Chapter 93 – Southbound
The North.
Winterfell.
Rickard Stark sat rigidly on the high seat, rereading the raven's message.
His fury erupted—he seized his greatsword with both hands and brought it crashing down on the table.
The blade bit into the oak… and stuck.
Without a thumb, even Rickard Stark's strength couldn't chop clean through.
The awkward scene drew roaring laughter from several seated bannermen, who mocked their liege lord without restraint.
No one bothered to stop them.
This was the North—where tempers were short, courtesy was optional, and tact existed about as often as panties on a brothel floor.
"Enough!"
Most fell quiet, but Greatjon Umber—Lord of Last Hearth—kept howling with laughter until Rickard barked directly at him. Only then did he fall silent and casually tear into the food before him.
Winter was closing in fast.
Up at Last Hearth—nearest to the Wall—the crops were already failing.
The Umber lord, though a great Lord, was rationing every meal.
If he could eat someone else's food at Winterfell and stretch his stores a few more days, he would.
If possible, he'd spend the entire winter in Winterfell and let his own keep freeze without him.
The man gnawed bones with his bare teeth, determined to discover which was harder—his skull or the marrow.
The hall fell silent except for the crunching and cracking of his enthusiastic chewing.
Rickard sighed. Northern lords were not known for refinement; the Umbers even less so.
No sane man would name himself Jon Umber and then also name his son Jon Umber—but here they were: Greatjon and Littlejon.
After the laughter died, Rickard lifted the letter.
"Aerys Targaryen—that dragonspawned bastard—has sent word.
He claims Lyanna and the Baratheon boy have kidnapped Prince Rhaegar."
"Marvelous!"
"I told you! Lady Lyanna's got more wolf in her than any of your sons, Rickard! Didn't think she had this much fire, though!"
"To hell with the Targaryens! They murdered the North's heir—fine! Let's drag their prince back here and lop his head off at the gates of Winterfell!"
"Damn right! And if it comes to it, we'll break away from the Seven Kingdoms again! Let the North have its Kings once more! Without their dragons, the Targaryens aren't worth the shit frozen under our boots!"
The bannermen erupted in shouts and cheers, full of bravado and fury.
But in the sea of excitement, two men remained utterly silent.
Rickard's sharp grey eyes shifted toward the pallid figure seated near the edge.
"Everyone else is laughing. Why not you, Lord Roose Bolton?"
The Dreadfort's lord rose calmly, inclining his head with impeccable courtesy—so unlike the other northern brutes that he often seemed like he didn't belong to the North at all.
"You haven't finished your news yet, my lord," Bolton replied in his soft, eerily calm voice.
The other lords fell quiet immediately.
For thousands of years, House Bolton had vied with the Starks for dominion over the North.
The flayed man on their sigil was no empty boast—rumor had it the Dreadfort's halls still displayed the skins of Stark ancestors.
Even the boldest northern lord thought twice before mocking a Bolton.
Rickard let out a booming laugh.
Placing a boot on the mangled table, he yanked his sword free and sat again.
"You're right, Roose. I'm not done."
"The king has arrested my other son—Eddard."
A ripple of tension swept the hall.
"In his letter, Aerys demands this:
Find Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar, return them to King's Landing, and then…"
Rickard's jaw clenched.
"...and then I am to lay down my weapons and present myself before him—alone—for judgment."
The hall froze.
Moments ago they had been shouting for war, boasting of glory and vengeance.
But every man in the room knew the truth:
The North was poor.
The North was stretched thin.
The North did not want a war with the Iron Throne.
Not unless victory was certain.
And against the crown—against its wealth, its armies, its reach—
there was no certainty.
But…
"What do you intend to do, Lord Stark?"
In the heavy silence, it fell—of course—to the Lord of the Dreadfort to speak aloud the question everyone was afraid to ask.
After all, a slain heir was normally a matter resolved through posturing, mustering armies, waving swords around, and finally negotiating—each side giving up a little until peace was restored.
Who knew—maybe they could even use the chaos to marry Lyanna into House Targaryen.
But this situation was far beyond sabre-rattling.
One son dead.
Another son—his heir—now in the king's hands.
House Stark was cornered beyond dignity.
