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Chapter Text

Visenya

The sea clawed at Dragonstone’s black walls, each wave a snarl that rose and fell with the wind. Salt hung in the air, sharp and cold, mingling with the scent of smoke from the braziers. Within the war room, shadows danced across carved stone dragons and high iron sconces, their teeth bared in frozen roars. It felt fitting.

Visenya watched her brother standing over the painted table, fingers tracing the hills of Westeros like a man seeking to master the shape of the world itself. Firelight caught in his hair, turning silver to blood. Even now, she could see the hunger in his eyes — that relentless need to bind the land beneath his will.

Rhaenys hovered at his side, barefoot as always, her steps silent on the cold stone. She was the soft one, the dreamer who chased sun and cloud, but even she had fire at her heart. And then there was Orys — broad-shouldered, grinning, with that easy swagger that came from knowing his sword could answer any slight.

Daemon Velaryon stood by the window, his sea cloak billowing like a ship’s sail, while Corlys Velaryon bent over scrolls and lists, quill in hand, eyes calculating supply lines with the precision of a man who’d learned to master the sea’s moods.

Visenya took it all in, arms crossed, the cold steel of her vambrace biting into her skin. These were the people who would shape the fate of Westeros. And she would make sure it was shaped in fire.

Aegon spoke first, his voice low but carrying. “We have answers from the South,” he said, lifting a scroll sealed with golden wax. “Lannister refuses. The Gardeners stand with them.”

Visenya’s mouth curved, cold and sharp. “They think their castles will shield them from dragons.” She leaned forward, fingers tapping the edge of the table. “Stone burns. Let them learn that lesson.”

Orys chuckled. “And Hoare?”

Aegon’s gaze flicked to the black riverlands on the map. “He sits in his fortress of black stone and iron, thinking it will keep him safe. But we’ll strike there first—at the Blackwater Rush. Close enough for our ships to run supplies. Close enough to remind them all who rules the skies.”

Visenya’s mind turned over the plan like a dagger in her hand. “We’ll need allies in the Riverlands,” she said. “Hoare’s hold is brittle. Lords Blackwood and Bracken both resent him. And Tully—he’ll bend if we break Hoare.”

Rhaenys smiled faintly. “Edmyn Tully’s banners might fly for us before the moon turns. The rest will follow or die.”

Orys cracked his knuckles. “Let me have Argilac. The Storm King’s old and proud, but bones are bones. I’ll cut his down to size.” He grinned, easy and fearless. “And you’ll have your kingdom, brother.”

Visenya watched him—her half-brother, her companion in a hundred sparring yards—and felt a pang of something like fondness. He was too brash sometimes, too quick to laugh. But he was loyal, and he would fight until he bled out on the sand if Aegon asked him.

Aegon turned to her, his eyes dark and unwavering. “Visenya,” he said, “you’ll ride with me to Harrenhal. We’ll demand his submission. If he kneels, the riverlands will fall without bloodshed. If not—” He left the rest unsaid, but she felt the fire in his words.

Visenya lifted her chin. “He’ll kneel. Or I’ll make a pyre of his fortress.” Her mind’s eye saw Harrenhal’s black towers wreathed in flame. A beautiful sight.

Aegon’s hand rested on the table, fingers splayed like a conqueror’s claim. “Once the rivers are ours, we regroup near the Blackwater. If we show strength early—if we make them see dragons in the sky—they might bend without a fight.”

Rhaenys tilted her head, her silver hair loose as moonlight. “They’re proud, these kings,” she said softly. “Proud men need to see a sword at their throat before they yield.”

Visenya’s eyes narrowed. “And if they won’t kneel, we’ll give them fire instead of choice.”

Aegon’s gaze met hers, steady as steel. “If they see what we bring, they might see reason.” But there was doubt there, in the line of his jaw. She saw it. He wanted their fealty without the slaughter. Aegon always wanted both: power and peace. But Westeros was not made for soft conquests.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “And the North? Any word?”

Visenya’s lips tightened. “Nothing,” she said flatly. “No raven. No threat. Nothing but silence.”

Aegon frowned. Rhaenys, curious as always, leaned forward. “Nothing at all?”

Daemon Velaryon crossed his arms. “The North is vast. Roads are bad. Perhaps their ravens were lost.”

Visenya shook her head. “No. The North may be cold, but it’s not deaf. Either they’re too afraid to answer or too proud to lower themselves to us.”

Rhaenys’ voice was softer, tinged with a strange admiration. “They’ve no maesters, but their ravens reach White Harbor just fine. They trade with the South and with us when it suits them. No, they chose silence. That’s its own answer.”

Aegon’s brow furrowed, his hand tracing the white expanse above the Neck on the map. “They unified the North,” he said. “I’ll unify Westeros.”

Rhaenys’ smile was wistful, like a memory of old songs. “They say House Stark has ruled the North since before the Andals set foot on Westeros. The last war there ended two thousand years ago, and the land’s been at peace ever since.” She shook her head, eyes bright. “No other kingdom can say the same.”

