The morning sun cast long shadows across the Northern camp as men began to gather in response to Ned Stark's summons. Word had spread through the orderly rows of tents with the efficiency of a military organization that had learned to respond quickly to their commander's calls, though the nature of this particular gathering had generated considerably more speculation than usual.
*A formal assembly, they're saying,* came the whispered conversations around cook fires and horse lines. *Lord Stark's called all the bannermen together for some sort of announcement. Something important enough to warrant full ceremony despite being in a bloody field outside King's Landing.*
The gathering space had been arranged with military precision—a natural amphitheater formed by supply wagons and the gentle slope of the land, with the great banners of the North's major houses planted in their traditional positions. The grey direwolf of House Stark dominated the center, flanked by the giant's chains of House Umber, the flayed man of House Bolton that made everyone slightly uncomfortable to look at directly, the green pine of House Tallhart, the iron fist of House Glover, and a dozen others that represented the ancient strength of the North.
*Theater,* thought baby Cregan from his position in Ashara's arms, studying the careful arrangement with appreciation for the political stagecraft involved. *Uncle Ned understands that legitimacy requires not just legal recognition but public acceptance. Hence the formal ceremony, the banners, the opportunity for every major house to witness and acknowledge what's about to happen.*
Lord Eddard Stark stood before the assembled lords wearing his finest doublet—black wool with the grey direwolf embroidered in silver thread, practical leather boots, and the kind of understated elegance that spoke of old nobility confident in its authority. His weathered face carried that particular Northern combination of determination and gravity, the expression of a man about to make decisions that would echo through generations.
Beside him, Ashara Dayne held eighteen-month-old Cregan with practiced maternal grace, her violet eyes calm despite the significance of the moment. She wore deep purple silk that complemented those remarkable eyes while maintaining appropriate dignity for such a formal occasion—every inch the great lady, though one with steel beneath the silk.
*Mother understands the importance of appearances,* Cregan observed with growing appreciation for her tactical intelligence. *She looks exactly like what she is—a woman of ancient bloodline and considerable personal power, someone whose word carries weight in matters of legitimacy and inheritance. The perfect witness to validate claims that might otherwise be questioned.*
"My lords," Ned began, his voice carrying clearly across the gathered assembly with the authority of someone accustomed to command, "I have called you here to witness a matter of succession that affects not only House Stark but the future governance of the North itself."
The Greatjon leaned forward from his position near the front of the assembly, his massive frame draped in the colors of House Umber—grey and green that somehow managed to make him look even more imposing than usual. His weathered face showed keen interest, the expression of a man who'd followed the Starks through war and bloodshed and understood that formal assemblies usually preceded significant changes in the established order.
"Succession, Lord Stark?" he rumbled, his voice carrying that particular blend of curiosity and loyalty that had made House Umber one of Stark's most reliable allies. "Has something happened to change the inheritance we all understood?"
*Oh, Greatjon,* Cregan thought with internal amusement. *You're about to learn that everything you understood was built on incomplete information. Though I suspect you'll handle the revelation better than some others in this assembly.*
"Something has come to light," Ned replied with careful precision, his grey eyes sweeping across the assembled lords with the methodical thoroughness of someone ensuring his words reached every important ear. "Something that requires us to acknowledge truths that were previously... unavailable... to those who needed to know them."
Lady Maege Mormont shifted in her position among the assembled lords, her sharp eyes bright with the intelligence that had made Bear Island a force far beyond what its size should have warranted. Even in formal circumstances, she carried herself with the easy competence of someone who'd spent years proving that leadership had nothing to do with gender and everything to do with getting results when they mattered most.
"Truths that were unavailable," she repeated with the kind of dry humor that had served her well through decades of Northern politics, "or truths that were inconvenient to acknowledge while we had a war to fight?"
*Trust Lady Maege to cut straight to the heart of things,* Ashara thought with appreciation for the older woman's refusal to dance around uncomfortable realities. *She understands that political timing often determines which truths get acknowledged when, and she's not particularly impressed by diplomatic niceties that obscure essential facts.*
"Both, my lady," Ned replied with the kind of honest directness that had made him trusted by men who'd followed him through months of war and bloodshed. "War requires certain... simplifications... of complex situations. Now that we have peace, we can address complexities that would have been impossible to manage during active conflict."
