What if Ned Stark Was Allowed to Take The Black?

What if Ned Stark was allowed to take the black? Let's explore the depths of it in the video. If this video gets 3,000 likes, we'll post a part two. [Applause] The world shrinks to steel. Ser Ilyn Payne raises Ice, Lord Stark's own blade, both hands straining to lift its ancient weight. The sunlight crashes against the steel, dazzling. The crowd surges like a beast with a thousand lungs. Screams, jeers, sobs, all tangled in one endless roar. Ned feels the sound more than he hears it, a vibration in his ribs. He closes his eyes, murmurs a prayer he half remembers. He thinks of Winterfell, of snow and the godswood, of his children. Arya, gods, where is Arya? Sansa's shrill cry carries through the yard. Mercy, please, mercy, your grace. The crowd bellows like thunder, a thousand voices drown the Sept. The swing begins, and then Stop! The shout isn't a plea, more like a command, ripped raw from lungs hardened by cold wind and black oath. It blasts through the noise, startling even the ravens perched on the Sept's ledges. Heads snap toward the voice. The ragged crow has shouldered his way onto the steps, cloak flapping, eyes burning like coals. His voice rips again, louder and harsher. Lord Stark is promised the wall. The sword halts just short of falling. Even Payne's dead eyes flicker toward the shout. What? The boy king is affronted that anyone would speak over him. Yoren plants himself on the stair, chest heaving, and bellows again, every word echoing through the yard. Your grace, the man was sentenced to the Night's Watch. The oath has been made. To break it is a shame to the crown. The crowd murmurs, confession leading into the frenzy. Cersei raises halfway from her seat, face pale with fury. Little Finger leans in, lips twitching at the drama. Varys tilts head, listening with a spider's patience. Ned blinks, stunned, heart kicking against his ribs. Arya, buried in the throng, feels the world like a knife cutting the noose from her neck. But Joffrey hesitates. The boy king thrives on the eyes of the mob. He tastes the air, the shifting mood. The Watch's name has weight even here, even among the stink of the smallfolk. Pycelle totters forward, stroking his beard. It is true, your grace. Lord Stark was to take the black. It is recorded. The noise of the crowd surges again, but different now. Questions, uncertainty, a low wave of approval at the word mercy. Yoren seizes the moment, roaring again, pointing a black-nailed finger straight at Joffrey. Show your people a king who keeps his word. Spare him. Send him to the wall. Joffrey's jaw works furiously. He wants blood, and he wants it bad. But the sound of the crowd stirs him. Mercy can be another crown to wear. He puffs out his chest, fists tightening as he looks upon the crowd. I am merciful. Lord Stark will take the black. He shall live, for now. If he leaves the wall, he dies. The crowd erupts in a way that resembles relief, ragged and confused. Ned's chest caves with a shuddering breath. Ice clatters back down to Ser Ilyn's side, denied its feast. Sansa sobs in gratitude, sinking at the queen's feet. Arya squeezes between bodies, too shaken to breathe. Eyes locked on her father. Ned Stark lifts his head. He meets Joffrey's eyes, then Yoren's. Yoren only scowls, shoulders rolling as if the noise weighs on him. He fades back into the throng, but not before tossing Arya a look sharp enough to pin her to the ground. She goes still. The procession moves. Chains drag Ned to his feet. The chains bite into Ned's wrists as he's shoved into the prison cart. The roar of the crowd follows him like a storm cloud. Move, traitor. Ned doesn't answer. He lifts his eyes once, scanning the mass of faces. Somewhere in that crush Arya is watching. He can feel her. The gates of King's Landing creak open. The cart lurches forward. The city's noise begins to fade into the clatter of wheels on stone. A shadow slides close. Yoren. He walks alongside, cloak wrapped tight, eyes darting everywhere. You breathe because the boy wanted to look kingly. Don't thank me. I'll thank you anyway. The cart rattles through the fish market, past the stink of river and tar. The black brothers ride with the column, their presence making the gold cloaks sneer, but obey. From under the cart's slats, a whisper. Father. Ned jerks, heart hammering. He sees her crouched between the walls, dirty and small, hair hacked short. Arya. Gods. We can run. When the lane bends, I can climb. You can >> No. I swore. I take the black. You swore to mother, too, to come home. I swore to keep you safe. That's all I can keep now. Girl, you'll get you killed twice over. Quiet. >> Arya glares, but bites her tongue. Yoren's eyes pin her, flintly and unyielding. From this moment, you are not Arya Stark. You're Arry. Say it. Arry. Louder. Arry. Listen to him, Arya. He'll keep you alive. Arya meets her father's eyes. She wants to argue, to scream, but the look on his face freezes her. It isn't weakness, it's finality. The cart clatters out of the river gate. King's Landing shrinks behind them, its towers fading into haze. Ned leans back against the planks, closing his eyes. Wind knives across the yard. The wall hangs over everything, a blue-black cliff swallowing the sky. The gate creaks. A cart rattles in, iron rings clanking. Black cloaks take the traces. Gold cloaks wheel their horses and ride south without looking back. Jon stands with a broom that suddenly feels like a spear he forgot how to hold. Snow. Who's that? Jon drops the broom. He's already moving. Boots slapping slush. Ned sits in the cart, thinner, colder, eyes steady. Chains ring when he shifts. Father. Jon. A shadow falls over them, ravens wheeling overhead. The beat of wings like leather gloves snapping. Jeor Mormont crosses the yard, cloak heavy with black feathers, gaze harder than ice behind him. Bring him down. Two brothers lower the tailboard and catch Ned under the arms. He grimaces, but refuses to lean. His feet hit stone. Castle Black keeps its oaths. You have fire, food, and the maester's hand. My thanks, Lord Commander. Jon can't help staring at the chafed band of skin at his father's wrists. