For your information I am closing both polls at 00:00 UTC though I don't think there will be any changes as all leaders are clear by a quite few votes.
Fifth Moon, 284 AC - Winterfell
Two days after the return from Castle Black
The air in Winterfell felt heavier since Benjen Stark and Ser Arthur Dayne returned from the Wall.
No ravens could prepare the North for the sight of giant spiders, hauled on makeshift sleds behind their horses aswell as the undead and the skeleton who had to be hauled in wooden boxes less they catch fire in the sunlight.
The beasts were thrice the size of a wolf, their limbs curled in unnatural rigor, eyes clouded like milked glass. When the gates opened and the people of Winterfell caught sight of them, gasps spread like wildfire. The black brothers who had accompanied them spoke in hushed tones of corpses that walked, of burning red eyes, of the night itself rising in rebellion. Rumours spread that a demon had awoken in the lands beyond the wall and was corrupting the area.
Lord Eddard Stark stood above the yard with arms folded, face pale and set in grim resolve.
Maester Luwin waited beside him, ink-stained hands trembling slightly.
Ned turned to him. "The Night's Watch must be strengthened," he said quietly, but firmly. "Send ravens to every great house. Tell them the Wall is under threat not from wildlings, but from nightmares we have never seen before. And offer them the right to send envoys to Riverrun to see the truth with their own eyes. The word of the Starks may carry weight… but I fear such a tale will be dismissed as mummery without proof."
Martyn Cassel who stood nearby asked, "I take it I shall organise a party to escort one of the giant spiders to Riverrun?"
"Aye" said Ned with a nod, "Request Benjen and Ser Athur to lead roughly 50 guards to Riverrun, there the great lords of Westeros shall send their envoys to see the proof we have in our hands"
Luwin nodded rapidly. "And the Crown?"
"Aye. Send word to King's Landing. Tell them we need men, steel, and provisions. If these things come south of the wall and the North falls… the realm falls with it."
He did not say what he feared most: that the Crown would laugh. Or worse, ignore them entirely.
**Scene Break**
Later that evening — Elia's Chambers, Winterfell
The fire in the hearth did little to warm the chill that hung in the air. Not from the cold stone walls of the castle, but from the truth now smoldering in their hearts.
Elia sat on the edge of a chair, hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes, though tired, still held the fierce dignity of a princess wronged but unbowed.
Arthur Dayne stood beside the window, arms crossed, back straight. Gerold Hightower sat at a table nearby, his white hair silver in the firelight. Two guards — Dornishmen, loyal to House Martell and smuggled into the North with Ned Stark's cautious blessing — stood outside the chamber, silent and watchful.
Inside, there was only despair.
"Bad news doesn't seem to stop coming our way," Elia muttered, her voice taut with barely restrained grief. "Even if we do manage to place my son on the throne — and gods know that is harder now that Torrhen is missing — we may have something worse waiting for us in the North. How long until these monsters start appearing south of the Wall? Days? Months?"
Arthur said nothing. His jaw clenched, his gaze distant.
"We may have to reach out to our allies sooner than we planned," Gerold said heavily. "Time is no longer our friend. I am not getting younger. Nor is Barristan. The lad needs commanders when the storm breaks."
Elia's head snapped toward him. "Barristan is the Usurper's Kingsguard now."
"He had no choice," Gerold replied calmly, too tired for offense. "Robert spared him. He kept his oaths — as we did. But I believe Ser Barristan waits. Watching. Hoping. He will not serve Robert forever."
"He is but one man," she said, voice sharp.
"And we are but a handful. Yet here we are," Arthur murmured.
Elia looked at him, then shook her head. "Even if we managed to flee to Dorne, and somehow rally the full strength of my brother's armies… even if half the Riverlands and the Reach join us… we would still face the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Vale, and the North. And the Lannisters licking their wounds would throw gold at the problem just to stay relevant."
"We can wait," Arthur said, finally. "Aegon grows stronger with every passing year. Robert grows weaker. He bleeds the Crown with his lust for wine and whoring, and the Queen's coffers are no better. Doran believes it is only a matter of time before the Crown is buried in debt."
"And I believe that," Elia whispered. "But I fear for my son…"
Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
"He is not strong," she said after a pause. "His coughs linger. He tires easily. Pycelle in King's Landing said he would grow out of it. But I see it in his eyes. He is trying to be strong for me… but he suffers."
Arthur moved before he realized it, sinking to one knee beside her and drawing her gently into his arms.
Elia rested her head against his chest, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.
