Manderly, stout and cunning, fiddled with a ring on his finger. Lady Cerwyn, tall and proud, wore a grim smile. Lord Glover, wide-shouldered and silent, inclined his head, solemn agreement in his eyes. All of them had benefited from Jason's gifts - strong harvests, undead labor, new farmland. They remembered the lean years, the hunger that lurked each winter. Now, no one went hungry. Now, homes were warm and barns were full.
Brandon's chest tightened again, this time not with fear, but with a fierce pride.
"Write to each of our bannermen," he said, his tone firm. "Inform them that war looms. The Targaryens will come. House Stark stands, and by the power of Lord Jason Lee, we will not bow. They must guard the coasts, guard the passes. Moat Cailin will remain our linchpin, but we cannot rely on Lord Jason alone. He cannot stand in every corner of the North at once."
Several of the lords nodded, already envisioning their role. The North was vast. The sea routes near the White Knife and Skagos were vulnerable. The mountainous passes near the western edges also posed a threat if the Crown tried to march an army through. The North had to be ready.
A young steward scribbled down notes, his quill scratching furiously. Brandon watched him for a heartbeat, then shifted his attention back to the table.
"Our independence is not a mere fancy," he said, each word short and precise. "We have thrived. Our farms yield more than ever. Our people know peace, not hunger. Our roads see better travel, thanks to the undead clearing paths. Even Winterfell's walls have been repaired, stone by stone, far faster than any living crew could manage. This is progress, and we owe it to Lord Jason Lee."
He let the name linger, letting them recall the man behind the divinity. Some recalled seeing him stride through Winterfell's halls, weaving magic like a bard might strum a harp. Others remembered glimpses of Nightfury's colossal shape blotting out the moon, or White-Shadow's icy breath freezing entire sections of land. The memory stirred awe and a sliver of fear, but it also brought a sense of security. If such beings fought for them, what could King Daeron's mortal men do?
"We are not alone," Brandon continued. "But we must be vigilant. The Crown can muster an army, yes, but it takes time. They will not arrive tomorrow. They will gather their forces, rally their lords, plan their logistics. Months, at least, before they can march. We have time to prepare. We have time to strengthen. We have time to ensure that when they come, they regret stepping foot on northern soil."
Lord Manderly cleared his throat, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Your Grace, what exactly is your reply to King Daeron?"
Brandon's lips curled into a faint grin, more determined than amused. "I will write plainly. The North no longer kneels. Our bonds to the Throne are severed. If he insists on war, so be it. We will not be cowed by a crown that has failed to feed us, failed to protect us, failed to respect us."
A ripple of agreement spread around the table. No one voiced dissent. The time for caution had passed. The North had chosen its path, and they all walked it with eyes open.
With that settled, Brandon signaled for the lords to disperse. Letters had to be written. Ravens had to be sent. Defenses had to be shored up. Each lord would receive instructions, each holdfast would brace for the storm. The meeting ended as quickly as it began, a flurry of purposeful movement as people gathered parchment and ink, already composing the messages in their minds.
Soon, only Brandon remained, the steward, and a few knights standing guard. Brandon exhaled, the tension in his shoulders momentarily easing. He turned to the steward, a willowy youth with ink-stained fingers. "Fetch me a quill and fresh parchment. We have a letter to write."
The steward rushed off, returning with the requested items. Brandon sat at a plain wooden desk near the fire. He ran his hand over the smooth grain, steadying himself. Then he dipped the quill, tapping off excess ink against the rim of the inkwell. He set the nib to the parchment, the fire's glow illuminating the crisp white surface.
He began to write:
To His Grace, King Daeron II Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,
I, Brandon of the House Stark, King in the North, greet you. I have received your summons. I have read your demands. I acknowledge your concerns regarding our choice to secede from the Iron Throne.
I hereby state, plainly and without deception, that the North no longer owes fealty to the Crown. The North has chosen a new path. By the will and aid of Lord Jason Lee, God of the North and Master of Life and Death, we stand as a free realm.
I will not travel to King's Landing. I will not answer for a decision we have made with full hearts and clear minds. If you wish to speak to me in person, then come north, though I advise caution. My people will not welcome an invading force kindly.
We have prospered under Lord Jason Lee's blessings. Our farms yield more than they have in generations. Our walls rise strong, rebuilt by tireless hands. Our people no longer starve in winter. This is the promise we have embraced.
