The soldiers of the North raised the platform with brisk efficiency. Rough-hewn timbers were lashed together with rope and iron nails, forming a temporary dais upon the frozen earth. It was crude by southern standards, but sturdy, and that was all the North required. Upon it, Prince Aegon Targaryen stood beneath a gray sky, the wind tugging at his cloak as he prepared to parley with Lord Cregan Stark.
Aegon's gaze swept across the host gathered before him. The men of the North stood in close ranks, their armor mismatched, their cloaks heavy with wear. Many bore scars, some fresh, others long healed. Their faces were weathered, eyes steady and unafraid.
"What a savage army," Aegon said quietly.
He did not raise his voice. There was no need. Lord Cregan Stark stood beside the platform, tall and broad, his greatsword sheathed at his back. The Warden of the North followed Aegon's gaze without comment, his expression unreadable.
"These men fear neither cold nor death," Aegon continued, his tone thoughtful rather than mocking. "They fight as if dying were no more than another blow to be endured."
Cregan's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He folded his arms across his chest, thick gloves creaking as leather met leather.
"The North does not breed poets," he said. "It breeds survivors."
Most of the northerners worshipped the old gods. They did not bow easily, nor did they place much stock in crowns or courtly graces. Their weapons were simpler than those forged in the south, their fortifications older and less refined. Yet their courage was unyielding, and in war, courage was worth more than gold.
The Winter Wolves had already proven as much. In battle after battle, they had carved their name into the annals of the war with blood and steel.
Behind the platform, the ground trembled.
A vast shadow shifted, scales scraping stone. The black dragon crouched nearby, its wings partially unfurled like great curtains of night. Its eyes burned with a dull, predatory hunger, and heat bled from its body into the cold air. Smoke curled from its nostrils with every slow breath.
The beast's presence was overwhelming. Dragonfire slept within its belly, a promise of annihilation barely restrained. Even the hardened northerners avoided its gaze, some murmuring prayers beneath their breath.
As the dragon stirred, its power seemed to swell. It prowled in a slow circle near the platform, talons biting into frozen earth. When it loosed a roar, the sound rolled across the field like thunder, and men stiffened despite themselves.
Dragonfear washed over the host like a black tide.
Aegon did not flinch.
"The song of ice and fire still plays," he said calmly.
He turned to Cregan then, meeting the Stark's gray eyes without hesitation.
"I will need your strength to cleanse King's Landing," Aegon said. "The wolves of the North will not be returning home when the fighting is done. I intend to make full use of them."
For a long moment, Cregan said nothing. He studied Aegon's face, then glanced toward the dragon, its massive head lowering as if to listen.
At last, Cregan inclined his head once.
"Gladly," he said. His voice was firm, iron-hard. "I will honor our pact. King's Landing is a nest of vipers. Someone must be willing to deal with them."
He paused, his jaw tightening slightly.
"I am content to be that villain."
Then his gaze shifted, not to Aegon alone, but beyond him. To Princess Rhaena, standing close, her silver-gold hair stirred by the wind. Cregan's eyes lingered there for a heartbeat longer than courtesy demanded.
"But, Prince Aegon," he said slowly, "there was once a betrothal. One I agreed upon with Prince Jacaerys."
The name settled heavily between them.
"Now that Prince Jacaerys has fallen," Cregan continued, "that promise no longer binds us."
This had always been the heart of the Pact of Ice and Fire. Not merely oaths of war, but marriage. A joining of blood. Cregan's heir, Rickon Stark, had been promised to a Targaryen princess.
With Jacaerys dead, the pact had unraveled.
Yet as Cregan looked upon Aegon and Rhaena together, ambition stirred despite his discipline. They were young, strong, unbroken. The last dragonriders left in the world, bound not only by blood but by flame.
A child born of such a union would not be ordinary. The honor of such a match would echo through generations.
To wed a Targaryen princess was a glory few houses could refuse. Their tempers were as fierce as their dragons, it was said, but their beauty was legendary. More than that, the blood of the dragon carried power beyond crowns.
Only the greatest houses had ever been joined to it. The Velaryons and the Arryns.
Aegon's own grandmother had been a Targaryen princess wed into House Arryn, and from that union Queen Aemma Arryn had been born. The precedent was plain enough. What Cregan Stark sought was no trifling honor, but for the North, it would be a reward of immense weight.
Aegon folded his hands before him, choosing his words with care.
"I would see the spirit of the betrothal preserved," he said, his voice measured, "but we must be honest with one another. Princess Rhaena and I are still young. Rickon Stark is eight years my junior. By the time my children are born, when I am sixteen or seventeen, and even if the child is a daughter, there are too many uncertainties between us."
