Land of the King, Chapter 82: Winter’s Ascent

5420 E.L

The High King of Arnor and all its empire stood at the window of the House of Kings in Morlond. Farsighted as he was, he could see from here as his granddaughters continued to distribute food, blankets, and other necessities to the people of the city, refusing to return home per their oath.

“You should be proud of them,” he told his son Aragorn. “They have singlehandedly won the love and affection of the people.” He knew the game that was being played here, yet for all the politicking, he could not deny his granddaughters’ sincere enthusiasm.

Aragorn walked up beside his father. “They did that a long time ago. I’m proud to have them as my heirs.”

And there it was. Resisting the urge to rub his brows in frustration, Arathorn nodded to his son and walked away from the window.

“Say what you want to say,” he told his son wearily.

“If you were to ever ask the people on who they prefer…” his son began as usual.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said with a sigh. He knew that sooner or later he would have to just give in, and in truth he had very little desire to have the Starks inherit the Sceptre. It was too soon in his opinion though. It was best not to implement great changes in the midst of this dreadful winter. They could change the law come spring.

“Your list of supporters grows,” he said, not unkindly. In truth he was proud of the lengths and efforts his son had made to ensure his daughter’s ascension. The Council had been convinced rather easily once his brother could no longer plead his case directly. The nobility had been charmed by his granddaughters, as had the smallfolk. Even parts of the North now supported his granddaughters, touting the sacred laws of Mother Rhoyne, much to Araphant’s displeasure. Araphant, not Rickard. Arathorn would never refer to his brother by his Stark name in his mind.

“Your daughters will be the heirs, Aragorn, eventually, but you must have patience. Trying to force too much change too quickly will not bode well. Your little stunt with the colonies trying to muster support was one of the issues your impatience caused. They’ve been growing bolder,” he stated.

“Do they have new requests?” Aragorn asked him curiously, stepping closer.

He had to resist sighing. “The same as always. It seems our subjects in the colonies like the edicts of Morlond less and less.”

“The taxes and tribute we require of them have increased, is that truly surprising?” Aragorn asked.

“No. Any time a subject has to pay even a copper more, he will grumble. But there is a difference between grumbling about taxes and demanding outright autonomy. I am willing to negotiate, but the colonists have become less and less willing to do so.

“Aragorn, the colonies’ demands are absurd and unacceptable. They wish for me to name Lord Elured Prince of Hyarmen and give him all twenty-two provinces of Hyarmen as his realm. That is a territory large enough to rival the rest of the Empire in size if they expand it further into the continent and they are asking for it autonomy and rights similar to Formenor. It would be tantamount to splitting the Empire in half.

“How long would it be until Elured or his sons are tempted to claim another title? That of King perhaps? And what of the precedent set? If Hyarmen is granted self-governance like this, other parts of the empire may seek it also. I do not like the idea of losing more of my realm Aragorn. Already I was forced to relinquish Formenor to my brother in our youth,” Arathorn said.

“I don’t like it either, but…I think that we haven’t a choice anymore. The colonies are angered by the increase in the taxes and resources we demanded of them, outraged by the fleets and armies we stationed to ensure their compliance,” his son answered.

“You fear the Empire splitting in half in the future but I think it already is. War may be inevitable at this rate. Is that a war we can win? At any other time, the colonists would not have dared push so far, knowing we could crush them, but now? In the midst of this decades-long winter? The Empire needs Hyarmen to survive, Arnor needs Hyarmen. And they know it, that’s why they are demanding so much, because they need to get it now before winter ends and their influence wanes. We need the food Hyarmen supplies us. Arnor is on the brink, starving and freezing. A civil war in the empire will shatter it. We will fall into anarchy and chaos like all the other nations of the world have.”

Arathorn wondered at his son’s words. Foresight was not uncommon in their family, though he supposed one did not need the foresight to see the truth in Aragorn’s words. Yet something made him hesitate to answer his son, some premonition that dark tidings were coming.

Moments later, a courier ran into the room, barging in without their leave. A grace granted only to those who carried the most urgent of messages. “Your Majesty, The Wall has fallen!” he cried.

Stunned silence met the courier, Arathorn’s mind scrambling. Fallen… but how? The Wall was one of the greatest structures of their world, how could it just fall??

“What?” Aragorn demanded. “How can this be? A seven-hundred foot wall just fell?”

“We don’t know! That’s all we heard, Your Highness!” the courier replied.

Arathorn put aside his own confusion. He mustered his strength, knowing that he had to be a pillar of calm as they dealt with the crisis. Whatever had happened, it was not good. “Summon the Council of the Sceptre, and open communications with Formenor with the Palantir and the glass candles. We need to find out what is going on,” he ordered, projecting a calm he did not feel.