Should you choose war, we will meet it. We do not seek bloodshed, but neither do we fear it. The North stands united, from Bear Island to the Last Hearth, from the Dreadfort to Moat Cailin. A renewed Moat Cailin, in the care of our God-King, whose power outstrips mortal men.
Know that the North does not bend the knee lightly, nor do we break from old bonds without cause. Yet the cause is clear: survival, prosperity, and freedom.
Signed,
Brandon of House Stark, King in the North.
Brandon set down the quill. He let out a long breath, reading over the words once more. They felt cold, direct, and final. Good. There was no place for flowery language or half-truths. War hovered on the horizon, and every word he put to parchment needed to be precise.
He rolled the letter, dripped wax onto the edge, and pressed his seal - an updated version of the direwolf, newly stylized to reflect the influence of Lord Jason Lee. The steward took it, placing it carefully in a raven's small cylinder case.
Brandon stood.
"Send it at once," he said. "I want it on its way to King's Landing immediately."
The steward bowed, hurrying off. Brandon stared at the flickering flames in the hearth. The warmth licked at his boots, but a chill ran through him. He closed his eyes, recalling the day he first encountered Jason Lee. The day he felt the chill of the grave and the heat of the dragons, all in one breath. The day the North's fate changed forever.
He remembered the undead legions plowing fields, the old farmland near Winterfell suddenly fertile. He saw the dragons, Nightfury and White-Shadow, reshaping earth and stone, forging farmland from barren land. The memory made him grip his forearm reflexively, as if anchoring himself to the present. The North had changed, had grown. Now, they would defend that growth against any who sought to undo it.
He stepped out of the council chamber, moving through the corridors of Winterfell with sure steps. Guards snapped to attention as he passed, the stark wolf on their tabards a reminder of the old ways. But now, some bore a second symbol: a stylized skull entwined with a dragon. It was Lord Jason's mark, carried by those who pledged devotion to the God of the North.
Brandon's eyes flickered across these new sigils. Mixed emotions stirred in his chest. Pride at the North's new strength. Wariness at the cost. Yet, each time he stepped outside and saw healthy children playing, mothers and fathers no longer starving, fields bursting with crops, he found it hard to regret the choice.
He exited onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard. There, a few undead workers tidied up after the day's tasks. They stacked crates, sorted timber, and swept the stones free of dirt and debris. Nearby, living farmers chatted with them—well, mostly talked to them, since skeletons didn't speak. But somehow, it worked. The living and the dead, side by side, building a future for the North.
A glint caught his eye: a small group of archers practicing near the far wall. They aimed at targets, releasing arrows with muted thwacks. One archer had a skeletal partner setting out fresh straw targets. The skeleton's bony fingers moved deftly, precise, uncomplaining. Brandon's lips parted in a faint smile.
He turned his gaze to the sky, where daylight neared its end. Oranges and pinks smeared across the horizon. Soon, the night would come, and with it, the presence of White-Shadow sometimes gliding overhead, or Nightfury's distant roar echoing across the mountains. Darkness no longer brought fear, but a sense of power. The North was strong at night, with the undead unburdened by weariness, and the hush of starlight ever-watchful.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts. War was coming, indeed. His message to Daeron was cast. Now, ravens would fly to the rest of the North as well, heralding the news of the Crown's displeasure. The lords would assemble their men, fortify their keeps, and pray to whichever gods they held dear. Some prayed to the Old Gods still, some to the Seven. Many now prayed to Lord Jason Lee, or so rumor said.
Brandon pressed his palm against the cold stone of the balcony's edge, glancing down at his own breath fogging the air. For centuries, the North had remained part of the Seven Kingdoms. They had endured Targaryen rule, endured the wars and upheavals. Now, they stepped away, forging a new destiny. He wondered if old King Torrhen Stark, who once knelt to Aegon the Conqueror, would spin in his grave. Or perhaps that king would nod in approval, recognizing that times changed, that leadership required bold choices.
At last, Brandon descended from the balcony, returning to the great hall. There, a handful of his personal guard stood watch. They parted to let him pass, offering respectful nods. He motioned for them to follow him deeper into the keep, into the war room - a space he'd had refurbished once the undead began their labors on Winterfell. The walls were lined with maps of the North, the South, and the distant seas. A large table dominated the center, where small carved wolf tokens marked loyal houses, while lion and dragon tokens marked potential threats.
