26-The Grand Northern Council

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognizable characters, plots, and settings are exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki and Ashestodust. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

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If you want to waste some money on me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name.

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Jon Stark

A big purple wing flapped and Doren, the saddle-maker, backed away quickly but not before he was showered in snow from head to toe.

Stormstrider roared at Jon with annoyance as soon as he approached again. Seeing that the dragon was still baring his teeth Jon smacked his scaly snout, making the dragon snap his jaw shut.

"Don't bear your fangs at me, you overgrown child," he warned the dragon who was looking at him indignantly.

Wrangling with a dragon without any mental bond turned out to be far harder than expected. He had no way to call Stormstrider without the link and warging into the purple menace had become impossible. So he had to wait for him to land near his usual resting spot next to the glass gardens. Now he had to make him sit still to get measured for a saddle, otherwise, Shireen would not be able to ride him. And since she was to be abed for nearly a week, it fell to him to deal with this. Not to mention that Jon was unsure how much control she could exert over the dragon without occlumency and a warging bond.

All of his dragons were as intelligent as any human, but they were very wilful and playful, aside Bloodfyre, who was…lazy. Which was not too unexpected considering they were barely three months old.

The problem was that nothing that he tried managed to coax Stormstrider into allowing the saddle-maker to get near. Did he have to beat the purple drake into submission?

"If you don't come to get measured for a saddle, Shireen will only be riding with me on Winter from now on and you can only look on the side," Jon tried threatening and the purple dragon suddenly froze for a moment before throwing him a look of utter betrayal before finally standing still.

So he understood him just fine and was simply being difficult. Did Stormstrider pick Shireen just because he wanted to have a rider and she had the most valyrian blood around? Gods, his future wife had her work cut out for her. Thankfully Bloodfyre preferred to sleep around all day near one of the pools in the godswood. The crimson dragon had the most mellow temper out of his clutch and ignored everything and everyone as long as it did not bother him.

"Come, Doren, take those measurements while the spitfire is still," Jon beckoned the snow-covered saddle-maker over and the poor man came over fearfully.

It took about five minutes for the saddle-maker to finish with his trembling hands. Just as the man was heading back to his workshop, Stormstrider snorted and with a whip of his tail lashed more snow towards Doren, making Jon sigh.

There was still some time until the council began so he headed back to the Great Keep and called for his sisters. Jon absentmindedly sank into his tapered chair and began playing with his bronze dagger while waiting. It took less than ten minutes for Arya and Sansa to arrive.

"You called for us, Jon?" the older sister inquired curiously after they sat down on two of the chairs in the room.

"Aye, I have finally decided on who will be your future good-sister, so you no longer have to keep an eye on the northern ladies," he said with a twitch in his lips.

"I'm glad you've finally chosen, Jon. At least now I won't have to awkwardly watch how Wylla Manderly gushes all over you anymore," Sansa replied with a small smile, eliciting a snort from her younger sister.

"Does this have anything to do with the rumour that you carried a bloodied Shireen Baratheon on your dragon?" Arya asked suspiciously. It had scarcely been two hours, yet rumours were flying around already. This almost rivalled the speed of the Hogwarts rumour mill.

"Yes, it does. Shireen Baratheon is the new rider of Stormstrider and has agreed to wed me," Jon said and his sisters both looked stunned.

The room fell completely silent for a few moments and Sansa suddenly giggled.

Arya looked at her sister in disbelief as if she was seeing her for the first time. Jon himself looked in surprise at his red-headed sister. Ever since she had come to find him in Castle Black, she had smiled a few times but it had been a rare thing. He had not heard her laugh a single time, let alone something as innocent as a giggle. It took Sansa half a minute to calm down.

"What's so funny, Sansa?" he asked curiously.

"Robert Baratheon had wanted to unite House Stark and House Baratheon for twenty years and all his attempts were in vain. Lyanna was spirited away by Rhaegar, and Joffrey was not truly his son. But now, you, the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar," she uttered both names with a whisper," are going to wed Shireen, the daughter of Robert's unloved brother that few thought would live to adulthood because of the greyscale," she finished with a giggle.

Jon snorted and Arya rolled her eyes. He could see the irony in the situation.

"How did she manage to tame the dragon? I thought you needed to be a Valyrian to ride one," his younger sister asked suspiciously.

"Did you forget that Orys Baratheon was the half-brother of Aegon the Dragon?" Sansa finally regained her bearings and replied with amusement in her voice.