Visenya’s teeth set in a hard line. “Peace makes men soft.” She thought of the stories: old gods and weirwoods, green men and direwolves. She’d seen what happened when men grew too comfortable. They forgot how to fear.

Aegon straightened, his gaze on the map sharp as a drawn blade. “Then let’s show them.” His voice was iron. “One king. One realm.”

Visenya’s blood sang. She leaned forward, her voice low and sure. “They’ll bend the knee. Or they’ll burn. And I’ll be there to watch either way.”

The wind rattled the glass in its iron frame. Outside, the sea roared like a beast. Inside, the fire burned bright.

The flames in the braziers snapped and hissed, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits on the painted table. Visenya lingered by its edge, her fingers drumming against the old wood, as the others began to drift away—Orys with a swagger in his step, Daemon and Corlys murmuring of ships and supply lines.

The war room had emptied, leaving only embers smoldering in the braziers. The sea beyond the high windows rolled in ceaseless darkness, its voice a low, patient growl. Visenya watched the shadows dance on the painted table as if they were armies on the march. She had always preferred this time — when the world slept, and her thoughts sharpened like a sword in the forge.

Aegon had taken a seat on a stone bench, his hands folded, gaze unfixed as if seeing a kingdom not yet won. Rhaenys leaned against the window’s arch, moonlight in her hair, her feet bare as always — soft where Visenya was steel.

They were the blood of the dragon, all of them. And yet sometimes Visenya felt she alone remembered what that meant.

Aegon broke the silence, his voice low but certain. “Sharra Arryn fortifies every pass. She thinks her Eyrie is beyond reach.”

Visenya’s lips curved, cold and amused. “Let her hide in her sky-palace,” she said. “No castle flies, and no mountain stops a dragon’s wing.” She could almost see it — the Eyrie’s white towers burning like a candle in the night. The thought pleased her.

Rhaenys shook her head gently. “She’s a mother,” she said, her voice soft as a lullaby. “She fears for her son. Perhaps she can be reasoned with.”

Visenya snorted. “Reason? With proud queens and trembling sons? She’ll bend when she sees the fire on the wind — not before.”

Aegon’s gaze flicked between them. “She will bend,” he agreed, though there was a weight in his tone. He wanted a realm united, not just conquered. Visenya respected that — even as she knew it was sometimes a fool’s wish.

“And Dorne,” Aegon said, shifting his hand on the bench. “They send no sword, no ship. Only a letter — from the Princess herself. She proposes an alliance.”

Visenya’s laugh was a short, sharp sound. “Dorne’s sands breed scorpions, not soldiers. Let them hide in their deserts and send their honeyed words. An alliance with the likes of them?” She shook her head. “A viper is a viper, no matter how sweet the tongue.”

She remembered the old stories — of Nymeria’s flight, of her ships burning on the beaches, of the Dornish queens who ruled with poison and pride. “When the time comes,” she said coldly, “we’ll burn them too.”

Rhaenys sighed, her dark eyes distant. “They’re proud, yes — but they remember old wars. Perhaps they’ve learned caution. An alliance could save us blood, if only we’d listen.”

Visenya’s mouth twisted. “Proud or not, they are no threat now. Let them play at courtly games while we build our kingdom.” She folded her arms across her chest, feeling the cold steel of her vambrace bite into her skin — a welcome reminder of strength. “And if they come with scorpions hidden in the honey, we’ll crush them all the same.”

Then silence fell again, like the hush before a storm. Aegon’s eyes turned northward, to the white wolf that sprawled across the map.

“And the North,” he said. “No raven. No threat. Nothing.” His voice carried a note of something Visenya could not name — not fear, but… intrigue.

Visenya’s jaw clenched. “Their silence is more insulting than any threat,” she spat. “They sit behind their cold walls and pretend they are above us. I’d rather face a thousand swords than that kind of arrogance.”

Rhaenys’s brow furrowed. “It’s troubling,” she murmured, though there was admiration in her tone, too. “No other kingdom holds so still. It makes me wonder what waits in that snow.”

Visenya looked at her sister then, noting the softness in her voice. Rhaenys was always drawn to mystery, to tales of old songs and gentle rains. Visenya preferred the edge of a blade — it cut through lies and left only truth.

Aegon’s voice was thoughtful. “It is a strange land,” he said. “I’ve heard tales — old magic, shadowed woods, giants and direwolves, the Children of the Forest. But during my years in Essos, I met traders who had been there — merchants from the Free Cities, even nobles who claimed to have seen White Harbor and White Hearth. None of them spoke of giants or gods. Only of a land rich in timber, fur and mines, with good roads and open hearts.”

Visenya frowned. “Merchants see coin, not truth,” she said. “Let them buy their silks and sell their stories. The North will kneel like the rest.”

Rhaenys lifted her head, a curious light in her eyes. “White Hearth is the fourth largest city in Westeros, the maesters say — and the only one not built on a coast. That alone makes it interesting. They trade with the Free Cities — and if the rumors are true, even with Yi Ti and Asshai. Valyria traded with them too, long ago. The Maelarys, the Zorythar — all lost to the Doom. But Father spoke of them.” Her voice was wistful, like a song half-remembered. “A land of old ties.”

