The chant of "The King in the North!" echoed through Winterfell's Great Hall, the sound reverberating off the ancient stone walls and filling Jon with a sense of awe and dread. He stood there, frozen in place as the lords of the North knelt before him one by one, pledging their loyalty to him as their king. His chest felt tight, his heart hammering in his ears. He had never wanted this—never sought power or glory—but here it was, thrust upon him.
Sansa stood beside him, her expression calm, but Jon could see the pride in her eyes. This was the moment she had fought for, the moment she had believed in, even when Jon himself had doubted. She knew the North needed a leader, and she had pushed him to accept that role. Now, it was real. He was the King in the North, and there was no turning back.
As the last of the lords knelt, Davos stepped forward, his grizzled face set in a hard line. "Your Grace," he said quietly, using the title for the first time. "We should talk strategy. The North may be united, but winter has come, and with it, the true enemy. We don't have much time."
Jon nodded, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him even harder now. He had been given a crown, but it meant nothing if they couldn't survive the winter—if they couldn't defeat the Night King and his army of the dead. His thoughts raced as he tried to focus on the task at hand.
"Gather the lords in the council chamber," Jon said, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside him. "We need to plan. Winterfell will be the heart of our defense, but we need to be ready for what's coming. We'll need every man, woman, and child who can fight."
Davos nodded and turned to relay the orders, while the lords began to filter out of the hall. Jon took a deep breath, steadying himself, and turned to Sansa.
"Thank you," he said quietly, meeting her eyes.
Sansa smiled faintly, though there was a sadness in her gaze. "You were always meant for this, Jon. You just needed to see it."
Jon shook his head slightly. "I'm not sure I was meant for anything more than the Wall. This—being king—it feels… wrong. I never wanted it."
Sansa's expression softened. "Neither did Robb, but he accepted it because he knew it was his duty. And now, it's yours. The North chose you, Jon. They believe in you. And so do I."
Her words settled in Jon's heart like a heavy stone. Duty. That had always been the driving force in his life, from his days at Winterfell to the Night's Watch. He had never sought power, only to do what was right. And now, that same sense of duty demanded that he take up the crown, not for himself, but for the people he had sworn to protect.
He nodded, his resolve hardening. "I won't let them down."
Sansa's smile was small but genuine. "I know you won't."
They left the hall together, making their way to the council chamber where the lords of the North were already gathering. The air was thick with tension as they entered, the weight of expectation heavy on every face. Jon took his seat at the head of the table, a position that felt foreign to him even now. He glanced around the room, his gaze falling on the banners of the great Northern houses—each one representing men and women who had fought and died for their homes.
"All of you know why we're here," Jon began, his voice calm but authoritative. "Winter has come. The dead are marching, and if we don't unite, if we don't fight together, we will all fall. The Night King doesn't care about crowns or banners. He only wants death."
The lords listened in grim silence, their faces reflecting the gravity of the situation. Jon could see the fear in their eyes, but also the determination. They had come this far; they wouldn't give up now.
"We'll need to fortify Winterfell," Jon continued. "It's our strongest position, and the only place with enough resources to withstand a long siege. But we can't defend it alone. We'll need every able-bodied person to fight."
Lord Manderly, his massive frame taking up much of the space at the table, spoke first. "My men are at your command, Your Grace. White Harbor will send what supplies we can spare, and our soldiers will fight with you."
Lady Mormont, young but fierce as ever, was next. "House Mormont stands with the King in the North. We have few men left, but every last one of them will fight."
The other lords quickly followed suit, pledging their forces and resources to Jon's cause. It was a start, but Jon knew it wouldn't be enough. The army of the dead was vast, far larger than anything they could muster. They needed allies, and fast.
"Thank you," Jon said, his voice filled with gratitude. "But we'll need more than just the North. We'll need the support of the Vale, the Riverlands, and beyond. I'll send ravens to every corner of Westeros. If we don't stand together, none of us will survive."
A murmur of agreement spread through the room, though Jon could see the doubt in some of their faces. They were Northern lords—proud, independent, and distrustful of outsiders. But Jon had seen the dead with his own eyes. He knew that this was a fight they couldn't win alone.
Davos stepped forward then, his gruff voice cutting through the silence. "The Free Folk are already on their way, Your Grace. They'll fight with us. Tormund's gathering what he can north of the Wall."
Jon nodded, relieved to hear that. The Free Folk had fought alongside him before, and they would again. They had seen the dead as he had. They understood the stakes.
"We'll need to stockpile food," Sansa added, her voice calm and practical. "Winterfell has stores, but they won't last long if we're housing all the armies of the North. We'll need to ration carefully."
Jon looked at her with admiration. She had a mind for strategy that he lacked—at least when it came to the politics and logistics of ruling. Where he saw battles, Sansa saw the bigger picture.
"I'll leave that to you, Sansa," Jon said. "You've always been better at managing Winterfell than I have."
Sansa gave him a small smile, but there was a seriousness in her eyes. She knew the importance of what was to come, and she would do everything in her power to ensure their survival.
The council continued, with plans being made for fortifications, scouting parties, and supply routes. But even as the lords discussed their strategies, Jon's thoughts kept drifting back to the true enemy—the Night King. He had faced him once before, at Hardhome, and the memory of that battle still haunted him. The power of the dead was unlike anything he had ever seen, and the thought of facing that army again filled him with a deep, gnawing dread.
But there was no choice. The Night King was coming, and they had to be ready.
As the meeting drew to a close, the lords began to disperse, each returning to their men to relay orders and prepare for the coming war. Jon stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, his mind racing with thoughts of what was to come.
Davos approached him, his weathered face etched with concern. "You're doing well, Your Grace. The lords believe in you. But we'll need more than that if we're going to survive this."
Jon nodded, his jaw clenched. "I know. We need to find a way to stop the Night King."
Davos was silent for a moment, then spoke quietly. "There's something else. Something we haven't talked about."
Jon turned to him, his brow furrowed. "What is it?"
"The dragons," Davos said. "Daenerys Targaryen's dragons. If the stories are true, they're the only thing that might be able to stop the army of the dead."
Jon's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Daenerys. He had heard rumors of the Dragon Queen, of her victories in the south and the power of her three dragons. But could they truly make a difference against the Night King?
"If the dragons are real," Jon said slowly, "then we'll need her on our side."
Davos nodded. "Aye. But getting her to join us won't be easy. She has her own war to fight, and from what I've heard, she's not quick to trust."
Jon's mind raced with possibilities. They needed Daenerys and her dragons, but how could he convince her to join their cause? The North had little to offer in return, and the Targaryens had no love for the Starks.
"I'll go to her," Jon said at last, his decision made. "I'll speak to Daenerys myself. We need her."
Davos looked at him in surprise. "You? But, Your Grace, the North needs you here. You're their king now."
"I know," Jon said quietly. "But this isn't just about the North. It's about all of Westeros. If we don't stop the Night King, none of this will matter. Winterfell, the crown—it will all be ashes."
Davos hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Very well. But