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Back to your work, boy. >> Aye, my lord. Jon. It's all right. Do as he says. Jon steps back, not far, never far. The cart lurches away toward the armory annex. He watches until it disappears around the corner, breath fogging in the air. You good? No. But I will be. Jon stays rooted in the yard, breath white in the wind. Beyond the gate, Ned is led into the stone and firelight, where a brazier hisses and steam curls from a bowl of broth. Maester Aemon's fingers are thin, but needle-precise. His blind eyes point past to Ned and never miss him. Hold. The maester wraps a strip of linen, sure and tight. You've ridden hard. The fever nips, but hasn't bitten. Ned exhales. He keeps still. Jeor Mormont stands in the doorway. Aemon ties off the bandage. His head turns toward Jeor's silence, as if it were sound. I need words with the two of you. And with Jon. The boy stands with the rest tomorrow to say the words. If this is a father's meddling, it isn't. It's the realm's business. So often it is. Jeor studies him. The room seems to shrink around the weight of what isn't said. Jeor turns to one of his stewards. Fetch Snow. The door thuds shut behind the lad. The brazier pops. Aemon rests both hands on the table, listening to the silence Ned brings with him. There's a name in your mouth you do not want to taste. Ned almost smiles. It isn't humor. There is. Say it when the boy comes, not before. The latch lifts. The sound of Jon's boot hitting the stone signals his arrival before they see him. My lord, you sent for Jon stops dead when he sees Ned's hands unchained. Sit, Jon. Jon sits. His knees bounce once, then lock. Jeor closes the door eerily. You were to take your vows tomorrow. Aye. You must wait. Jon's breath leaves in a short laugh that isn't laughter. I didn't come here to be a lord's problem. You came here to serve, Jon. That's what I mean to do. Then hold to it. By waiting. Why? Ned looks to Aemon. Aemon inclines his head as if to say that the blade has to cut sometime. Because you are not my bastard. >> Everything in Jon's face goes still, but his eyes. What? You are my sister's son, Lyanna. Jon's mouth opens, but no sound comes. She died in a bed of blood. I was with her. My mother? And my father? Ned holds the name like a hot iron and sets it down anyway. Rhaegar Targaryen. Jeor's breath goes like a curse that doesn't need words. Aemon tilts his head toward a memory. Jon's laugh is small and wrong. You can't That's It fits. Jon rounds on the old man, suddenly wary. How could you know? I did not know. I suspected. I have listened to the world a very long time, and I am a Targaryen. Jon looks back to Ned like a man trying to find the ground under a frozen lake. All my life you let me live in lies. In safety. Robert would have killed you for breathing. She made me promise to protect you. I did what I needed to do to honor her memory. Jon's hands curl on his knees until the knuckles pale. Why now? Because the south is tinder and fools are walking through it with torches. If you say the words tomorrow you're the watch as until you die. If you wait only a little you might save men who will never know your name saved them. You're asking me to keep a boy from the vows because he might be useful to a realm that has forgotten we exist. I'm asking you to think like a commander who knows winter eats princes and peasants the same. Aemon turns his blind eyes toward the fire. Most oaths are tested by the worst timing. Jon, if you say your oaths tomorrow you will wear them truer. If you wait a while you may still wear them truer. Jon stares at the brazier. Heat paints his face and does nothing to the cold inside. If this is true there will be proof. There may be somewhere a Sept's book a sworn sword's testimony. The Tyrells keep gardens and records. Stannis keeps ledgers and laws. Between garden and ledger truth can be cornered. Or it runs and we waste time chasing a ghost. If it runs Jon speaks his words and nothing's lost but weeks. If it doesn't men will try to use him. Better we choose who tries. Jorah lets that grind Aemon's fingers and find parchment by memory. He flattens it beneath his palm. Say the names. I will write. Hold on. Boy what is it you want? Jon answers without looking up. I wanted the watch because it was clean. No fathers, no bastards just the wall. I'll do what keeps men alive. Jorah watches the answer settle like a stone. A fortnight then. He waits. He trains. He keeps his mouth shut. If the dead come knocking I put a spear in his hands and he stands like any other. Agreed. Agreed. Agreed. I Jorah jerks his chin at Aemon and puts a hand on the maester's shoulder. The old man already has the quill in hand. Dragonstone first. To Stannis Baratheon. Not to flatter him. To bind him. If there's law in you follow it here. Aemon's quill scratches. Highgarden. Not to Mace. To his mother Olenna. If there is a record in your Sept's find it quietly. The garden thrives in the shade. Winterfell. To Robb. Seek your sword. Hold your strength. Jaime is a coin. Spend him for peace not pride. The fire pops. Wax pools like red berries as Aemon seals the first letter. What do we do if proof comes? What's next then? Then the truth becomes a lever. Where we set it decides what it moves. A lever for a crown? A lever for survival. Crowns topple on their own. I've seen them roll. The door rattles with a gust. Snow slithers along the stones like spilled salt. A raven barks from the rookery above. Aemon ties twine with careful hands. Words fly at first light. Jon's shoulder lifts and falls. He looks at Ned as if memorizing a face he's always known and only now seeing true. What am I supposed to call you now? Father still fits my ears. I Ned reaches. Jon meets him halfway. Bandage against callus. Brief. Volcanic. Whatever men call you later you were Jon to me. I'll train. I'll wait. I'll keep my mouth shut. Sweetest words I've heard this winter. Aemon sets the sealed letters in a neat stack. His blind eyes seem to look straight