292 AC
Winterfell
Third Person POV
The immense army, though tragically reduced, had begun the slow, deliberate process of disentangling itself from the Wall. Yet, before the long march home, before the grim accounting of losses and the arduous task of rebuilding could truly begin, there was a solemn, yet joyous, imperative: to celebrate the victory, to honor the fallen, and to recognize the heroes who had saved the realm.
Winterfell, the ancient seat of the Kings of Asgard, was the chosen venue. Its grim, grey stones, usually a testament to stoic endurance, now shimmered with lights, draped in celebratory banners, and echoed with the sounds of life. Preparations had been swift, fueled by a collective outpouring of gratitude and relief. Every cook, every servant, every available hand had worked tirelessly to prepare a feast befitting the saviors of Westeros.
The Great Hall of Winterfell, though vast, was packed to overflowing. Lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, those who had answered the call and stood at the Wall, made their way to the celebration. The golden lion of Lannister mingled with the direwolf of Stark, the stag of Baratheon brushed shoulders with the sunspear of Martell. Northern furs stood beside Southern silks, their wearers united by the shared crucible of battle.
The air thrummed with a profound sense of catharsis. The horror of the Long Night, the terrifying specter of extinction, had been banished. There was laughter, loud and boisterous, often punctuated by nervous chuckles that spoke of lingering tension. But there were also tears, shed quietly for the lost, for the unimaginable price paid. The smell of roasted boar, venison, and freshly baked bread filled the hall, mingling with the strong scent of ale and mulled wine.
At the high table, seated in positions of honor, were the two Kings: King Maekar Targaryen, regal and somber, and King Rickard Stark, his face grim but proud. Beside them sat their families: Queen Rhaenys and Queen Lyarra, their faces reflecting the mingled joy and sorrow of the day. Prince Rhaegar, Prince Brandon, and the many princes and princesses of both royal houses occupied the places of honor.
Prince Brandon Stark sat at the high table, angled slightly, his face pale, but his eyes clear and resolute. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, the sleeve of his fine doublet pinned back to hide the raw, devastating wound where his arm had been. He ate little, but observed everything, a silent, powerful presence, the living embodiment of their impossible victory. Beside him sat Princess Barbrey Ryswell, her hand often resting on his knee, her love and pride evident.
As the plates were cleared and the drink flowed more freely, a hush fell over the hall. It was time for the toasts, the ancient Westerosi tradition of honoring heroes and remembering the fallen.
King Maekar Targaryen rose first, his goblet held high. His voice, usually stern, was now tinged with a profound solemnity. "My Lords, my Ladies, valiant warriors of Westeros! We gather tonight not just in triumph, but in remembrance. The Long Night has passed. But its shadow will forever remind us of the courage and sacrifice of those who stood against it."
He looked out over the assembled faces, many bearing the marks of exhaustion and grief. "Let us first raise our goblets to the fallen heroes! To the 220,000 brave souls who gave their lives upon the Wall and beyond! To every man, woman, and giant who fell, whose courage saved us all! Their names may not all be known to us, but their sacrifice echoes through eternity! To the fallen!"
A unified roar of "TO THE FALLEN!" echoed through the hall, tinged with a raw, collective grief. Goblets were raised, and many drank in silence, tears flowing freely.
King Rickard Stark then rose, his own face grim but resolute. "And to the valiant warriors who survived! To every man and woman who stood firm upon the Wall, who battled the unending tide of death! To the archers, the spearmen, the swordsmen, the defenders of mankind! Your bravery held the line! You faced the unthinkable, and you did not break! To the living warriors!"
"TO THE LIVING WARRIORS!" The hall erupted in a fierce, exultant cheer, a defiant acknowledgment of their own survival.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen then rose, his voice clear and resonant. "And now, my Lords, to the very spearhead of our defiance! To the cavalry army! The 10,000 brave souls who plunged into the heart of the darkness, carving a path through the endless dead! Their charge was a desperate gamble, a testament to courage beyond measure! To the cavalry!"
"TO THE CAVALRY!" The roar was deafening, particularly from the grimy, battle-hardened horsemen seated throughout the hall, their faces split by weary, triumphant grins.
Lord Jon Arryn, ever wise, rose next. "Within that charge rode the finest blades and fiercest hearts of our realm. The forty champions who cleared the final path to the Night King! Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord William Dustin, Lord Bryden Tully, Lord Rodrick Forrester, Lord Jorah Mormont! And countless others, whose names will forever be etched in legend! To the champions!"
"TO THE CHAMPIONS!" The hall vibrated with the thunderous approval, acknowledging the impossible feats of the elite few.
Then, King Maekar Targaryen rose once more, his gaze settling upon Lord Robert Baratheon. A genuine, almost paternal, warmth entered his eyes. "And to the man who led that desperate charge! To Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End! A Warrior of the Stormlands, whose hammer shattered the dead, whose roar rallied the living! He feared nothing, faced everything, and led us to victory! To Robert Baratheon!"
Robert, his face flushed with wine and triumph, gave a booming, almost embarrassed, laugh. He raised his own goblet, his eyes meeting Maekar's, a silent bond forged in the crucible of battle. "FOR THE LIVING!" he roared, and the hall roared back, "FOR ROBERT BARATHEON!"
"And finally," King Maekar's voice resonated through the hushed hall, "to the hero who turned the tide. To the mind that forged the path, and the hand that struck the blow. To Prince Brandon Stark."
Maekar's voice roared, "He rode into the heart of the enemy. He faced a madness beyond comprehension. He took the head of the madman Euron Greyjoy, and shattered the vile horn that bound the dragons to death."
A collective gasp went through the hall at the revelation of Euron's death and the horn's destruction, a new layer of the victory unveiled.
"And then," Maekar's voice broke slightly, "he faced the very embodiment of the Long Night. He fought the Night King, a foe of ancient ice and unstoppable strength. And when faced with certain defeat, when the ultimate evil was about to claim him..."
Maekar's voice hardened, filled with a fierce, agonizing pride. "He made the ultimate sacrifice. He offered his own flesh. He lost his arm, to secure our victory. With his last strength, he pierced the Night King's heart, and broke the darkness forever!"
The words, stark and powerful, hung in the air. The hall erupted. Not in a cheer, but in a profound, guttural roar that was part awe, part anguish, part immense gratitude. Men wept openly. Women gasped, their hands flying to their mouths. Many rose to their feet, staring at Brandon, who sat, unmoving, his face pale but resolute.
"TO BRANDON STARK! THE SAVIOR OF THE REALM! FOR THE LIVING!" The cry was deafening, a wave of pure, overwhelming emotion that vibrated through the very stones of Winterfell. Every goblet was raised, every voice hoarse.
Prince Rhaegar rose, his eyes fixed on Brandon, a man who had forged a new legend. "To Prince Brandon Stark! The Last Hero! The realm owes him its life!"
The feast continued long into the night, a blend of grim remembrance and exultant celebration. The memory of the Long Night would forever cast a shadow, a warning of the price of complacency. But the triumph, the impossible victory, forged in fire, ice, and the ultimate sacrifice of a Prince of Asgard, would forever define this new Golden Age. The North and South, Targaryen and Stark, now truly one, had prevailed.