Visenya’s fingers drummed on her vambrace, the rhythm of iron. “It matters not,” she said coldly. “No kingdom is beyond our reach.”

Aegon’s gaze was steady, but shadowed by thought. “No,” he agreed at last. “They will bend. Or they will burn.”

Visenya felt a spark of pride at his words. He would be king — and she would see his will made iron. Let the North hide behind its silence and old magics. When the dragons came, even the oldest stones would crack.

Outside the war room, the sea sang its endless song — a promise of conquest, or perhaps a warning.

But Visenya only smiled, a thin blade of iron. Let the world tremble. Let the proud kings kneel.

Fire had come to Westeros.

And she was its heart.

Chapter Text

Grovemaster Theon

Theon rode out from the Grove at first light, the pale dawn painting the sky in slow strokes of rose and grey. The air was cold and clean, sharpened by the scent of pine and distant snow. He followed the winding track that led from the Grove’s gates down through the mountain passes toward White Hearth, the Heart of the North.

The Grove had stood there for nearly three thousand years—born of necessity, in defiance of the maesters’ chains and the Seven’s influence that had crept north with the Andals. When the old kings of the North saw their learning bent to foreign gods, they turned to the Singers and their own ancient ways. Together, they had founded the Grove: a place of quiet strength, where knowledge could grow untainted and the old songs might still be heard.

In the Grove, the Singers taught healing and husbandry, mining and forging, the tending of crops and the reading of skies. But more than that, they taught the deeper magics: the songs that bent the wind, the arts of speaking to ravens without chains, and the ways of seeing that the maesters dared not name. They taught history too, not in ink and iron links, but in stories carried in roots and water and blood.

Theon had grown beneath those trees, his great great grandmother a Singer’s daughter, his father a stonemason’s son who had earned his place with quiet strength. He had studied the old ways, the songs that called the storms, the histories carved in weirwood. When his time came, he had been chosen as Grovemaster—sworn to serve the North as its wisdom-keeper and healer, its record-keeper and voice of the Grove. Where the south had their maesters, bound in chains of knowledge, the North had him: a servant of the old ways, unbound and unbroken.

He carried no chain of forged links, but wore instead a collar of oak carved into interlocking leaves, each one painted the deep red of weirwood, a reminder that his duty was to the land and the people, not to any citadel or crown beyond the Neck.

As he descended into the lowlands, the mountains behind him softened to rolling hills and misted valleys. The journey took a day by horse, and as he rode he thought of the dream that had come to the High Greenseer two nights past—fire in the roots, wings in the snow, a crown of smoke.

And a shadow in the south, growing ever closer.

He reached White Hearth by dusk, the air filled with the smell of woodsmoke and pine, carried on the wind like an old song. The city stirred around him, vast and alive, its streets curving with quiet rhythm, timbered houses with sharp roofs and warm windows glowing against the chill. Smoke curled from a hundred chimneys, and the sounds of life rose in open courtyards and bustling alleys — hammer on iron, children shouting in play, a woman laughing as she spilled flour down her apron.

He passed a baker’s stall where honeycakes steamed golden on wooden trays, and a boy with mismatched boots sold carved wooden direwolves, each one polished smooth with love and time. A one-eyed dog dozed beside a leatherworker’s door. A young couple whispered on a balcony, fingers tangled. Every face Theon saw — whether old and wrinkled, or smeared with soot and youth — bore some mark of peace.

There were no walls within White Hearth. No dividing lines of noble and common, no gated compounds to mark a lord’s quarter. That was the Stark way. Open, yet watched. Simple, yet strong.

He turned onto the Street of Gods and slowed as he neared the city weirwood.

It stood in the old square, tall and pale, roots gnarled into the stone like white fingers sinking deep into time. Its red leaves whispered without wind. A half-circle of townsfolk knelt in quiet prayer, brows pressed to the cold ground. No priests. No sermons. Only silence.

Theon lowered his head.

On the thickest branch, nestled in its curve like a child in a cradle, a Singer slept. Her skin was bark-brown and soft-mossed, and she breathed with a faint hum, like leaves in spring. Another dozed nearby, legs dangling, eyes closed in quiet dreaming.

They usually stayed below, deep in the living roots where the world whispered slow truths — but the day was kind, and even the timeless sometimes sought sunlight.

Theon felt a gentle ache in his chest as he looked up at them.

The Second Pact had been sworn beneath the heart tree of Winterfell, nearly five thousand years past during the Andal conquest. A king of the Starks, called by the Singers the Elder Wolf, had cut his palm before the weirwood and bled into its roots, swearing that no blade would ever again be raised against them within his realm. In return, they would share their truths, their visions, and their protection — should the day come when darkness rose again.

The pact had held.

And because of it, so had the North.

