- Lord Mathis Rowan

Rodrik's eyes scanned around the table. Hoster Tully furrowed his brows, listening silently and thoughtfully. Jon Arryn, with a patient expression, was weighing the conversation. Robert Baratheon looked bored, staring aimlessly at his wine-filled cup. And Ned Stark... When Rodrik looked at his face, he realized that the man's thoughts were much deeper.

The young lord of Winterfell had fallen into complete silence after escaping the disaster. Well, it wasn't surprising, as he was already known as the Silent Wolf, but this silence was different from the previous ones. The old Ned Stark, despite being quiet, was certainly not an antisocial man, yet this time he was presenting a completely different portrait. He had sunk into his thoughts, completely overwhelmed by them, not focusing on the conversations around him. He was only checking the map, calculating something.

Rodrik did not find it logical for the young Lord Stark to mourn, as the North had suffered the least during the Greendoom disaster. Only two thousand soldiers. It wasn't an insignificant loss, but it could have been much worse. If they had launched a full assault on the city after seeing the gates open... Just thinking about it sent shivers down Rodrik's spine.

During the Greendoom disaster, aside from the two thousand northern soldiers, only three nobles had died. Old Ondrew was already elderly, and he was aware that it could have been a trap when entering the city. Old Ondrew's eldest son and heir had unfortunately been in the city during the explosion, but since the Locke family had plenty of male children, there would be no succession issues. And finally, Ethan Glover, as Rodrik had heard, was rotting beneath the Red Keep, paying the price for following "Stupid Wolf" Brandon – a nickname Rodrik had given him, and whenever he thought of it, it made him feel better.

Yes, the Greendoom disaster had been a real tragedy, but the North had not suffered much. In fact, the losses from the War of the Trident had been greater than those from Greendoom. So what was it that was making Lord Stark think so deeply? Rodrik had thought it might be related to his lost sister, Lyanna. When he had asked about this matter the day before, Eddard Stark had looked at Rodrik in surprise. "Lyanna… Damn, I completely forgot about her," he had said, hastily getting up. "I need to urgently send a few letters and speak to the lords who might know her whereabouts." Rodrik had looked at Lord Stark in astonishment as he hurriedly left. A few months had passed since the Greendoom disaster, but until Rodrik mentioned her name, Lyanna's fate hadn't even crossed Ned Stark's mind.

"Well, gentlemen," Jon Arryn finally said, slamming his fist on the table and silencing everyone. "You all know what happened, what we've been through, and why we're gathered here, so I'll skip the unnecessary pleasantries." He stood up and briefly surveyed those at the table. "Now, the question is: Who should we support as king, as the Rebel Alliance?"

"What kind of question is this?" Lord Ralph Buckler, sitting next to Robert Baratheon, scratched his ear. "After the War of the Trident, all of you accepted Robert Baratheon as king and swore fealty to him."

"It seems you're mistaken, Lord Buckler," Hoster Tully interjected. "Yes, we accepted him as our king, but we never bent the knee or swore an oath. We were waiting for the conquest of King's Landing to do that, but now that plan is no longer viable," he continued, laughing mockingly. "Besides, on what legitimate grounds can Lord Robert claim to be king? Because his grandmother was a Targaryen? If he goes out and tells the people that, they'll tear him apart."

As the debate in the hall grew louder, Jon Arryn repeatedly slammed his fist on the table, trying to silence the noise. Rodrik sighed. Ah, those southerners, they really had too much free time. He grabbed an empty cup, filled it with beer, then hurled the cup, filled with beer, into the fire burning on the hearth. The fire, tainted with alcohol, exploded noisily. Although no one was harmed, the sound was enough to make everyone fall silent and stare at Rodrik in surprise.

Rodrik casually leaned back without caring about the looks. "Robert," Jon Arryn began, casting a grateful glance at Rodrik. "The original plan was to make you king, I admit that. But the circumstances have changed too much. King's Landing, the political and economic center of Westeros, is gone. The old order has been completely destroyed, and now we have to build a new one. We need to establish a new administrative and commercial center in place of King's Landing, or we will be economically crushed by the Essosi, perhaps even subjected to the horrifying fate of becoming their colony. Westeros could turn into a chessboard for the Essosi to move around as they please. We cannot allow that." He looked around at the other lords again. "Robert, there are many things, especially in times of war, that I can't imagine a better leader than him. But he was never a good administrator, nor did he understand economic matters. It pains me to say this about my stepson, but Robert has incredibly expensive tastes, the kind of tastes that Westeros can't afford." He sighed deeply before sitting back down. "Robert cannot be king," he concluded his monologue.

