[b][u]Lord John Stark of Winterfell[/u][/b]

John smiled at Khailey. "And it seems you already know of me," he said after she introduced herself. Before they could continue their conversation, Daeron and the Kingsguard entered, and the room fell silent. Daeron was coronated and soon, the swearing of fealty began. "John Stark!" John's name rang through the hall and he marched dutifully up to the front of Daeron where he took a knee and bowed his head. When he stood again, he said in a powerful voice, "The North swears it's fealty to you, Daeron Targaryen, the one true king."

The rest of the ceremony passed quickly and soon the sun was descending from it's perch in the sky. The lords and ladies had time to rest before the feast and so John was on his balcony, his hand stroking his direwolf, Shiera's, head. The wolf had been brought up with his luggage and was waiting patiently when he had returned from the ceremony. "Shiera, Daeron has yet to come speak with me. Maybe this means I won't be named Hand of the King after all," John hoped aloud, the winds bringing the scent of the sea to his nose.