Theon turned away and continued down the Street of Gods, into the foreign quarter. The air thickened here with spice and oil, strange incense curling from Essosi shrines, the perfume of jasmine and ginger. A tall man in saffron robes offered candied lotus petals from a golden bowl. A Sothoryi woman displayed snakes dyed in hues Theon had no names for. A priest of R’hllor sang in a tongue that smoldered.

White Hearth was old — but not closed. It opened its gates to all, so long as they came in peace.

Only a few guards patrolled today, clad in simple dark leather, marked by the gray direwolf of House Stark. Theon noted their ease, the relaxed way they walked the streets. He had seen many cities where soldiers strutted like lords and glared like wolves. Here, the wolves walked quiet, because there was little to fear.

Theon passed three more streets, narrow veins that bled into the city’s center, until he stood at the foot of the eastern gate of Winterfell.

And there it was.

The castle.

He had seen it a hundred times, and still, his breath caught.

Winterfell rose not like a monument but like a mountain — layered and rooted, grown from the earth. Its towers were thick, its walls sloped and smooth from countless seasons of wind and frost. Steam rose from hidden springs beneath its foundations, wreathing the stone in mist. The hot pools still smoked, as they had since the Dawn Age.

The gates stood open.

Two guards flanked the arch, spears in hand. One stepped forward as Theon approached.

“Petitioner?” the man asked, eyeing his staff, his green-dyed robes, the collar at his throat shaped with weirwood leafs.

Theon straightened. “I come from the Grove. I bear a message for His Grace from the High Greenseer.”

The guard’s eyes widened slightly. He stepped back without another word, knocked twice against the ironwood with the butt of his spear.

The gates creaked.

“This way, Grovemaster,” said the other guard, and Theon followed him beneath the great stone archway.

As he passed into the shadow of Winterfell, he thought again of the dream that had come to the High Greenseer two nights past — fire in the roots, wings in the snow, a crown of smoke.

And a shadow in the south, growing ever closer.

The path through Winterfell’s inner ward was warm with life.

Theon walked between the stone and steam of the ancient castle, flanked by two guards in the grey and white of House Stark. Their steps echoed off damp flagstones, past wide courtyards where blacksmiths hammered, servants bustled, and children darted like foxes between archways, shrieking with laughter.

A pair of boys fled a red-faced baker, lemon cakes clutched in sticky hands. The scent of citrus and sugar followed in their wake, mingling with forge-smoke and iron and the scent of pine carried down from the ramparts.

Theon smiled.

This, he thought, must be protected. Not just the stone or the throne — but this: the rhythm of peace. The laughter of children. The quiet confidence of a people who know their place in the turning of the world.

But then the High Greenseer’s words returned, dark as the roots of the world.

"Fire will come. And wings. Towers will burn, and songs will turn to screams."

The smile faded from Theon’s lips.

He remembered what the Grove’s records said of the Doom — how fire swallowed stone, how the sky itself had cracked. How the High Greenseer of that age had seen it before it came, woken weeping beneath the Wintertree.

And how Rickard Stark, the 20th of his name, had sent ravens south, warning Valyrian envoys and traders. Warnings lost to pride, buried under gold and dragonbone. Deaf ears, all of them.

And yet, even here — even here in the quiet North — the Singers had felt it. The weirwoods had gone silent for days. The birds had hidden. The roots had shivered.

He thought then of the survivors — the dragons and the dragonlords who came west across the sea, taking refuge on the island the First Men called Firestone, and the Valyrians named Dragonstone.

They had been watched, always. The Grove had sent ravens and eyes in trees, birds in the wind, roots to listen. But now…

Now they would need to watch more closely.

The great doors of the throne room stood before him now, tall slabs of carved oak banded in iron.

One of the guards stepped forward, rapped the hilt of his spear twice.

The gates groaned open.

Theon stepped inside.

The hall was broad, the ceiling vaulted high with dark timber, smoke curling upward toward the beams. Smallfolk stood in quiet rows, some with hats held to chests, others with baskets of grain or meat — waiting for judgement or audience. Lords and ladies lined the flanks, dressed in wool and furs, the subtle silver and grey of Northern houses. A hush fell at his arrival.

The heart of the room was the dais, and beside it stood two figures.

The first was tall and lean, clad in grey leather and white fur. Brandon Snow, brother to the king, sword on his hip — but not just any sword.

Theon’s eyes were drawn to the hilt, carved of polished weirwood, white as bone, veined with faint red.

The blade itself had been forged with singer’s fire, an old rite preserved only in Grove records and heart-tree whispers. A weapon of oath, not war — forged the year of the Second Pact.

Theon bowed his head slightly in respect.

And then he saw her.

At first glance she looked like a very old woman, cloaked in green and brown, hair like bark, eyes the color of rain on moss. But her stillness was not human stillness.

Branch, they called her. One of the Singers who had lived in Winterfell’s godswood since its founding — since the time of Brandon the Builder, if the tales were true.

She stood in silence beside the dais, still as stone, her head tilted slightly, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

And behind them both, the Winter throne.

It was carved of weirwood, smooth and gleaming white, etched with ancient runes — not Andal, not Valyrian, but the old tongue of the First Men.

Theon knew the markings well. His fingers itched to trace them, but he only looked.

