Niflheim's abode
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KoW - Chapter 57
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 21:48:24 +0000 UTC[A.N: This whole crowning sequence was the reason why I wrote the story in the first place, but it was too long to fit in one chapter so I separated it.]
General Harrenhall POV
Harrenhall’s great… well, hall, was of such immense size a small army could fit in.
And fit in they did.
Tens and tens of lords and their children stood closest to Harren’s broken throne, next to them were the hedge knights and minor nobles in even greater sizes.
And when the hall was yet to be filled, men and women were selected amongst the smallfolk, to be privy to this coronation, and relay it to their peers, friends and family.
At the cracked footsteps right under that stone chair stood the most important people, major lords like Brynden Tully, Ser Manderly, Bolton, Karstark, Blackwood, Bracken, and even Ser Stevron Frey. Next to them were Robb’s family, Catelyn, Arya, Sansa, and their respective sworn shields, and in Arya’s case, her direwolf.
And finally. Right next to the throne were two men, one was dressed in simple white wool robe, with a seven-pointed star pendant attached at his chest.
He was an aging man, with a bald head, bright grey eyes, and a pitch white, well-groomed beard at his chin. The corners of his eyes held wrinkles that gave him an open face, and he wore a light smile on his face.
That was Septon Eustace, a simple man who followed along their baggage train with the refugees, offering aid and charity to the poor, and spiritual health to the forsaken.
It also helped that he was not trained in any major point of gathering of the faith, like Oldtown or Kingslanding. But had spent most of his life wandering the riverlands, where many villages who lacked septs or septons simply carved seven pointed stars on weirwood trees and prayed at them.
Right next to him was the towering figure of Greatjon Umber, the Mountainfall, or Mountain Slayer, or the Giant, and many more epithets earned after his triumph against Gregor Clegane.
He stood there in contrast to the small form of the septon next to him, a stern gaze on his face and a bronze circlet on his spare hand.
In accordance with Robb’s stance of neutrality, both of these men were chosen as representatives of their respective faiths, and a way to grant his coronation legitimacy north and south.
Stevron tapped his foot incessantly. “Where is he?” He whispered to himself.
And as the moments dragged on, murmurs began to stir.
Stevron tapped his foot again, louder this time. His gaze flitted to the grand doors, then to the gathered lords, and back again. “He should be back by now,” he muttered under his breath.
Brynden’s frown deepened. He leaned in, voice firm but low. “Compose yourself. He will come.”
“But—”
“I said compose yourself,” the Blackfish snapped, more sharply than intended. His words fell heavier than expected, drawing the attention of nearby knights and lords.
The tapping stopped, but the silence it left behind felt thinner than before. Eyes began to shift. Heads turned subtly toward the entrance. A cough echoed across the stone hall. Somewhere near the back, someone whispered something that made another shift on their feet.
Even Arya, sitting beside her mother with her direwolf resting at her feet, glanced toward the towering doors.
The Septon clasped his hands patiently, but even he glanced up now and then. Greatjon Umber remained still, yet his knuckles had whitened slightly around the circlet he held.
The whispers kept growing, picking up like wind through dry leaves. What started as scattered murmurs turned into a steady hum—curious voices overlapping, questions passed from one group to the next. People were talking freely now, glancing around, trading worried looks. It felt like the hall was getting louder by the minute.
Then something outside cut through it all.
A sharp noise rang out—metal clanging hard against stone, followed by the thudding of fast, heavy footsteps and the rising sound of voices shouting just beyond the doors.
The whole hall went quiet in an instant.
Everyone turned toward the doors as they gave a deep, echoing groan. The wood trembled on its old iron hinges.
What rays of sun made its way through the walls littered with holes illuminated the doorway as the gate burst open. And abruptly, before anyone could respond, the green men arrived.
They walked through the already filled hall in lockstep rhythm, pushing through the crowd, “ignoring the protest or confusion of those they displaced.
Finally, as they stood shoulder to shoulder in twin lines, creating a path through the people straight to the throne, the last of them stepped through the door, he was an otherworldly man, with aristocratic Valyrian features, and a mystic look given to him by the wooden antlers surging out of his forehead.
And as the spectators stood stock still, shocked by their unexpected appearance, the man—Daemon Rivers, shouted for all to hear.
“Silence!” His voice echoed. “Silence for Robb of House Stark!”
And then, the sound of metal dragged through stone reverberated, and calm footsteps resonated through their ears.