through the wall. When the moment comes choose clean. Not easy. Clean. I'll try. Good. Try is the only word that lives long up here. Jorah opens the door. Cold surges in like an army. Snow. Yard. Ser Alliser Thorne have your hide if you like. I my lord. Father thank you for telling me. I should have done it sooner. We're here now. Jon goes. The door shuts. The brazier sighs. Jorah picks up the letters. Weighs them in his palms. You've tossed meat into a dog yard stark. Pray the right dog bites first. I mean to leash a few. They look at the sealed wax. Wolf pressed into one. A plain stamp on another. A bare knot on the third. Winter presses its face to the glass Lord Commander. Please do our work before it breathes. Aemon sets his hand on Ned's shoulder for a heartbeat. The touch is light as frost. Cruel mercies are still mercies. I'll spin them all if it keeps my children breathing. He doesn't blink. The brazier burns in his eyes like a tower on fire. Distant and unyielding. The door groans open. Cold rushing in to claim the warmth. Ned stays in the shadow as Jon steps back into the yard. Breath white in the gray light. The wall looms above. Fast and indifferent. Jon joins the line of boys with practice swords in hand. Steel flashes. Breath smokes. And Ser Alliser prowls between them like a hungry dog. Again snow. If you weren't born to a name you might yet earn one with your hands. Jon sets his feet and brings his sword up as he makes his move. Pip leans in whispering without moving his lips. You look like someone stole your dinner and left you a crown. It feels uglier than that. Blades ring. Snow hisses under boots. Above them a raven hops along the ice rimmed parapets and calls like laughter. Jon's eye flicks once toward the tower where he left his father and the truth. He drives the next cut clean. At first light the next morning Aemon lifts a raven's leg. Loops twine and ties the Dragonstone letter closed. Fly straight. He opens the hatch. Cold hits like a hand. The raven leaps into it and becomes a smaller piece of night. Another bird takes the letter for Oldtown's gardens. Another for the wolf in Winterfell. Ned stays behind as the hatch shuts. The silence of stone closing in. He plants his palm flat on the table. Breath steady. Eyes on nothing. The door creaks. Yoren fills the frame. Cloak dripping with blown snow. You look worse in the firelight than you did in a cart. I feel better. Good. You'll need to. The girl's where she needs to be. Safe enough for now. Ned's eyes flicker then steady. Thank you. Keep not saying it. Safer that way. I will. Yoren jerks his chin toward the wall. That thing doesn't care about crowns. No. Make sure the men who wear them learn to care about it. He turns and goes. A shadow shaking snow from its shoulders before vanishing into the wind. Ned stays. The brazier hisses. The bandage itches. The wall hums like a frozen harp. The raven beats north into the snow and south into schemes. Riverrun's snaps in a river wind. Robb Stark stands over a table littered with stones and carved horses. Catelyn is at his shoulder. The Great Jon looms like a bear. Roose Bolton watches like a knife left in frost. We've got the Kingslayer. We break the Lannister lines. March for the capital and take the boy's head off his shoulders. A clean as a trout. And then what? Tywin's still in the field. Stannis and Renly circle like crows. The Riverlands burn while you chase a crown that cannot feed your men. Or we send the finger back with Lannister signet and ask how much the queen wants him whole. Rob doesn't look at Theon. He moves a wolf figurine back from the fjords. We didn't come south to play for the Iron Throne. We came south to bring your father home. He breathes now behind the walls vows. King's Landing will not trade him back when it can let the cold do it. He asked us for strength not blood. Ned's letter says it plain. Keep your sword sheathed and your banners close. Leverage Jaime. Bring the north home whole. Rob slides another stone aside. Eyes leaving the board. A raven from Winterfell this morning. Arya is within our walls. Safe. Catelyn's breath stutters once and steadies. Then we play for Sansa and for passage. If we march home the lion hunts the river like a game field. If we stay Tywin pins us between himself and the Reach. We're not here to win every man's war. We're here not to lose our own. Silence takes the room long enough to be an answer. The Great Jon's mouth quirks. Disappointed but not surprised. Roose's eyes barely blink. Send for Ser Kevan. Parley by the willow stumps at the fjord. If he won't come we learn the shape of the road. Terms. Rob sets three pieces. Wolf. Trout. Lion. So they touch but do not mix. The Kingslayer for Sansa. The Riverlands relieved. Safe passage north without pursuit. No fealty. No titles. Clean withdrawal. No hostages? We leave hostages the lion thinks we've left our neck for him to lick. We take hostages he thinks we came to stay. Hmm. Cubs thinking like a wolf. Speak it. I will. Outside Riverrun's red stones. The Lannister canvas spreads like a rash. Ser Kevan Lannister meets Rob under a white flag between two winter dead willows. The Tully river muttering close by. A ring of guards keeps the world honest. You have something of ours, and you have something of mine. Kevins eyes are steady, the shade of a man who cleans messes he didn't make. Say the terms. Jaime, the Sansa. The Riverlands relieved. We go north unharmed, and you keep your swords south of the neck. No pledge to the boy king. You'll do well to bend the knee if you wish to have the other Stark girl back. The realm is in dispute. We have no taste for it. As for Arya, she's already in our care. You have no leverage. Kevins eyes sharpen, then flatten again. Business-like. Kevin glances over Robs shoulder. Great Johns restlessness. Catelyns controlled breath. You withdrew your scouts from the west road. Courtesy? Focus. I won my fight. And you think that's is enough? Enough to get my sister home, and my men through Moat Cailin with their feet under them. You have bigger problems than my banners if you