The Great Hall of Pyke was a dreary, cavernous space, smelling eternally of damp stone, old smoke, and the bitter salt of the sea. Yet, on this particular morning, it was filled with the vibrant, triumphant colors of the mainland. The banners of the stag, the falcon, the lion, the rose, the trout, and the direwolf hung from the high rafters, completely overwhelming the golden kraken of the defeated host.
The proceedings were finished. Balon Greyjoy had knelt, his pride shattered, his fleet at the bottom of the sea, and his surviving heir shipped away to the Westerlands. The reparations had been signed, the thralldom abolished, and the Iron Islands permanently shackled by the decrees of the Iron Throne.
Eddard Stark stood near the massive, oily black stone of the Seastone Chair, which King Robert currently used as a footrest. The Warden of the North looked out over the assembled lords of the realm. They had bled together, marched together, and broken a rebellion together. Now, the frenzy of battle was fading, replaced by the weary anticipation of the long journey home.
Ned stepped forward, raising a hand. The low murmur of conversations in the hall quieted, the lords turning their attention to the man who had breached the unbreachable walls of Pyke.
"My Lords," Ned's voice resonated clearly through the damp hall. "The war is won. The King's justice has been delivered, and the peace of the realm is secured."
A polite, tired cheer went up from the gathered nobility.
"Many of you will turn your sails south and east today, eager to return to your hearths and your families," Ned continued. "But before the host scatters to the winds, House Stark would extend an invitation."
Ned looked toward the heavy oak doors, where his brother Benjen stood beside the towering, fierce figure of Dacey Mormont.
"The Ironborn rebellion interrupted a matter of great joy in the North," Ned announced, a rare, genuine smile touching his features. "My brother, Lord Benjen Stark of Sea, was entirely ready to speak his vows before the Heart Tree when Balon Greyjoy decided to test our patience. We delayed the celebration to answer the King's call."
Ned swept his gaze across the room, catching the eyes of the high lords.
"I invite every lord who campaigned in this war to join us. The wedding of Lord Benjen Stark and Lady Dacey Mormont shall take place in a fortnight. We will host the celebration not in the cold of Winterfell, but at my brother's new seat—Sea Dragon Point. It is but a short voyage up the coast from these miserable rocks. Come. Drink our ale, eat our meat, and celebrate the peace we have forged."
For a moment, the hall was silent as the lords weighed the prospect of a Northern wedding against the comfort of their own beds.
King Robert Baratheon did not hesitate.
Robert kicked his boots off the Seastone Chair and vaulted to his feet. A massive, booming grin split his black beard.
"A wedding?!" Robert roared, his voice shaking the dust from the rafters. "By the Gods, Ned, that is the best news I have heard since we smashed their fleet! Finally, a reason to drink for joy instead of drinking to forget the smell of this wretched island!"
Jon Arryn sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "Your Grace, the capital requires your presence. The realm..."
"The realm can wait!" Robert interrupted, waving a massive hand dismissively at his Hand. "The realm is perfectly safe! The dragons are gone, the squids are broken. What am I to do in King's Landing? Sit on that chair of daggers and listen to minor lords complain about grain taxes? No! I am going to the North! I want to see this new castle of Benjen's, and I want to drink that clear firewater until I cannot feel my own face!"
Robert clapped a hand on Ned's shoulder, leaning in close. "You have saved me, Ned. You have given me an excuse to avoid my council for another moon. I am the first to accept your invitation."
Ned chuckled quietly. "You are always welcome, Your Grace. We will ensure the cellars are fully stocked."
The King's enthusiastic endorsement broke the dam. If the King was attending, it was no longer merely a wedding; it was a royal procession. The political weight of the event shifted instantly, and the high lords quickly began recalculating their travel plans.
---
That night, the royal encampment outside the walls of Pyke was quieter than it had been in weeks. The siege engines were being dismantled, the tents packed away, and the spoils of war loaded onto the transport galleys.
Ned sat alone in his stark, unadorned command pavilion. The wind howled off the Sunset Sea, snapping the heavy canvas, but the brazier in the corner kept the biting chill at bay. He was reviewing the supply manifests for the Western Fleet when the flap of his tent parted.
Maester Vyman, an older, diligent man who had accompanied the Northern host from Winterfell, stepped inside. He bowed low, his chain of office clinking softly.