But their eyes were too wide for them to recognize those sounds, as Robb, with his auburn hair crimson from the drying red sap, walked through the path made by the green men.
Most importantly, on his forearm seven bronze chains were encircled, allowing him to drag a monstrous body behind him, with a pulsing dark crystal set where its wretched heart should have been, and seven thin bronze spikes glowing in old runes impaling its body.
People were yet again too shocked to respond, and Robb scaled the stairs leading to the hall’s broken throne until he came face to face with the Septon.
“Begin the ceremony.” His voice broke the silence ordained by Daemon, and Septon Eustace stared back at him, befuddled.
He gulped errant saliva as cold sweat went down his brow, but he listened to Robb still, and shakily gestured for him to kneel.
Robb did so, his free arm resting on the pommel of Ice.
Septon Eustace stepped forward with hesitant, almost stiff movements, the chain of his seven-pointed star clinking faintly as it shifted against his robe. His hands trembled slightly as he raised them—not high, but enough to be seen—trying to steady them with a slow breath. When he spoke, his voice wavered at first, thin and uncertain, but he cleared his throat and pushed on, forcing each word to carry through the hall with as much firmness as he could muster.
“In the sight of the Seven Who Are One,” he said, glancing briefly at the crowd, then quickly back to the young man kneeling before him, “We gather to bless this moment, and the vows that will be sworn.”
Robb knelt silently, and the light from the high windows caught on the strands of scarlet hair at his crown.
Eustace fumbled slightly with the small flask of holy oil he produced from his sleeve, but steadied himself as he dipped a trembling finger and reached for Robb’s brow.
“The Father,” he said, touching the boy’s forehead, “grant him judgment.”
“The Warrior,” his voice gaining strength, “grant him valor.”
“The Smith,” he continued, resting a palm on Robb’s shoulder, “grant him strength.”
“The Mother,” he said, voice softening, “grant him compassion, that he may protect those in his care.”
“The Maiden,” he added, fingers brushing Robb’s temple, “grant him innocence and honor, that he might remain true in the face of temptation.”
“The Crone,” he murmured, “grant him wisdom, that he may see the path when all others are lost.”
He paused last of all, then drew a slow breath before speaking the final name.
“The Stranger… grant him the courage to face the unknown, and to meet death with dignity.”
He moved around slowly, reciting each of the Seven with as much steadiness as he could gather, his voice finally settling into something close to calm.
Septon Eustace stepped back, hands folded tightly over his pendant, and said no more. His part in this rite was done. But Robb remained kneeling, head bowed beneath the heavy bronze circlet, his breath slow and quiet.
The silence stretched.
Then came the steady tread of Greatjon Umber.
When he spoke, his voice held a rough, reverent edge to it.
“You have heard the blessings of the Seven,” he said, “but those of us who still kneel before heart trees know a different vow.”
“Kneel as you are, Robb Stark,” he said. “And speak your oaths in the name of the old gods, who speak not through priests, but through wind, and wood, and water.”
Robb did not raise his head.
“I swear,” he said, voice clear, “by stone, that I will stand fast. That no fear will shake me, and no foe will break me.”
“I swear by earth, that I will hold fast to my people. That I will feed them when they hunger, and shelter them when they shiver.”
I swear by iron, that I will guard these lands with strength and steel. That I shall raise my sword not for conquest, but in defense of those who place their trust in me.”
“I swear by ice, that I will remember. The cost of war, the weight of peace, and the lives that bind the North and the Riverlands as one.”
He drew in a breath, the air cold in his lungs.
“I swear by blood—mine, and that of my house—that I will rule with honor, not as a master, but as a son of these lands. Of forests and rivers. Of mountains and stone.”
Greatjon waited a moment longer before asking, voice low and grave, “Do you swear these oaths before gods who watch, though they do not answer? Who remember, though they do not speak?”
“I do,” Robb replied.
“Then rise.” Greatjon’s singular hand clumsily yet successfully placed the bronze circlet upon his head, yet even as he raised his lord into a king, his eyes found themselves staring at the loathsome twisted being lying upon the steps.
As Robb slowly stood up, he discreetly took an object from a pocket at his breast, and gently put it in Greatjon’s hand.
“A gift.” He whispered to the man. “Put it in your stump.”
Jon’s eyes went wide from confusion, yet he nodded and stepped back anyway. He heeded his words.
Robb turned around, a crown at his head, and stared at the people ready to swear fealty to him.
And as every eye lay fixed upon him… they knew that this day would be written in the pages of history.
This day shall be unforgettable.