look behind you. Kevins mouth moves, almost a smile. Gone before it arrives. Renly and Stannis. You said it, not me. Kevin weighs as his brother would, with the quiet gravity. One girl, one Kingslayer. Sansa, whole and breathing. A signed pledge that your father pulls his dogs off the Riverlands. Return a column north at sunrise. Dawn at the Trident's west bank. You hand him over alive. Seen leaving our camp whole, and unharmed. He's worth more whole to both of us. Kevin nods once, slow. He reaches inside his cloak and produces a square of folded parchment. Seal yellow with a lions head. My answer will meet you by moonrise. Make it fast. They part with the heavy courtesy of enemies who understand each other, and hate that they do. Night comes, the moon cutting the battlements white. Two quick horn notes and a rider at the gate with a yellow seal. Sir Kevins name is on the outside before the steward can speak. Rob breaks it. Sansa Stark delivered to Riverrun's gates under Lord Stafford and Lady Falyse. Hostilities in the Riverlands cease upon exchange. Lannister banners withdraw to the Golden Road for terms of your march. Any molestation of Arya voids the agreement. He took it. Catelyns hands clutches her sons arm, hard once, then lets go before she breaks him. We'll need eyes along every mile north. Mine will look without blinking. And we'll keep one hand on the wolf's throat while leading home. Jaime goes at dawn. Dawn is iron cold. Jaime Lannister rides out with that infuriating smile that survives dragons. Lord Stafford looks hollow. Lady Falyse keeps her gaze down and jaw locked. Sansa stands on the drawbridge under the red fish. She is taller than Rob remembers, and smaller in the face. She shakes when she sees Jaime, then steadies when she sees her brother. Rob. Sansa. They do not embrace until the chains change hands. When they do, it is hard and narrow. Bone, breath, and a tremor that finally breaks. Catelyn is there before they part. Her hands on Sansa's cheeks, counting features like a prayer fulfilled. Arya. Home. Sansa closes her eyes, opens them like she's learning to see again. Jaime looks at Rob over the exchange. Eyes bright. You're smarter than you look. And you're free than you deserve. That part we agree on. The gates settle behind Sansa Stark. The Lannister column turns, a gold ribbon on from Riverrun. Angling from the gold road. Rob's banners pivot like a flock, north into the winter that is theirs. Tywin Lannister takes the news in the field tent that smells of horse and oiled leather. Canvas walls muffle the word. Sir Kevin stands with his hands behind his back. Adam Marbrand leans over a map. Sir Gregor Clegane looms like a blunt instrument the gods forgot to put away. You traded the Kingslayer for a girl. And a free road. Mhm. The wolf's tail is gone from our west. That puts our weight back on the capital. Tywin's finger moves from Harrenhal's stump down to the gold road, then east to the rose road, then to the blackwater, like a man dragging a knife through pastry. Renly sits fat in reach with all his flowers. Stannis sits lean at Dragonstone counting rules. The wolf withdrawing leaves both thinking I will move on Riverrun. I will not. Gregor grunts, disappointed at a fight not happening in front of him. We will make the kings fight each other. How? Renly wants the city clean and quiet. He will march on the rose road to the blackwater and ring his banners round King's Landing like a wedding garland. Marbrand will send raiders east to harry the rose road. Burn fodder, poison wells, knock down ferry planks. Annoy, don't engage. Show them we are in two places at once. And Stannis, leave him his birthright to chase. Send word to Storm's End to that we strengthen their garrison with gold and grain if they hold. A whispered pulse in the right Florent ears says Stannis claims begin with sieges. He will split to take the castle that shamed his youth. He'll divide his strength, and I will be where they meet and choke. He lifts a small pot with a wax seal and sets it beside the blackwater. Cersei has been busy arming our alchemists. If Renly tries to float a garden up the river, the river will catch fire. Gregor's grin is slow, wolfish. Addams mouth is thin. Kevin says nothing and watches his brother add green flame to a blue line. A raven veers east, black over the sea spray. Salt stings its wings as it drops into a camp lashed to the coast. Black banners snap in the gale. Davos cuts the twine and hands the scroll to Stannis Baratheon. Stannis reads. The jaw ticks. He looks to Melisandre with exhaustion of a man forever choosing between the road and the fire. He claims the boy, Snow, has Targaryen blood. He does not claim. He confesses. Confession is proof to a septon, not a king. A dragon and a wolf met where water ran red. A promise cut her palm. The child came crowned in blue winter. The fire shows me this. Truth and no. What's your claim, my lord? The realm won't bend because a letter says please. I do not bend. I make straight. If the boy has king's blood, all kings are made of such blood. One is chosen. I am chosen. I have said as much. Then this boy is a piece. Pieces break when you push them too far. And the Stark boy sits at the wall with black brothers. He won't be yours any more than the night is. Stannis looks back to Ned's demand. If there is law in you, follow it here. Law says prove it. The flames say it. Find me a marriage paper, sept, swords, oath. Something that does not burn when I am staring at it. The fire will show the road. They never show the turn until after I've missed it. Sir Davos, we split. I march along the coast road with half to cut Renly's belly if he turns inland. The other half sails to Storm's End and throws a noose back over my own shame. Aye, my lord. But split armies starve quicker than whole ones. So do split kings. He turns away from the flame and letter as if both offend him for existing. South, a raven glides over green hills and lands in high garden soft light. Olenna Tyrell breaks the wolf wax with a rose thorn. Margaery reads aloud. He asks that we search our sept