There was a thick tension in the air as the Lords of the North, Riverlands, Vale, and Narrow Sea met within your tent to discuss the future. There had been great victories, but the shadow of tragedy and fear hung over you all like the Stranger's cloak. King's Landing a heap of ashes and now the King of Westeros a rotting corpse.
"The Targaryens," supplied the Lord of Dunstonbury without much hesitation. "We know that the Mad King's daughter spent much of her childhood in Braavos. And they are the last enemy that remains to us. A horde of exiles and foreigners turning to treachery when skill at arms failed them." He spat, and shifted uncomfortably. His outfit was very new, the sigil altered to depict a golden seven-pointed star over a raised green hand all on a field of blue and grey waves. It was not an outright challenge to Lord Randyll - not with the Gardeners three hundred years gone - but it was a reminder that after Ser Dickon he was heir to Highgarden and the Reach by right of his wife.
Lord Velaryon nodded, hand tangled in his silver-blond beard. "I cannot disagree. We have doubled our patrols by Dragonstone. And of course the queen - pardon, the queen dowager, and Princess Shireen are now at Storm's End. King Robert, of course, unmade the succession laws of the Dance at the birth of the girl Myrcella."
At that there was only silence. Shireen Baratheon was a girl of ten years. Perhaps with time she would grow into an exceptional woman, but a realm at war was less than thrilled to have lost their admiral king in favor of his greyscale-scarred daughter. And yet- "Who else is there," barked old Lord Royce. "There are no other Baratheons."
"King Robert left half a score of baseborn children," someone said, only to be shouted down. A bastard on the Iron Throne? Even Edric Storm with his highborn mother was an unattractive option. The Florents had failed to impress in the battle against Lord Renly, despite their blood ties to the throne.
You were silent, still thinking, when the Greatjon lurched to his feet.
"MY LORDS!" he shouted, his voice booming off the rafters. "Here is what I say to the dragons!" He spat. "The Targaryens ruled these kingdoms for three hundred years and they held them with the blood of our countrymen. As to these bastards of King Robert, why should they rule over me and mine? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men?"
The Northerners stirred at that. Lord Umber turned. "What does a bastard boy know of the Trident? Of the Mountains of the Moon? Of putting wildlings, pirates, and Lannisters to the sword." He reached back over his shoulder and drew his immense two-handed greatsword. "Why shouldn't we have a king who knows us? A king who has led us to victory after victory! He'll wed Stannis' girl in time, but first let's put Rhaegar the Raper's boy back in the grave." He pointed at you with the blade. "There sits the only king I mean to bow me knee to, m'lords," he thundered. "The Young Wolf!"
And he knelt, and laid his sword at your feet.
"I'll have peace on those terms," Lord Manderly said. "Let the dragons learn the lessons we taught to Tywin and Renly, that we taught them when Ned Stark led us into battle. He eased his longsword from its scabbard. "The Young Wolf!" he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon.
Other voices joined them, some shouting one epithet or the other. "Robb, King! Robb, King! ROBB, KING!"
[] King Robb I
[] King Robert II