A silence fell over the room. Robert Baratheon seemed somewhat hurt by what he had heard. "Well," he said finally, "I completely withdraw my claim to the throne."

"Robert..." Stormlord's grandfather, Eldon Estermont, tried to intervene.

"Enough!" Robert raised his hand sharply. "Look, I'm a warrior, alright? Show me a target, and I'll crush it with my hammer. Even if it's a real dragon." He leaned back again. "But counting copper, building cities, doing paperwork. That's not me. I know what I am, and I also know what I am not. I'm not some madman who sees himself as a chosen one like Rhaegar." He took a deep sip of Arbor wine. "So I'll follow your decision. Well, who will be king?"

A silence lingered in the room. Rodrik was also curious about the answer to this question. Jon Arryn, the one who had arranged this meeting, must have had a plan in mind.

"First," Jon Arryn began, clearing his throat a few times, "the king we choose must have the ability to reunite and strengthen Westeros. His family must have a deep history, otherwise, the other lords won't respect him or follow him. To ascend to the throne with sufficient support, he must be a lord paramount, or someone from his family." He spread a large map of Westeros on the table and began pointing to the kingdoms with his finger. "Tyrell and Tully lack the necessary historical prestige. Some smaller knightly houses have a longer history than they do. No offense, Hoster." He pointed to the Stormlands. "Robert already stepped back, and I don't think I need to repeat his reasons." He pointed to Dorne. "The Martells and the Dornish are looked down upon by the southern kingdoms. They will never accept them as leaders." He pointed to the Westerlands. "If Lord Tywin were still alive, we could seriously consider this matter. He met all the requirements, but his son Jaime... he's like Robert, not good at anything other than war." He pointed to his own region, the Vale. "I... To be honest, I meet all the requirements. I can't claim to be the best option, but personally, I think I could do it." Rodrik raised an eyebrow. Was the Old Falcon considering offering himself? "But I'm old, very old," Jon Arryn continued, dispelling Rodrik's thoughts. "I have no health problems at the moment, but I know my time is limited, and I have no heir." The last sentence seemed to deeply sadden Jon Arryn; he swallowed for a moment. "I cannot be king."

"NED!" the Stormlord suddenly shouted, jumping to his feet and pointing to his close friend. "You're suggesting Ned for king, aren't you? He has all the qualities. The Stark family has more history and prestige than the Westerlands' gold mines. There is no house older or more successful. Their ancestors defeated the Others. They built Oldtown and Storm's End." He laughed eagerly. "And Ned has the administrative skills as well. He can unite the kingdom and build a new capital."

The room instantly erupted with noise. The lords began discussing the matter loudly. Greatjon Umber supported the idea with a loud roar, while Wyman Manderly was busy praising the Stark family's and Ned Stark's prestige, accomplishments, and abilities. Hoster Tully's eyes were shining with excitement at the prospect of his daughter becoming the queen of Westeros. He had already started speaking to his own lords. Jon Arryn, however, had a sad look in his eyes.

Rodrik looked at his lord, Eddard Stark. The man was still wearing his typical Stark ice-cold expression, betraying none of his thoughts. If another man his age were in his position, his eyes would gleam with excitement at the prospect of being king, but it seemed like Ned didn't care about what was being said. Rodrik realized, with great respect, that he understood. Ned was aware, as well, that such a scenario could never come to pass. He wasn't allowing himself to fall into false hopes.

The noisy debate continued for several more minutes, and the voices seemed like they would never die down. "Enough!" Lord Stark said, taking his cup of beer and slamming it hard onto the table. After a few moments, everyone in the room fell silent.

"Robert," Eddard Stark turned his head to his closest friend. "I cannot be king."

"Why not, you..."

"The Old Gods," Ned said. "I believe in the Old Gods. The Sevens will never accept me."

"This is negotiable," said Hoster Tully. "The Seven's Faith isn't as strict as it used to be. They granted many concessions to the Targaryens. If we speak to the new High Septon..."

"That's the problem," Jon Arryn interrupted, cutting off the Fish Lord. "The Seven's Faith gave many concessions to the Targaryens, ignored their practices that went against the faith, and as a result, we had Greendoom. The most devout council will never make the same concessions again, and even if we somehow manage to convince them, the people won't accept it. The people's faith in the church is already severely shaken."