Roose Bolton sat with that unnatural stillness that had always made him somehow more menacing than men who shouted and gestured, his pale eyes fixed on Ned with the intensity of a predator evaluating potential prey. Everything about him spoke of controlled danger—the carefully modulated voice, the precisely arranged clothing, the way he seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
"Complex situations," he said with that soft precision that somehow made reasonable words sound like threats, "often involve questions of legitimacy that can be... challenging... to resolve satisfactorily. Particularly when those questions arise at politically convenient moments."
*And there's the challenge,* Cregan observed with growing understanding of the political dynamics at play. *Lord Bolton represents the faction that will question the timing of these revelations, that will wonder whether convenience has influenced the sudden appearance of previously unknown truths. Uncle Ned will need to address those suspicions directly if he wants universal acceptance.*
"Indeed they do, Lord Bolton," Ned replied with steel beneath his diplomatic courtesy, his grey eyes meeting those pale ones directly. "Which is why I've asked Princess Elia Martell to join us today as a witness to events that some of you may find... surprising."
Princess Elia rose gracefully from her position near the edge of the assembly, her legendary beauty somehow sharpened by the challenges she'd faced into something more dangerous than mere loveliness. She moved with fluid grace toward the center of the gathering, her dark eyes calm despite the significance of what was about to be revealed.
*And here comes our validator,* Cregan thought with satisfaction. *The princess whose word carries the weight of royal authority, whose presence lends credibility to claims that might otherwise be dismissed as convenient fiction.*
"Your Grace," Ned said formally, inclining his head with the respect due to her rank, "would you please tell these lords what you witnessed in the capital regarding my brother Brandon's personal circumstances?"
Princess Elia's voice carried clearly across the assembly, her Dornish accent lending musical quality to words that would reshape the political landscape of the North: "My lords, I had the honor of serving as witness to the marriage between Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne. A ceremony conducted in the Great Sept of Baelor according to the rites of the Seven, blessed by the High Septon himself, and properly recorded in the official registers of the capital."
The silence that followed was profound and dangerous, heavy with implications that could reshape kingdoms if properly understood and accepted by the right people at the right time.
*Marriage,* the assembled lords thought almost in unison, minds working through implications with varying degrees of speed and accuracy. *Brandon Stark was married. Not betrothed to Catelyn Tully as we all believed, but actually married to Ashara Dayne. Which means...*
"A trueborn son," Ned continued with quiet certainty, his voice carrying across the suddenly still assembly like a bell tolling changes that could not be undone. "Born in lawful wedlock to Brandon Stark and his legal wife, legitimate heir to Winterfell and all its holdings under Northern law and the ancient traditions of the First Men."
He moved to stand beside Ashara, one hand coming to rest gently on baby Cregan's dark hair. "My lords, I present to you Cregan Stark, son of Brandon and Ashara, rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
*And there it is,* Cregan thought as he studied the faces of the assembled Northern lords, noting the various expressions of shock, calculation, acceptance, and in some cases growing suspicion. *The moment when everything changes officially, when the comfortable assumptions about succession get replaced by inconvenient truths about legitimacy and inheritance.*
The Greatjon was the first to react, his massive frame rising from his position with surprising grace for someone of his size, his weathered face breaking into a grin that suggested genuine pleasure at this turn of events.
"By the Old Gods and the New!" he boomed, his voice carrying across the assembly with enthusiasm that made several horses in the nearby picket lines snort and paw nervously. "Brandon's son! Look at him, lads—he's got the Stark jaw for certain, and those Dayne eyes that'll make the ladies swoon when he's grown. A proper Northern lord with Southern fire in his blood!"
*Trust the Greatjon to focus on the romantic implications,* Lady Maege thought with fond exasperation as she studied the baby who represented such complex political changes. *Though he's not wrong about the bloodline—that's a combination that could reshape the political balance of the entire realm if handled properly.*
"The marriage was secret," Roose Bolton observed with that soft precision that made everything sound like an accusation, his pale eyes fixed on Princess Elia with uncomfortable intensity. "Hidden from Brandon's family, concealed from his bannermen, revealed only after his death when such revelation serves particular political purposes. Some might find such timing... convenient."
