"Queen Catelyn is, more or less, like other women—she enjoys receiving precious and ostentatious jewelry as gifts, especially those that match the color of her eyes. She is generous when it comes to giving rewards and takes pleasure in mentoring young ladies and helping them find suitable husbands. However, if she suspects any lady of approaching her own husband with ill intentions—which has happened a few times—her wrath toward both the lady and her family is terrifying. Queen Catelyn is most certainly a woman who neither forgets nor forgives easily. Be cautious in this matter.

King Eddard, unlike his wife, does not care much for valuable trinkets. When Lord Merryweather gifted him a solid gold wolf statue, he merely offered a faint smile in response. However, he has a deep interest in historical artifacts. In the tenth year of his reign, Lord Ryger presented him with the armor Daemon Blackfyre had worn at the time of his death, which had been kept hidden in the family's vault. Although many at court reacted strongly to this dragon-marked gift, King Stark was quite pleased with it and later granted the lord's son a rank in the castle garrison.

The King is generally kind and rarely angered, but when he gets angry, the entire court grows tense and uneasy everyone fears him. Avoid asking questions about Lady Ashara or even mentioning her name in the King's presence he absolutely does not appreciate it. But the most dreadful mistake you could make is questioning Princess Allyria's father. The foolish heir of House Ruthermont dared to do so, and King Stark grew so enraged that he sentenced the young man to ten lashes. The punishment was carried out in the square, by the King himself."

—Excerpt from a letter sent by Lord Manning to his household.

"To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Velaryon. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you."

"I swear it by sea and salt,

"I swear it by bronze and steel,

"We swear it by ice and fire." they finished together.

Ned nodded as he accepted the oath of the last lord of Crowland. Despite the Valyrian army's offer of alliance, the Velaryons and Celtigars had remained loyal to Westeros. Even though Driftmark had been besieged for several months, Lord Velaryon did not waver in his resolve. Though both houses were of Valyrian descent, they had proven their loyalty to Westeros. Ned praised them, and he vowed aloud that, as their new king, he would protect these two houses.

After his victory against the Dothraki, people's view of him had changed. Of course, they had always respected him—but now, that respect had transformed into something like worship. The nobles saw King Eddard as a man of great wisdom, almost a holy figure, and they accepted his words without question.

This reaction was not surprising. The war Ned had won was not an ordinary war; it was an impossible victory. With an army half the size of the Dothraki horde, he had challenged them on open ground and won with minimal losses. And not only had he won—he had almost entirely destroyed the Dothraki army. When the Dothraki first arrived in Westeros, they numbered sixty thousand. Now, not even five thousand remained. The vengeance for every Westerosi raped and butchered by the Dothraki had been exacted, and King Eddard, as the man who had delivered that vengeance, had been elevated in the eyes of the people and the nobility to a nearly divine status.

People told all sorts of stories. Some said King Stark had turned into a giant wolf and devoured the Dothraki whole. Others claimed that seven stars had shone in the sky during the battle, blessing the northern host. There were even those who said the innocent souls slain by the Dothraki had risen from the earth to take their own revenge. The story was mutating into legend, into myth—and strangely, very few preferred the true version.

After the victory, Ned led his army to Castle Hayford, where the armies of the Crowland lords were already gathered, having heard the news of the triumph. When King Stark arrived, they knelt before him without hesitation and swore their loyalty. A grand celebration was held in the aftermath—attended not only by nobles, but also by common folk who joined the revelry with great enthusiasm. Inside and outside the walls of Hayford, wine flowed like rivers. Bards praised the victory with all their passion, and women... Many women, both noble and common, would become pregnant tonight—and most of those children would bear the name Eddard. Ned chuckled at the thought.

As King Stark waited a few minutes for the thunderous applause to settle, he looked down at Lord Velaryon, whose eyes were filled with tears as he knelt. They had been the last of the Crowland lords to swear fealty, because it had taken them time to break through the siege and reach this place. Yet the treatment they received from the king—especially compared to their former liege, Robert Baratheon, who had often scorned them—was generous.

"My lords, my lords," Ned raised both hands and silenced the roaring crowd with his commanding voice. "I have received your oaths and buried them deep in my heart. At the Trident, we achieved a victory the likes of which history has never seen—and it would not have been possible without you." As the crowd roared again, Ned paused a moment for them to calm. "Every brave soldier and noble who took part in this victory shall be rewarded generously once the war is over. But now, if you will permit me, I will take this moment to honor my greatest pride. My son Jon, come forth."

"JON THE WOLFKNIGHT! JON THE WOLFKNIGHT! JON THE WOLFKNIGHT!" Nobles and commoners alike pounded their mugs on the tables in rhythm, offering their praises to Westeros' newest knight. Jon's eyes were misty, and he was a little drunk. He stepped forward at once and knelt before his father.

As Ned looked at Jon, he let out a proud sigh. Jon might not be his trueborn son, but after all these years, Ned had accepted him as a son in every way and held him close to his heart. The pride he felt now was the pride of a father.