Wolf. Winter. Ward. Oath. King.

And seated upon it was the King of Winter.

Torrhen Stark, crowned in bronze and steel, the circlet forged in the shape of entwined direwolves, worn without ornament. His cloak was fur, clasped with a simple brooch of black iron. His hands rested on the arms of the throne — one gloved, one bare.

The king’s eyes met Theon’s, pale grey and unreadable.

Theon stepped forward. He bowed, deep and formal.

And as he rose, he thought, The world is about to change.

The throne room was still, all eyes fixed on him.

Theon stepped forward, robe brushing the smooth stone floor, the weight of the message heavier than the staff in his hand.

“I come bearing words from the High Greenseer,” he said, voice steady but quiet.

The air shifted. King Torrhen leaned forward, his brow furrowed. Brandon Snow’s hand brushed the hilt of his weirwood-hilted sword, not in threat, but reflex. The murmur of gathered lords and smallfolk dulled to an uneasy hush.

Only Branch remained still, her bark-brown face unreadable, eyes closed as if she listened not to Theon, but to something deeper — older — within the wood and stone.

Torrhen’s voice broke the quiet. “This is about the South.”

Not a question. A truth.

Theon bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace. There is unrest. And urgency.”

He raised his eyes to the throne.

“These are the words of the High Greenseer,” he said. “Fire and steel. Winged beasts that eat the sky. Towers burning. Bones turned to ash. The songs of men swallowed by flame.”

A gasp rippled through the room, muffled quickly to silence. Theon's voice remained solemn.

“The council must be summoned. At once.”

Torrhen did not answer. He turned instead to Branch, who had still not moved.

She opened her eyes — green and deep as summer leaves. And she nodded, once.

Torrhen sat back slowly, exhaling through his nose. His voice, when it came, was quiet but resolute.

“We have been watching as well,” he said. “For months now, the birds are restless. The trees whisper of strange winds. Even the direwolves pace the hills.”

He looked to Brandon. “We received a raven. Not a message from one king to another. A declaration. This ‘Aegon’ calls himself King of All Westeros.”

Gasps and mutters rose, lords and merchants alike whispering behind gloved hands. Theon heard the words pass from mouth to mouth — King of All Westeros? — and watched tension rise like fog in the room.

Then Branch began to speak, and all sound died.

Her voice was thin as wind through pine needles, yet it filled the space.

“They gather,” she said. “The ones from the sea, on black islands. The ones in the peaks, wrapped in sky. The ones who chase storms, the ones who wear gold and rock, the ones who eat green, the ones who dance with sand.”

She looked not at the king, but at the flames in the braziers, her voice low and distant.

“The world turns. A fire rises. And the ones in the snow must not sleep.”

Silence held.

Then Brandon Snow stepped forward, chin lifted high. “Let them come,” he said. “Let their beasts fly north. I’ll cut off their heads and mount them in the Neck.”

Some in the hall nodded. Others looked uneasy. Branch only turned her gaze to him and blinked slowly.

“You are brave,” she said. “And foolish.”

Brandon’s mouth twitched — a retort forming — but Torrhen raised a hand.

“Enough,” the king said. “The Council will be summoned.”

He looked to Theon.

“Inform your Grove. Send word to the hill keeps, the coast holds, the mountain watch and the deepwood clans. Every lord of the North must be called. If this fire is coming, we must meet it together.”

Theon bowed again. “It will be done, Your Grace.”

Torrhen rose from the throne, the bronze-and-steel crown heavy in the firelight.

“This court is adjourned,” he said.

The crowd bowed, then dispersed in murmurs and creaking footsteps. Brandon followed the king out with long strides. Branch moved slow, as if she walked not across stone, but through time itself.

Theon remained a moment longer.

He looked again at the throne — carved in weirwood, runes glowing softly in the brazier light.

Wolf. Winter. Ward. Oath. King.

He thought of the children laughing in the streets.

Of dragons above burning towers.

Of songs swallowed by fire.

And as he turned to go, he wondered, with a quiet ache in his chest, how many days were left before peace became memory.

Chapter Text

Aegon

The wind off the Narrow Sea was sharp, but it carried the scent of war — salt, steel, sweat, and smoke.

Aegon stood atop the highest bastion of Dragonstone, his black cloak rippling behind him. Below, the courtyard teemed with men: a thousand strong. Not enough to conquer a continent — not by the old ways. But this would not be done by old ways.

He looked skyward.

And then he heard it — the roar.

Balerion. Vhagar. Meraxes.

Three shadows passed overhead, casting the yard below into a brief dusk. The dragons wheeled above the towers, massive and terrible, their wings thunder on the wind.

The men cheered.

Aegon did not smile. He only watched.

Steel was being loaded. Horses stamped and snorted. Ships in the bay were strung with banners. Commands rang from lips as armor clanked, black and gold, red and silver, all the proud heraldry of Valyrian blood made Westerosi steel.

Orys approached, sword at his hip, eyes already thinking three steps ahead.

“The men are ready,” he said. “As ready as they’ll ever be.”

