Third Person POV
299 AC, Winterfell – Morning, Great Hall
The Great Hall of Winterfell thrummed with the heated voices of lords and warriors, their words clashing like swords under the rafters where banners of every great northern house—Umber, Karstark, Glover, Manderly, Mormont—hung proudly. Eddard Stark strode through the hall, his grey cloak sweeping the stone floor, the weight of a vision from the old gods lingering in his mind, though his face remained composed, unreadable. His bannermen, clustered in fervent debate, argued over the North's fate and which king deserved their swords. Robb Stark sat to Ned's right at the high table, his face tense, fingers drumming restlessly on his chair's armrest. Bran, now hale and standing tall, sat to Ned's left, eyes sharp with quiet insight. Jon Snow sat at the low tables, his black cloak blending with the shadows, grey eyes watchful but silent.
Ned took his seat, his gaze sweeping the hall as discussions raged on, voices rising like a winter storm.
"Lord Stark," Rickard Karstark began, his deep voice cutting through the din, his grizzled face stern. "There's only one rightful king—Stannis Baratheon. Robert's lawful heir, his eldest brother. By every law of men, the Iron Throne is his."
"Aye," Galbart Glover agreed, his lean frame taut, voice firm. "The law's clear as ice. Stannis is the true king, and we'd stand by right if we follow him."
Wyman Manderly scoffed, his jowls quivering, his voice rich with disdain. "A king who sulks on Dragonstone, doing naught while our lord was clapped in chains? Stannis knew Robert's children were false, yet he fled, leaving Lord Stark to face the Lannisters' trap. Rightful by blood, aye, but fit to rule? I doubt it."
"Well said!" Jon Umber roared, slamming a fist on the table, his wild beard bristling. "Stannis and his rumored red witch can keep their gloomy island. The North needs a king who fights, not prays!"
Howland Reed, small and unassuming, spoke softly, yet his words carried weight. "If not Stannis, then Renly. He holds the Stormlands and the Reach, armies vast enough to win this war. Numbers matter, my lords."
Rickard's eyes flashed, his voice sharp. "Renly's a usurper, stealing a throne from his elder brother! And what of us? You think Renly'll care for the North once he's crowned? He'll see us as vassals to tax and bleed. He's no friend to Winterfell."
Ned sat silent, listening, his grey eyes measuring each lord. Neither Baratheon stirred his heart. Stannis, rigid and unyielding, had abandoned duty when it mattered most. Renly, charming but grasping, sought a crown not his by right, driven by ambition, not honor.
Greatjon Umber surged to his feet, his massive frame looming, his voice a thunderclap. "MY LORDS!" The hall fell silent, all eyes on the towering northman, his wild hair casting shadows in the firelight. "Here's what I say to these southron kings! Renly Baratheon's nothing to me, nor Stannis! Why should they rule us from some flowery seat in King's Landing or a cold rock in the sea?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall, heads nodding.
"What do they know of the Wall, the wolfswood, the barrows of the First Men?" Greatjon bellowed, his voice shaking the rafters. "Even their gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too, for that matter!"
Low grumbles turned to assent, the hall warming to his fire.
"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves?" Greatjon growled, his eyes blazing. Silence fell, heavy with meaning. "It was the dragons we bent the knee to, and the dragons are dead!" He turned, pointing at Ned, his voice a challenge. "There sits the only king I'll bow to—the King in the North!"
The hall erupted, voices roaring, fists pounding tables. "The King in the North! The King in the North!" Lords and warriors chanted, their fervor a tide washing over Winterfell's stones.
Ned felt their expectations settle like a mantle, heavy yet familiar. He rose, slow and deliberate, and shook his head. The hall stilled, confusion flickering across faces.
"My lords," Ned said, his voice calm but resonant, like thunder rolling distant. "You speak of a king who knows the North, who shares our blood, our honor. But I am not that king."
Murmurs stirred, uneasy. Jon, at the low tables, stiffened, his grey eyes narrowing, a dread creeping into his expression. Robb sat straighter, his blue eyes wide. Bran watched, silent, with curiosity.
Ned faced the hall, his voice clear, unwavering. "There is one who fits what you describe—one with the right blood, the right claim, not just to the North, but to the Iron Throne itself."
The lords exchanged glances, confusion deepening. Greatjon's brow furrowed. Wyman Manderly leaned forward, puzzled.
Ned turned, his gaze locking on Jon. "My son, Jon Snow, is not my son at all."
A stunned hush blanketed the hall. Robb's eyes widened, his breath catching. Bran has a shocked expression. Jon sat rigid, his face unreadable, hands clenched.
Ned met Jon's gaze, his voice firm. "His name is not Jon Snow. His name is Aemon Targaryen."
Gasps broke the silence. "Targaryen?" "What madness?" Whispers swirled, shock rippling through the hall.
Ned raised a hand, silencing them, and spoke, his words steady, unyielding. "Rhaegar Targaryen and my sister Lyanna were wed in secret, their love true, their union lawful. Lyanna bore a son, hidden in Dorne, and with her dying breath, she begged me to protect him from Robert's wrath, from those who'd slay a Targaryen child. I swore I would. I claimed him as my bastard, raised him as Jon Snow, to keep him safe. But he is Aemon Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar, rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
The hall was silent, the weight of Ned's words sinking in. Greatjon stood stunned, his fists unclenched. Rickard Karstark's jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with doubt. Wyman Manderly's mouth hung open. Robb closed his eyes, the burden of his aunt's secret settling on him.
Jon remained still, his grey eyes locked on Ned, his breath shallow.
Ned stepped down from the high table, his boots echoing in the quiet, and stood before Jon. With slow, deliberate purpose, he knelt, his grey cloak pooling on the stone. "I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, pledge my sword, my life, my honor to King Aemon Targaryen, third of his name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
The hall held its breath. Greatjon Umber, after a moment's hesitation, dropped to one knee, his voice gruff. "The King in the North!" Wyman Manderly followed, his bulk shifting, voice solemn. "Aemon Targaryen, my king." Rickard Karstark knelt, jaw still tight but eyes resolute. "My sword is yours, King Aemon." The Mormonts, Glovers, Reeds, Flints joined, a ripple of fealty spreading, lords and warriors kneeling, voices rising. "The King in the North! The King in the North!"
Jon stood frozen, his breath shallow, hands clenched, grey eyes wide with uncertainty. Ned rose, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, his voice low, steady, for Jon alone. "The stubborn lords of the North have chosen you, lad. They're making you their king. Accept it."
Jon's gaze flickered, the weight of the hall's chant pressing on him. He exhaled, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the roar. "I… accept. For the North, for my family, I'll bear this crown."
The hall roared anew, the cry of "The King in the North!" shaking Winterfell's ancient stones, a new king risen, a new war begun.