"No, I know that already, but it's ancient history!" Arya protested and Jon sighed. Did she even listen to anything the maester taught her?

"Not too ancient. And that's not the only person in House Baratheon with Targaryen Blood. There was a Velaryon marriage more than two hundred years ago. And Shireen's great-grandmother was Rhaelle Targaryen, the daughter of Aegon the Unlikely" the elder sister countered after a short pause. "Robert Baratheon claimed the Iron Throne both by blood and by conquest. And it doesn't matter anymore, does it? You cannot afford any other House in the North to gain a dragon through marriage with Shireen."

"At least she's not stupid or fat," Arya said with a shrug and Sansa couldn't help but sigh. "Did she truly get wounded though?"

"Shireen mounted Stormstrider without a saddle. Her hands and legs were bruised and cut by the dragon's scales and she will be confined to bed rest for nearly a sennight. Sansa, could you organise the wedding?"

His sister's blue eyes lit up with joy. "I'd love to, Jon. But I've never organised one before! I'm not sure I can handle it properly.

"Don't worry, there's a veritable army of northern ladies here in Winterfell that would be glad to lend you a hand," he replied mischievously.

Sansa hummed thoughtfully then nodded in agreement. "When will the ceremony be?"

"In a fortnight. All the Lords are already here, there is no point in dallying."

***

Torrhen Flint

Every single part of his body hurt, including his head. This… maester had made him practice his sums and letters so much that his mind still felt muddled hours later. But he would persevere and complete every task that the king asked of him. It was a great honour to be the squire of the Stark of Winterfell, and an even greater one to be the squire of the second Stark king in three hundred years and Torrhen would not disappoint. He kneaded his sore muscles in a bid to ease them up and headed towards the smithy.

He entered the building, only to be assaulted by the metallic smell of charcoal. The man inside was hammering an orange piece of steel upon his anvil. However, as soon as Torrhen entered he stopped and turned around.

"I've gathered a fitting set of plate for you from the armoury, lad. But first, let's put this arming doublet on you." Artos wiped his sweaty brow and nodded towards a plain grey cloth sitting on a wooden chair nearby. The smith helped him and a few minutes later he was fully armoured.

It was not as heavy as expected, but moving in it quickly became cumbersome, especially for Torrhen who was feeling tired from the intense morning. Just imagining spending all his days in armour made his limbs feel heavy. At least the arming doublet underneath kept him warm from the frigid northern air outside.

Torrhen walked past the wide oaken doors of the Great Hall. The High Table, where all the important northern lords and ladies usually gathered, was no longer on the raised platform. Only the Throne of Winter stood on a further elevated dais. All the other tables below were pushed to the sides, leaving an open wide space in the middle. Torrhen went to the raised platform and stood waiting, near one of the banner-covered walls, where the King could call upon him.

Soon, the Lords began to slowly tickle in the Great Hall. Most of the faces had shaggy beards, but some had begun following the king's example and were cleanshaven. Some were old and grey, some were young, but all of them had a bloody hardness to them. The North had always been a harsh place, and the last few years had been especially hard and bloody.

Jon Stark entered, gave him a subtle nod on the way, and sat on the throne. Torrhen expected that the king would request him to carry his weapon, as was his duty as a squire. But no such request ever came and he noticed that Jon Stark always kept his sword within arms reach, no matter where he was. Even now, the blade that had earlier cleaved through stone as if it was silk was laying on the stone arm of the king's seat. Mayhaps there was some truth in the rumour that he was betrayed by the Black Brothers of the Watch. Soon, the Lord Hand joined the king on the platform and stood on his right.

It took another fifteen minutes for everyone of importance to show up. Torrhen looked around carefully and, to his surprise, realised that all the Houses sworn directly to the Starks were here. Every single northern lord and lady of importance was in this hall. For some unknown reason, even the skaglords had left their stony island to come to Winterfell. According to his father, Donnel, the last time the skags had come to the mainland was when Brandon Stark, the youngest son of Cregan, had crushed their rebellion and forced them to kneel.

The king picked up his sword and stood up from the winter throne, making the whispers in the hall quickly cease. He gave a signal with his hand and a pair of guardsmen closed the doors of the Great Hall.

"My lords, many of you wonder why I have called for this gathering today," Jon Stark's voice boomed within the quiet hall as everyone listened on with attention. "First, I have an announcement to make. Shireen Baratheon has become the new dragonrider of Stormstrider. I have asked the lady for her hand in marriage and she agreed. Shireen Baratheon and I will wed in a fortnight! The North now has not one, but two dragonriders!"

