DOMERIC
The debate had consumed half the day like a fever that wouldn't break. Voices rose and cracked, tempers frayed until the very air seemed brittle. Lord Stark was dead—executed like a common criminal—and with him died their last tether to the South. The Northerners would never kneel to Joffrey, that much was certain. But neither Stannis nor Renly had bothered to send envoys, leaving them to chart their course through increasingly treacherous waters.
Lord Bracken's voice cut through the din, insisting they should back Renly. "He has the might of the Reach behind him," the riverlord argued, his fist striking the table for emphasis. "Seventy thousand men, plus the coin and grain we'll need for war."
The numbers were compelling, Domeric had to admit. Wars were won as much with gold and grain as with steel and courage.
Lord Mallister countered with equal fervor. "Stannis is the elder brother. By the laws of gods and men, he is the rightful heir—if the rumors are to be believed." The old knight's weathered face was grim as he continued, "Stannis's letter to the lords claimed the royal children were bastards born of incest."
Others dismissed it as desperate propaganda from a man with fewer supporters, but Domeric wondered. From what his father had said, from whispers he'd heard about the man's rigid honor, Stannis's claims might well be true. The man was many things—cold, unforgiving, harsh as winter iron—but he was not known as a liar.
Yet neither brother had reached out to them. His father had explained Stannis's silence with characteristic bluntness: "Too proud to court allies. He believes that since he's the rightful heir, lords should flock to his banners without being asked." Renly, meanwhile, continued holding tourneys even as war raged—though Domeric suspected there was strategy in that apparent frivolity. Let the lions and wolves bleed each other white while the roses gathered strength.
Robb sat silent through most of it, his young face grave with the weight of impossible choices. How could he decide? Supporting Renly would break laws inheritance, but Stannis was a rigid man who served a foreign god. The North had resisted the Andals and their Seven, just as they would resist Stannis's Red God and his fire-wielding priestess.
After a brief respite for lunch, they returned to the great hall, and the debate resumed with renewed intensity. The arguments grew more heated, more desperate, voices overlapping until individual words became lost in the cacophony.
Then the Greatjon's voice boomed over the noise like thunder rolling across the hills.
"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again?"
The hall fell silent as if struck by lightning. Domeric's heart began to race, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. He knew where this was heading, could feel the shift in the room like the moment before a storm breaks.
"It was the dragons we bowed to," Umber continued, his massive frame rising from his chair, "and the dragons are dead!"
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Then, with the force of an avalanche, the Greatjon's voice filled every corner of the hall:
"There sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to—The King in the North!"
For several heartbeats, no one moved. The words hung in the air like incense, heavy with the weight of tradition. Then, as if released from a spell, the lords began to move.
House by house, knee by knee, they declared for Robb Stark. The title that had slept since Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror suddenly blazed to life again, as real and vital as drawn steel.
Domeric glanced at his father, half-expecting Roose to remain standing—such grand gestures were not the Bolton way. But slowly, deliberately, his father knelt. Domeric followed suit, feeling the cold stone press against his knee through his breeches.
From his position on the floor, he looked up at the high table where Robb sat frozen, clearly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what was happening. The Yi Tish princess beside him remained motionless as carved jade, save for the swift movement of her brush across parchment. She passed the note to Robb with fluid grace.
A warning? A blessing? A command? Domeric wondered. He could see the conflict playing across Robb's features as he read, the young man's hands trembling slightly as he held the parchment.
"He's hesitating," Domeric whispered to his father, though they remained kneeling.
"As he should," Roose replied, his voice barely audible above the continued declarations of fealty echoing through the hall. "Kingship comes with burdens far greater than any crown."
A pause, then his father's pale eyes found his. "Should he accept, you will no longer be merely a lady's betrothed. You will be consort to a princess—of the North and the Riverlands both."
The title pressed down—not with ceremony, but consequence. He was no longer a shadow in the room. He was part of the shape of things to come.
Not just betrothed to Sansa Stark anymore.
A consort to a king's sister.
A future bound to crowns and banners, whether he asked for it or not.
Around them, the chanting surged again:
"The King in the North! The King in the North!"
But all Domeric could hear was the thundering of his own heartbeat—steady, loud, and suddenly not his own.
ROBB
He almost felt dizzy. It hadn't even sunk in—being Lord of Winterfell—and now they were trying to crown him.
The grief for his father sat like a stone in his chest, raw and heavy, while the weight of expectation pressed in from all sides. He read Ruyan's message again, her clean script swimming slightly in his vision:
Remember the price of a crown.
Then the conversation from the night before came crashing down on him like a cold wave.
"They may try to crown you."
He had scoffed then, exhausted from grief and the endless march of decisions. "They won't. They're angry, but they're not fools."
"They are men," she'd said, not looking up from the scroll she was writing. "Men reach for certainty when grief offers none. And what steadies men faster than a crown?"
He remembered watching her close the scroll, ink still drying on her fingers.
"If they do it," she'd added, "you won't just be at war with the Lannisters. You'll be at war with every man who wears a crown."
"Then I'll refuse," he had said, the words hollow even to his own ears.
That made her look at him. Just once. Her dark eyes had held something close to pity.
"You won't be given the choice."
