Moving the entire population of the North southward was an immense undertaking.
For thousands, if not tens of thousands of years, the people of the North had never abandoned their homeland. They saw themselves as the descendants of the First Men—those who had defeated the White Walkers in legend and resisted the Andals in history. Even as vassals to the Targaryens, they had fiercely preserved their traditions.
Viserys understood this deeply. He knew these people would not easily leave their lands, even in the face of disaster. That was why he came to Winterfell himself.
When Jon and the other northern lords saw Viserys enter the hall, they rose and bowed.
Robb immediately descended from his seat, kneeling on one knee before the emperor. Bran and Rickon followed their brother's lead.
Viserys did not utter a word, nor did he signal for them to rise. The hall fell into a tense silence, broken only by the howling wind and snow outside. The crackling of the fireplace seemed deafening in contrast.
Still, he let them remain kneeling as he calmly strode past Robb, past Jon, and past the assembled northern nobles. He ascended to the main seat, settling himself without addressing the crowd.
The lords, still facing the door and frozen in their positions, did not dare to move.
"Get up," Viserys finally commanded.
His voice, calm but authoritative, echoed through the hall, and only then did the northern nobles dare to rise and face him. The clinking of armor reverberated as they stood, filling the room with a metallic chorus.
It was clear to everyone that Viserys was angry.
What surprised them—even Robb—was that the emperor did not immediately demand answers about their resistance to his evacuation orders. Instead, his attention turned to Bran.
"Bran, your injuries seem to be recovering well. Have you felt unwell lately?"
At only fourteen, Bran was visibly nervous in Viserys' presence.
"N-No, Your Grace, I am well, and the gods praise your mercy," Bran replied, his voice trembling but clear enough for all to hear.
The northern lords exchanged glances. They all knew of Bran's debilitating injury, a condition many had assumed would be permanent. Even after Viserys had promised to heal him, most of them had watched skeptically, treating it as little more than a spectacle.
But when Bran's recovery proved real, their respect—and fear—of Viserys grew immeasurably.
Viserys gave a slight nod at Bran's response, then shifted his gaze to Greatjon.
Greatjon Umber, lord of Deepwood Motte, stepped forward. His towering frame seemed even larger as he moved into the emperor's view. Deepwood Motte, situated closest to the Wall, had frequent contact with the free folk.
"Jon Umber," Viserys addressed him directly, "have the free folk affected your territory recently?"
Greatjon puffed out his chest, his deep voice booming through the hall.
"To Your Grace's question, the free folk are very well-behaved…" He paused for dramatic effect before adding with a grin, "In fact, Your Grace, they can no longer even be called free folk. They all respect you as the emperor."
A faint smile tugged at Viserys' lips. The big man was clearly skilled in flattery.
Then, Viserys addressed the entire room, his voice cutting through the tension:
"Tell me—has there been even a single famine in the three years since the North stopped producing grain?!"
The meaning behind his words was clear now. Viserys wasn't just issuing a rebuke—he was also boasting of his achievements.
The northern lords found themselves caught in a dilemma.
First, they had defied the emperor's orders, a serious offense. Second, they had failed to repay the emperor's generosity—a failure that now weighed heavily upon them.
Sweat began to bead on the foreheads of many.
No one dared to respond. The oppressive silence only underscored their guilt.
In this moment, only one person had the authority—and responsibility—to answer: Robb Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell.
"Your Grace, thanks to your kindness, there has been no famine in the North."
Robb's voice was steady, but as soon as the words left his lips, he felt his mouth go dry.
"Well then," Viserys replied, his tone sharp and deliberate, "that means I am still a competent monarch—not a worm like Robert. So tell me, why are you unwilling to accept my orders?
"Didn't I say the White Walkers could invade at any moment? Hmm?"
His voice deepened, resonating through the hall. Some in the room felt a sudden warmth, as if the air had become stifling, while others felt an icy chill prickling their skin.
"Tell me, Harrion."
Viserys' gaze fell on Rickard's eldest son. "It seems not only are you unwilling to accept my orders, but you're also disputing my decree. Why is that?"
"Your Grace! I—" Harrion stammered, his words faltering under Viserys' fiery glare.
A sharp look from Rickard silenced his son, who stepped forward and knelt.
"Become the Night's Watch, or die. Choose."
The harsh verdict sent Harrion's heart plummeting. The severity of the judgment sent a shiver through the rest of the northern lords, their faces pale with unease.
Harrion hesitated, but moments later, he bowed his head and said weakly, "Your Grace, I will wear the black."
Rickard's distress was evident as he watched his son's future evaporate. But Viserys did not pursue further punishment, signaling that the matter was closed.
The lords who had moments ago rallied Robb against the idea of retreating south felt a wave of relief. Wylis Manderly, with his round, puffy eyes darting nervously, sighed audibly when Viserys moved on without revisiting the subject.