*And there's the direct challenge,* Ned realized, his strategic mind immediately working through responses that would address Bolton's suspicions without creating an irreparable rift in Northern unity. *He's not questioning the child's legitimacy directly, but he's questioning the circumstances of the revelation. Fair enough—it does look suspicious from the outside.*
"The marriage was private, my lord," Princess Elia replied with dignity that brooked no argument, her musical voice carrying just enough steel to remind everyone present that she was not merely a witness but a princess of royal blood whose word carried considerable weight. "Conducted with appropriate ceremony and proper witnesses, but kept from public knowledge at the request of both parties until such time as revelation would serve their interests rather than complicating them unnecessarily."
*Private rather than secret,* several lords noted mentally, appreciating the diplomatic distinction that made the concealment sound like reasonable discretion rather than deliberate deception.
"And when exactly," Lord Bolton continued with relentless precision, "did the happy couple decide that revelation would serve their interests? Before or after Brandon's death created a succession crisis that could be resolved by the convenient appearance of a previously unknown heir?"
The temperature in the assembly seemed to drop several degrees as the assembled lords recognized the challenge implicit in Bolton's questions—not just to the child's legitimacy, but to the honor of everyone involved in concealing and then revealing his existence.
*Careful, Lord Bolton,* Lady Maege thought with growing disapproval of the direction this conversation was taking. *You're coming very close to accusing Princess Elia of perjury and Lord Stark of fabricating his nephew's legitimacy. That's dangerous ground, even for someone with your reputation for careful political maneuvering.*
"The decision to reveal Lord Cregan's existence," Ashara said with controlled fury that made her violet eyes flash dangerously, "was made when it became clear that his safety could be guaranteed and his inheritance properly protected. We did not risk exposing him to political complications while the realm was consumed by war and the fate of great houses hung in the balance daily."
*Safety could be guaranteed,* Cregan noted mentally. *A diplomatic way of saying 'when we were certain that people wouldn't try to murder him for political convenience.' Though given Lord Bolton's current line of questioning, I'm not entirely certain that concern was misplaced.*
The Greatjon's expression had been growing progressively darker as Bolton continued his subtle accusations, his massive hands clenching into fists that could probably crush a man's skull like an egg. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the kind of dangerous edge that had made him legendary from the Wall to Dorne.
"Now you listen here, Bolton," he rumbled, his usual joviality replaced by something considerably more threatening, "I don't much care for the tone you're taking with Her Grace. Princess Elia has given us her word as a witness to Lord Brandon's marriage, and that word carries more weight than all your subtle implications and political suspicions combined."
*Thank you, Greatjon,* Ashara thought with gratitude for his direct support, though her tactical mind noted that Bolton's questions needed to be addressed more comprehensively if they were going to achieve universal acceptance of Cregan's claim.
"Moreover," the Greatjon continued, his voice rising with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he was genuinely pleased by these developments, "anyone with eyes can see the boy's got Stark blood in him clear as daylight. Look at that jaw, that set of the shoulders—he's Brandon's son or I'm a Southron lordling with delusions of Northern honor."
Lady Maege rose from her position with fluid grace that belied her years, her sharp eyes bright with intelligence and something that might have been maternal approval as she studied the baby who represented such significant changes to their established order.
"The Greatjon speaks truly," she said with the authority of someone who'd spent decades evaluating the legitimacy of various claims and found most of them wanting. "Any woman who's ever birthed children can recognize the look of family in a child's features. This boy carries Stark blood as surely as winter follows autumn."
*And there's the maternal perspective,* several lords thought with growing acceptance. *Lady Maege has birthed and raised children of her own—she knows what family resemblance looks like, knows the difference between legitimate inheritance and convenient fabrication.*
"Furthermore," Lady Maege continued with increasing conviction, "I knew Lady Ashara's reputation at court, knew her to be a woman of honor and intelligence who would not risk her family's standing on lies or fabrications. If she says she bore Brandon Stark's trueborn son, then that's exactly what happened."
"But the timing—" Lord Bolton began, his pale eyes still calculating angles and implications with professional interest.
"The timing," interrupted Lord Glover with uncharacteristic sharpness, his usually diplomatic demeanor giving way to something considerably more direct, "makes perfect sense for anyone who understands the realities of protecting children during wartime. Would you have had them announce the boy's existence while Aerys still sat the Iron Throne? While mad kings were burning fathers alive and strangling sons for sport?"