As the Council of the Sceptre gathered around them in the Chambers of the Council, the news started trickling in. It soon became apparent that the Wall had indeed fallen. But that was only the beginning. In Formenor conditions had worsened, and half the North was buried under blizzards of snow of an intensity never before seen, and soon the witnesses and the palantir had revealed something even worse. The dead were walking.

As it became apparent what was going on, Arathorn felt a chill in his bones even with the fireplace by his side roaring. A feeling of doom took hold of him as he put everything together and arrived at the inevitable conclusion. “We should have seen the signs earlier, how did we not?” Arathorn asked aloud bitterly.

“We could not have known. When ten years passed, and the winter showed no signs of ending, we looked north with the palantiri and found nothing. It’s clear they have means of hiding their presence from our sight. The Others have become myth already, who would have thought they were responsible for everything?” his son answered. The rest of the Council was silent, stunned by the grim news.

“And now myth has become truth. The Long Night,” Arathorn laughed, “a story come to life.”

Overcoming his melancholy best as he could, Arathorn turned to his councillors. “Inform Hyarmen, and the rest of the Empire of what has occurred,” he ordered. They needed to act as soon as possible.

The members of the Council of the Sceptre bowed. “Yes Your Majesty.”

“And what of Lord Elured and the leaders of Hyarmen? What shall we do with them and their demands? We need them, we cannot afford to deal with them in these trying times. Not now when doom is upon us,” Aragorn said, and he knew he was right.

“Tell them that there is no more time for their defiance, no more negotiations and patience from the Sceptre. They will send us the supplies we need for war without delay, and insure the supply of food and medicine is not interrupted again, or be branded traitors and oathbreakers!” Arathorn declared.

Aragorn turned to him in surprise and tried to change his mind. “That seems unwise, Father. We cannot afford a war right now, and they know it.”

He was right. He hated it, but he was right.

“I do not like it,” he said simply. Aragorn made to continue his argument but Arathorn interjected.

“But I am not so foolish as to have division within the empire while we fight against a foe like the Others. We shall give them what they want. Elured will be Prince of Hyarmen, and have the rights and autonomy equivalent to the Prince of Formenor, on the condition that Hyarmen gives its full unhindered aid to the war effort. An investiture ceremony confirming this and granting him these titles and privileges will be held after the war, to ensure he and Hyarmen keep their end of the bargain.”

“For now, we will need a council of war, perhaps we could coordinate with Hyarmen directly, and have some of their representatives be on the council, as a show of good faith?” Aragorn suggested.

Arathorn nodded his head in agreement. “That sounds wise. Tell me Aragorn, you visited Hyarmen in person, do you think this Elured and the colonies he leads will fulfill their oaths and come to our aid, with no hesitation, no withholding, with such a deal?”

Aragorn answered, choosing his words carefully. “I think… that for all of their differences, and their desire for autonomy, the colonists of Hyarmen remain true Arnorians at heart, and we must endeavour not to alienate them or turn them away from us. When I visited, I was treated with the utmost respect. They came in peace when they asked for their autonomy, not without reason or cause nor without the expected politeness. Elured is… ambitious but still kin and a true member of our house. If we promise him and his followers autonomy in writing, I think they will obey.”

“Let’s hope you are right. For the coming doom from the north we shall need every last man and every last coin. Time is of the essence. If the Wall has been breached, it will only be a matter of time I fear, before the Others are at the walls of Winterfell. We need to be ready as soon as possible. The great battle of our time has just begun.”

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“Brandon, Ned, take our people through the passages in the crypts, and lead them to Moat Cailin,” Rickard ordered.

“But what about you father? We can’t just leave you!” Brandon protested, but he noticed that his second son had already accepted the command.

“I will remain here, with the remnants of the army, to hold Winterfell as long as we can for you to escape. But we haven’t much time. Go Brandon!”

Hotheaded and brash as he was, not even Brandon would disobey his father in this dire situation. Obeying his commands, he turned to his brother and the rest of their family and the people of Winterfell and led them into the crypts.

With his sons leading the evacuation, Rickard turned his attention back to the battle at the walls. The advance of the Army of the Dead through the north had been as quick as lightning. Within weeks, the Gift, Last Hearth, the Mountain Clans, Karhold, and Queenscrown had been overrun and the army had reached Winterfell before the Nord army could fully muster.

He drew his blade, resigned to his defeat and likely death. The remnants of his army were being driven from the walls of Winterfell, overrun by the sheer number of wights and their masters casting magic to support them. Rickard knew his brother was mustering Arnor, and he hoped that he would arrive in time to reinforce Moat Cailin, but in his heart he knew that his own time was up.

