PART 1: THE ICE SHIELD OF THE NECK
The sky above Moat Cailin was darkened by the vast shadow of Balerion, the Black Dread. From the marshy ground to the walls of the ancient fortress, every Northern soldier stood firm, their bodies strengthened by the body-runes Theon Stark had granted his people. It was a visible hierarchy of power: common soldiers bore simple runes that gave them resilience beyond the ordinary; officers carried more complex marks that increased their strength; and the Black Guard, the elite of the North, moved with supernatural grace thanks to the silver runes that shimmered upon their armor.
On the main walls, the lords of the North gathered around Brandon Stark. Though he was the younger brother of the King of Ice, the weight of years was carved deep into his face. His sixty winters contrasted brutally with Theon's eternal youth, though the Stark runes upon his body granted him vigor enough to stand tall and lucid.
"Will the shield hold?" asked Lord Cerwyn, watching the protective runes carved into the stones pulse with a bluish light as they dispelled yet another torrent of dragonfire.
Brandon nodded confidently. "My brother does not grant weak protections to the North. These runes on the walls were made to withstand far more than dragonfire."
The truth was plain in the stones: the defensive runes of Moat Cailin glowed brilliantly, yet showed no sign of weakness. Each of Balerion's attacks ended in explosions of steam that froze instantly, creating a surreal landscape of fire and ice around the fortress.
Then Theon Stark stepped toward the edge of the wall. The difference became immediately clear: while all around him bore body-runes of varying degrees of power, the skin of the King of Ice was utterly smooth, without a single mark. He needed no runes—for his body was the very source of all rune-power in the North.
"Will he face the dragon alone?" whispered a young lord of House Hornwood.
Brandon smiled with pride. "My brother does not face—he simply demonstrates."
Theon crossed the protective barrier without the slightest ceremony. Where others would have required powerful runes merely to survive outside it, he walked as if in a winter garden. The air around him froze instantly, frost crawling across the ground before his feet.
"MAEGOR TARGARYEN!" His voice echoed without any rune of amplification, cutting through the dragon's roar like a blade.
What followed was a demonstration of pure power. While the runes upon the walls upheld the basic defense, Theon raised his hand and a spear of ice began to form in the air. No runes guided it—only the will of the King of Ice, made manifest in solid frost.
Within the walls, the Northern lords watched with awe mingled with humility. They, who prided themselves on their granted runes, now witnessed the true source of their power. Lady Maege Bolton touched the complex rune upon her wrist, realizing it was but a pale reflection of the might her king possessed naturally.
The ice spear flew toward Balerion, clashing with the dragon's fire midair. The resulting explosion was breathtaking—a curtain of energy, frost, and steam that engulfed the winged beast and its rider. Balerion's roar twisted into a scream of agony that echoed across the Neck.
But Theon was not finished. His body began to unravel, transforming into a frozen mist that ascended into the heavens like a comet of winter. As he rose higher, a wave of absolute cold swept across the battlefield. The Targaryen soldiers still awaiting the order to attack were instantly turned into statues of ice, their battle-ready stances immortalized in a moment of sheer terror.
The lords of the North fell to their knees—not from fear, but from reverence. They understood now: the runes they so valued were mere tools—the true power lay in the man who had created them without ever needing them himself.
Theon, now a celestial being of frost and power, hovered before Maegor. The usurper, still struggling to control a wounded Balerion, looked into the eyes of the King of Ice and saw his fate.
Theon's voice resonated in the minds of all present, with no need of runes for communication: "Your father was a wise man..."
The pause that followed was more terrifying than any scream. Theon remembered his moment with Alys interrupted, and the audacity of this petulant fool who had dared to stain the Northern lands with his armies and his dragon. "You, unfortunately, chose the worst day of all. And let this stand as a lesson for the people of the future."
The lords of the North remained in silence, knowing they were witnessing not merely the end of a battle, but the birth of a legend that would echo for millennia. The lesson was clear: they might wield the runes, but only one man was the true power behind them.
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PART 2: THE CONCILIATOR
The library of Storm's End was a sanctuary against the civil war that ravaged the Seven Kingdoms. Jaehaerys Targaryen, fourteen years old, was enveloped in the solemn silence of the hall of books, where the scent of sea salt mingled with the aroma of ancient parchment. The stone walls muffled the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs outside, but they could not muffle the weight of destiny hanging upon his young shoulders.
"The Celtigars have sworn loyalty, Your Grace," said Ser Rogar Baratheon, his stern face lit by the trembling light of candles. "But the Velaryons hesitate. They fear Maegor's wrath should they choose the wrong side."
Jaehaerys studied the map spread across the great oak table. His fingers traced invisible lines between the islands of Blackwater Bay. "They do not fear Maegor," the young prince corrected softly. "They fear what comes after Maegor. The realm needs stability, not another king who rules through terror."