The hall was deathly silent for a long heartbeat until Lords Umber Mazin stood up and cheered. Quickly, most of the hall was filled with jubilation. Torrhen couldn't help but blink at the news. He had seen the little stag lady – she always looked rather happy and sweet, despite the scarring on her face. The servants had whispered that she was blessed by the old gods. Now, the girl was to become the Queen.

After a minute the commotion died down, and an old man with a sharp face stood up. Torrhen noticed the crossed bronze keys of House Locke adorning the man's silken doublet. This was probably Ondrew Locke, the Lord of Oldcastle and head of House Locke.

"Your Grace, does this mean that we'll go south to make Shireen Baratheon the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?" the old man asked cautiously and murmuring quickly filled the hall.

"No, Lord Locke. Shireen Baratheon is going to be only a queen to the North. Neither she nor I have any interest in ruling anything south of the Neck and a Stark's place is in Winterfell," The King replied evenly and the old lord sat down with a somewhat satisfied expression on his face. "Three hundred years ago, Torrhen Stark bent the knee to spare the North of dragonfire. Now, with three dragons of our own, we have no such fear. House Stark will no longer bend to anyone. Not the so-called Aegon Targaryen, not the Mad King's daughter Daenerys, and certainly not Tommen Baratheon who looks more like a lion than a stag."

"Hear, hear!" Lord Umber's unmistakable voice boomed and soon the hall was filled with deafening exclamations.

"Our quarrel with the South is now done. Joffrey died at his wedding, my sister, Arya, personally sliced the throat of Walder Frey and bathed the Twins in blood for the Red Wedding, and Tywin Lannister was killed by his son on the privy. Balon Greyjoy slipped during a storm and fell from a bridge," laughter spread across the hall. "And every last Ironborn that dared to stay in the North lost his head. If anyone wants the north, they're welcome to come and try. The Moat is heavily garrisoned again with men under Jorelle Mormont, and with the help of Lord Manderly and the crannogmen, it is being restored. But we have more enemies to the north. Ser Brynden, bring it here," the king nodded towards the master-at-arms, who quickly sent a man away.

"Your Grace, I thought that the wildlings," Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch's sharp voice chewed on that word as if it was sour, "had sworn to you? Were you not the one to let them pass through the Wall?"

Torrhen looked in surprise at the woman. Did she not know?! She bore the name Flint just like him, but her branch had split away from the Flints of the mountains thousands of years ago and they no longer considered each other kin.

"Only those who swore to keep to the King's Peace, defend the Wall, and gave tribute and hostages to the Watch were allowed passage. And just the chieftains that fought with me against the Boltons were allowed to swear fealty to me and mine!" The King sharply retorted and the Lady of Widow's Watch shrank back under his heavy gaze. She was one of the bannermen that did not send any men to fight against the Boltons. "But nay, the free folk are not the enemy, not anymore. If any of them break the King's Peace or laws, they will be dealt with accordingly, just like everyone else."

At that moment, the doors of the Great Hall were opened again and a pair of stout guardsmen carried in a rather large oaken chest covered completely in chains. They carefully lowered it into the empty clearing in the middle of the Great Hall. As soon as it hit the ground, the chest rattled and Torrhen shivered, despite being right next to a brazier. A smell of rot and decay waffled in the air and made him scrunch his nose.

After a nod from the king, the guardsmen carefully started unlocking and removing the chains from the ominously rattling chest. In the end, the lock was unlocked with a rusty click and the guardsmen cautiously moved away. The lid of the chest was banged open and Torrhen's heart froze for a moment. A half-rotten moving corpse, with hands and feet bound in heavy black manacles, fell out and was wriggling furiously on the floor.

The thing's eyes were bright blue and his legs and feet were unnaturally swollen. The stench of rot and decay assaulted his nose even harder and he found himself losing his lunch on the ground. When Torrhen finally managed to regain his bearings, he noticed that some of the lords and ladies had retreated with their backs to the wall and almost everyone had a weapon drawn. The skaglords were even swearing loudly in the old tongue. With great shame he realised that he was the only one that retched. He fearfully looked at his father, Donnel, who was thankfully entranced by the sight of the dead thing in the middle of the room. If his father had seen his shameful display, he would have tanned his hide.

"By the fucking gods, is this a wight?!" Lord Umber yelled as he held his greatsword ready to strike. With a decisive stride, he went near the struggling corpse on the floor and slashed with his weapon, cleaving it in two through the waist.

