101 AC.
Morning at Harrenhal dawned under a pale, shrouded sky. A thick mist clung to the blackened towers and the once-grand courtyards, muffling every sound but the cawing of distant crows.
It was in the oldest part of the castle—beneath the broken ribs of the Kingspyre Tower—that Lord Ellard Stark summoned the northern lords to council.
No servants attended them. No minstrels played.
Just stone, fire, and the hard voices of the North.
The room was stark and cold. Rough stone walls loomed close, and a single hearth struggled to push back the chill. A long, battered table stood in the center, surrounded by heavy chairs brought from who knew where. No southern silk adorned the chairs of the north.
They took their places: Stark at the head, Hadrian to his right. Lords Dustin, Cerwyn, Umber, Hornwood, Ryswell, Manderly, Bolton, Glover, Karstark, Mormont, Thallart, and Flint sat ranged around, grim-faced beneath their furs and mail.
Ellard gave a single nod. No wasted words. They began.
Lord Cerwyn was first to speak, his voice careful but firm. "Baelon was named Prince of Dragonstone by the King himself. It was clear then that the King meant Baelon's line to follow him. Viserys is Baelon's son. The matter is settled."
A few muttered assent. A few did not.
Lord Umber leaned back with a grunt, broad arms crossed over his chest. "Viserys is a man. That's what matters. Crown a woman, and we'll have war. Soft words won't change that."
Across the table, Lord Rodrik Dustin's jaw tightened. His voice was sharp, cutting through the smoke and doubt like a drawn sword. "Would we crown a babe over a seasoned captain because he has a cock? Rhaenys has held command. Dragonstone in her father's absence. Driftmark in her husband's. She is not green, nor timid."
A low murmur rippled around the table.
Lord Ryswell, ever measured, spoke next, leaning forward into the firelight. "The bloodline is clear. Rhaenys is the daughter of the elder son. She stands before Viserys in the line of descent, if we still care for such things."
Lord Hornwood tapped the table with thick fingers, thoughtful. "Viserys has more pure Targaryen blood in his veins. Rhaenys has Velaryon blood. But—" he looked around the table, "—she is older. And she comes from the older line."
The arguments swirled, a current of doubt against the old riverbed of tradition. Each lord weighed his own loyalties, his fears, his sense of right.
Still, uncertainty clung to them, like the mist beyond the broken walls.
Then, at last, Hadrian spoke.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His words fell into the heavy silence like stones into a still pool.
"The order of birth is not a matter of opinion," Hadrian said, his voice low, resonant, inescapable. His black cloak stirred faintly in the cold draft. "Rhaenys is the daughter of the elder son. She stands first. Viserys stands second."
He let that settle. One heartbeat. Two.
"What message do we send, if we favor convenience over right?" Hadrian's pale eyes moved from face to face, unreadable, unwavering. "Do we crown whoever suits the hour best? Or do we hold fast to the laws that bind blood and honor together?"
The cold silence in the chamber stretched long after Hadrian's words faded.
For a time, none spoke. Lords shifted in their seats, glancing at one another, feeling the weight of the moment press down like the ancient stones of Harrenhal itself.
Then Lord Cerwyn cleared his throat, slow and grudging. "The law is the law. If we forget that now, we invite every grasping hand to tear the realm apart."
Lord Ryswell nodded, thoughtful.
Lord Hornwood tapped his fingers again, slower this time, as if counting the generations that might be undone by a single wrong choice.
Across the table, Lord Umber scowled, running a hand through his thick beard. Finally he grunted, a sound like stones grinding in the deep earth.
"Well. If we stand, let us stand together. No use carving the North into pieces over it."
A few chuckles—dry and brittle—broke the tension.
Lord Rodrik Dustin smirked thinly, raising his cup as if in salute to Umber's reluctant wisdom.
Hadrian said nothing further. He merely watched with steady, glacial calm, as if he had known how this would end from the start.
At the head of the table, Lord Ellard Stark straightened, casting his voice over the gathered lords like a banner rising on a still day.
"Then let it be the North's voice," he said. "Rhaenys, daughter of Aemon, has our support."
A ripple passed through the room—not relief, not triumph, but something harder, more enduring. A choice made with full knowledge of its weight.