*Thank you, Lord Glover,* Ned thought with relief as support continued to build among the assembled lords. *You understand the practical necessities that governed our decisions, the impossible balance between family loyalty and political survival.*
"A child's safety," added Lord Tallhart with quiet conviction, "must take precedence over political convenience or the satisfaction of adult curiosity. Lord Cregan's existence was concealed until such concealment was no longer necessary—that shows wisdom, not deception."
The momentum of support was clearly building, but Roose Bolton was not easily deterred from his chosen course of subtle challenge and carefully worded suspicion.
"I do not question the child's bloodline," he said with that precise courtesy that somehow made reasonable statements sound vaguely threatening, "merely the circumstances that led to the revelation of his significance at this particular moment in Northern political development."
*He's backing down slightly,* Ned observed with tactical relief, *but he's not conceding the field entirely. He wants something—acknowledgment of his concerns, perhaps, or assurance that his own position won't be affected by these changes in succession.*
Before anyone else could respond to Bolton's continued implications, Princess Elia stepped forward with the fluid grace that had once made her the most sought-after lady at court, her dark eyes bright with the kind of controlled fury that made wise men reconsider their conversational strategies.
"Lord Bolton," she said with deadly precision, each word carefully chosen and delivered with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question, "I have given you my oath as a princess of Dorne and a witness to the marriage in question. Are you suggesting that my word is insufficient to establish the legitimacy of Lord Cregan's birth? Are you questioning not merely the timing of this revelation, but the truth of the testimony I have provided?"
*Oh, now he's in trouble,* several lords thought simultaneously, recognizing the dangerous ground Bolton had stumbled onto. *Questioning a princess's sworn testimony in public, in front of witnesses, with political implications for multiple great houses—that's the kind of mistake that starts feuds lasting generations.*
Roose Bolton was many things—subtle, dangerous, politically astute, utterly without conventional moral constraints—but he was not stupid. He recognized immediately that he'd pushed his questioning to the very edge of what could be tolerated without crossing into open accusation of perjury by a member of the royal family.
"Of course not, Your Grace," he replied with smooth diplomatic precision, his pale eyes never leaving her face despite the dangerous territory he was navigating. "Your word as a princess carries absolute weight in matters of legitimacy and succession. I merely sought to understand the full circumstances surrounding such significant revelations."
*Retreat,* Cregan observed with appreciation for Lord Bolton's tactical intelligence. *He's recognized that further challenge would constitute direct accusation against Princess Elia, which would require him to either prove his allegations or face the consequences of impugning royal honor. Much safer to frame his questions as seeking understanding rather than challenging authority.*
"The circumstances," Princess Elia replied with steel-edged courtesy, "are exactly as I have described them. Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne were married according to proper ceremony and law, their son was born in legitimate wedlock, and his inheritance rights are as clear as any in the Seven Kingdoms."
*Case closed,* the Greatjon thought with satisfaction, his massive frame relaxing as the immediate tension dissipated. *Her Grace has spoken, Lord Bolton has backed down from direct challenge, and we can get on with the business of acknowledging our new lord without any more political dancing around uncomfortable questions.*
"Well then," he boomed with genuine enthusiasm, "it seems to me we have some pledging to do! Lord Cregan, son of Brandon, rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North—let's see him properly acknowledged by his bannermen!"
*Oh good,* Cregan thought with resigned amusement. *Time for the formal ceremony where grown men kneel before a baby and swear oaths of loyalty to someone who can't even reliably control his own bodily functions. Medieval politics really are quite surreal when you think about it.*
But before the ceremony of acknowledgment could begin, Ned raised his hand with the authority of someone still serving as regent and military commander, his grey eyes carrying that particular weight that meant additional important information was about to be shared.
"There is one more matter," he said with careful precision, "that affects not only Lord Cregan's future but the political stability of the North itself. An alliance that has been arranged to serve both immediate security needs and long-term strategic interests."
*An alliance,* several lords thought with growing interest. *Marriage arrangements, most likely—the kind of political bonds that cement relationships between great houses and ensure mutual support across generations.*
"Lord Cregan," Ned continued with formal gravity, "has been betrothed to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia. The marriage will take place when both parties reach appropriate age, creating a bond between the North and the former royal family that serves everyone's interests."
The silence that followed was profound and complex, heavy with implications that went far beyond simple marriage arrangements into questions of political loyalty, regional identity, and the wisdom of binding Northern interests to Southern bloodlines that carried considerable historical baggage.