The wisdom in the boy's words made Ser Rogar bow his head in respect. There was something in that young Targaryen that inspired a confidence neither his father Aenys nor his uncle Maegor had ever inspired. Jaehaerys did not speak of birthright or dragonfire—he spoke of responsibility.
It was then that the heavy oak door of the library burst open. A messenger clad in the colors of House Arryn entered, his cloak drenched by the rain that fell upon Storm's End. The man knelt, his labored breathing echoing in the silent chamber.
"Your Grace," the messenger said, raising a parchment with trembling hands. "Lord Arryn sends urgent news from the North."
Jaehaerys accepted the scroll, breaking the wax seal with calm movements. His eyes scanned the lines of dark ink, and Ser Rogar observed how the young prince's face betrayed no surprise, only a deep, resigned sorrow.
"Maegor has marched to the North," Jaehaerys announced, his voice clear and steady. "He has taken Balerion and ten thousand men to Moat Cailin."
Ser Rogar Baratheon cursed under his breath. "The madman! He leaves King's Landing unprotected while he chases ghosts in the Neck!"
"They are not ghosts," Jaehaerys corrected gently. "It is Theon Stark. And my uncle will not return from the North."
The statement was uttered with such certainty that even the messenger looked up, startled. Ser Rogar frowned in confusion. "Your Grace, with all due respect, Balerion is the greatest dragon to have ever lived. No Northern army could stand against him."
Jaehaerys walked to a shelf and pulled out a leather-bound volume, worn with age. "My grandfather's writings, Aegon's. He told me of Theon Stark before he died." The young prince opened the book to a marked passage, his fingers brushing over the familiar handwriting. "'The King of Ice is not a common man,' my grandfather wrote. 'He is a force of nature. To challenge him in his own lands is not bravery—it is suicide.'"
The messenger hesitated before speaking. "Rumor has it... that the runes on the walls of Moat Cailin shine with a light of their own. That winter itself bends to Theon Stark's will."
Jaehaerys nodded, closing the book with a soft sound. "My uncle made the mistake of believing dragonfire to be the supreme force. But winter... winter is older than Valyria. More patient than steel. And Theon Stark is winter incarnate."
For the first time, Ser Rogar seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. "If Maegor falls... the Iron Throne will be vacant."
"The Iron Throne will not remain empty for long," Jaehaerys replied, his pale blue eyes fixed upon the map of Westeros. "The realm needs a conciliator, not another conqueror. We need someone who will unite the Seven Kingdoms, not divide them further."
The young prince turned to the messenger. "Tell Lord Arryn that the Conciliator is ready. When the dust settles in the North, Westeros will have a new king. And this time, it will be a king who understands that true strength comes not from fear, but from wisdom."
As the messenger departed to carry out his orders, Jaehaerys walked to the window and gazed northward. The rain had ceased, and the clouds were beginning to scatter above the turbulent waters of Shipbreaker Bay.
"He chose the worst possible day to face the King of Ice," Jaehaerys whispered, more to himself than to Ser Rogar. "We shall choose the best possible day to find an ally."
Ser Rogar watched the boy who would be king with renewed respect. In that moment, in the silent library of Storm's End, he understood that he was not witnessing the rise of another ambitious Targaryen, but the birth of something Westeros had never seen before: a true statesman.
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TIME SKIP
Six weeks later, confirmation reached Storm's End. Balerion had returned alone to Dragonstone, grievously wounded, writhing in agony upon the cliffs of the Targaryens' ancestral isle. Of the army of ten thousand men, few had survived, and those who had were so broken they could barely speak of what they had witnessed. As for Maegor Targaryen, there was no sign—save for rumors of an ice spear that had met dragonfire and triumphed.
Jaehaerys received the news with the same calm sorrow he had shown weeks before. He did not rejoice in the death of an uncle who had murdered his own brother. Instead, he ordered the realm into mourning.
"Prepare my coronation," he told Ser Rogar. "And prepare also a message for Winterfell. It is time Westeros learned there is more than one way to rule."
As preparations began, Jaehaerys looked north once more, imagining the man who had defeated the greatest dragon in the world. He knew that his first and greatest challenge as king would not be consolidating his power in the South, but finding a way to reconcile fire and ice—Targaryen and Stark—in a realm that had never understood any language but conquest.
The Conciliator was ready to claim the throne. The question remained whether the King of Ice would be willing to speak.
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PART 3: THE VISIT OF WINTER
The Great Hall of the Red Keep breathed ceremonial tension under the weight of new hopes. Lords and ladies from all Six Kingdoms crowded in to witness the first formal audience of the newly crowned King Jaehaerys I Targaryen. The Iron Throne, with its twisted blades, seemed less threatening under the daylight pouring through the stained-glass windows.