They rose, one by one, the benches scraping against the ancient stones. Hands clasped forearms, firm grips passed from lord to lord. Oaths were not spoken—but they were felt, heavy in the heart and clear in the meeting of eyes.
The firelight danced across their faces—faces of frost and thought, worn by northern winds and the burden of choice.
Tomorrow, they would stand among all the lords of Westeros.
Tomorrow, they would speak with one voice.
And so they departed the chamber, leaving only the sputtering hearth and the cold stones to witness their accord.
The morning came grey and cool, heavy with mist.
Thousands filled the ruins of Harrenhal's vast, broken halls. Great lords, high ladies, maesters, septons, knights, and sworn men stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the shattered ribs of stone that clawed at the sky.
Banners of every house in Westeros stirred faintly in the damp air—red lions, golden roses, crowned stags, seahorses, krakens, falcons, and the proud direwolf of House Stark.
The northern lords stood together, solemn and silent, forming a small island of cold iron amidst the sea of southern silks.
Lord Ellard Stark stood at their head, with Hadrian, Rodrik Dustin, Cerwyn, Umber, Ryswell, Hornwood, Flint, Manderly, Glover, Karstark, Bolton, Mormont, Thallart, and others arrayed behind him.
A hush fell as the Council was formally convened.
The High Septon, robed in crystal and cloth-of-silver, offered prayers for wisdom. Maesters from the Citadel read aloud the claims of each heir, their voices echoing strangely off the broken stones.
First was Princess Rhaenys Velaryon, daughter of Aemon, firstborn son of the King.
Second was Prince Viserys Targaryen, son of Baelon, the King's second son.
The vote was called.
One by one, the lords and ladies of Westeros stepped forward into the cavernous chamber beneath the broken vaults of Harrenhal's great hall. In the center stood two massive wooden chests, each large enough to hold a thousand tokens. One bore the carved name and sigil of Rhaenys, daughter of Aemon, the other of Viserys, son of Baelon.
Each lord was handed a small token of polished ashwood—a symbol of their vote, and the realm's fragile future.
There were no speeches, no cries of allegiance. Only the sound of boots on ancient stone and the muffled thud of wood on wood as each token was dropped into one of the great boxes.
Some lords strode forward with confidence and cast their piece boldly—Lord Ellard Stark among them, his bearing cold and resolute as he dropped his token into the box marked Rhaenys. The direwolf stood proudly among the carved dragons.
Others hesitated. Some glanced around, gauging which way the wind might blow before committing. A few muttered quietly as they moved—hedging bets, offering apologies to ghosts, or prayers to the gods.
Not every northern lord who had come to Harrenhal had been in the private conclave the day before, and a few went their own way. But the weight of House Stark's voice pulled many behind it.
The voting continued through the afternoon, slow and methodical, a ritual of wood and silence.
When the last token fell, Grand Maester Allar stepped forward. He wore the many chains of his office over heavy robes, and his voice rang clear in the stillness as he opened each chest under the watchful eyes of the assembled lords.
Assistants lifted the lids, and began to count the tokens aloud, stacking them into neat towers. The count was precise, deliberate, watched closely by maesters, septons, and the realm's greatest lords alike.
When the final tally was reached, Allar turned to face the gathering, parchment in hand.
He did not smile. He merely spoke the outcome in a flat, formal tone.
"It is declared by all lords Paramount's and lord Vassals of the Seven Kingdoms, that Prince Viserys Targaryen be made Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Throne."
There was a moment's stillness, and then a cheer rose—from the Hightowers, the Redwynes, the Lannisters, and many more. Voices rang off the stones of Harrenhal, triumphant and loud.
But not all joined in.
The northern lords stood silent, their faces stone-carved, cold as their homeland. Ellard Stark said nothing, but his jaw was tight. Rodrik Dustin muttered something under his breath, dry and bitter. Hadrian merely watched, eyes heavy-lidded, the faintest twitch of a smile flickering at the corner of his lips—though whether it was amusement or prophecy, none could say.
The North had cast its voice with honor, even if the realm had not listened.
And though a woman would not inherit the IronThrone, as declared with quiet finality by the Grand Maester, there were someamong the northern host who would remember this day not for who won—but for whohad been right.