archives for record of a marriage between Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. Quietly. Quietly is a word men use when they mean dangerously with taste. Rhaegar was a hummingbird with a poet's jaw. A scandal. We are royal to Renly. This rummaging in sept attics is beneath us. Nonsense. It's exactly at our level. We plant, we prune, we harvest. Sometimes the fruit is paper. Send word to the starry sept's deepest stacks. And Maiden Pool. Quiet septas gossip best on parchment. If we find it, if it's true, do we crown a boy in black furs and dragon blood? We crown our interests. Perhaps on his head, perhaps on someone standing next to him holding a garland. I'll write then. And a note to Stannis, needling him about rackets. He loves law. Let him choke on it. We will not betray Renly. We'll position Renly near victory. Whichever way victory turns. The rose road smokes. Renly's banners stream bright as summer, but move like a parade that forgot it's at war. Raiders nip and vanish. Ferries are ropes and ash. Shadow fords deepen overnight under the lions hands. Break the baggage into packets. Two carts per company. Cavalry screens on flanks. I want scouts on every hedge, and inside every hedge. See? Doing. Ferry burned at Summer's Crossing. There's a fjord up river, but the banks are soft. Soft means slow. Slow means dead. Then we make it hard with boards. We brought banners. We needed carpenters. They cross anyway. The water bites thighs. Horses slip. Men curse. Loras yanks a pikeman from the current by the scruff. On the far bank, the brush grows a face and becomes Gregor Clegane. Gregor's riders fall like a wall, all hooves and iron. The first line crumples. The second staggers. Loras wheels with a handful of knights and rams a hole with anger. Pikes, forward. Shields up. Hold the line. Hold. Renly's green cloak whips as he chooses to be seen. Teeth flashing in a grin that's more helmet than joy. With me. They shove through blood and mud and manage to stand. Gregor rips what he can and peels off, contemptuous, counting bodies as a kind of receipt. By dusk, Renly's across, but thinner. On the far shore, a thousand small patient Lannister fires blink like cat eyes. Then comes the green, a flicker, then another, a seam of witch light running under the sky. Wildfire takes air and men at once. It clings, screams, spawns other screams. Tense leap of lights before the sparks reach them. Boats turn to ash. Tarly's orders are iron over hell. Cut the lines. Cut them. Stamp with shields. Stamp. Move the powder away from the bank. Archers to the rear. Shoot the shadows that shoot us. Addam Marbrand's archers answer from the darkness across the glowing water, not seeking glory, just slow arithmetic. One more man down, one more horse without a rider. By dawn, the camp still exists, though much smaller. The river steams like a sated beast. We're done dancing with the river. We turn inland. Inland means no granaries, no wagons, no wells. You cut yourself off from supply. Then we'll take what we need. Fields, villages, whatever feeds men better than mud and wildfire. This is when Stannis Baratheon made his move. Half his host remained with him on the coast road, grinding forward in grim silence. The other half he loosed like a whetstone against an old wound. Ships hugged the storm-lashed bay, sails low, carrying men and engines to Storm's End. The fortress that had starved him once would not be left standing to mock him again. Word of the split traveled fast. Ravens outpaced horse, and by the time Renly's banners reached Bitterbridge, the ink was still wet on Stannis's orders. Renly read the message with a smile that hid strain. To let his brother strangle Storm's End unopposed would be weakness. To divide his own strength to match it was folly. But folly draped in banners can still look like power. He sent Loras with nearly half their strength back toward the Stormlands, cloaked in green roses and promises of swift relief. The gardens that had seemed endless now stood divided. Its color bled across two fronts. Tywin Lannister had been waiting for this moment. Where Renly saw family rivalry, Tywin saw calculation coming to fruition. The attack came with precision. Addam Marbrand's cavalry cut off Renly's foragers. Gregor Clegane swept through the baggage train like a storm tearing roofs from houses. What had been a host of 40,000 shrank to chaos. Renly himself was caught in the press near Bitterbridge, bright cloak tangled in the mud. His household knights ringed and dying one by one. They brought him alive to Tywin's tent. The air smelled of parchment, steel, and contempt. There was no trial, no speech, no crowning mockery. Tywin did not need theatrics. He needed a corpse. Within the week, Renly Baratheon was executed on Lannister order. His body returned under banner of truce, more message than man. The Reach mourned loudly, but moved quietly. Margaery's smile became thinner, Olenna's words sharper. With Renly gone, their loyalties were roots seeking new soil. Bitterbridge became a place of funerals and weddings whispered in the same breath. Tywin had cut down a king, and in doing so, opened the board for alliances more dangerous than Renly's banners had ever been. In the Reach, Olenna Tyrell's fingers tightened on the raven's letter as she read. In the dim tent light, Margaery watches her grandmother's eyes sharpen. The words from Old Town's archives are clear. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's marriage to Elia Martell was annulled, and a new marriage was recorded in secret to Lyanna Stark. A son was born of that union, a son who lived. So, it's true. Jon Snow is Rhaegar's heir. True as Tywin's treachery. The boy has dragon's blood and Ned Stark's raising, a dangerous mix. Or a promising one. Margaery's throat tightens at the mention of treachery. Renly's death still weighs on her. She thinks of the crown that slipped away and what this new truth might mean for her own fate. Olenna pats her hand, surprisingly gentle. We've lost one king, best not to wallow. The next is out there. If the winds blow that way, we'll make sure he has a Tyrell by his side. Jon Snow, a brother of the Night's Watch. Would the realm never accept him? The realm will accept what keeps it fed and safe. A trueborn Targaryen with the Reach behind him can claim the Iron Throne. Especially with a clever young rose as his queen. Margaery draws a breath, understanding her grandmother's meaning. Hope and ambition spark in her eyes. Olenna nods once. Quietly now. Lannister ears are everywhere. We'll move with care. Outside, the Tyrell camp still mourns Renly in hushed tones, but inside this tent, resolve takes root. Olenna calls for parchment and quill. The rose must act swiftly. Ravens will fly tonight, one to the Wall and one to Dragonstone. In Storm's End, following a successful siege and surrender of the Baratheon birthplace, Stannis Baratheon holds a crackling letter over a brazier, the flames painting his face in an angry orange. His jaw is clenched so tightly it might be carved from stone. Davos Seaworth stands at his shoulder, hands clasped behind his back, anxious and silent. Fist at Eddard Stark's raven. And now this from Highgarden. They shove their secrets under my nose and expect me to yield. He glares at the line again, the words searing more than fire. Rhaegar's trueborn son lives, hidden as Jon Snow. If Lady Olenna sends such word, she must be sure of it. The Tyrells don't risk themselves for a lie. They must see some gain. Perhaps a crown for Margaery in time. Stannis makes a low, displeased noise in his throat. The parchment edges curl as he holds it to the brazier. The Tyrell girl marries one king. Now they pawn her off to another. They're quick to find a new master. And by law, it seems the Iron Throne is not mine to claim. He spits the words out. Davos sees his king's shadow dance on the tent wall, rigid with rage and something like despair. Your Grace, Lord Stark would not send me this if it were not true. Not with stakes so high. I see truth in this boy's blood, a bright shadow in the snow bleeding through the flames. He has king's blood, yes, but he is not the prince that was promised. You are, Your Grace. Stannis's fists tighten around the hilt of his sword. Anger wars with uncertainty in his icy blue eyes. What would you have me do then? Ignore the law and press my claim regardless? Set aside duty and kill a boy who never even sought out a crown? You swore to defend the realm against false claimants. If Jon Snow is truly Rhaegar's son, then our war is with the Lannisters, not with him. He's no enemy to us. Stannis draws a long breath, the muscles in his neck working. He stares into the brazier as if seeking answers in the coals. At last, he gives one hard, curt nod. We will verify these claims. If they are proven beyond all doubt, I will not be a usurper. Melisandre's ruby glimmers, but she says nothing, watching Stannis with an unreadable gaze. Relief softens Davos's shoulders. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath. Stannis lets the scorched letter drop into the brazier. Ash flicks upward like gray snow. Davos, send a raven to Castle Black. Tell Lord Stark I require proof of his own hand. If he gives me truth, I will speak on how to deal with the Lannisters and with this Jon Snow. At once, Your Grace. As Davos hurries into the salty night air, Stannis remains by the fire, eyes fixed on the burning parchment. The flames reflect in his hard stare. He has the look of a man who sees his destiny twisting away on a path he didn't choose, and who means to drag it back on course or die trying. For now, that fiery gaze turns toward King's Landing and the false boy king who still sits the Iron Throne. At Castle Black, dawn breaks thin and cold. Jon Snow stands in the small courtyard, a rolled letter in his gloved hands. He reads the message from Highgarden twice over by lamplight, and his gloved fingers still tremble. Ned Stark watches his son, his sister's son, carefully. Frost crinkles under their boots. Everything you told me, it's true. They found proof. Old Town's records leave no doubt. Rhaegar and Lyanna were wed in secret. You were the trueborn son, Jon. The world will know it now. Jon exhales and looks up at the sky, eyes shining with a bewildering mix of relief and dread. A bastard's name was the only one he ever thought he'd carry. Now even that is gone. Not a bastard. All my life, I I wondered who I was, what that made me. Nearby, Maester Aemon folds his hands atop the head of his cane, blind eyes turned toward Jon's voice. Who you are does not change, Jon. You have the same heart you did yesterday. Only what the realm believes about you has changed. Jon nods slowly, Aemon's gentle words steadying him. Ned steps closer and rests a hand on Jon's shoulder. The dawn light picks out the hint of tears that Jon quickly blinks away. You have the strongest claim to the Iron Throne, son. By right of blood and name, it could be you wearing the crown. I've only ever wanted to find my place. I thought it was here, on the Wall. I know that the realm may need you when the time comes. I hid your name to keep you safe. Now we bring it to light to keep the kingdom safe. Jon feels the weight of duty settling on him, as real as the cold. He thinks of Robb and his sisters in Winterfell, of little Rickon and Bran, of the war still raging in the south. All of it could crash upon them if he's not ready. He squares his shoulders. If this is what I am, then I'll use it. I'll do my duty. I'll help however I can. Ned's grip tightens, pride warming the hard lines of his face. He allows himself the smallest, most sorrowful smile. Ned pulls Jon into a brief embrace, father and son despite all titles. When they part, Ned's eyes shine. Outside, on the rim-frosted yards, brothers of the Night's Watch lead three ravens out of the rookery. The birds climb into the pale sky, veering south. They carry Lord Stark's gratitude and a solemn praise to Highgarden and Dragonstone. The truth is found, and it will be used. Within a month, whispers of Jon Snow's true parentage spreads through the highest circles of the realm. Ravens flit back and forth between Highgarden