"At the most critical moment of the battle, the Dothraki under Khal Drogo nearly shattered our shield wall," Eddard proclaimed. "But my son Jon stepped forth with great courage, and slew Khal Drogo and his closest khalasars in single combat. Had he not, the battle might have ended very differently."

He had originally dispatched Howland Reed and the crannogmen archers to hunt down the khal, and when Drogo fell, he naturally assumed Lord Reed was responsible. But he had been mistaken. The glory belonged to his bastard son, Jon Snow. When Ned learned the truth, he had been thoroughly surprised.

From the crowd, he heard someone praise aloud, "A great warrior—just like his uncle." For a fleeting moment, Ned's skin prickled with unease, until he realized the man was not referring to his brother Brandon, but to Ser Arthur Dayne, and he relaxed.

He drew his greatsword, Ice, and placed it upon his son's right shoulder. Ned was a man who kept to the old gods and had never been knighted himself. Still, as a king, he held the right to bestow knighthood upon his warriors.

"Do you swear to protect the innocent, defend the weak, and remain loyal to the lord to whom I swore my oath of fealty?"

"I swear it!" Jon declared loudly.

Ned smiled, then moved the blade to Jon's left shoulder. "Do you swear to serve the realm and show loyalty, to be brave, just, and true in the sight of the new and the old gods?"

"I swear it," Jon answered, looking directly at the king.

Ned removed his glove and gave Jon a light slap across the face. "Let that be the last blow you receive without returning it," he said to his son. "You knelt as a common man—now rise as a knight of my Seven Kingdoms. Rise, Jon the Wolfknight."

As his son stood, the crowd erupted into joyous cheers. Ned placed a hand on Jon's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "I am proud of you, my son." A single tear rolled down Jon's cheek.

"The oath you just swore," Benjen Stark reminded his nephew, "Hold it above all else. Don't make the same mistake your uncle Arthur did." Jon nodded in agreement, while Ned let out a deep sigh. Benjen didn't know Jon's true parentage—like everyone else, he believed him to be Ned and Ashara's son. Eddard hadn't told him the truth, thinking his brother wouldn't be able to bear it. Benjen had long been questioning himself, voicing his desire to join the Night's Watch to his brother. It had been difficult for Eddard to dissuade him.

"Your Grace," said Lord Hayford, stepping forward and bowing with deep reverence. "Forgive me for interrupting this momentous occasion so rudely. I bring news and a gift that will gladden not only you, but all Westeros."

Ned raised his eyebrows and signaled for the lord to speak. If he dared interrupt Jon's ceremony, the matter had to be grave indeed.

"One week before Your Grace honored Hayford with your visit," Lord Hayford announced with pride, "our scouts spotted a company of fifty Dothraki passing through our lands. I took command of my host and dealt with them swiftly. We gained great spoils from the skirmish." He gestured behind him, and four strong men entered the hall, struggling to carry a massive stake. With effort, they planted it upright before the king. A corpse was fixed to the top, hidden beneath a cloak.

"Behold," Lord Hayford said as he pulled away the covering, "the vile dragon whore who brought the Dothraki upon our shores: Daenerys Targaryen."

The crowd stared in stunned silence at the silver-haired corpse. The woman's body was marred with bruises and lash marks, brutally mistreated in every visible way.

"She took her own life upon capture," William Dustin informed the king. "Later, her corpse was thrown into the dungeons and beaten."

The stunned crowd remained silent for a few heartbeats longer—then erupted into cheers and triumphant cries. Soon, insults and curses filled the air. Some nobles even hurled whatever they could grab at the dead woman's body in a frenzy of hatred.

Ned watched the scene with a frown. It was true the woman had brought sixty thousand Dothraki into Westeros and caused a great tragedy—but such behavior clashed deeply with his sense of honor. When he looked at Jon's face, he saw that his son didn't seem to care much about his aunt's death—though, to be fair, he didn't know she was his aunt, so that was only natural. Even the Velaryons wore neutral expressions; they were the Targaryens' closest kin, yet they didn't seem to mind the disrespect shown to a Targaryen princess in the slightest.

"Take her down," Ned whispered into William Dustin's ear. "Bury her somewhere hidden. Enough torment has been inflicted." Lord Dustin nodded and motioned for a few men to follow him as he exited the hall.

The war is not over yet, Ned thought as he returned to his seat. The Valyrian host still lies ahead—unless they flee before I arrive.

The High Septon sighed as he watched the common folk of Oldtown celebrating the victory with great joy in the streets. Then he turned to the members of the Most Devout gathered behind him. "What are we to do now?" he asked helplessly.

"I believe the answer is perfectly clear," said Septon Bartho. "We must recognize King Eddard as the new ruler of Westeros."

"Recognize a heathen who worships the Old Gods as king? Is this what we've come to after the Targaryens?" Septon Wylam spat in disgust. "Every one of us in this council swore we would not repeat the mistakes of our predecessors."

"Do you truly believe our declaration would change anything at this point?" another asked. "The people already accept the Stark as their king. The lords of the Crownlands have knelt to him, and the Reach lords will soon follow."

