Chapter 10: The Conqueror's Shadow, The Kneeling King's Gambit
The ravens arrived in a frantic, black-winged flurry, their messages scrawled in haste, bearing tidings that sent a tremor of fear and disbelief throughout the North. Aegon Targaryen had landed. At the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, upon a shore of mud and seagrass, the last scion of Old Valyria had planted his banner – a three-headed dragon, red on black – and declared himself King of All Westeros. With him were his two sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, and their three dragons: Balerion the Black Dread, Vhagar, and Meraxes.
Aegon's initial conquests were brutal, swift, and terrifyingly effective. Lord Darklyn of Duskendale and Lord Mooton of Maidenpool, who had dared to oppose his landing, were annihilated, their armies scorched, their castles melted into slag by dragonfire. The Targaryen host, though relatively small, was unstoppable when spearheaded by their aerial behemoths. Harren Hoare, the arrogant King of the Isles and the Rivers, who had boasted that his newly constructed fortress of Harrenhal was impregnable, learned the folly of his pride. Balerion's black flames had turned the colossal castle into a molten ruin, roasting Harren and his sons within its supposedly impervious walls. The Riverlands, leaderless and terrified, had largely submitted.
Then came the news from the south and west that struck even deeper into the Northern psyche. The combined might of King Loren Lannister of the Rock and King Mern Gardener of the Reach, the two most powerful monarchs in Westeros, had marched to meet Aegon on the plains south of the Blackwater. Their vast host had been incinerated in a single, horrific afternoon that would forever be known as the Field of Fire. Forty thousand men burned, King Mern and his sons among them. King Loren, wisely, had bent the knee. Orys Baratheon, Aegon's rumored bastard half-brother, had defeated and slain Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King, claiming his daughter, his castle, and his lands.
The North, accustomed to its harsh but predictable rhythms, reeled. Fear, a sentiment rarely given purchase in the stoic Northern heart, began to take root. Torrhen Stark, the King in the North, who had ruled for so long that many believed him touched by the Old Gods with unnatural longevity, received these reports in the Great Hall of Winterfell, his face an unreadable mask of ancient calm. His son, Prince Rickon, now a seasoned man of fifty-two with the first true frost of age in his dark hair, stood beside him, his expression grim. Rickon's own son, Edric, a youth of twenty, watched his grandfather with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
"Dragons," Lord Umber, the Greatjon of his day, bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "How do we fight gods-damned dragons, Your Grace? Our arrows will be like gnats against such beasts! Our walls, kindling!"
"The Southrons burn, and their kings kneel," muttered Lord Karstark, his face pale. "What chance has the North against such sorcery?"
Torrhen let them speak, his Occlumency shields deflecting the rising tide of panic, his mind a cold, calculating engine. Kaelen's instincts assessed the threat, the capabilities of these new Targaryen dragons, the psychological impact of their victories. Flamel's wisdom counseled patience, the long view. He already knew the outcome of this war for the North, had seen his own kneeling in countless green dreams. But the path to that moment, the precise steps he must take to safeguard his kingdom and activate his centuries-old gambit, required meticulous execution.
His southern ward network was now a vital intelligence asset. The inert seed stones, awakened by his will, pulsed information directly into his mind – the disposition of Aegon's forces, the morale of the conquered territories, the character of the Dragonlord himself. Aegon, his visions and reports confirmed, was a formidable warrior, a charismatic leader, but also pragmatic. He sought dominion, not wanton destruction, unless defied. His sisters were equally dangerous: Visenya, the stern warrior, and Rhaenys, the more whimsical but no less deadly dragonrider. Their dragons, while younger and smaller than his own hidden behemoths, were still forces of nature.
"Call the banners," Torrhen said finally, his voice quiet but cutting through the fearful murmurs. "Summon all the lords of the North to Winterfell for a Great Council. We will discuss these tidings and decide our course."
While the ravens flew and the lords journeyed, Torrhen made his own preparations. In the deepest sanctum beneath Winterfell, the teleportation circle glowed softly. He spent hours at Skyfang Hold, a place no other living soul but Elaena Vaelaros had ever seen. Skane, Morghul, and Issylra, now ancient and colossal, sensed the shift in their master, the coiled tension beneath his calm exterior. Their bond was so profound that they mirrored his mood, their usual playful interactions replaced by a watchful, leonine stillness.
"The time approaches, my old friends," Torrhen had murmured to Issylra, her massive, winter-light head resting near his hand, her sapphire eyes blinking slowly. "The world changes. We must be ready." He ensured Skyfang's defenses were at their peak, its concealment absolute. He gave Elaena, now incredibly ancient and frail, her final instructions: should he fall, should the unimaginable happen, she was to seal Skyfang Hold with her dying breath, using a Valyrian ritual of final closure he had taught her, ensuring the dragons remained hidden, a legacy for his distant descendants, or a final, apocalyptic vengeance if the North was ever truly broken.
The Philosopher's Stone amulet, the small, innocuous-looking pendant of obsidian and weirwood, lay cool against his skin beneath his tunic. It was ready, its matrix hungry for the immense energies it was designed to absorb. The destruction Aegon was wreaking across the south, the sheer scale of death on battlefields like the Field of Fire, was a tragic prelude, but for Torrhen's Stone, it was the alchemical furnace being stoked. The day he knelt, the culmination of Aegon's initial conquest of the mainland kingdoms, would be the day of its true birth, fueled by the psychic residue of a continent's anguish and the fall of kings.
The Great Council at Winterfell was a stormy affair. The Great Hall thronged with grim-faced Northern lords, their voices raised in fear, anger, and defiance.
"We fight!" roared Lord Umber. "The North has never bent the knee to southern kings, and we'll not bend it to some Valyrian pretender with fancy lizards!"