He traced a finger along the Neck, where Moat Cailin rose anew under Jason's watchful eye. The fortress had once been the key to holding off southern invaders. Now it stood poised to do so again, though in a form none could have imagined. Skeletal armies, dragons, a sorcerer's hand rewriting the shape of the land. If Daeron marched, he would find the Neck a far deadlier choke point than any had expected - far deadlier than it had ever been.
And wasn't it known as Neverwinter now?
Brandon let out a low hum of satisfaction. The North was ready, or it would be by the time the Crown mustered. The distance alone would drain Daeron's forces. Then, if they reached the swamps, the undead would descend, unstoppable. And in the skies, White-Shadow's freezing breath or Nightfury's infernal flames would ensure no southern soldier left the Neck alive.
Yet, he knew better than to underestimate Targaryen stubbornness. Daeron might lack dragons, but the south was vast and populous. The Crown could field hundreds of thousands, maybe more, commanded by seasoned knights and ambitious lords. They might attempt to sail along the coasts, landing near White Harbor or Bear Island. Or they might strike near the Rills. They might also try forging alliances, prying away weaker northern houses. Brandon had to be vigilant, had to trust in his new faith that Lord Jason Lee would stand with them.
He took a seat at the table, hands folded before him. Outside, the sky darkened, the last of daylight slipping away. He considered how swiftly fortunes changed. Only a short time ago, he was Warden of the North, sworn to the Targaryens. Now, he was a king in his own right, with a god at his side.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. A messenger appeared in the doorway, bowing low.
"Your Grace," he said, voice timid but steady. "The ravens have flown. The lords of the North will receive your summons."
Brandon nodded, gesturing for the man to leave. He rose, pacing around the war table once more. Each wooden token on the map felt charged with meaning. The Starks, the Boltons, the Manderlys, the Umbers - houses that had each pledged loyalty to him and to Jason Lee. Houses that would soon find themselves in the fight of their lives if the Targaryens dared to march.
Another set of footsteps approached, heavier and unhurried. Brandon turned to see Lady Lysa Mormont, the first of the North to truly welcome Lord Jason, since he came to their world through Bear Island. She offered him a curt nod.
"The King in the South demands we explain ourselves," she said, her tone dry.
"Yes," Brandon replied, exhaling sharply. "We have answered with a firm refusal. War is likely."
Lysa showed no surprise. Instead, she squared her shoulders, as though bracing for impact. "We stand with you, Your Grace. Bear Island is ready. Lord Jason's blessings have made our farmland bountiful and the fish abundant. We owe him a great debt. My people will fight."
Brandon placed a hand on her forearm in silent thanks. Then she departed, leaving him alone once more with the flickering candlelight. The halls grew quiet, the shadows lengthening along the walls.
He moved to a window that overlooked the courtyard again, observing the undead finishing their final tasks of the day. A hush seemed to settle over the keep, an anticipation brimming beneath every breath of wind. Soon, the lords would gather. Soon, the North would rise. Soon, the world would learn that the old ways had ended.
He thought of Daeron, whom he'd once met at a royal gathering. The memory felt foreign now, as though it belonged to someone else. At that time, the crown's demands were a fact of life. Tribute, taxes, kneeling. But the North had never thrived under that system. They'd always been an afterthought, a distant burden in the eyes of southern kings. Now, with a single stroke of improbable magic, the land itself blossomed. In two short years, they'd eclipsed decades of meager harvests.
All because of Lord Jason Lee.
Brandon's lips curved into a small smile. Not a smile of arrogance, but one of resolve. The North had found a new god, an impossible figure who commanded dragons, raised the dead, and reshaped entire landscapes. If Daeron sought to challenge that, let him come.
He pressed his palm against the cold glass, gazing out into the dim twilight. Silence enveloped him. The tension in the air whispered of changes unstoppable. He recalled Torrhen Stark's surrender to Aegon the Conqueror centuries ago, how the King Who Knelt had chosen life for his people over the devastation of dragonfire. Now, the tables turned. The North possessed a power of its own, born not from the Targaryen line but from an outsider with immeasurable gifts. It felt like a cosmic reversal, a rebalancing of the scales.