"Silence for His Grace!" announced the High Septon, striking his staff upon the marble floor. "Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
The ritual response echoed through the hall, but it was cut short by a sudden shift in the air. An ancient chill descended upon the court, turning every breath into clouds of white mist. Torches sputtered and died as frost crept over windows and banners.
"What is this?" whispered Lord Redwyne, his teeth chattering.
At the center of the hall, a pool of water formed upon the marble—impossible, for there was no source nearby. The water moved against all logic, flowing toward the throne as if guided by unseen hands. From the vapor rising off it, a figure began to take shape, first as vague outlines of ice, then with greater detail, until Theon Stark stood solid and real before the court.
The spectacle was not yet complete. Crystals of ice swirled above his head, weaving into a vortex that gradually shaped itself into a crown—an intricate Crown of Winter, its spikes sharp as stalactites, and at its center a single red gem pulsing with its own light, like a blood-red eye gazing upon the hall. Slowly, the crown descended until it rested upon his brow.
Theon looked at Jaehaerys with a faintly ironic smile. "King of the First Men?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow as the crimson gem in his crown glowed brighter. "An interesting title for one who has never conquered the North. Should I feel honored, or contest the misappropriation?"
Several lords paled, but Jaehaerys kept his composure. "Titles are tradition, Theon Stark. Not claims of dominion over lands that were never mine."
"Ah, tradition," Theon laughed, as if at a joke only he understood. He began to stroll through the hall, the nobles recoiling before him like the tide retreating from the shore.
Before anyone could respond, Theon drew something from within his cloak and tossed it toward the throne. The perfectly preserved head of Maegor rolled down the iron steps and came to rest at Jaehaerys's feet.
"A welcome gift," Theon shrugged. "I thought you might prefer proof. It spares… unnecessary disputes about succession."
Though pale, Jaehaerys did not break eye contact. "Theon Stark. Have you come to finish what you began with my uncle?"
Theon laughed, a sound of genuine amusement. "By the Old Gods, no! If that were my aim, King's Landing would already be a glacier." He stopped before the Iron Throne, studying Jaehaerys. "But you seem different from your uncle. Less concerned with ruling lands he does not hold, more concerned with governing well the ones he truly has."
He resumed his pacing, each step leaving frost across the marble floor. "Your grandsire was a conqueror. Your uncle, a tyrant. But you…" Theon studied Jaehaerys, his expression impassive, though the red gem upon his crown flickered with interest. "I hear they already call you the Conciliator. An interesting name for one so young."
Lord Celtigar found courage to protest: "Your Grace, this… this being cannot be received in the royal court!"
Theon turned slowly. "Being?" He let the pause hang like a blade. "I brought peace. I removed a tyrant who murdered his own nephew. And you question my presence?" The smile that spread across his lips never reached his eyes. "Curious standards of hospitality you Southerners keep."
Jaehaerys raised his hand. "Theon Stark has proposed a conversation. And I accept." The young king descended from the throne, stopping a few steps away from the King of Ice. "What do you suggest?"
"Why not meet more formally, upon neutral ground? Say… the Neck. No armies. Just two kings, speaking."
"I agree. On the autumn equinox."
"Excellent!" Theon seemed pleased. "Do not trouble yourself about the cold. I will see to it."
Then he began to retreat. As he moved, his body once more transformed into ice. Yet this time, the process was different—he became a flawless statue of ice, so detailed it seemed alive. For a moment, the frozen figure stood unmoving, the red gem in its crown still glowing.
Then, with a sudden crack, fissures spread across the statue. With the sound of shattering crystal, it collapsed into thousands of fragments that instantly began to melt, leaving behind only a pool of water upon the marble floor.
The hall was utterly silent. Lords and ladies stared at the water as if something monstrous might yet rise from it.
It was Jaehaerys who broke the silence, his voice steady: "It seems we have a treaty to prepare."
As the nobles struggled to comprehend what they had witnessed, the young king looked upon the pool already evaporating. He understood the message well enough: Theon Stark could appear anywhere, at any time. But he had also made it clear that, for now, he preferred diplomacy to war.
The Conciliator had secured his first peace. And the King of Ice had ensured that none in King's Landing would ever forget that some realms would never kneel—least of all the one ruled by a man who commanded winter itself.
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So, folks, what did you think of this new chapter? It seems we are about to enter a great era of peace now with this treaty.
In the next chapter we'll focus on how life is for the people of the North and on the more mystical side of the story.
Now, a question—even though I already know the answer from you noble knights: the Children of the Forest (I'll put an image of what they look like, since I don't like the show's version) are a smash. But I'd like to know if you want to see this smash written out, or just mentioned in passing.
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