The wight gave an unholy screech that made Torrhen's ears ring and blood chill. Both parts of the corpse continued struggling on the ground, unaffected from being cleaved in two. The Greatjon quickly backed away, holding his greatsword raised in front of him.

A mighty boot stepped on the upper part of the struggling wight and pinned it to the ground effortlessly. Jon Stark stood atop the corpse with a burning torch in one hand and his sword drawn in the other. The lower part of the corpse was still attempting to move, despite the heavy manacles that chained its feet together.

"Aye, Lord Umber. It seems that an ancient evil has stirred from the Lands of Always Winter once again. The Others walk beyond the Wall once again and the ability to raise the dead as wights is true. I have fought them at the battle of Hardhome. This was the reason I let the free folk pass the Wall," The King's voice boomed across the silent Great Hall.

"It's true, king wolf saved our hides at Hardhome!" a tall redheaded man who Torrhen didn't recognise spoke up with a reverberating voice. This was probably one of the wildling chieftains that swore to the king. "He even slew a Walker in single combat!"

As the hall was quickly filled with whispers, Jon Stark gave a brief nod towards the wildling man.

"As Lord Umber kindly demonstrated, regular steel does nothing to them. During my time in the Watch, we found three things that can kill a wight. Fire," the king tossed the burning torch on the rattling legs which were quickly enveloped by flames and turned to ash within seconds, leaving only charred bones and the black shackles behind. "Fire makes them burn out like an oiled torch. The White Walkers however are undeterred by flames." He then took a small black stone dagger from his belt and raised it. "Dragonglass and spell-forged metals like Valyrian Steel can slay them and their undead thralls."

He thrust the dagger into the upper body and it stopped struggling. The bright blue eyes lost their terrifying glow. The king picked up the weakly burning torch from the floor and set the other part of the corpse on fire. The rancid smell of rot and decay was replaced with the stench of charred flesh which quickly disappeared as soon as only ashes were left from the previously moving cadaver. Torrhen finally released his breath and let out a sigh of relief. The whole hall was silent. Some of the lords and ladies looked shaken, while others had grim expressions upon their hardened faces. Gods, did this mean that the Long Night was coming?

The very thought made him freeze. Being the king's squire became even more dangerous now, as no Stark ever shied away from leading from the front. If there was to be a grand Battle for the Dawn once again, Jon Stark would doubtlessly be in the thick of the fighting and Torrhen would have to be right next to him, as his trusty squire. He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth, trying to chase the fear away. He was a Flint of the Mountains and not some craven, and when the time came, he'd die fighting, sword in hand!

"By the gods," he heard Lyessa Flint murmur. The lady of Flint's Fingers looked just as pale and shaken as Torrhen probably did.

"Lord Glover and the mountain chieftains have been gathering dragonglass, and we have started sending shipments of daggers, arrows and spear tips to the Watch," The king continued sombrely. "This means we have the means to defeat this enemy. But it will not be enough."

"What are we supposed to do against these...White Walkers?" a tall young man with a claw scar across his cheek spoke up after half a minute. "Won't the Wall protect us? Was it not raised for this very purpose by Bran the Builder?"

"Aye, it was, Lord Dustin. Though we do not know if the White Walkers could find a way to bypass it. And any wall is only as good as the men protecting it. The Night's Watch has been in decay for a long time and scarcely has half a thousand warriors across three castles. The wildlings that were allowed south of the Wall already guard a few of the abandoned holdfasts of the Watch. Every northern lord will send a third of their men to bolster the Watch. No oaths need to be given to the Watch, but we cannot let the Wall stay undermanned."

Torrhen was born at the beginning of the last summer. He had never seen a winter before, but he knew it was coming. The sun's warmth could scarcely melt only a tiny bit of the slowly thickening blanket of snow, which meant that travel across the North would become incredibly hard. He had heard stories from his grandfather, how it could snow for a whole sennight without stopping, piling up higher than the roof of Flint's Hall. Whatever help was sent to the Watch while the roads were still passable would be the last it would get. Both the Bay of Ice and the Bay of seals were too dangerous in Winter because of the floating chunks of ice and the fierce storms. Only the king who could fly there with his dragon. And the Queen too, though she did not look like a fighter.

"Would a third of our men be enough?!" Greatjon's question boomed across the great hall.