"We wait," Gerold said finally, rising. "We wait for Torrhen's return — gods help us if he is truly lost. If we can turn him to our side, we gain a powerful ally. A Stark raised among wolves, but sharpened by fire. If anyone can unify the North against what lies beyond that Wall… it may be him."
They all nodded, but it felt hollow.
Hope was growing thin.
**Scene Break**
general pov
The Declaration of Winterfell — signed by Lord Eddard Stark, sealed with the direwolf and the weight of Northern honor — reached every corner of the realm within days. What had once been regarded as exaggerated folly from the Night's Watch was now laid bare with the full authority of House Stark.
A threat from beyond the Wall. Dead things walking. Spiders as large as ponies. Undead that appear in the night alongside skeletons that use bow and arrow.
And proof — gods-damned proof — was being marched to Riverrun for all to see.
The North had spoken, and the realm listened.
In the Eyrie, Lord Nestor Royce trembled as he read the raven's message, but it was his cousin, Yohn "Bronze" Royce, who took up the call. Donning ancestral bronze armor and cloak, he descended from the Vale, his resolve solid as the mountains that birthed him.
He would join his old friend Brynden "Blackfish" Tully on the Kingsroad — a reunion of warriors too stubborn to die quietly, both determined to see the truth with their own eyes.
In Casterly Rock, the Lannisters scoffed — at first.
Tywin said little, but his fingers drummed against the armrest of his seat longer than usual after reading the letter. He dispatched Kevan Lannister in his stead, sending with him Lord Leo Lefford of Golden Tooth — sharp, loyal, and cautious. He also allowed Tyrion to accompany them, if only to be rid of his tongue for a time.
Tyrion, for his part, was delighted. "Spiders the size of carriages and dead men marching? Sounds like a rousing tale. I must see if the North has taken to wine or madness."
In the Reach, Lady Olenna Tyrell declared, "If the Starks have found something so dreadful even they wish to talk about it, then it's worth listening to."
She came personally, dragging her family with her — Mace, pompous and oblivious; Willas, youthful and skeptical; Garlan, quiet and watchful; Alerie stayed at Highgarden with Margaery and Loras.
"They say the North is bleak and joyless," Olenna remarked, "but I imagine watching a giant spider rot will be delightfully grotesque."
On Dragonstone, Lord Stannis Baratheon read the declaration without emotion. "If this is true," he said curtly, "then the realm is in danger. And if it is false, it is a grave insult to our time and duty."
He left the next day with his loyal retainer Davos Seaworth, grim-faced and silent, as the sea winds howled around the black stone castle.
Reading a letter from Storm's End castelland, Lord Selwyn Tarth grunted as he read the parchment. His daughter Brienne begged to go with him, but he refused. "If it is danger, I will not risk you. If it is truth, then we will need you later."
He rode out with knights and men-at-arms, leaving a wake of troubled silence behind him.
In Sunspear, the declaration reached Prince Doran Martell just as his brother returned from exile. Oberyn Martell, ever fiery, insisted he and Ellaria Sand be sent.
"We've danced with death before," he said with a smile. "But never with monsters. I'm curious to see what death looks like when it wears ice and eight legs."
Doran consented. Quietly, he sent word back to Elia in Winterfell: We move carefully. The game is changing.
And in King's Landing, chaos reigned.
King Robert Baratheon laughed. "Spiders? Bloody hell, Ned always did have a flair for the dramatic. Still, if he's putting his name to this, we'll bloody well go see what this mess is about."
The court exploded in motion. Queen Cersei seethed at the thought of trudging halfway across the realm for what she called "northern nonsense," but Jon Arryn and Grand Maester Pycelle insisted they must go. Even Varys seemed intrigued, eager to see the sensation with his own eyes but knowing that he would have to stay behind.
The royal procession would be enormous. Gold cloaks, banners, and courtiers — but behind it all, Stannis watched silently, jaw clenched, his thoughts darker than any spider.
Back in Winterfell, Ned stood at the top of the battlements, watching the horizon.
Benjen and Arthur had already departed with a carefully chosen party, the giant spider strapped to a massive sled while the undead and the skeleton archer had been put into a carriage pulled by strong northern horses.
"Do you think they'll believe it?" Jory Cassel asked his father Martyn.
"They'll have no choice," Ned said who had heard the question. "If they have any sense left."
He stared out into the cold winds of the North.
"Winter is no longer coming," he whispered. "It's here."