He allowed himself a brief pause.
"There are… risks that cannot be ignored."
It was a slight exaggeration. He knew it. Boys younger than he, had fathered children, even within his own family. His brother Viserys had done so at thirteen. Age gaps, too, were nothing rare. Corlys Velaryon had been far older than Princess Rhaenys, and even King Viserys's queen had been seven years his senior.
Yet caution carried weight in matters of marriage.
Rhaena stepped forward then, her hands folded neatly at her waist. She inclined her head to Cregan, her expression composed but sincere.
"Yes, my lord," she said softly. "If we reckon the years carefully, the age between the children could indeed prove… difficult."
Cregan's jaw tightened. He said nothing at once, his gaze shifting briefly toward the dark bulk of the dragon before returning to Aegon. He could not refute them. Time was an enemy as merciless as winter, and waiting invited misfortune.
"But not every road is closed," Aegon continued. His posture remained relaxed, though his eyes were intent. "I would have Rickon come to King's Landing at seven or eight years of age, to serve as my cupbearer. Should he win the affection of a princess, or another lady of suitable birth, I will see personally that such a match is secured."
The shape of the pact shifted then, quietly but decisively. A marriage promise became royal favor.
Aegon understood its value well. He himself had once stood at the queen's side, pouring wine and listening as the realm revealed itself in whispers and glances. What he offered now, he meant to give in full.
As for the fabled wedding of ice and fire, that would be left to fate. Such unions could not be commanded without cost.
What Aegon feared most was a broken promise. A failed betrothal soured loyalty faster than open betrayal. History was crowded with kings undone by marriages promised and denied.
At length, Cregan nodded.
"Then I thank you on Rickon's behalf, Prince Aegon," he said. "He is a true Stark. You will find him stubborn, loyal, and difficult to sway."
Aegon inclined his head in return.
The proposal was sound. The Iron Throne would gain the North's loyalty, and the North would see its heir raised at court. Children would find their own paths in time. Cregan himself was a widower now. His son's marriage was not wholly his to command, and to serve as a royal cupbearer was honor enough. Princess or no, a highborn match in King's Landing would still be a triumph.
Thus the Pact of Ice and Fire endured, though its heart had been reshaped.
When the lighter matters were concluded, the talk turned, as it always did, to war.
"How fares the North?" Aegon asked.
Cregan's expression hardened. "Poorly. This winter is long. North of the Neck, the snows lie deep, and the winds do not cease. The host I brought south is made of the landless and the childless, the old, the unwed, second sons. Those with families remain behind. Grain must be left for them."
It was an army marching toward death, seeking to give that death meaning.
"They will not return," Cregan went on. "And I will require silver. Grain and seed must be bought. If King's Landing cannot provide it, I may be forced to borrow from the Iron Bank."
His mouth twisted slightly.
"A hero may be slain by a single coin."
"Our victory will bring recompense," Aegon said evenly. "Three-quarters of the realm's hoarded gold lies elsewhere. With House Hightower. With House Lannister. With the Iron Bank itself. As the defeated, they will pay reparations."
"And if they do not?" Cregan asked.
Aegon's eyes were cool. "Did the Winter Wolves march south for nothing? Is this not why you came?"
Cregan gave a short nod. "Well spoken. Evil must be torn out by the root. And now we have a dragon. That makes this war unlike any other."
Rhaena felt a chill pass through her. The two men spoke with a grim certainty, as if the blood yet to be spilled were already counted. She wished to speak, to temper their resolve, but this was a contest of power and necessity. She remained silent.
"It may not be as brutal as you fear," Aegon said. "If one or two houses are destroyed, the rest may kneel."
It was the darkest hope he carried, and one that depended on how the realm would respond once word of the kingsroad spread.
"Authority is forged in iron and blood," Cregan replied quietly. "Even the Conciliator understood when mercy must wait. Fail to strike now, and it will only grow harder once the lords regain their strength."
He knew this truth well. Without iron and blood, he would never have reclaimed the North.
"Then we will see what awaits us in King's Landing," Aegon said. "We will act as the hour demands."
They had reached their understanding.
"One thing favors you," Cregan added. "You did not go to King's Landing yourself. If Aegon the Elder dies, his blood will not stain your hands."
"The crime of kinslaying," Aegon said quietly. He had weighed it long enough.
"It is a sin hated by gods old and new," Cregan said. "Men remember such things longer than victories."
"I have many ways to kill my uncle," Aegon admitted, his voice low, "and his children as well... But I will not."
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