A commotion rose from the courtyard. Brandon leaned closer to see. One of the skeletons had toppled while lugging a heavy beam of wood, and another undead worker was helping it up, their bony limbs rattling in the lantern glow. The image almost made him laugh - a comedic mishap among the tireless dead. They were far from perfect, but they functioned without rest, forging a better realm for the living. Those who remembered them in life did so by clothing them with distinct colors.
He let out a soft chuckle, surprising himself. Laughter felt strange in these grim times, but also strangely cathartic. He stepped away from the window, letting the hush of Winterfell's corridors envelop him. War would come. Blood would spill. But for now, he had done what he must. He had penned his reply to Daeron. He had rallied the North. The rest lay in fate's hands.
He walked the halls, passing tapestries that told old stories of Stark triumphs and tragedies. He paused at one that depicted the Long Night, with pale figures weaving among snowdrifts and stars. The memory of that ancient threat loomed in every Northerner's mind. Yet, ironically, it was now a different form of the dead who served them, thanks to the Boner Lord's will. A thought that would have horrified those old ancestors, no doubt.
Finally, he came to a small room that served as his study. A handful of books lined the shelves - histories, treatises on agriculture, even a few volumes on the Valyrian Freehold. He took a seat at a modest desk, letting his eyes roam over the spines. He thought of the future, of how the North might rewrite its own history. Perhaps a new scribe would pen the tale of how a once-scorned realm rose to rival the greatest kings, aided by a necromancer turned god.
He tapped his fingers on the desk, mind drifting. Possibly, he mused, Daeron would try diplomacy first. Perhaps the King would send envoys, attempt to negotiate. But he doubted it. Targaryen pride ran deep, especially for one who claimed the Iron Throne. More likely, the Crown would brand him a rebel, brand Jason Lee a monstrous blight, and gather an army to crush them both. Another tingle of anxiety flickered in Brandon's gut, but he set it aside. They had chosen their path. They would walk it unflinching.
A knock came at the door, and a guard poked his head inside.
"Your Grace, a message from Moat Cailin- err Neverwinter. They say the foundations of the new keep are already rising. Lord Jason Lee invites you to see the progress."
Brandon's eyebrows lifted. An invitation from a god was not one to be denied. He stood, taking a moment to adjust his cloak.
"I'll ride at first light," he said. "I look forward to witnessing our future."
The guard bowed, disappearing back into the hallway. Brandon lingered in the study, letting that quiet sense of forward momentum fill his chest. War or no war, the North was building something. A new fortress, a new identity, a new destiny. The invitation from Jason only solidified his resolve. The Boner Lord's presence remained unstoppable, a force that defied the old limitations of men and kings.
He stepped out of the study, moving back through Winterfell's winding passages. When he reached the courtyard, the last trace of sunset had vanished, giving way to a sky thick with stars. The cold bit harder, but he felt almost warm with purpose. The undead finished their tasks in silence, storing tools, rearranging supplies. The living retreated to their homes, lanterns glowing through half-shuttered windows.
Brandon paused near the main gate, leaning against a frost-kissed pillar. He gazed out into the darkness. Far off, the shape of rolling hills blended into the night's horizon. He imagined King Daeron's armies trying to march across that vast expanse. He imagined the swirling storms that Nightfury could conjure, or the sheets of ice White-Shadow might unleash. He imagined the Death Knights, unstoppable, prowling the shadows in service to their dark master.
He closed his eyes, letting the hush envelop him again. The moment felt still, poised on the cusp of tomorrow's storms. War approached, but behind that war lay something far greater - a North no one could have dreamed of, thriving under a magic so potent it redefined mortality itself.
A faint grin teased his lips. He opened his eyes to the starlight. Soon, he thought. Soon, the realm would learn what it meant to challenge a kingdom under the guard of a god who wielded life and death as tools. The letter was sent. The lines were drawn. Let the Crown do as it wished. The North would stand, unbroken, forging a new epoch in the pages of history.
At last, Brandon pushed off the pillar. He walked toward the keep's main doors, his footsteps echoing. Tomorrow, he would ride to Moat Cailin, see the spires and buttresses rising from ancient rubble. He would behold the miracle of undead labor weaving new walls from old stones, watch monstrous dragons shape the land with breath of fire or frost, and feel the North's heartbeat pounding in time with this unstoppable momentum. He would remember the day he finally said no to the Iron Throne.
Because in the end, only the North mattered. And with the Boner Lord at his side, only the North would triumph.
AN: Chapter 57 is out on (Pat)reon!