and Dragonstone as the Queen of Thorns and the Just King forge a wary alliance. In secret letters and late-night councils, they strike a pact that alters the shape of the war. The Tyrells will lend their swords and their plentiful grain to Stannis's cause against the Lannisters. In exchange, Stannis Baratheon will acknowledge Rhaegar Targaryen's son as the rightful heir once victory is secured. One condition seals the accord. Margaery Tyrell will wed Jon Snow, binding Highgarden's rose to the reborn dragon of House Targaryen, while Stannis will be named Hand of the King. Far to the south, in the Red Keep of King's Landing, Tywin Lannister sits at the head of the small council table, fingers steepled under his chin. Candlelight licks at the edge of his hard face. Cersei paces near the window, tension coiled in every step. News has arrived on raven's wings, each message grimmer than the last. Mace Tyrell's banners have turned cloak and joined Stannis Baratheon. The Reach's grain and swords now feed Stannis's host. Highgarden and Dragonstone have made common cause. Tywin's green eyes flick over the parchment in his hand. The Tyrell seal broken and discarded. Kevan Lannister stands at his shoulder, dutiful and silent. Grand Maester Pycelle clears his throat, the sound quavering. Lord Hand, a missive from Highgarden. It >> I've read it. He tosses the parchment onto the table. It skids to a stop before Cersei's restless hands. She snatches it up, scanning. Her face blanches with rage. Treachery. The Queen of Thorns dares >> Dares to do what is smart. She's hedging her bets, as always. His voice is level, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. He knows the stakes. With the Tyrells and Baratheons united, the Lannisters stand alone. The letter's implications are clear enough. Highgarden will support Stannis in removing usurpers, meaning Joffrey, in favor of some hidden Targaryen heir. Cersei slams the parchment down, the golden curls at her brow trembling with fury. They name Jon Snow, of all people, and Eddard Stark's bastard, claiming he's Rhaegar's son. Lies. Absurd. If the Reach and Dragonstone believe it, lie or not, they will use it to rally others. Already, some of Renly's former bannermen declare for this boy. Tywin's face is unreadable. He taps one finger on the polished table. We will not sit idle while our enemies assemble at our gates. If Stannis wants a war of succession, we'll give him one on our terms. He rises, silk and steel glimmering in the torchlight. With Renly Baratheon dead and Robb Stark withdrawing north, Tywin has clawed the realm back from the brink before. He will do so again, but he needs swords, more than the dwindling Lannister host and what remains of Joffrey's gold cloaks. Tywin crosses to the map hung on the wall, studying the painted lands of Westeros. His fingertip drags east across the narrow sea to the disputed lands, where exiled sellswords dream of gold and glory. The Golden Company. Cersei's pacing halts. She stares at her father. Even Pycelle looks up sharply. Sellswords? Father, no sellsword company can stand against the might of Highgarden and Dragonstone. We need >> We need seasoned swords, quickly and without question. The Golden Company is the largest, and they do not break contracts. I can buy us an army where loyalty failed. Kevan's lips press in, but he nods in reluctant agreement. >> It will be costly. So is losing. Grand Maester Pycelle, prepare a raven for Essos. Promise the Golden Company whatever coin it takes, double their usual price. Land them at the Blackwater by month's end. Pycelle bows as low as his old back allows and shuffles to the draft table. Cersei opens her mouth to protest further, but Tywin fixes her with a glare like a drawn blade. See to Joffrey's safety. He is still a king, and he will act like one. No rash outbursts. Ser Barristan, you guard his grace night and day. No one enters his chambers without my leave. Cersei's nails bite crescents into her palms, but she dips her head, bottled fury in every movement. As you say, Father. I will not have the boy king provoking a riot in the streets. We need the city calm until our reinforcements arrive. He strides to where the door, giving his final orders without looking back. Kevan, gather every able man to the walls. I want oil heated, stones piled. If the Tyrells and Stannis mean to siege us, then they'll pay for every inch. Tywin pauses at the threshold, hand on the doorframe. For a moment, his confident mask slips into something colder, more dangerous. And find me that eunuch, Varys. He's vanished when I need his whispers most. Likely fled at the first sign of trouble, the coward. Tywin only grunts. Varys's disappearance troubles him. There are too many threads weaving unseen, but the matter is tabled for now. He has got a war to win first. As Tywin departs, Cersei crushes the Reach's letter in her fist. The realm may well bleed in the coming months, but House Lannister will not go quietly into its grave. Not while Tywin Lannister commands, and not while a drop of Lannister gold can buy swords to defend the throne. Across the narrow sea, on the deck of a creaking galley, Young Griff, Aegon Targaryen, rolls a worn parchment between his fingers. The seal bears the golden lion of Lannister. Beside him stands Jon Connington, his Griffon mentor, red hair gone mostly gray, his face lined with years of exile and longing. They have anchored in the Bay of Pentos under the cover of twilight. Aegon's jaw clenches as he reads Tywin's offer again. The Lannister promises mountains of gold and land to the Golden Company in exchange for their swords against Stannis Baratheon and the Tyrells. It is an offer meant for the ears of the company's captain, Harry Strickland, and for Aegon, though Tywin does not yet know that Young Griff exists, let alone leads the Golden Company's true ambitions. He asks us to save his throne for him. The arrogance. No. He asks us to save his grandson's throne, never imagining we might take it instead. By contract, the Golden Company has not yet accepted Tywin's deal, but ravens have flown