"You are worried about losing your subjects and your land?" Viserys said, addressing the room. "Let me tell you this: the White Walkers are more terrifying than any legend has ever described.
"We have no Azor Ahai. No prophesied savior. No bringer of light. We must rely on ourselves to survive the Long Night."
"The Wall may fall. And not only will we fail to hold the North—we may not be able to hold The Neck."
"We may be forced to keep retreating, south to the Riverlands, the Crownlands… or even beyond Westeros."
Viserys' words fell like thunder upon the ears of the northern lords.
The reality was far grimmer than they had imagined.
"But I refuse to flee!" Viserys declared, his voice cutting through their despair. "Because I still call myself the Lord of all Westeros. And you, Robb—"
Robb's body tensed as Viserys turned his gaze toward him.
"Robb, as the Warden of the North, I understand you don't want to give up the North. I know you don't want to leave Winterfell."
"But I want you to remember this: I am not giving up the North. I am not running away. We are retreating."
"The White Walkers want death. They want corpses—two things that only make them stronger. The North is too vast to defend outright, but we can turn it into a weapon. A grinding millstone to wear them down."
"The people of the Age of Heroes defeated them. If they could do it, so can we."
"They want the North? They want the Riverlands? They want Westeros? Fine. Let them try."
"But one day, we will fight back. One day, we will take back the North and the Wall. And when we do, we will use their tombs and caves as granaries for our children and grandchildren to thrive beyond the Wall!"
Viserys' voice swelled with conviction as he raised his fists before him.
"The North will not be forgotten. The North will not be lost. The North will only grow stronger! The North remembers!"
The hall seemed to vibrate with the weight of his words.
The tension that had gripped the northern lords melted away, replaced by an overwhelming surge of energy.
It felt as though an electric current ran from the base of their spines to their skulls.
Some felt their scalps tingle, while others' hearts pounded so fiercely they briefly believed that Viserys was one of their own—a Northman in spirit.
"The North will not forget!" Jon exclaimed, his voice filled with conviction.
Jon had admired Viserys since their time together at the Wall, and Viserys's words had stirred his emotions deeply.
"The North will not forget!" Robb shouted, raising his arms in solidarity.
He couldn't deny that Viserys had long shown care and consideration for the North. The emperor's decision to build numerous beacons across the region hadn't been a waste of manpower but a lifeline that had saved countless lives by ensuring more people could eat during harsh winters.
Robb even suspected that if Viserys bypassed the northern nobles entirely and spoke directly to the common folk, many would gladly listen to him and follow his lead.
"The North will not forget!
The North will not forget!
The North will not forget!"
The lords of the North echoed the cry, their collective voices rising in a thunderous chorus that drowned out the snowstorm outside.
Following the meeting, the North embarked on an unprecedented exodus.
From their castles, towns, farms, and villages, the people of the North began the arduous journey southward.
Deepwood Motte, Karhold, The Dreadfort, Winterfell—one by one, communities emptied.
Families drove oxen, sheep, horses, and mules, trudging through knee-deep snow to forge a path. Able-bodied young men led the way, while women, children, and essential supplies were kept safe in the middle. The elderly trailed behind, supported when possible, though always under watchful eyes.
Tragically, when an elderly person grew too weak to continue, they were humanely put to rest. Obsidian spikes were driven into their skulls and hearts to ensure they did not rise again as wights.
Villages merged into towns, towns into castles, forming larger and larger caravans.
They moved like blood coursing through a body—small groups like capillaries, merging into veins, and finally into great arteries.
The Kingsroad and the White Knife became the two largest arteries, carrying nearly two million people southward.
By now, the North had transformed into a vast, barren snowfield.
The journey tested everyone's resilience. The endless white expanse made it easy to lose hope—and even easier to lose one's way.
In the skies above, Hermine and Hali flew on their dragons, acting as guides for the migrating masses. Their presence offered reassurance and direction to the weary travelers below.
...
Meanwhile, on his way to the Wall, Viserys had a peculiar encounter.
A flock of black ravens flew directly toward him, showing no fear despite the overwhelming presence of his dragon. Normally, any animal would panic and flee under the dragon's aura.
But these were no ordinary ravens.
As the flock approached, one raven stood out, its movements deliberate. When it came close, it spoke.
"Viserys, the Night King says he wants to negotiate with us."
Viserys blinked, caught off guard.
The Night King? Negotiate?
The words made no sense to him. He couldn't imagine what there was to discuss.
Viserys wanted to destroy the White Walkers, and the Night King sought the death of all living beings. Their goals were diametrically opposed—what room could there possibly be for negotiation?
Still, the opportunity intrigued him.
If nothing else, it could provide a chance to learn more about the Night King's intentions and strategies. Viserys also had his suspicions. Could the Three-Eyed Raven—or perhaps Bloodraven himself—have become the Night King's "interpreter"?