It took them days to overcome the defenders, but soon enough the wights had passed over the first set of walls, creating ramps out of their own decomposing bodies to clamber onto the walls and massacre Rickard’s soldiers before their masters resurrected them to join their army. Rickard wielded his greatsword, smashing the dead corpses into pieces as they tried to savagely attack him but soon he was overwhelmed. At the last moment however, the wights stopped, and instead of killing him, they latched onto his body and began dragging him around like a prisoner.

Captive to the wights, Rickard was forced to watch as his men were all brutally slaughtered by the wights as he was dragged to the throne room of Winterfell. It had already been days since he had sent off his sons and the refugees. He hoped and he prayed they had escaped, that the passage had not been discovered with wights waiting for them at the other end. Bodies of his bannermen and knights littered the corridor and the throne room.

When they arrived at the throne room, Rickard was thrown to the ground by the four wights dragging him. The floor burned his hands as he landed, but it was not a burn from fire or heat. The whole throne room was bitterly cold, much colder than it was outside. Looking up, he saw one of the cursed Others standing beneath the throne, looking at the seat. Its very presence felt unnatural, making Rickard feel chilled and sick.

The Other was strangely beautiful, pale as milk, slightly gaunt, and completely inhuman. Something alive yet with a touch of cold death in its aura, almost like a wraith. Its eyes, deeper and bluer than those of any human, were like burning ice, radiating malice and amusement. Its armor reflected rainbows within itself as it moved. On its head, was a circlet made out of crystal ice, a crown reminiscent of the iron sword crown of the old Stark Kings of Winter.

Knowing he was going to die made Rickard feel a little brave as he called out and mocked the Other. “What? Not royal enough to sit on a throne?”

He did not actually expect the Other to answer. He was surprised when he heard a guttural sound that reminded Rickard of ice shattering. It was laughter he realized. The Other was laughing at him. It spoke then, in perfect Nordic.

“I am more royal than you. How the mighty Starks of Winterfell have fallen, becoming the lapdogs of foreigners. You are but a prince, a vassal, a servant. I am a king. Night’s king.”

Rickard’s eyes widened in shock, and horror. “No! No! That can’t be! You’re dead! All the stories say you were killed!”

“You should know by now, Prince Stark, not to trust in stories,” Night’s King said, turning around to face him. He raised his arms and Rickard watched in horror as the bodies scattered around the throne room and outside all over Winterfell began to rise, blinking their eyes open to reveal the blue pupils that signified they were now wights. He had known many by name and now they were all enslaved to Night’s King.

The wights rose from the ground simultaneously at the Night’s King’s rising arms. Like dancers following a conductor, they rose to their feet and began to stand guard around Rickard and Night’s King. Rickard could not help but cry out in despair and shock. It should have been natural for soldiers bearing the direwolf surcoat to stand guard in the throne room of Winterfell, but there was nothing natural about their bright blue eyes and skin as pale as snow nor their blackening hands and the unnatural halting way in which the wights moved, like puppets on strings, a mere facsimile of life.

Night’s King stalked down from the throne to Rickard, before grabbing his neck and raising him up with superhuman strength so their eyes were level. Clawing at his neck trying to free himself from the Night’s King’s grip, Rickard almost missed what he said next. “I have waited for this for a long, long time. To return from my exile and take my vengeance on the family that betrayed me, to end my hated brother’s line. But looking at you now, it feels almost like a shame seeing how pathetic you are. Die well Stark, knowing that your end came at the hands of one of your kin. But don’t worry, there will always be a Stark in Winterfell. Me.”

The Other tightened his grip on Rickard’s neck, crushing it and the Prince of Winterfell knew no more.

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Dropping Rickard’s corpse to the ground, the Night’s King raised him up as a new wight, never one to waste a good soldier.

At that moment, the doors of the throne room opened and Night’s King and his wights, including the former Rickard Stark, knelt before the newcomer. For all his words of being a king and greater than Rickard, just like Rickard, the Night’s King served someone else. Even kings answered to gods.

“My lord,” Night’s King said reverently as he knelt before the Lord of Winter.

His master said nothing, aloud that is, but he heard the question loud and clear in his mind.

“Yes. The godswood was unharmed as you commanded. Not a single tree was felled or hurt,” he reported.

His lord and master remained silent, stalking up to sit upon the throne of Winterfell, a triumphant smirk on his face as he took the seat. A thin layer of ice covered the seat as he sat. Finally, he spoke aloud at last.

“Good, let my siblings bear witness to my ascension.”