"A raven, Lord Stark," the Maester said, extending a small, tightly rolled scroll sealed with white wax. "From Winterfell. Maester Luwin sent it with the utmost urgency."
Ned took the scroll, his heart giving a sudden, sharp thud against his ribs. A raven from home during a war could mean disaster. A Wildling breach. An illness.
He broke the seal with his thumb and unrolled the parchment near the light of the oil lamp. He recognized Luwin's neat, precise handwriting immediately.
To Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North,
The Gods have smiled upon Winterfell. Lady Ashara has been delivered of a healthy, strong child. The labor was swift and without complication. It is a boy, my Lord. He has the dark hair of his father, and the lungs of a true wolf. Lady Ashara rests comfortably and sends her deepest love, demanding your swift return.
The castle rejoices. We await your word on the boy's naming.
Maester Luwin.
Ned read the letter twice. Then a third time.
The tension that had resided in his shoulders for months finally melted away, replaced by an overwhelming wave of relief and joy. Another son. Another wolf for the pack. While he had been bringing fire and sword to the Iron Islands, Ashara had brought new life into the world.
He lowered the parchment, a wide, unguarded smile breaking across his face.
"Good news, my Lord?" Maester Vyman asked tentatively, seeing the change in his liege lord's demeanor.
"The best news, Vyman," Ned breathed, looking up. "My wife has given birth. A boy. Healthy and strong."
Vyman's face broke into a delighted smile. "Congratulations, Lord Stark! That is a true blessing. The Old Gods and the New watch over your house."
"They do," Ned agreed. He moved to his small writing desk, pulling forward a fresh sheet of thick parchment and an inkwell. "I must write to her immediately. And to Rodrik. And to Dorne."
Ned dipped his quill, his mind racing.
First, he wrote to Ashara. The letter was not the formal correspondence of a lord, but the desperate, affectionate words of a husband who had been away too long. He wrote of his profound relief, of his longing to see her and hold their new child. He praised her strength. And at the bottom of the parchment, he wrote the name he had chosen for the boy.
Rickard.
It was a name that carried the weight of the North. It honored the father he had lost to the Mad King's fire, the Lord who had shaped the North before him. Rickard Stark. It felt right.
Next, he penned a swift, authoritative missive to Ser Rodrik Cassel in Winterfell.
Rodrik, the war is won. We sail for Sea Dragon Point to celebrate my brother's wedding. Send word to the keeps of the West to ensure the larders are full and the roads are clear. Bring an honor guard from Winterfell to the coast. The King rides with us, and we must show him the true hospitality of the North.
Finally, Ned took a third piece of parchment. This one required more delicate phrasing. He addressed it to Prince Doran Martell and Prince Oberyn Martell at Sunspear.
He wrote of the victory at Pyke, knowing the Dornish would appreciate the humbling of the arrogant Ironborn. But the true purpose of the letter was the invitation. He formally invited the Princes of Dorne to travel to Sea Dragon Point for the wedding.
He sealed the three letters with the direwolf stamp and handed them to Maester Vyman.
"Send these at first light," Ned commanded.
"At once, Lord Stark," Vyman bowed, taking the letters and departing into the windy night.
Ned poured himself a small measure of Winter's Breath from his private flask. He raised the silver cup to the shadows of the tent.
"To Rickard," Ned whispered softly, drinking the fiery spirit.
---
The next morning, the encampment was a hive of chaotic, joyful activity. The men knew they were going home, or at least, going to a feast.
Ned found Robert near the docks, loudly directing a group of unfortunate squires who were struggling to load a massive, captured Ironborn kraken statue onto the King's flagship.
"Careful with that, you clumsy fools!" Robert bellowed. "I intend to mount that monstrosity over the gates of the Red Keep! I want everyone who enters my city to know what happens to those who cross the Stag!"
"It is an ugly piece of metal, Bobby," Ned noted, walking up beside the King.
"It is a trophy, Ned!" Robert laughed, turning to face his friend. "It will look magnificent."
Ned smiled. "I bring better news than captured iron. A raven arrived from Winterfell in the night. Ashara has given birth."
Robert's eyes widened, and he let out a cheer that startled the seagulls circling the harbor.
"Another pup!" Robert roared, throwing a heavy arm around Ned's shoulders and pulling him into a bone-rattling embrace. "By the Gods, Ned! You are relentless! A boy or a girl?"