Aegon gave a curt nod. “Then we move with the tide.”

Rhaenys and Visenya joined them soon after. The sisters were opposites — Rhaenys with the wind in her hair, eyes alive with firelight; Visenya armored already, her expression hard as a drawn blade.

“We strike first at Harren,” Aegon said. “He built a fortress of stone and dares to think it will save him.”

“He won’t kneel,” said Visenya. “None of them will. Not until they feel dragonfire.”

“Orys,” Aegon continued, “you’ll march south. Argilac calls himself the Storm King still — let’s see if he can weather you.”

“I’ll bring you his crown,” said Orys with a grin. “And maybe his sword.”

“Once Harren is ash,” Aegon continued, “we regroup and await the response from Loren Lannister and Mern Gardener. If they will not bend… they will break.”

“And I’ll fly to the Eyrie,” Visenya said. “Sharra Arryn sits high in her mountain thinking she’s safe. She won’t see Vhagar coming.”

Rhaenys said nothing. She was gazing at the sky again, as if searching for omens.

Then the croaking began.

It came from above — harsh, dry, not the coo of a raven from the rookery, but something wilder. A shadow circled them, just one bird. It spiraled lower, not black, but grey as mist, its wings broader than any city-bred raven. Its eyes gleamed like garnet.

The men stopped what they were doing. Even Orys narrowed his eyes.

“That’s not one of ours,” he said.

The raven landed before Aegon, claws clicking on stone. It gave another rattle of sound — more speech than call.

Tied to its leg was a thin strip of bark-parchment, bound with thread the color of moss.

Aegon knelt, careful, and removed the message.

The ink was brown, not black. The script twisted in runes he recognized from his studies — Old Tongue, inscribed in fluid hand. But below it, translated in Common, were simple words.

“I am Torrhen Stark, King in the North. If you seek the crown of Westeros, come speak with the one who has worn it longer than any. We offer talk, before fire. Come alone. You have my word — no blade shall rise while words are spoken.”

Silence followed as he read it aloud.

Rhaenys was the first to speak. “The North. I thought they meant to ignore you entirely.”

“Perhaps they still do,” said Visenya. “This could be a trap.”

“They don’t use traps,” Rhaenys said. “Not the Starks. Not in their blood. If they offer talk, it’s because they mean it.”

Visenya frowned. “How do you know so much about the North ?”

“I read,” Rhaenys said simply. “Not all battles are won with swords.”

Aegon looked at the message again, then at the bird. It did not fly off. It only watched him.

The High Valyrian in him bristled. A king was calling for talk. Not surrender. Not fealty. But talk.

And yet…

“This is no maester’s raven,” he murmured.

“No,” said Rhaenys. “It came from the trees.”

Aegon turned toward the sky again. The dragons still circled, and below, his men waited. Ships were ready. Steel had been forged.

But the old magic of the continent had answered him. And that was a thing to be respected — or feared.

He raised his voice. “Ready Balerion,” he commanded. “I will answer the king in the snow.”

The wind was clean above the clouds.

Aegon rode Balerion through the open sky, black wings slicing through the cold blue like a god of ash and flame. The dragon's breath smoked beneath him, rising in hot gusts that trailed behind like storm clouds. The sun glinted off the ridges of his back — blacker than night, each scale sharp as a sword point.

Below them, the land passed in slow waves of green and gold. Hills and rivers, forests and fields. All of it small from up here. All of it soon to be his.

This was how kings were meant to see the world.

Aegon breathed deep.

He felt the wind on his skin, the pulse of his mount beneath him, the weight of his crown — not of gold, but of purpose. In the sky, he felt no doubt. No fear. Only certainty.

But then they passed the Neck, and the wind changed.

The air grew colder. Wilder.

Balerion snorted, great nostrils flaring, wings shifting against invisible currents. He rumbled — not afraid, but uneasy.

Aegon frowned, tightening his grip.

The land below was no longer soft or golden. It had turned dark and forested, wet and tangled, marked by strange groves and mist that clung like breath on steel. Trees stood closer together, thick as sentinels. Streams ran narrow and fast like fleeing prey.

The feeling in the air had changed. There was something... watching.

He did not understand it — and that troubled him.

Still, he pressed on.

By the time they reached White Hearth, the sky had dimmed. The air was crisp and sharp, the wind thick with snow not yet fallen. Balerion wheeled above the city, circling twice as instructed. Aegon looked down and saw a land unlike any he had known.

The city was no sprawl of chaos — it was a woven thing, a tapestry of stone and timber, its streets shaped like tree roots, built in harmony with the hills around it. Roofs steep and shingled, smoke curling gently from chimneys. Taverns glowed with warm light. Market stalls stood clean and orderly. The streets were dusted in frost — and yet the place felt... calm.

Whole.

And then, from the south, he saw riders approaching.

They came swiftly on dark-coated horses, armed but not threatening, cloaks of gray and green swirling behind them. They halted as Balerion descended in a slow spiral, landing outside the walls with a thud that sent a shudder through the ground.

