48 AC
Winterfell
Maegor the Cruel's reign of terror had finally ended, his mysterious death on the Iron Throne sending ripples of uncertainty and cautious hope throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Word of his demise, and Jaehaerys Targaryen's subsequent claim to the Iron Throne, spread from the south, though news traveled slowly and unevenly to the distant North. While the southern lords grappled with the aftermath of Maegor's brutal rule and the implications of this new king, Winterfell was filled with a different kind of celebration, one far removed from the intrigues of King's Landing. Following a solemn and sacred ceremony in the godswood, where ancient vows were exchanged beneath the watchful eyes of the heart tree, the assembled lords of the North, along with their retinues, now filled the Great Hall. Lord Torrhen Stark's granddaughter, Lyrra, was wed to Rickard Karstark, heir to Karhold, solidifying a key alliance between two of the most powerful and ancient houses of the North. The newly wedded couple received congratulations and well-wishes amidst the lively wedding feast.
Lord Manderly, his considerable girth making his approach a slow but jovial one, presented a chest. "Lord Rickard, Lady Lyrra," he boomed, his voice echoing through the hall, "from White Harbor, a bounty of the sea! Fine silks woven in the Free Cities, enough to outfit a lady's entire household, and barrels of our finest aged mead, strong enough to warm even the coldest winter night!"
Lord Dustin of Barrowton, his face as sharp and unforgiving as the barrows themselves, offered a wrapped bundle. "Karstark," he said, his gaze unwavering, "a length of the finest Barrowton wool, dyed the deep grey of our soil. It will serve you both well against the northern winds."
Lord Cerwyn, a younger man with a nervous smile, stepped forward. "Lord Rickard, Lady Lyrra," he stammered slightly, holding out a pair of intricately carved hunting spears. "From Cerwyn... these spears are fletched with the feathers of the snow owl. May your hunts be fruitful."
Lord Tallhart, his voice hearty, presented a hound. "A gift for you both! This is Fang, the keenest hunting dog in Torrhen's Square. Loyal and swift."
Lord Mormont, a man as fierce as the bears of Bear Island, offered a sturdy, iron-bound chest. "Lord Karstark, Lady Stark," he said, his voice carrying authority, "iron from our mines, forged by our best smiths. Enough to outfit a guard of twenty men."
Lord Umber, his booming laughter preceding him, presented a massive bearskin rug. "For your hearth, my lord and lady! A beast worthy of your houses! May it keep you warm."
Lord Flint of Flint Finger, his eyes crinkling at the corners, offered a collection of fishing nets. "From the coast! Nets strong enough to haul the largest cod and salmon."
As each lord presented their gift, the hall echoed with polite applause. Lyrra and Rickard accepted each offering with gracious smiles.
Then, Brandon Stark's sons, Jonnos and Theon, made their way to the dais. Jonnos, ever the boisterous and jovial one, stepped forward first. He unrolled a magnificent stag skin, its fur thick and dark, his voice booming, "a gift for Lyrra! This stag I hunted myself, in the deepest part of the Wolfswood. May it remind you of the wild beauty of the North, and the strength of its people."
Theon then stepped forward, his expression more reserved. He presented a long, slender sword. "For you, Lord Rickard," he said, his voice quiet but clear. He drew the blade, revealing its unique appearance. "This sword is called Night's Whisper. Its blade is as black as the night, and its hilt is bound in the deepest crimson. May it serve you well in battle, and may it always bring you victory. And Lyrra will tell you about its specialty afterwards."
The wedding celebrations were in full swing. Laughter and music filled the Great Hall of Winterfell, a joyous counterpoint to the weight of the gifts presented. Then, Lord Torrhen Stark rose from his high seat. The hall, slowly but surely, fell silent. All eyes turned to the ancient lord, his presence commanding attention.
He turned first to the newly wedded couple. "My dear Lyrra, and you, Rickard of Karhold," he began, his voice strong despite his years, "I offer you my heartiest congratulations. May your life together be long, prosperous, and filled with the warmth of the hearth and the strength of the North."
Then, he turned to address the assembled lords and ladies. "My lords and ladies," he said, his gaze sweeping across the hall, "I thank you all for coming to share in this joyous occasion, this union of two great houses. It is a testament to the strength and unity of the North." He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "We have lived through a half-century of peace," he continued, "a time that has allowed us to prosper in ways we have not seen in generations. Our harvests have been bountiful, our storehouses are full of grain, and our cellars overflow with fine whiskey and wine." He gestured with a gnarled hand. "Our roads, once little more than rough tracks, have been improved, and trade flows more freely than ever before, bringing wealth and prosperity to our people."
He continued, his voice gaining strength. "And now," he announced, a note of pride resonating in his words, "with the completion of the great canal, we have finally connected the Sunset Sea and the Narrow Sea! This feat of northern engineering will open up the western side of the North to trade as never before. The wealth that will flow through our lands will further enrich our holds and strengthen our people for generations to come."