**Scene Break**
Sixth Moon of 284 AC – Riverrun
general pov
Riverrun swelled like a city bursting its seams.
Tents sprawled across the green banks of the Tumblestone, a sea of colored silks and flapping banners. Each house had come armored in pride, suspicion, and armed men — a political powder keg waiting for a single spark.
The Declaration of Winterfell had summoned them all, but the living proof — the mysterious monsters carted slowly through the Neck — had kept them waiting. Tensions brewed in the waiting.
The Stark party was less than a week away, the black banner of the direwolf creeping ever southward. Whispers said the beast they escorted was already stinking of rot, its many legs curled inward like the fingers of a dying god.
Inside Riverrun's great hall, where House Tully once celebrated harvests and marriages, now the air buzzed with veiled threats and forced courtesy.
Lord Hoster Tully presided with dignity despite his failing health, supported by Brynden Blackfish, who managed the hall like a hawk circling over a pit of vipers.
The great lords and envoys came and went — each carrying their rivalries like swords strapped to their sides.
The Reach and Dorne clashed first — not with blades, but with barbed words.
"Riverrun has never smelled so sweet," said Olenna Tyrell "though perhaps it's the perfume cloud your presence brings."
"I don't know my lady, perhaps you might want to take a bath if you want to feel more familiar" Oberyn retorted with a smile.
Lady Olenna Tyrell sniffed. "At least my grandchildren bathe in something besides blood and vengeance."
Ellaria Sand laughed, the sound low and musical. "Blood and vengeance are the perfume of Dorne, my lady."
Mace, puffed up like a goose, muttered about southern snakes and unchivalrous provocations.
The Stormlands and Dorne fared little better.
Selwyn Tarth offered civil greetings, but his knights — veterans of the Rebellion — eyed Oberyn with poorly concealed disdain.
"Your brother sheltered the Dragonspawn," said Ser Arwood Dondarrion, a Stormlands knight aligned to Selwyn, "and your knives bled our kin."
Oberyn smiled. "And I would do it again. Especially if it was you."
Only Lord Yohn Royce's stern presence kept steel from being drawn that night.
The Lannisters and Dornish didn't even try civility.
Kevan Lannister remained coldly professional, but Leo Lefford insulted Dorne's "endless excuses and sand-sucking pride" at supper, prompting Oberyn to knock over a wine goblet into his lap — by "accident."
Tyrion, watching it all from the side of the great hall, chuckled. "You can dress men in silk and feed them sweetmeats, but they'll still bark like dogs given half a reason."
But not all was venom and political posturing.
In the courtyard, Tyrion spotted his brother Jaime sparring with Ser Garlan Tyrell.
After the clashing of blades and Jaime's predictable victory, Tyrion approached, arms wide.
"Well, well, Ser Goldenhand himself."
Jaime grinned and pulled his younger brother into a rough hug. "You look shorter than I remember."
"And you look smug enough to need slapping. One year of peace and you're already back to peacocking."
"I have to win something while Robert's busy bedding half the Riverlands."
Tyrion laughed. "I missed this."
So did Jaime — though he wouldn't say it.
The crown's arrival brought pomp, noise, and disruption.
King Robert Baratheon rolled into Riverrun like a thunderstorm, roaring laughter and promises of wine and sport. Behind him came Queen Cersei, icily beautiful and more smug than usual. Stannis, of course, scowled at everyone.
Within hours, the King declared a tourney in celebration of the first full year of his reign — part honor, part distraction.
It was a grand affair.
Lances shattered, knights soared, the crowd roared — all under the banners of a realm pretending nothing lurked beyond the Wall.
Garlan Tyrell rode well, Selwyn Tarth's men held their own, and Leo Lefford embarrassed himself when unhorsed by a Riverlands hedge knight. Oberyn refused to participate, calling it "pageantry for drunk kings."
But the victor, of course, was Ser Jaime Lannister — resplendent in gold, brilliant in form.
He unhorsed all challengers with disdainful elegance, besting Yohn Royce in the semifinals and Ser Barristan in the final tilt.
Cersei's smile that night was so sharp it could cut steel.
"Look at him," she whispered to Robert, who was deep in his seventh goblet. "No man alive can match him. He is the realm's finest knight."
Robert grunted, uninterested. "Aye. A shame he never got the chance to die like one."
The sun set over Riverrun, banners fluttering in wine-sweet winds. But above it all — behind the laughter, the cheers, and the masks — everyone waited.
For the North was coming.
And with it, a beast that would change everything.
**Scene Break**