"A boy," Ned said, extracting himself from the King's grip. "We are naming him Rickard."
Robert's boisterous demeanor softened for a fraction of a second at the mention of the name. He remembered the stern, unyielding Lord Rickard who had been burned alive for demanding justice.
"Rickard," Robert repeated softly. He nodded his head in profound respect. "It is a good name, Ned. A strong name. He would be proud of you. Look at what you have built."
Robert shook off the melancholy instantly, his customary exuberance returning. "Well! We have even more reason to celebrate now! A wedding, a victory, and a new son! Tell your captains to raise the sails, Ned. I cannot wait to see this Sea Dragon Point. I hope your brewers have been working overtime!"
"They have, Your Grace," Ned assured him.
---
As the morning progressed, the great host began to fracture. The burden of moving tens of thousands of men meant that not everyone could attend a wedding on the Northern coast.
The vast majority of the Southern infantry, the heavy horse of the Reach, and the common foot soldiers of the Riverlands were ordered to board the transport galleys and sail south, back to their respective liege lords and harvests.
However, a select group of high lords chose to remain behind, accepting Ned's invitation for a myriad of different, highly personal reasons.
Ned stood near the command tents, watching the departures, when the towering, golden figure of Lord Tywin Lannister approached him.
Tywin did not look like a man who had just won a war. He looked like a man who had been deeply, personally insulted. The burning of the Lannister fleet at Lannisport was a humiliation that Tywin would not soon forget, nor forgive. He had spent the entire campaign on Pyke directing the siege with a cold, ruthless efficiency, but the victory brought him no joy.
"Lord Stark," Tywin said, his voice a flat, emotionless drawl.
"Lord Tywin," Ned replied evenly.
"I must decline your invitation to the North," Tywin stated, his green eyes calculating. "The Westerlands require my immediate attention. The Ironborn filth burned my shipyards. I must return to Casterly Rock to oversee the construction of a new fleet. I will not have the western coast left vulnerable to further insolence."
"A wise precaution," Ned agreed politely. He knew Tywin's pride was wounded by the sheer dominance of the Northern Carracks. Tywin intended to build ships that could rival them, a task that would consume his gold and his time for years to come.
"However," Tywin continued, his gaze drifting to the side. "House Lannister will be represented at the wedding. I am leaving my son, Jaime, to accompany the King's procession."
Ned glanced over Tywin's shoulder. Standing a few paces away, Ser Jaime Lannister was pointedly ignoring his father, pretending to inspect the sharpness of his sword.
Tywin lowered his voice slightly. "He requires... exposure to the realm as my heir. He spent too long hiding behind a white cloak. See that he conducts himself with the dignity required of his station."
"Ser Jaime is a grown man, Lord Tywin," Ned said mildly. "He requires no supervision from me."
Tywin offered a stiff, formal nod. "We shall see. Safe voyage, Lord Stark."
The Old Lion turned and stalked toward his flagship, his crimson cloak dragging in the dust.
Once his father was out of earshot, Jaime Lannister moved over to Ned. The young knight let out a long, theatrical exhale, the tension bleeding from his shoulders.
"Praise the Seven," Jaime muttered, flashing his trademark, arrogant grin. "I thought he would never leave. If I had to endure another week on a ship with him lecturing me about the price of timber and the legacy of the Rock, I would have thrown myself into the sea."
"You are eager for the North, then?" Ned asked, amused by the young lion's transparent relief.
"I am eager for anywhere my father is not," Jaime corrected, mounting his horse with fluid grace. "Besides, I have developed a taste for your Northern spirits. And I wish Tyrion were here. My little brother would absolutely revel in the misery of these Ironborn, and he would drink your wedding feast dry. Alas, he is stuck in Casterly Rock, reading books and annoying my aunt."
"Perhaps he can attend the next one," Ned offered.
"Perhaps," Jaime laughed.
Nearby, Lord Mace Tyrell was engaged in a loud, blustering conversation with Paxter Redwyne. The Lord of Highgarden had also elected to stay and travel to Sea Dragon Point.
Mace claimed loudly to anyone who would listen that he was staying to "honor the brave Northmen and strengthen the bonds of the realm." In truth, Mace was terrified of returning to Highgarden to Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns. Mace was using the wedding as a convenient, royal excuse to delay facing his mother's sharp tongue for at least another moon.
