Chapter 39: The Forging of a Crown
The silence that followed Eddard Stark's proposal in the Dragonpit was a thing of profound, elemental shock. The assembled lords of Westeros, men who had come to barter for a kingdom, had just been told the kingdom itself was being dismantled. They stared at the grim-faced Lord of Winterfell, their minds reeling, the gears of their ambition grinding to a halt. He had not invited them to a coronation; he had invited them to a constitutional convention, and he had done so with a god at his back.
It was Mace Tyrell of Highgarden who found his voice first, his portly frame shifting in his carved oaken chair. His joviality was gone, replaced by the shrewd, calculating look of a man whose prize had just been snatched from his grasp.
"A… commonwealth, Lord Stark?" he puffed, the words sounding foreign and strange. "A council of equals? A noble, if… novel… idea. The Reach would, of course, be prepared to play a leading role in such an august body. Our granaries feed the realm, our fleets protect the southern seas. It is only natural that we would be granted a preeminent voice, to ensure stability."
"A preeminent voice?" a new voice, slick as oiled silk and sharp as a razor, cut through the air. Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, lounged in his seat, a dangerous, mocking smile on his lips. "You wish to trade one king on an iron chair for a fat lord of Highgarden on a flowery one? Dorne did not bow to the dragons for a century, my lord. We will not now bow to a rose."
His dark eyes, full of ancient grievances, swept the assembly. "Lord Stark speaks of a new way. I am intrigued. But my interest in any new pact, any new kingdom, begins and ends with one thing: the absolute and utter destruction of House Lannister. I want Tywin Lannister's head. I want the head of the Mountain's ghost, if I cannot have the man himself. I want every man who had a hand in the sack of this city and the murder of my sister, Elia, and her children, brought to justice. A justice of fire and blood."
His passionate call for vengeance resonated with many of the Riverlords and lesser lords who had suffered under Tywin's brutal campaign. The hall murmured with assent.
Then, a different kind of voice rose, one as solid and as unyielding as the mountains of the Vale. It was Lord Yohn Royce, his armor of bronze runes seeming to absorb the light, his face a mask of stern tradition.
"Lord Stark, your courage is undeniable, your victories, however… unorthodox… are plain for all to see," he began, his voice a deep baritone. "But what you propose is madness. The Seven Kingdoms have been one for three hundred years. It is the Iron Throne, the will of a single king, that has kept the peace, that has prevented us from descending into a thousand petty wars between us. To break the crown is to unleash chaos. To invite every ambitious lord from the Wall to the Summer Sea to carve out his own little kingdom."
He stood, his presence commanding. "We need a king. A strong, true king. Not the abomination of incest that sits cowering in the Red Keep, nor the squabbling stags who would see the realm burn for their pride. You have proven yourself the strongest leader in this land. You have the armies. You have the loyalty of the North and the Riverlands. You have… him." He gave a respectful, if wary, nod towards Thor. "If we must choose a new king, then let us choose one worthy. Let us choose the wolf who has shown the courage to hunt lions."
An uproar followed his words. The idea of a Stark on the Iron Throne was as revolutionary as Ned's own proposal. The lords of the Vale and some of the Stormlands shouted their approval. The Tyrells looked thunderous at the prospect of a northern king. The Dornish looked on with cynical amusement.
It was Catelyn Stark who rose to speak for the North. Her voice, when it came, was clear and strong, though her heart was a knot of fear and confusion. She had seen her husband transformed, had met the god at his side, and she was still reeling. But she was a Tully of Riverrun and the Lady of Winterfell. She would not show weakness.
"Bronze Yohn speaks with honor," she said, her gaze sweeping the assembly. "But he does not speak for the North. My son, Robb, wears a crown. Not because he sought it, but because our people, the Northmen, placed it on his head. They have not bent the knee to a southern king since the dragons came, and they will not do so again. They have declared their independence." She then looked directly at Ned, her eyes a mixture of love and a plea for understanding. "The North will be a friend to any just ruler of the south. We will be an ally. But we will not be a subject. We are a free and independent kingdom."
The council devolved into a cacophony of competing interests. The Tyrells argued for a ruling council weighted by wealth and land. The Dornish demanded a war of vengeance. The Vale and their allies called for a new king, a Stark king. And the North demanded its freedom. The great, unified purpose that Ned had hoped to inspire was fracturing against the hard edges of a thousand years of pride and ambition.
The council adjourned for the day in a state of deadlock, the lords retreating to their camps to scheme and form their own fragile alliances.
That evening, Ned sat with Thor in the quiet solitude of his solar, the weight of the day's arguments pressing down on him.
"They are vultures," Ned said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "I offered them a chance to build something new, and all they can see is a carcass to be picked clean. Each one wants the biggest piece for himself."
"You are surprised?" Thor asked, a wry, sad smile on his face. He was polishing the head of Stormbreaker with an oilcloth, the motion slow and meditative. "I have sat in the councils of Asgard. I have seen the Nine Realms argue over trade routes and star charts while galaxies burned. Pride is the most ancient and stubborn of all diseases, Lord Stark. And kings and lords are the most afflicted."
"Yohn Royce would have me be king," Ned said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Me. On that… ugly iron chair."
"He is not wrong in his reasoning," Thor observed. "You are the one with the power. In their world, power and kingship are the same thing. They do not understand a man who would hold such power and not seek to place a crown upon his own head."
"It is a crown of thorns," Ned muttered. "It killed Robert. It drove Aerys mad."