A resounding chorus of agreement filled the hall. Lords and ladies struck their cups against the tables, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. "Aye!" they roared, their voices filled with pride and satisfaction. "Aye to the North! Aye to the Starks! Aye to prosperity!"
Torrhen held up a hand, silencing the cheers. "And there is one more matter of great importance," he announced, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "The restoration of Moat Cailin, the shield of the North, is finally complete! After years of tireless work, its walls stand strong once more, a testament to the enduring strength of our people." He paused, his gaze settling on a particular figure in the hall. "Jonnos Stark," he called out, his voice booming like a winter storm, "step forward."
Jonnos stepped forward. The hall watched in anticipation.
"Kneel," Torrhen said. Jonnos knelt. Torrhen's voice boomed, "Will you protect the North, now and always?"
Jonnos answered, his voice clear and strong, "I do."
Torrhen placed a hand on Jonnos's shoulder. "Then rise, Jonnos of House Sköll, Lord of Moat Cailin!"
The hall erupted in cheers. Lords and ladies rose to their feet, clapping and shouting Jonnos's name.
Torrhen raised a hand, silencing the cheers once more. He turned back to Jonnos. "What are your words, Lord of Moat Cailin?" he asked.
Jonnos stood tall, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. He drew his sword, the blade gleaming in the firelight, and held it aloft. "And now my watch begins," he declared, his voice ringing with determination.
The hall exploded in even louder cheers. The lords pounded their cups on the tables, roaring their approval and celebrating the new Lord of Moat Cailin. The very stones of Winterfell seemed to vibrate with the force of their enthusiasm.
The wedding celebrations in the Great Hall of Winterfell reached a fever pitch. Lords and ladies, emboldened by the proclamations and the flow of wine and mead, began to dance. The music, which had been lively throughout the feast, swelled to a crescendo, inviting all to join in the revelry.
Morgan Stark, Theon's eldest daughter, with a grace that belied her youth, took her youngest brother, Artor Stark, in her arms. Though barely four moons old, Artor seemed content to sway gently in her embrace, his tiny hands clutching at her gown as she moved with the music. The sight of the Stark siblings, the young woman and the infant, brought smiles to many faces, a poignant reminder of the enduring cycle of life and family.
Theon Stark, usually more reserved, found himself caught up in the joyous atmosphere. He danced with his wife Diana, her laughter bright and infectious as they danced and twirled across the floor.
Newly named Lord Jonnos Sköll, his face flushed with pride and perhaps a bit of wine, danced with Lena Sköll, his wife, formerly Lena Manderly. They moved with a comfortable familiarity, their steps in perfect harmony, a reflection of the bond they shared.
The energy of the dance gradually subsided, the music softening as lords and ladies returned to their seats. The earlier exuberance gave way to a more relaxed, conversational atmosphere, the clinking of goblets and murmur of voices filling the hall.
Then, a lord named Bennard Glover rose to his feet. His expression was serious, his voice carrying a note of respectful but firm dissent. "My lords," he began, his gaze sweeping across the gathered assembly, "many among our people, both highborn and low, have long held the belief that Torrhen Stark, in his wisdom, should not have bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror so many years ago." He paused, a shadow passing over his face. "Indeed, some have even mocked him for it, calling him the 'King Who Knelt.'"
A murmur of disagreement rippled through the hall. Several lords shifted in their seats, their faces darkening. "That is a dangerous accusation, Glover," boomed Lord Umber, his voice filled with disapproval. "Torrhen Stark saved the North from fire and blood!" Lord Manderly, his face flushed, added, "He did what was best for our people. Show some respect!"
Bennard Glover held up a hand, his expression unwavering. "I know, my lords," he said, his voice calm but firm. He continued, his gaze sweeping across the hall, "We have enjoyed a half-century of peace, and the North has prospered and grown stronger. All because Lord Stark understood the futility of being kings of ashes. I say he was wiser than all the lords down south!" He raised his voice, his words ringing through the hall. "The Wise Wolf!"
The hall erupted. Lords and ladies, their initial reservations swept aside by Glover's impassioned words, rose to their feet. "Wise Wolf! Wise Wolf! Wise Wolf!" they roared, the chant echoing through Winterfell, a testament to the enduring respect for the Stark legacy.
As the shouts of "Wise Wolf" began to die down, a new voice rose above the din, sharp and clear. "Bedding!" it cried.
The cry was taken up by others, and soon the Great Hall was filled with the lusty shouts of "Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!" The guests, fueled by wine and tradition, began to search for the bride and groom, eager to participate in the customary ritual. But Lyrra and Rickard were nowhere to be found. They had slipped away amidst the clamor of "Wise Wolf," escaping the boisterous tradition of the bedding ceremony. And so, the lords and ladies of the North continued to revel, feasting and celebrating well into the hour of the wolf.