to their benefactor in Pentos, the Magister Illyrio Mopatis, who has long bankrolled Aegon's cause. And Illyrio's response came swiftly. Sail west, take the Iron Throne that is your birthright. Jon Connington sets a hand on Aegon's shoulder, fatherly pride and concern mingling in his eyes. We planned to land in secret, build support, but this This is a chance to strike at the heart while all sides clash, a wildfire war, one we can use. Aegon unfurls a map of Westeros on a barrel. His fingers trace the Stormlands coast, the stepstone path of Aegon the Conqueror's landing long ago. We won't march in as Tywin's mercenaries. We sail for the Stormlands first, as planned. Griffon's Roost will open its gates when Lord Connington returns, and others will rally when they see the banners of House Targaryen unfurled. Connington's breath hitches at the thought of reclaiming his ancestral home, Griffon's Roost. He nods firmly. We'll have the Golden Company take the castle, secure a foothold. From there, you decide our next move, Your Grace. He uses the royal honorific with quiet reverence. Aegon has been raised for this moment, to restore his house. Aegon's bright lilac eyes harden with resolve. Next move is west to King's Landing. Tywin will think his sellswords are coming to aid him. He'll not know until it's too late that they carry the rightful king in their midst. He can almost see it, the gates opening from within, gold cloaks dropping their swords when they see the dragon sigil returning after so long. Perhaps even the smallfolk, tired of boy kings and famine, will cheer a Targaryen. The thought sets his heart pounding. Nearby, under the stripped pavilion on deck, the Golden Company's commander, Harry Strickland, sharpens his sword. He glances up, watching Aegon and Connington with something like fond pity. The men are restless. Half of them want Lannister gold, the other half wants Targaryen restoration. All of them want to set foot in Westeros and fill their purses. Aegon steps over, folding the map. He meets Strickland's eyes. They'll have gold and glory. Once I sit the Iron Throne, every man in the Golden Company will be paid twice what Lord Tywin offers, and pardon for any past loyalties. No more exile. Then Westeros it is. A Blackfyre founded our company, and a Targaryen means to pay its dues. The contracts are aligned, lad. He clasps Aegon on the shoulder, informal but approving. The Golden Company's famous words run through Aegon's mind. Beneath the gold, the bitter steel. The bright gold dragons of old Valyria on their banner fly home for now, and the bitter steel of exiles will win him a kingdom. Aegon turns his gaze westward toward the dark horizon where dawn will soon break. Beyond that darkness lies Westeros, his home, though he's never walked its roads. He imagines the Iron Throne, cold swords twisted together, waiting for a true king's claim. I'll take what's mine. And any pretender who stands in my way will bend the knee or fall. Connington watches the young man's profile outlined by starlight. A prince he's groomed from childhood now hardened into a commander. In that moment, Connington allows himself a spark of hope he's guarded for years. For Rhaegar and for the realm. They clasp arms. The order is given. With midnight sails unfurled, the Golden Company's fleet slips out of Pentos harbor like shadows over the water bound for the storms and destiny beyond. On the deck of a great ship cutting across the summer sea, Daenerys Targaryen stands with ocean winds whipping her silver-gold hair. At her side, Ser Barristan Selmy holds a steadying hand near her elbow. In the skies above, a shriek splits the dawn. One of her dragons, Rhaegal, soaring and circling the mast before diving seaward after a gull. Danny's other dragons answer with thunderous calls. Viserion's ivory scales glint in the morning's light as he perches atop the foremast. And Drogon, the great black dragon, flies further out over the waves, a shadow against sunlit clouds. The sight of them still fills Daenerys with awe and fierce pride. Her children. She closes her eyes, letting the spray of salt mist her face. In her hand is a scrap of parchment, edges curled from the sea air. News travels strange paths across the world. This parchment was pressed into her hands by a Qartheen trader two days ago in Volantis with tales of war in Westeros. At first, she thought it was a ploy until she reads the names. The letter spoke of a secret son of Rhaegar Targaryen coming forth to claim the Iron Throne, of the Golden Company landing, of the last Lannister lions cornered. It whispered, too, of another, a silver-haired girl with three dragons, the whispers that had followed her across Essos now reaching her homeland. Danny crumples the letter against her breast. Westeros, the home she's never seen, finally beckons. Her claim, her birthright, denied her since she was a baby, is now within reach. If she is bold enough to take it. Yet, she is not the only contender. Rhaegar's son, if he lives, if he truly lives. Your Grace, a word of caution. Letters from Westeros can be as poisonous as they are informative. This could be Varys' ploy or Illyrio's or even a Lannister trap to lure you. Danny turns to the old knight who had once served her father. He has counsel, patience, caution, honor. But her blood is a fire now. Dragons have been born again, her dragons, and no one will keep her from what is hers. Still, she trusts Barristan's counsel. Perhaps, but if there is even a chance that my brother's son lives, I will not let another usurper steal the throne from my family. And if it's a mummer's dragon, a pretender, then I will set him and his paper throne ablaze myself. Ser Barristan bows his head. As you say, Your Grace. We'll know the truth soon enough. That's our theory. Remember, if this video gets 3,000 likes, we'll post part two. Westeros is a land full of exciting stories and possibilities, and we love exploring them. If you'd like to join us on this journey to the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, then please like, share, and subscribe to our channel.