*Marriage to a Targaryen princess,* the assembled lords thought with varying degrees of alarm and calculation. *That's... that's not what we expected. That's binding our future lord to the very bloodline we just finished fighting a war against. What is Lord Stark thinking?*
"A Targaryen princess," Lord Bolton said softly, his pale eyes bright with renewed interest in the political implications of what was being proposed. "That's... an unusual alliance for the Lord of Winterfell. Some might wonder whether such a marriage serves Northern interests or Southern ones."
*And there's the challenge,* Ned realized, noting how quickly the assembled lords had shifted from acceptance of Cregan's legitimacy to concern about his proposed marriage alliance. *They're worried about Southern influence in Northern governance, worried about divided loyalties and competing obligations.*
Several other lords began to voice similar concerns, their voices creating a rising murmur of unease that threatened to overwhelm the carefully constructed support for Cregan's acknowledgment:
"The North has always married among its own..."
"Southron wives bring Southron problems..."
"What loyalty can we expect from a lord whose queen carries Targaryen blood..."
"This smells like political manipulation from King's Landing..."
*They're afraid,* Lady Maege observed as she listened to the growing chorus of concern and opposition. *Afraid that their new lord will be influenced by Southern interests, afraid that Northern independence will be compromised by marriage alliances that create competing loyalties. Understandable fears, but possibly misplaced if the full political context is properly explained.*
The Greatjon rose to his feet with the kind of purposeful movement that suggested he was about to deliver opinions that brooked no argument, his massive frame commanding attention through sheer physical presence as much as political authority.
"Now hold on there, lads," he said with the voice of authority earned through decades of military command and successful political judgment. "Before you all get your smallclothes in a twist about Southern influences and Targaryen complications, perhaps we should hear the full terms of this alliance before passing judgment on its wisdom."
*Thank you, Greatjon,* Ned thought with gratitude for his most reliable bannerman's willingness to reserve judgment until all information was available. *Let's see if the practical benefits can overcome their emotional resistance to the Targaryen connection.*
"Lord Arryn," Ned said with the quiet authority of someone delivering news that would significantly alter everyone's understanding of the political situation, "has indicated that Princess Rhaenys's dowry will include the complete restoration of Moat Cailin to full defensive capability, along with the construction of a major deep-water port at Sea Dragon Point."
*Moat Cailin,* the assembled lords thought with sudden sharp attention, their concerns about Southern influence immediately tempered by appreciation for such massive infrastructure investment. *The ancient fortress that controls the Neck, properly restored and garrisoned. That's not just marriage dowry—that's a fundamental shift in Northern strategic capability.*
"Moat Cailin?" Lord Glover asked with keen interest, his diplomatic instincts immediately recognizing the implications of such investment. "Fully restored to defensive capability? That's... that's enormous strategic value. Control of the Neck means control of the primary connection between North and South."
"And a deep-water port at Sea Dragon Point," added Lord Tallhart with growing enthusiasm, his merchant instincts immediately calculating the economic implications. "A naval stronghold controlling the western approaches, proper harbor facilities for warships to patrol against Ironborn raiders. With the eastern coast finally secured from those reavers, Northern merchants could trade safely along our own shores for the first time in generations."
*Now they're starting to see the bigger picture,* Ashara observed with satisfaction as she watched the lords' expressions shift from suspicion to calculation to growing approval. *Infrastructure investment of that scale represents long-term commitment to Northern prosperity and independence. Hard to argue against such tangible benefits.*
Lady Maege was studying the proposal with the sharp intelligence that had made Bear Island a force far beyond its size, her weathered face thoughtful as she worked through both political and practical implications.
"A restored Moat Cailin," she mused aloud, "gives us the ability to seal the North off from Southern interference entirely if necessary. That's not Southern influence over Northern governance—that's Southern investment in Northern independence."
*Exactly,* Cregan thought with appreciation for Lady Maege's strategic understanding. *The dowry isn't binding the North to Southern interests—it's providing the North with infrastructure that ensures we can remain independent of Southern interests if we choose to. Rather clever political arrangement, actually.*
"The port facilities alone," Lord Umber added with growing enthusiasm, his merchant instincts warring with his warrior's caution, "would provide access to trade routes that have been dominated by Southern houses for centuries. Northern goods reaching Essos directly, without having to pay tribute to Southron lords for the privilege of passage."
