The Hundred Hearth Hall was a monument to the hubris of the ancient Kings of the Rivers and Isles. Though the name was a weaver's exaggeration, Eddard had counted exactly thirty-five during his first week of residency, the scale of the chamber remained staggering. The walls rose like granite cliffs, the windows were the size of small manor gates, and the ceiling was lost in a permanent haze of cedar-smoke and shadow. It was a space built not for men, but for legends, or perhaps for the ghosts that were said to haunt the melted stones.
Fierce fires roared in the hearths, their heat battling the encroaching winter. Musicians on the high gallery played a slow, resonant melody on harps and lutes, trying to fill the cavernous silence.
Stannis Baratheon sat in a shadowed corner, surrounded by his Stormlands knights. He looked up at the exquisite tapestries lining the walls, a scowl deepening on his face. He recognized them, they were the hunting scenes Robert had used to cover the Targaryen dragon skulls in the Red Keep. Now, they hung here as spoils of war, a silent boast of the "Winter Wizard's" triumph.
The hall was a mosaic of the new world order. Under the pale northern tapestries sat the lords of the North. Jon Umber, the one-armed son of the Greatjon, sat with the Glover and Mormont heirs. His father remained at the Dreadfort, overseeing the final, bloody months of Roose Bolton's isolation.
Rickon Stark, acting as his brother Bran's representative, sat at the head of the Stark table. Shaggydog lay at his feet, the direwolf's light-green eyes tracking every movement in the room with a predatory curiosity. Beside him were the Reed siblings, Jojen and Meera, their father Howland watching the proceedings from a nearby bench with the watchful stillness of a crannogman.
The Riverlands and the Vale were equally well-represented. Tytos Blackwood and Jason Mallister sat among the Waynwoods and Royces, their whispers creating a low, buzzing undertone of political maneuvering.
But the most striking sight was at the very front of the line: the Lannisters.
Tywin Lannister wore a robe of black silk embroidered with subtle gold thread, lined with warm mink. He wore no jewelry, no Hand's chain, and no crown. His back was draped in a plain black cloak, the garb of a brother of the Night's Watch. Beside him stood Tyrion, resplendent in red velvet and a necklace of golden lions with ruby eyes. The dwarf's boots had been modified to add three inches to his height, and his cloak was a heavy, jewel-encrusted statement of his new status as the Lord of Casterly Rock.
Tywin lowered his head, his voice a low, rhythmic grind. "Tyrion, what do you plan to do with the Rock? Do you intend to turn it into a tavern for your sellsword friends?"
Tyrion didn't look at his father. His eyes were fixed on the empty throne ahead. "What I do with my home is no longer your concern, Father. You are a Crow now. Your duty is to the frost and the shadows. I've heard the Blackbird, the ship taking you north smells of salted fish and wet dog. I suggest you find some lavender for your cabin, or you won't sleep a wink."
Tywin's chest heaved with a suppressed fury, but he forced himself into a cold, stoic calm. "Eddard Karstark is skillful. He relies on the Starks in the North, the Tullys in the Riverlands, and the Royces in the Vale. But in the West, he has no roots. He has granted Lannisport to his own men and assigned his 'Winter Guards' to oversee the gold mines. He is an occupier, not a ruler."
Tywin leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you facilitate the transition of the Westerland lords, you can bring House Lannister back to the center of power. You could join his cabinet."
"Don't trouble yourself with my career, Lord Tywin," Tyrion said, rolling his eyes. "I am already a member of the cabinet. I have been named the Master of Envoys - the Foreign Minister."
Tywin's brow furrowed. "A Master of Envoys? To do what?"
"To persuade the Great Houses to send their gold and their sons to the Wall," Tyrion grinned, a sharp, cynical light in his eyes. "To fight the Others. Eddard calls it a 'Sacred Mission' to reclaim Lannister honor. I call it a very expensive way to keep my father busy."
"You are mad," Tywin hissed. "No house will bleed for the Watch based on a dwarf's speech."
Tyrion's smile faded. He looked at his father with a gaze as cold as any Northern blizzard. "Speaking of honor... I still want to know where Tysha went. You remember her, don't you? My wife. The girl you gave to your soldiers."
Tywin blinked, a hint of genuine confusion crossing his face. "Who?"
"Tysha!" Tyrion gritted his teeth.
"Ah," Tywin said, the memory finally surfacing. "The prostitute. I remember the steward drove her out with a bag of silver. I don't know where she went, and I certainly don't care."
Tyrion felt the hilt of the dagger in his boot calling to him. His vision blurred with a sudden, violent impulse, but the sounding of the royal trumpets snapped him back to reality. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, remembering Maester Aemon's advice to let the past die with the man.
The music turned from a slow jig to a triumphant, booming anthem.
Eddard Karstark, holding the hand of Sansa Stark, descended the stairs of the King's Tower. He wore a formal suit of black wool, embroidered with silver stars, and a cloak of midnight silk featuring a massive, radiant golden sunburst.
Varys followed behind them, dressed in flamboyant purple velvet. The eunuch stepped to the center of the dais, unrolling a long parchment scroll. With a voice that reached every corner of the hall, he began to recite the embellished achievements of the "Winter Wizard": from his assistance to the Young Wolf to the capture of the Crossing, the stabilization of the Wall, and the final subjugation of the West.
After the recitation, Lord Rickard Karstark and Harrion descended from the opposite side. Harrion carried a velvet cushion bearing a crown of pure gold, three stylized rivers intertwined to form a circle, with a brilliant sunburst at the center surrounded by six black-diamond stars.
Rickard took the crown, his face full of a father's unmasked pride, and placed it upon his son's head.
"Long live the King!" the shout erupted from the Northmen and the Riverlords.
One by one, the lords of the Westerlands - men like Crakehall, Marbrand, and Brax stepped forward. They knelt on the cold stone, swearing their fealty to the "King of the West" in the names of the Old Gods and the New. Eddard accepted their oaths with a calm, practiced indifference. He knew they feared him more than they loved him, but in a winter kingdom, fear was a sturdier foundation than affection.
Once the fealty was sworn, Eddard raised a hand for silence.
"My Lords, My Ladies," Eddard's voice boomed. "I have one final piece of news to share. My wife, Queen Sansa, is with child. Soon, a new heir of the Trident and the West will be born to lead us into the coming spring."
The hall erupted. The announcement of a legitimate heir, a child of Stark and Karstark blood was the final bolt that locked the alliance together. Even the most skeptical Riverlords found themselves cheering; a child meant stability, and stability meant they could stop fighting.
As the banquet officially began, Davos Seaworth approached the high table. He looked uncomfortable in his fine silks.
"Your Majesty," Davos said, bowing. "My King, Stannis, requests a moment of your time. He has matters of the 'Wall' to discuss, and he finds the... festivity... of this hall to be a distraction."
Eddard looked at Stannis, who was sitting as stiffly as a gargoyle by a far hearth. He smiled.
"Of course, Lord Davos. Tell the King I'll meet him in the solar in an hour. We have a war with the dead to plan."
[System Notification: Coronation of the King of the Westerlands complete.]
[Reputation with Westerland Vassals: Subjugated (Rising).]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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