"This is the most we can send without letting them all starve. The Watch scarcely has supplies left, and you would be hard-pressed to send more or forage too much from the Gift during winter," the King said sombrely and the hall fell into a deafening silence. Only the soft crackling of the hearth and the nearby braziers could be heard.

"For how long will our men stay in the Gift?" Lord Dustin inquired.

"Until we manage to reform the Night's Watch so it does not need our help in holding the Wall or the threat of the White Walkers is dealt with completely. All the Lords near the Wall must be ready to aid the Watch in case of an attack."

***

Genna Lannister, Riverrun

She stabbed her fork into the roasted mallard in front of her. Genna tried her hardest to ignore the succulent smell coming from the appetising dish in front of her and looked up.

"I think I've misheard you. Could you repeat what you said again?" she spoke in a dangerously low tone and glared.

Across the table, her bald husband spluttered nervously and shrank back into his seat. After a minute of silence, he finally gathered his courage and spoke again.

"I am going to the Crossing. All descendants of my elder brother Stevron are now dead. The Twins are mine by right!"

Gods, her stupid husband had truly taken a leave of his senses.

"Is not Marianne Vance, his granddaughter, still alive and well?"

"She is not a Frey, Genna," he replied with a scowl and stood up. Emmon was always a small and thin man, and even when he stood up and tried to posture, he looked unimpressive at best. Genna would have burst out in laughter at the sight if he was not being deadly serious.

"My Lord Husband, according to the andal inheritance law, her claim precedes yours. And do you truly want to go to that cursed castle?" Genna implored him. "More than a dozen Freys have died fighting to claim the seat after the Stranger's Feast!"

That's what people had begun calling the death of every single man, woman, and child in the Twins during a feast. According to the smallfolk, the gods themselves were offended by such heinous affair like breaking Guest Rights, and the Stranger himself had come down and taken every life in the Crossing.

Though it was most probably someone one of the now numerous enemies of House Frey that had snuck in and poisoned them, pinning the blame on the extinct House Stark. In truth, it mattered little, the name of House Frey was now forever tarnished and every member of the House would have to look behind their back for all the numerous enemies they had made. And without Old Walder, his foolish descendants had started slaughtering each other over the Lordship.

"This is why I must go, with all the claimants out of the way, my grandson Willem will easily become the next Lord of the Crossing after me!" her husband kept insisting stubbornly.

Gods, why did he have to find his backbone at the worst possible moment? Jaime had just been routed from the Riverlands and now stood undefended against Aegon. She had been tempted to travel back to Casterly Rock as soon as she heard of the news, but quickly reconsidered. The roads to the Westerlands were probably teeming with deserters, Targaryen scouts, and raiding parties. It was not safe for a lady to travel at all.

All she could do was stay here, in the highly fortified Riverrun. The riverlords had all the castles, but without any armies to relieve them from the incoming sieges, they would either slowly starve or simply surrender and bend the knee to the Targaryen boy. But, Genna doubted that she and Emmon would get much mercy even if they surrendered. She was the sister of Tywin Lannister and the only good ending that awaited her would probably be joining the Silent Sister. If only her brother had not been so brutal, they would not be surrounded by enemies on every side right now.

"Emmon, House Frey is the most hated House in Westeros after the Lannisters right now. There is scarcely a House from the North and the Riverlands that did not lose kin in the Red Wedding. And Riverrun barely has three hundred guards. The Targaryens are almost on our doorstep! Would you empty the garrison and see us undefended against Aegon?!"

"I will take only half the men and the rest can easily hold Riverrun for years. And there is nothing for the Targaryens north of the Red Fork. No, this Aegon wants to take down your grandnephew Tommen and will march west," he scoffed and rubbed his bald head. "And both the Northmen and the Riverlords have been broken. They are no danger without any men, and nobody to rally behind. With winter on our doorstep, Aegon's army will either have to disperse or starve and freeze in the cold snow. After I become Lord of the Crossing, I will command another three thousand men at least!"

Emmon might not be too stupid after all, since he did have a plan. Provided her foolish husband managed to reach the cursed seat alive and claim it successfully. Maybe it was better if he did go after all. If he died, she would not have to deal with him any longer, and if he succeeded her second grandson would also have a large keep. If any of them managed to survive the Targaryens with their lives intact that is.

"Go if you must, but you will not take any of my sons or grandsons with you!" she warned him with a glare.

Her husband nodded and scurried out of the room, giddy with excitement. Genna was left alone with the now cold roasted duck. She angrily stabbed it with her fork again and helped herself to a cup of arbor gold.