"Fight with what, Umber?" countered Lord Manderly of White Harbor, whose port city had heard firsthand accounts of dragonfire from terrified sailors. "Our longbows against flames that melt stone? Our courage against beasts that blot out the sun? This Aegon has conquered half of Westeros in months. We must be prudent."
Lord Bolton, ever watchful, said little, his pale eyes assessing the shifting mood, likely calculating his own advantage in any outcome.
Prince Rickon, speaking with a calm authority that mirrored his father's, presented the known facts, the reports of Aegon's strength, the devastation wrought by his dragons. He did not advocate for war or submission, merely for a clear-eyed understanding of the threat.
Torrhen listened patiently for two full days as his lords debated. He saw the fear, the pride, the desperation. He knew that to simply declare his intention to kneel would shatter their morale, perhaps even incite rebellion from the more hot-headed houses. He needed them to choose this path, or at least, to accept its grim necessity as his own considered judgment.
On the third day, he rose to speak. A hush fell over the Great Hall.
"My lords," he began, his voice carrying the weight of his long reign, "I have heard your counsel. I have weighed your fears and your courage. The North faces a peril unlike any in our long history. This Aegon Targaryen wields a power that has broken proud kings and burned ancient fortresses to the ground."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "Some among you counsel war. A noble sentiment. The blood of the First Men runs strong in our veins. We do not yield easily." A murmur of approval ran through the hall.
"But consider the cost," Torrhen continued, his voice hardening slightly. "Consider Harrenhal. Consider the Field of Fire. Do you wish to see your castles turned to smoking ruins? Your sons and brothers burned alive? Your fields sown with ash? Is Northern pride worth the annihilation of the Northern people?"
A grim silence answered him.
"Others counsel submission," he went on. "To bend the knee and accept this Targaryen as our king. A bitter choice for men who have always been free."
He let that sink in. "There may be a third path. We are Starks of Winterfell. We are the Kings of Winter. We do not seek conflict, but neither do we shirk from it if it is the only way to protect our people. I will lead the host south. We will meet this Aegon Targaryen. We will see the strength of his dragons with our own eyes. And then, and only then, will I decide the fate of the North."
It was a masterful speech, offering something to both the hawks and the doves, reaffirming his authority while keeping his ultimate intentions veiled. A great roar of approval went up. The Northern host would march.
The assembling of the Northern army was a sight not seen for centuries. Thirty thousand hardy warriors, clad in leather and mail, armed with the new, incredibly sharp "ice-steel" longswords and spears that had been secretly produced in Winterfell's forges for decades. Their morale, though initially shaken by tales of dragonfire, was bolstered by the sight of their ancient, seemingly indomitable King riding at their head, his direwolf banner snapping in the cold wind. Prince Rickon rode beside him, his face set with grim determination. Torrhen had given his son specific instructions: should Torrhen fall in battle (a carefully feigned possibility), Rickon was to lead the army back to Moat Cailin and hold it at all costs, trusting in the fortress's ancient and newly augmented defenses. He also gave Rickon a sealed letter, to be opened only in the event of his death, containing guidance for the future and subtle hints about the true legacy of House Stark – though nothing explicit about dragons.
The march south was arduous. Torrhen led them down the Kingsroad, his pace deliberate. His warged animals scouted far ahead, his tripwire wards pulsed constant updates. He knew Aegon, having secured the Riverlands and the Westerlands, was now turning his attention towards the North. The Targaryen host was reportedly marching towards the Trident.
As they crossed the Neck, passing through the formidable, magically enhanced defenses of Moat Cailin, Torrhen felt a grim satisfaction. This gateway would hold against any conventional army, and even against dragons, it would prove a costly siege. But he knew Aegon would likely not waste his dragons on Moat Cailin if a more palatable solution presented itself.
They made camp on the northern bank of the Trident. Across the river, the banners of Aegon Targaryen were visible – a smaller host than the North's, but with three colossal advantages circling lazily in the sky above them. Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. Even from this distance, their size was breathtaking, their presence a palpable weight on the air. The Northern soldiers stared in awed silence, their bravado visibly faltering.
Torrhen sent envoys to Aegon's camp, proposing a parley. He knew Aegon, having just fought several major battles, would likely prefer a bloodless victory if offered. The Conqueror agreed.
The meeting was set for the next day, on a small island in the Trident. Torrhen would meet Aegon, each accompanied by a small retinue.
That night, Torrhen Stark sat alone in his command tent, the Philosopher's Stone amulet cool against his chest. His greensight was a whirlwind of images: the kneeling, the faces of Aegon and his sisters, the surge of power as his amulet would drink deep from the psychic anguish of the continent's conquest. He felt Kaelen's cold pragmatism, Flamel's weary understanding of history's cycles, and his own unwavering resolve as Torrhen Stark, King of the North.
He thought of his own dragons, hidden far away in Skyfang Hold. Skane, Morghul, and Issylra. Their power dwarfed Aegon's young beasts. He could unleash them, turn the Trident into a maelstrom of fire and ice, perhaps even destroy the Targaryen dragons. But at what cost? A devastating war, the North ravaged, his greatest secret revealed prematurely. No. The long game was always the wiser path. He would kneel, as foreseen. He would preserve his kingdom, his people. And he would forge his Stone, the key to his family's enduring power and his own ability to guide them through the centuries to come.
When dawn broke, King Torrhen Stark, dressed in simple, dark leathers, the ancient bronze-and-iron crown of the Kings of Winter upon his brow, rode towards the Trident. His face was calm, his eyes holding the ancient stillness of the Northern ice. He was going to meet his conqueror. He was going to bend the knee. And in that act of submission, he would secure his greatest victory. The Conqueror's shadow fell long over Westeros, but the kneeling king's gambit was about to unfold.