He hadn't believed her. Had thought it imperial arrogance, the reflex of someone raised to see crowns in every corner of a map.
But now—surrounded by men on their knees, their voices thundering his name like a battle cry—he saw it with perfect, terrible clarity.
She hadn't predicted it. She had understood it.
The hall felt too warm. The torches burned too bright. His father's bones were not even buried, his sisters still captives—and already they wanted to bury him under a crown.
"My lords," he said, voice steadier than he felt, "I did not ask for a crown. We marched south to free my father and my sisters. But after what Joffrey has done…" His throat tightened. "I will not bow to him."
A pause. The silence deepened.
"I understand your rage. I share it. My family has suffered because of the Iron Throne—and the kings who sit on it." He breathed through the pressure building in his chest. "But you must understand the cost of what you're asking."
He felt Ruyan's hand on his knee—light, steady. An anchor.
"If I accept this crown, we will not only be fighting the Lannisters. We will be at war with both Baratheon kings. Every kingdom that has already bent the knee to either of them will name us traitor."
"We've done this before," said Lord Glover. "The North remembers. We stood alone once. We can do so again."
Agreement rippled through the hall, quiet but insistent.
Robb took a breath. The moment teetered like a blade.
"This is not a decision I take lightly," he said at last. "I ask only for time. Let me consider what it means—and what it will cost."
"The young lord is right," Karstark added. "Let him think. We reconvene in an hour."
There were murmurs of assent. Some grumbled. Some did not. But they dispersed. Slowly.
Once alone in his solar, Robb dropped into a chair and pressed both hands into his hair. Grief found him again—sharp and unrelenting.
"They're expecting me to wear it," he muttered. "If I refuse, we risk losing the men. And the riverlords—that's not just one kingdom. That's two."
He looked to his mother. She met his gaze with quiet sorrow.
"How did Father bear it?" he asked. "The weight?"
"One day at a time," she said softly. "And with good counsel."
"The riverlords fear Stannis's god," the Blackfish added. "And they haven't forgotten how both Baratheon brothers stood silent while the Lannisters torched their homes. You're the only one who fought for them."
Robb looked to Ruyan. Her face revealed nothing. But her eyes said it clearly: I warned you.
"If it can't be helped," she said, "then accept the crown. But withhold formal declaration."
"Until when?" asked the Blackfish.
"Until you've bloodied the Westerlands," she answered. "Kings are made by victories, not ceremonies."
"Stannis will call it treason either way," the Blackfish warned. "But Renly might still be an option. Two crowns can share an enemy."
Robb rubbed his temples. "And if he refuses, we'll need other allies."
"We'll deal with that when it comes," his mother said.
He stood again, the weight returning to his shoulders. Before he could speak, Ruyan stepped forward.
"May I speak with Robb alone?"
Catelyn and the Blackfish withdrew. The room fell silent.
Ruyan stood before him, calm as ever. He envied her poise. Envied how she never seemed to flinch beneath pressure.
"Don't expect anything from Renly," she said. "He hasn't reached out. That tells you everything."
He nodded once. "What are you thinking?"
Her voice shifted—quieter, but sharper.
"Robb, we don't have enough men. Even with the riverlords, this war can't be won with swords alone." She paused. "Let me help you. My way. The YiTish way."
His stomach sank. "What does that mean?"
"I want freedom to dismantle their command structure. In Westeros, your lords are your generals—titles passed down by blood, not by merit. That is your weakness. And it can be theirs."
Realization hit like cold steel.
"You mean to eliminate them."
"Yes," she said. "Kill the commanders. The army collapses. Succession struggles follow. Supply chains break. Morale dies."
"That's assassination," he said, harsher than he meant. "That's not how we fight. It's not honorable."
She didn't flinch.
"Then let me raid. Target their camps. Their supplies. Hit fast, vanish faster. Create chaos."
He said nothing.
"You'd lead them yourself?" he asked. But he already knew the answer.
"I would."
"No." It came out too fast. "If they catch you—if they take you—"
"I am not without skill, Robb."
"I know." He looked away.
He didn't say what echoed in his head:
Not after Father. Not with Sansa and Arya still captive. Not when you're the only one left holding this alliance together.
But he didn't need to. She wasn't the kind of woman who needed words.
"I am more than your wife," she said. "Let me be what I was trained to be."
He knew she was right. She had always been more—princess, warrior, strategist, the still center of every storm.
But what she didn't understand—what he hadn't known until that night—was that she was also his.
Not in the way a lord claims a bride.
Not by duty or contract or crown.
But in the quiet way she had let him touch her.
In the way she had kissed him back, even in grief.
She was more than his wife.
But to him, she was his wife first.
The one he had started to care for.
The one he was starting to see—not just as a weapon or a banner, but as a woman.
Mine, some part of him whispered.
Not as possession.
As vow.
He exhaled, long and low. Then nodded.
"You'll take my men. I'll have the Blackfish help choose them. No more than what's needed."
She bowed her head. Formal. Controlled.
They stepped out into the light. The lords were waiting.
Robb didn't ask for permission.
He took her hand.
Let them see.
If they were going to crown him king—
Then they would have to crown her queen.
Not a consort.
Not a prize.
Not the foreign bride he'd been forced to take.
His equal.
His partner.
The woman he had chosen.