When news of Torrhen’s death reached the North, her first action was to send word to the surrounding villages and herd in all the smallfolk to better shelter and protect them. She had met with the Lords, those who had give Torrhen their swords as well as their oaths. They were the old men who took back the titles that had been rightfully passed onto their sons and sons too little to have proper memories of their fathers.
The unified North was left with feeble threads, Lyanna had done her best to reinforce all that her forefathers had built. She had called to erect the pyres to light the frozen fires. They would be beacons that would spread across the cold of the North and notify all who saw them of the Southron invaders approach.
It consoled some, to be ready to fortify and protect themselves. To most, however, it spread the story that Torrhen had risen from the dead in an honorable act of vengeance. The North was hard but the Starks would endure. They always had. The feeble threads had become strong links of iron and bronze as a rallying cry echoed across the frozen landscape.
The North knew of no King, save the King in the North, who bore the name of Stark.
When the conqueror sat at her doorstep she had sent her maester and a few strong men to run through the snow in the night, to lead a peaceful negotiation.
At the first light of dawn, the King exited Winterfell and road a ways with two men. As promised. A hand raised, and the other two riders stopped their horses, hands testy and ready to pull at sword.
What road forward to speak one on one with the Targaryen dressed akin to the Northmen. They sat atop a great warhorse, shield and sword easily accessible. The armor was not the mail and steel of Southron warriors, but the savage make of the North. All of this was connected to a woman-child with raven locks plated away from her face and a simple circlet of bronze and iron atop her head.
The North had no King, but made what it had lost a grand myth of immortality, leaving the only reality to be the little sister they crowned Queen.
“Did you pin him up after you fought him? Run a stake through his mouth with much of a body left for crows? tell me, is he there? Are there bones to bring home or is all that is left dust and ashes?” The words were not venom and their fight was long lost. “ Tell me you gave him a good death? That you crossed swords and wetted them honorably? or did you simply torch him?” They were the words of family that only wanted its kin safe and with them.
Her head shook slightly, a gentle inward reminder to herself to stay focused. her hands raised to offer the sign of an apology. the hands flicked across her face making that sign before she spoke again.
“It is not that I do not trust other to speak words i have given them. It is that I wish that no words are mistaken between us. All men can err. I would hear your proposition and ultimatum if you would hear mine.”