"Economic independence," Lord Glover agreed with satisfaction, "backed by military capability that makes such independence sustainable. That's not a marriage alliance that compromises Northern interests—that's one that advances them considerably."
*And there's the shift,* Ned observed with relief as the tide of opinion clearly turned in favor of the proposed alliance. *Once they understand the practical benefits, the emotional resistance to the Targaryen connection becomes secondary to strategic advantage.*
But it was the Greatjon who delivered the final argument that clinched general acceptance, his booming voice carrying across the assembly with the authority of someone whose political judgment had proven reliable through decades of Northern warfare:
"Lads," he said with genuine enthusiasm, rising to his feet with surprising grace for someone of his massive size, "we're talking about the greatest infrastructure investment in Northern history, funded by the Crown and delivered through marriage alliance to our rightful lord. Princess Rhaenys isn't some scheming Southern lady come to manipulate Northern politics—she's a three-year-old girl whose dowry will make the North stronger and more independent than it's been since the Age of Heroes."
*Well said, Greatjon,* several lords thought with growing agreement. *When you put it like that, the benefits clearly outweigh any theoretical concerns about divided loyalties.*
"Moreover," the Greatjon continued, his expression growing more serious as he addressed the underlying concerns about regional loyalty, "young Lord Cregan will be raised in the North, educated in Northern values, surrounded by Northern advisors and Northern traditions. His queen may carry Targaryen blood, but their children will be Starks first and foremost. Northern lords ruling Northern lands with Northern priorities."
*Northern lords with the financial resources and strategic infrastructure to maintain Northern independence indefinitely,* Lady Maege added mentally with satisfaction. *That's not political compromise—that's political triumph.*
The shift in sentiment was now clearly unstoppable, the assembled lords recognizing that their initial emotional resistance had been based on incomplete information and insufficient appreciation for the strategic benefits involved.
"I withdraw my concerns about the marriage alliance," Lord Bolton said with smooth diplomatic precision, his pale eyes bright with genuine respect for the political maneuvering that had created such favorable terms. "A dowry of such magnitude clearly demonstrates the Crown's commitment to Northern prosperity and security. Such commitment deserves reciprocal loyalty."
*Even Bolton's impressed,* Ned noted with satisfaction. *When Roose Bolton publicly approves of a political arrangement, you know the benefits are substantial and the risks are manageable.*
"Then it's settled," the Greatjon declared with the enthusiasm of someone genuinely pleased by political developments that served everyone's interests simultaneously. "Lord Cregan, son of Brandon, rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, betrothed to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen with a dowry that will secure Northern independence for generations. Let's see him properly acknowledged by his bannermen!"
*And there it is,* Cregan thought as the assembled lords began to arrange themselves for the formal ceremony of acknowledgment. *Political theater reaching its intended conclusion—the baby lord accepted by his vassals, the marriage alliance endorsed by practical benefit, and the future of the North secured through careful negotiation rather than military conquest.*
*Though,* he added with internal amusement that would have been perfectly familiar to anyone who'd ever known Harry Potter, *I do hope Princess Rhaenys is prepared for the fact that our betrothal has just been sealed by infrastructure investment and strategic political calculation rather than romantic compatibility. Though given that we're both still effectively toddlers, I suppose practical considerations are more appropriate than emotional ones at this stage.*
As the ceremony began—the ancient ritual of bannermen kneeling before their acknowledged lord, even when that lord was too young to understand the significance of what was happening—baby Cregan found himself thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, they had successfully navigated the immediate crisis without getting everyone killed.
The lies were holding, the politics were stabilizing, the children were safe, and the future looked like it might actually be manageable.
For a first day as an officially acknowledged great lord, it could have gone considerably worse.
*Now,* he thought as grown men knelt before his mother's arms and swore oaths of loyalty to someone who couldn't even walk properly yet, *let's see if I can manage to survive long enough to actually rule something. Should be interesting, assuming "interesting" doesn't turn out to be a euphemism for "catastrophically dangerous" as it so often does in my experience.*
But surrounded by people who'd chosen to protect him, betrothed to the girl who'd been his best friend across lifetimes, and heir to one of the most powerful positions in the Seven Kingdoms, things were definitely looking up.
Even if medieval politics remained absolutely surreal.
---
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