The lords shouted bravado moments ago, but when push came to shove, only a small number of truly pig-headed northern lords would follow Stark into a real war.
Every man here had survived the North's brutality for generations.
They weren't fools.
Even Greatjon Umber, who was still gnawing bone, had a head full of cunning beneath all that hair and muscle.
Rickard held Roose Bolton's gaze a moment longer, thinking—yes, the man was the same as always: cautious, unreadable.
His father's first lecture the day Rickard became heir echoed sharply:
"Never trust a Bolton easily."
Rickard didn't answer Roose.
Instead, he turned to the other man who had not laughed among the crowd.
"What say you, Lord Jorah Mormont?"
At once, the Lord of Bear Island—broad-shouldered, powerful, every inch a northern warrior—rose to his feet. The green-and-black bear of his house was stitched boldly across his chest.
"Bear Island will answer House Stark's call, my lord."
His voice was steady, formal—exactly as Jeor Mormont had instructed before leaving to join the Night's Watch as its new Lord Commander.
A father's love as solid as granite.
Rickard's expression finally eased.
Support from Bear Island was no small thing.
He rose, drove his sword into the table again with a thunk, and gripped the blade with his maimed right hand. Blood ran down his palm in a hot red stream.
The lords fell silent.
"House Targaryen," Rickard declared, "no longer holds Stark's respect."
"Murder my heir—and then dare threaten me with another? Let them!"
He lifted his bleeding hand for all to see.
"Even if they kill Eddard, I still have another son!"
The hall erupted in shock.
No one had expected Rickard Stark to stand so defiantly—to treat the crown's threats with such disdain.
Blood dripping from his fingers, Rickard raised his hand higher, letting all present witness the resolve of the North.
Brandon was the heir.
Brandon was dead.
Rickard's heart had room for only one truth now:
Vengeance.
"Winter is coming, my lords!"
"When winter strikes, we are the ones who freeze.
We are the ones who watch thousands starve.
And still—still—we guard the realm for the king, fighting the wildlings who slip past the Wall!"
His voice boomed across the hall, shaking rafters.
"This winter, I refuse to freeze in the snow!"
"This time—we will spend winter in the warm South!"
"HO! HO!!!"
The lords roared, pounding the tables, voices rising like wolves on the hunt.
"Lord Jorah Mormont!"
Rickard's grin widened into something fierce and sharp.
"I want you to take a small force across the Neck at once. Find Lyanna before the crown's men do."
"Bring Rhaegar Targaryen back alive."
"If Aerys wants to use my son as a hostage, then fine!"
"I want to see if the southern bastards still dare advance when the prince is dragged behind a northern horse at the head of our army!"
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The Sept of Baelor.
Bells chimed softly as Lance Lot climbed the white steps beneath the blistering sun.
Knighted though he was, he'd never once visited the center of the Seven's faith.
He didn't believe in gods.
White armor, a pale cloak, and the massive greatsword on his back made him seem carved from the marble itself. He chose the nearest entrance and stepped inside.
Light streamed through colored glass; painted orbs hung overhead; the ceiling glittered with gold and crystal.
Dozens of septons prayed in rows, murmuring under the dome.
Lance watched, bored out of his skull.
Finally, the prayer ended.
A red-robed man stood, arms spread wide:
"May the Seven's light shine upon all!"
"May the Seven's light shine upon all!" the septons echoed.
"Charlatans," Lance muttered under his breath.
He cared nothing for gods—never had.
If prayers worked, the world wouldn't be filled with misery.
As the septons began filing out, Lance rose, shouldered Dawn, and strode forward.
THOOM.
The greatsword hit the marble floor, cracking the tiles.
He stopped beneath the towering statue of the Father Above.
The red-robed High Septon smiled gently, unfazed.
"He's a friend of mine," he told the others. "Go on."
The septons withdrew, leaving the grand sept empty—save for Lance and the red priest.
"You have one minute," Lance said coldly, "to explain."
If the man's involvement in Rhaegar's kidnapping weren't possible, the knight would've taken his head already.
He despised mystics more than anything.
The High Septon opened his mouth—
but before he could speak, a calm and confident voice filled the vast chamber:
"Do not treat my brother-in-faith so harshly… Prince Rhaeseryon."
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