Standing apart from the boisterous Tyrells was Lord Randyll Tarly.
The austere, martial Lord of Horn Hill had no love for feasts, and even less love for the cold. Yet, he too had accepted the invitation.
Ned watched as Tarly stood near the edge of the Northern encampment, his dark eyes fixed intently on a squad of Wolfguard. The young, grey-cloaked warriors were breaking down their tents, moving with a silent, terrifying efficiency. They did not shout orders; they moved as a unified host, anticipating each other's actions.
He was also coming to the wedding of Benjen and Dacey.
As the morning wore on, the alliances of the new reign solidified. Lord Hoster Tully and his brother, Brynden the Blackfish, confirmed they would attend, eager to show the realm that the Riverlands remained firmly tied to the Baratheon-Stark coalition. Yohn Royce, the imposing Lord of Runestone, stepped forward to represent the Vale, bringing his booming voice and bronze armor to the Northern party.
Noticeably absent from the revelers was Stannis Baratheon.
The Master of Ships had marched up to Ned earlier in the day, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might shatter.
"I am returning to Dragonstone, Lord Stark," Stannis had announced rigidly. "The Royal Fleet requires refitting. And I have a wife who expects my return. I have no time for dancing, drinking, or... frivolity." The word frivolity sounded like a curse in his mouth.
"Duty calls us all, Lord Stannis," Ned had replied respectfully. "We will drink a toast to your health."
"Do not waste the wine," Stannis had grunted before turning on his heel and marching away, leaving a wake of stern disapproval behind him.
Jon Arryn, too, was departing, though with far more grace than Stannis.
The elderly Hand of the King looked exhausted. The war had taken a toll on him, and the prospect of managing the realm's coin while the King went on a Northern holiday weighed heavily on his shoulders.
"Keep an eye on him, Ned," Jon Arryn had requested privately, looking toward where Robert was loudly arguing with a ship captain. "Someone must sit the Iron Throne and manage the debt the realm. If the King is not present, the Hand must be. Try to ensure he does not completely empty your treasury, or break his neck on a hunt."
"I will manage him, Jon," Ned promised. "Get some rest in the capital. The hard part is over."
---
By midday, the sorting of the armies was complete.
The transport galleys of the South rowed out of the harbor, turning their prows toward the warmer waters of the Reach and the Westerlands.
Remaining in the harbor were the fifty massive Northern Carracks, and the King's heavily damaged, but still functional, flagship, the Stag's Wrath.
Ned stood on the high quarterdeck of the Winter's Wrath. The captured Ironborn longship, the Silence, was secured by heavy towing chains to the rear of the Northern flagship, a dark, silent trophy of their absolute victory.
He was giving his captain the order to cast off when heavy, uneven footsteps sounded on the gangplank.
"Hold the lines!" a booming voice commanded.
Ned turned to see King Robert Baratheon stomping aboard the Northern flagship, flanked by two bewildered Kingsguard knights. Robert carried a skin of wine in one hand and a half-eaten leg of mutton in the other.
"Robert?" Ned asked, surprised. "Your ship is the Stag's Wrath."
"I am not sailing on that battered piece of driftwood," Robert announced loudly, tossing the mutton bone over the side and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "The Stag's Wrath smells of bilge water, rotting fish, and Jon Arryn's lingering complaints. The sails are torn and the captain has a face like a sour plum."
Robert looked around the immaculate, towering deck of the Winter's Wrath with deep appreciation.
"I'm sailing with you, Ned!" Robert declared, clapping Ned on the shoulder. "Your ships ride smoother, your cabins are larger, and most importantly, you have the good liquor. Why suffer in a leaky bucket when I can sail on a floating fortress with my brother?"
Ned let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "As you command, Your Grace. The flagship is yours."
"Good!" Robert grinned, turning to his Kingsguard. "Go tell the rest of my party to follow us or drown, I don't care which. Ned and I have catching up to do!"
The wind caught the massive lateen sails. The Carracks pulled away from the desolate, jagged rocks of Pyke, leaving the broken Iron Islands behind.
"Set the course," Ned commanded his captain, as Robert loudly uncorked a fresh bottle of Northern spirits beside him. "Take us to the Sea Dragon."