One of the riders dismounted. His beard was thick, his armor etched with the direwolf. His words came in a deep accent, thick and unfamiliar.

“Are you Aegon Targaryen?” the man asked.

“I am,” Aegon replied.

The man nodded and offered him a hand. “We’ve a horse for you. The King awaits.”

Aegon inclined his head and descended from Balerion, leaving the dragon to crouch, smoking silently behind him. The black beast’s eyes never left the riders.

The Northerners led him through the gates.

As they passed into the city, Aegon took it all in.

The streets were clean — pine and oak in the air, and the faint scent of woodsmoke. People watched him from windows, doorways, behind carved shutters. No cheers. No fear. Just measured silence. Even the children said nothing.

He sat tall in the saddle, every inch a king.

Then he saw something that made him pause: a red-robed priest of R’hllor, standing at a street’s end, hands folded, eyes glowing in the firelight. He smiled at Aegon as he passed.

Aegon blinked. A Red Priest? In the North?

And then others — faces not Northern. A Braavosi merchant, by the look of her rings. A Summer Islander with skin like oiled teak, selling saffron and peppers from a silk-draped stall.

He had heard of the North’s trade with Essos, but not like this. Not a city so open. So rich with peace.

They passed a wide square, and from a distance he saw it — the weirwood of White Hearth. Its bark pale as milkglass, its leaves red as flame. The tree stood alone in a stone circle, haloed by snow and silence. No Children of the Forest sat within its branches, but something ancient clung to it, something that made Aegon’s spine shiver.

Beautiful.

They came at last to the southern gates of Winterfell. Larger than he expected. Made not of gleaming stone, but weathered strength. The guards spoke in a language he didn’t know — hard and thick with ancient sounds.

The Old Tongue. He knew it only by rhythm.

A second guard approached, younger, with clearer words.

“You are welcome, dragon-lord,” he said. “Bread and salt are offered — the protection of the house is yours.”

Aegon dismounted. The guard held out the bread and salt in carved wood, and Aegon took both solemnly.

The guard nodded. “Come. The King awaits you.”

And Aegon followed.

Through frost and stone. Through silence and watching eyes.

Into the oldest castle in Westeros.

The guard walked ahead, and Aegon followed, flanked by a hush of snow-brushed wind and the murmur of a living castle.

Winterfell breathed.

It was not like Dragonstone — brooding and dark with fire beneath. Nor like the palaces of Valyria, carved in impossible symmetry. This place was rough-hewn and sprawling, its courtyards wide and crooked, its walls softened by moss and time, yet it felt strong in ways Aegon couldn’t name.

As they passed through one stone archway after another, he smelled it — the scent of roasted apple and cinnamon, warm and inviting. He heard the sounds of smallfolk at work, the thud of split logs, laughter in the kitchens, a baker calling for more dough.

Children darted through a nearby corridor, giggling, clutching sweetbread. One boy with a mop of pale hair stopped and stared at him, wide-eyed. Aegon met his gaze and smiled gently.

The boy blinked, then grinned and vanished behind a column.

Even here, Aegon thought. They are not afraid.

He looked up at the great stone walls, tall and sloped, and noted something odd — there was no chill in the stone beneath his palm. It was warm. Comfortably so.

Aegon slowed. “Your walls are warm.”

The guard paused, glancing back. “Aye. They always are.”

Aegon narrowed his eyes. “How?”

The man scratched his beard. “They say the castle sits on a hot spot, deep beneath. Old fire trapped under earth. Brandon the Builder, with the Singers' help, used the old magics to draw it upward — made it run through the stone. The warmth keeps the frost from claiming her.”

Aegon blinked. “And this... is known?”

“To all who live here.” The guard’s tone was simple, proud. “Winterfell has stood for over eight thousand years. Older than any tower in Valyria. Older than dragons. The walls remember.”

Aegon said nothing. He was not often surprised — but this land kept surprising him.

They passed a great building now, wide and tall with heavy beams and high windows. Outside stood men and women cloaked in wolf-grey and deep green, their bearing noble, their gazes sharp. Aegon slowed again, eyeing the richly dressed gathering.

“The throne room?” he asked.

The guard nodded. “Aye. The Great Hall of Winter, where the lords gather, where the High Greenseer waits with them.”

Aegon took a step toward it. “Then we should go—”

“No,” the guard interrupted, his voice calm. “Not yet.”

Aegon turned back, brow raised.

“The King awaits you in the godswood,” the man said, gesturing toward a side path leading deeper into shadow. “He said the gods would listen. So that is where he will speak.”

Aegon frowned slightly. “Not before his court?”

“The court will see what needs seeing when the gods are done watching.”

Aegon looked toward the godswood, the trail flanked by carved stone and snow-covered roots. It was quieter there — stiller — and the air felt thicker, as if something unseen waited beneath the boughs.

Aegon touched the hilt of Blackfyre lightly, not in fear, but in instinct.

“This,” he murmured, “is going to be an interesting meeting.”

And he walked toward the trees.

The snow crunched beneath Aegon's boots as he stepped into the godswood.