"Then perhaps you should forge a different kind of crown," Thor said, his voice low. He stopped his polishing and looked at Ned, his gaze piercing. "You have been trying to appeal to their honor, their reason. It is a noble effort. But you are trying to reason with predators. A predator does not understand reason. It understands strength. It understands who is the leader of the pack."
He stood up, his great frame filling the room. "You have shown them your strength in battle. You have shown them your justice in governance. Now you must show them your strength as a leader. You cannot let them bicker and posture until Tywin Lannister regroups, or until Stannis Baratheon decides his god demands your head as well as his brother's. You must force their hand. You must unite them, even if you have to drag them kicking and screaming into the future."
The next day, Ned Stark entered the Dragonpit with a new, unyielding resolve. The lords were still arguing, their voices a cacophony of self-interest. Ned walked to the dais, Thor at his side, and struck the gavel with a force that silenced the entire assembly.
"You have debated," he said, his voice ringing with an authority that was no longer just that of a Protector, but of a true commander. "You have argued for your own interests, your own kingdoms, your own vengeances. And while you have talked, the realm has continued to bleed."
He turned first to Prince Oberyn Martell. "Prince Oberyn," he said, his voice sharp. "You call for a war of vengeance. A just war, I do not deny it. But vengeance is a fire that consumes all. Will you see the Riverlands burn to the ground, will you see the smallfolk starve, for a chance to put Tywin Lannister's head on a spike?"
Oberyn met his gaze, his dark eyes flashing. "For my sister? Yes."
"Then you are a fool," Ned said bluntly, stunning the Dornish prince into silence. "A vengeance that costs you the kingdom is no vengeance at all. It is a child's tantrum. You will have your justice for Elia. I swear it. But you will have it as part of a united realm, not as the king of a graveyard."
He then turned to Lord Royce. "And you, Bronze Yohn. You call for a king. You call for a return to the old ways. Did the old ways not lead us here? To a mad king, a drunken king, and an incest-born king? The Iron Throne is a disease. To place another man upon it is to simply wait for the fever to return."
Finally, he looked towards his wife, Catelyn, his heart aching. "And to the North," he said, his voice softening slightly. "You have won your freedom with blood and courage. But a kingdom cannot stand alone, surrounded by enemies. A lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. The North needs allies. It needs trade. It needs a lasting peace, not just a temporary victory."
He had addressed them all, had stripped bare their arguments and shown them the flaws in their own logic. He now stood before them, the master of the council.
"Here is what we will do," he declared, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The Iron Throne is hereby dissolved. The Seven Kingdoms, as a single, unified monarchy, are at an end." A gasp went through the assembly.
"In its place," he continued, "we will form a new pact. A Grand Alliance of the Realms of Westeros. The North will be a free and independent kingdom, ruled by King Robb of House Stark." He gave a nod to Catelyn, a concession and an acknowledgment. "The other great realms—the Vale, the Westerlands once they are cleansed, the Reach, the Stormlands, the Iron Islands, and Dorne—will be self-governing. Each Lord Paramount will be the master of his own lands and laws."
He held up a hand to quell the excited murmuring. "But we will be bound by a common cause and a common council. This Great Council will not choose a single king. It will be the government. Each Great House will have one voice, one vote. We will meet once a year to decide on matters of mutual interest: defense, trade, and the resolution of disputes between the realms. And to lead this council, to act as its arbiter and the commander of its united armies, there will be one office. A Lord Protector of the Realm. An office that is not inherited by blood, but elected by this council every ten years."
He had done it. He had laid out a new future. Not a kingdom, but a republic of kingdoms. Not a throne, but a council. It was a radical, breathtaking vision.
"This is our path forward," Ned said, his voice resonating with the force of history. "But before we can build this new world, we must first cleanse the old one. House Lannister has been declared an enemy of the people and the realm. I have offered them terms of surrender. They have refused. Therefore, this Grand Alliance will have one, singular, immediate purpose: to wage total war on the forces of Tywin Lannister until he is defeated and brought to justice."
He looked out at the sea of faces, at the stunned, calculating, and slowly dawning expressions of the most powerful men in the land.
"We will form a new, united army. The Army of the Alliance. I, as the current Lord Protector, will command it. Each of you will contribute your strength, your swords, your ships. We will crush Tywin Lannister in the field. We will liberate the Westerlands. And then, and only then, we will sit down as equals and sign the charter of our new commonwealth."
He had given them everything they wanted. Independence for the North. Vengeance for the Dornish. Power and influence for the Tyrells. Order and stability for the Vale. He had taken all their selfish desires and woven them into a single, common cause.
It was Oberyn Martell who stood first, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. He drew a gleaming Dornish spear and slammed its butt on the stone floor. "To cleanse the realm of lions," he purred. "Dorne accepts these terms."
Yohn Royce, his face a mask of grudging respect for Ned's political genius, stood next. "The Vale has always stood for order. We will join this alliance."
One by one, the other lords stood. Mace Tyrell, seeing the tide turn and realizing that being a powerful voice in a new republic was better than being a subject to a Stark or Baratheon king, rose with a flourish. The Stormlords, leaderless and eager for a cause, joined him. Catelyn Stark, speaking for her son, gave a proud, firm nod of assent.
They had done it. They had forged a fragile, self-interested, but united front. A new crown had been forged in the Dragonpit, not of iron or gold, but of pacts and promises.
Ned Stark looked at Thor, who gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval. The man of honor had just outplayed every schemer and politician in the Seven Kingdoms. He had used their own pride and ambition to unite them.
The Great Council was no longer a debate. It was a council of war. And its new, united army, with the armies of five kingdoms and a god of thunder at its command, was about to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting forces of Tywin Lannister. The war was not over. It had just grown infinitely larger.