"King Argilac, regrettably, left no heir," offered old Septon Roydar. "His sister, Argella, is married to Robb Stark—but perhaps Lord Stannis' son could be declared king instead."

"That boy's mother is a heathen from the North," Septon Bartho sneered. "How do you know the son is any different?"

"We cannot bend the knee to the Starks. If we do, the Targaryen tragedy may repeat itself," warned Septon Borath. "They are not even Andals—they carry the blood of the First Men, pagan blood. Mark my words, they will claim to honor the Seven, while secretly worshipping trees."

"The Reach lords may call themselves Andals," Septon Morch reminded them, "but many proudly trace their blood to the First Men through Garth the Gardener. Besides, don't forget: the Old Gods and the Faith of the Seven share many of the same taboos and prohibitions. The Starks will not descend into incest as the Targaryens did."

"King Stark hasn't finished the war yet, has he? The Valyrian army still stands in his way," one of the younger septons pointed out.

"You fool! The king slaughtered the Dothraki on open ground with barely half their numbers—do you truly think a battle commander like that could be defeated by those wretched Valyrian fools?" spat old Septon Roydar.

"You misunderstand me, Your Grace," the young man replied. "I only meant that King Stark is still at war—and while the war continues, we still have time to decide. Besides, if we were to crown another king while the war rages, the nobility of Westeros would see it as treason."

The septons of the Most Devout fell silent. The young man was right—while the war continued, they could not move openly against King Stark. Doing so would be seen as betrayal. The one consolation was that they still had time, at least until the war's end, to come to a decision.

"So what shall we do?" asked one of the septons in despair.

"Even if we do recognize Stark as king, do you expect the entire clergy to accept it? The man is a pagan and a blasphemer—"

"And even if he proves a good ruler, how can we know his descendants will be the same? They might try to steer the people and the lords toward the Old Gods."

"What kind of men are you, still thinking of your own ambitions?" one of the elder septons slammed his hand on the table in anger. "Our priority must be to drive out the Valyrian army. We cannot let what happened to the martyred King Robert Baratheon happen again. As priests of the Seven, we must protect the king—even if he is a heretic."

The hall filled with shouting and clamor once more, while the High Septon let out a weary sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Your Majesty, the chaos within the army is overwhelming," the general reported anxiously. "Ever since word of the Dothraki defeat spread, the soldiers have been consumed by fear—they want to return home. They say King Stark rides a giant wolf and is charging this way to slaughter them all."

Lord Nassarin rubbed his forehead in shock and worry. He had no idea how to respond. Never in his life had he been this shaken.

The Dothraki had been defeated—on open ground—by a force of infantry that was half their size. When Lord Nassarin had first heard the news, he'd laughed like everyone else in the camp. He'd assumed it was a Westerosi bluff, a desperate attempt to stall for time. But then the truth emerged: nearly all of the sixty thousand Dothraki brought to Westeros had been annihilated.

Lord Nassarin wanted to laugh at the irony—King Stark had achieved what even the dragonlords of old Valyria could not: the utter massacre of the Dothraki. In the eyes of Essosi lords, this was such a monumental victory that many refused to believe the man behind it was even human. The Dothraki were a warrior race, conquerors who had ravaged great cities like Volantis and Qarth more than once. Lord Nassarin's own grandfather had died fighting them. Nearly every noble house and city-state in eastern Essos bore some tragic tale of Dothraki cruelty. Yes, they had been repelled before—but never like this, and never on open plains.

Daenerys Targaryen was dead. Though not official, it effectively meant the end of the Targaryen bloodline. Her mother, Queen Rhaella, still lived, but she was no longer capable of bearing children. Without the support of the Targaryen lineage, House Nassarin no longer had even a pretense of legitimacy to justify their invasion of Westeros.

"What about the refugees?" he asked, clinging to the last scraps of hope.

"Most turned back as soon as they confirmed the news. The ones who made it here… even our own soldiers want to return home immediately."

Lord Nassarin wrung his hands. Retreat was not an option—not for House Nassarin.

They had gambled everything when they crossed the sea: either claim the throne of Westeros through Targaryen blood… or lose everything, erasing thousands of years of legacy. Returning in defeat had never been a choice. The moment they turned back, their enemies in Qarth would devour them, and no one would lift a finger in their defense.

"We still have a large army," one of the Volantene lords ventured.

"The army's spirit is shattered," one of the generals replied bluntly. "After a defeat like that, no one wants to fight. No one believes they can win. Even if we order them into battle, they won't follow."

A heavy silence fell over the room—until Lord Nassarin spoke.

"Burn the ships," he said, clasping his hands tightly.

"My lord… you can't mean—?"

"BURN. THE. SHİPS." Lord Nassarin roared.

If this war was to be the end of his house, he would not let cowardly soldiers escape it. They would either fight or die like pigs. Which path they chose was up to them, he thought with a contemptuous huff.

Eddard Stark might become king of Westeros, but Lord Nuhr Nassarin would make sure he suffered before that day came.

Death to what I cannot claim. Agony to those who defy me. This is for you, Eddard Stark.