"How about converting to the Faith of the Seven, Ned?" Hoster Tully asked, looking at his good son with hope. "I know it's a hard decision, but Westeros needs you as king."

"First of all," Ned Stark said, furrowing his brow slightly. "I will not forsake the gods of my ancestors. I refuse to do so." He shot an angry look at his good father, Hoster Tully. "Moreover, the North has worshipped the Old Gods for thousands of years. A Stark who rejects the gods of his ancestors will not be followed."

Rodrik couldn't help but nod in appreciation at this objective observation. The religion of the Old Gods wasn't as strict as the Faith of the Seven, but the Northerners had followed it loyally for thousands of years. If Ned Stark were to choose the Faith of the Seven as his religion, the North would be forced to choose between their ancient gods and a leader who worshipped the Seven. Some would undoubtedly choose loyalty to their gods, and they wouldn't allow a man who worshipped the Seven—Stark or not—to rule the North. This would spark a long-lasting rebellion. It wasn't hard to see.

"Let's get to the point, Lord Arryn," said the elderly Eldon Estermont in a weary voice. "You called this meeting, so you must have a plan."

"Yes, I do," Jon Arryn cleared his throat a few times and then began to explain his main idea. "In the current situation, it seems that there is no king suitable for selection. My proposal is that until this issue is resolved, Westeros should be ruled by a great council of lord paramounts. As long as we remain united as a rebel group, we will have the majority in the decisions we make, and..."

Suddenly, a loud burst of laughter echoed through the room. Rodrik was laughing. He knew this was a huge disrespect, but he couldn't stop himself. He laughed so much that he had to hold his stomach to calm down. The looks directed at him were varied. Some were shocked, some were angry at his insolence, and others were simply curious. Frankly, Rodrik didn't care about their opinions.

"I apologize, Lord Arryn," Rodrik said, barely managing to regain his composure. "I'm just curious to know what your brilliant plan is, and this... pfft," he covered his mouth to stop laughing.

"Well then, I'd love to hear your brilliant idea, Lord Ryswell," Jon Arryn said, gritting his teeth.

Ah, you'll regret saying that, Rodrik chuckled again. Now, my time has come. He stood up and addressed the room respectfully. "Lords, I am from the North, and we Northerners prefer to speak briefly and to the point, not with unnecessary excuses, but with the truth." He stood up, towering over everyone in the room. His shadow seemed to envelop the entire room, and his voice carried an undeniable authority. Rodrik Ryswell had never felt so powerful in his life.

"Here are the damn truths: Westeros, ruled by a Great Council, can't accomplish anything. Even the most trivial decisions would take months of negotiation."

He began pacing around the round table. The lords watched him closely, their attention fixed on his every move. "A king chosen by the Great Council will not come from a respected house. A house that rises through a council, not through war, will not inspire respect."

"I ask you, lords," Rodrik slammed his hand on the table. "Why do we need to clean up the mess the Targaryens left behind? Why do we make it our task to keep Westeros peaceful? We didn't break the peace—why must we be the ones to restore it?"

His eyes burned with intensity as he gazed at the lords around him. "I ask you: What do the Tyrells, descendants of a worthless steward, mean to you? What do the Lannisters, whose arrogance exceeds their gold, mean to you? What do the Dornish, who sell their wives and daughters, and their leaders, the Martells, mean to you? Why must we protect them? Why do we need to keep them in peace and prosperity?"

"Westeros' 300 years of unity is nothing more than a paradox. The unity the Targaryens brought only benefited the Reach and the Riverlands, while the rest of the kingdoms weakened and became dependent on others." He laughed again when he saw the fear on Hoster Tully's face. It seemed that Hoster had finally understood what was on Rodrik's mind. "Before the Targaryens, the North didn't trade with the southern kingdoms, yet we still fed ourselves and could muster an army of 30,000 men in times of war. Now, every time winter comes, we have to beg southern lords for wheat, and the number of soldiers we can muster for a rebellion barely reaches 18,000."

He fell silent for a moment, knowing that similar situations existed in all the kingdoms, except for the Reach and the Riverlands. He gave them a moment to think about it. Finally, he spoke again. "I say, let us return to our glorious days. I say, we need no one but each other. I say, let us put an end to this 300 years of stagnation and supposed peace. So, what do you say?"

He turned to Robert Baratheon, whose face was filled with excitement and eagerness. "King of Storm." he said.

Jon Arryn, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the table, glanced up. "King of the Vale."

Rodrik drew his sword and knelt before Eddard Stark.

"King of the North."