The guard halted at the threshold, then gestured respectfully. “You may enter, Your Grace.”

Aegon turned to him. “And you?”

The man shook his head. “This is not a meeting for me to witness.”

Without another word, he turned and left.

Aegon frowned. It was strange — he was a king, and yet he walked alone, unguarded, into a northern grove watched by unseen eyes. But he stepped forward, each footfall slow and deliberate.

The trees closed around him — ancient, tall, their boughs heavy with snow. The wind stilled. The world quieted.

Then he saw it.

The weirwood.

It rose from the earth like a sentinel, gnarled and massive, red leaves whispering secrets into the windless air. Its carved face stared with bleeding eyes, mouth curved in silent judgment.

And before it stood a tall man, his back turned.

Beside him, crouched low, was a great grey wolf, broad as a horse, its fur thick as frost. It looked at Aegon with amber eyes, unmoving.

Aegon’s hand went to Blackfyre, fingers tightening on the hilt. His pulse quickened.

The man turned. “Do not be frightened,” he said, voice low and steady. “He is only curious.”

At the sound, the direwolf rose, padded past Aegon without sound or glance, and vanished into the trees like mist.

The man stepped forward. “I am Torrhen Stark, King of Winter.”

Aegon released Blackfyre and straightened. “I am Aegon Targaryen, King of Westeros.”

They studied one another for a long moment, no words exchanged, only weight. Snow fell gently between them.

Then Torrhen spoke. “Do you know why we meet here?”

Aegon glanced at the tree. “Because it is sacred?”

Torrhen shook his head. “Because the gods see through the eyes of the weirwoods. To speak lies beneath them is to invite judgment. And ruin.”

Aegon’s brow creased. “So we speak truth here.”

“Yes.”

There was silence, broken only by the whisper of red leaves.

“You have a beautiful city,” Aegon said at last. “White Hearth. And the castle... strange, and strong. I smelled apples roasting on the wind.”

Torrhen’s lips curled faintly. “The kitchens are proud of their cider bread.”

“I saw a priest in red in the city. It surprised me.” Aegon said.

Torrhen nodded. “They’re welcome,” he said, “so long as they don’t burn things. Their blood magic, however, is outlawed.”

Aegon blinked. “You speak of such things so plainly.”

“In the North, we have little taste for lies or veils. We’ve lived too long.”

The words settled like frost between them.

Aegon’s tone shifted. “Did you summon me to bend the knee?”

Torrhen raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you came?”

“I came,” Aegon said slowly, “because you were the only king in Westeros who answered without threats. That... intrigued me.”

Torrhen looked to the tree, then back. “Tell me, Aegon Targaryen. What does it mean — to be a king?”

The question struck deeper than Aegon expected. He hesitated.

“Power,” he began, “but not for its own sake. Responsibility. Duty. The good of the realm. Protection. Peace.”

Torrhen’s gaze sharpened. “And is it peace you bring?”

Aegon drew breath. “Yes. I saw seven kingdoms locked in endless war. I saw what could be — one realm, united, strong, under one rule.”

“Under one king,” Torrhen said. “You.”

Aegon held his chin high. “Who else?”

Torrhen’s laugh was not mocking — only dry. “The North has had peace for thousands of years. Our wars were with the Free Folk, and long ago, the Andals. But here? In this land? We have known quiet.”

“I would bring peace to them as well,” Aegon said.

“To the Free Folk?” Torrhen smirked. “Perhaps the Andals. But not them.”

Aegon frowned. “Why not?”

Torrhen’s expression darkened. “There are things in this world, dragonlord, that you will never comprehend. Not with fire. Not with crowns.”

Aegon didn’t respond. But something in the air shifted. In his bones, he felt it — a strange weight, as if the tree was listening, breathing.

Torrhen’s voice softened, but not weakly. “There are two paths before us. One of peace. One of war.”

He turned, walking a slow circle around the heart tree.

“Peace will cost me my crown. I will no longer be King in the North. But my people will live. Our gods will be protected. Our tongue, our ways, our land — preserved.”

He stopped and looked Aegon square in the eye.

“War preserves my crown. But costs my people. Fire will fall. Children will die. And dragons, too — not all of yours would live, Aegon. And when the ashes cool, there would be no peace. Not for generations. The North would burn — and burn back.”

Aegon felt the old pride rise in him, the urge to scoff — dragons could not be killed by trees or wolves — but the look in Torrhen’s eyes, and the silent presence of the weirwood, kept him still.

Torrhen’s voice was quiet, but it cut deeper than any sword. “If you stood where I stand, with all that you hold dear behind you—your people, your gods, your very way of life—would you kneel to a conqueror?”

Aegon’s breath caught. He felt the old pride rising in him like a flame—he was a dragon, the blood of Valyria, destined to unite this land. “I would,” he began, but the words tangled on his tongue.

He looked at the heart tree, its red eyes bleeding calmly, the carved mouth silent but knowing. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of pine and the hush of ancient things. He felt the gods’ gaze upon him, felt the weight of old things that he did not understand.

A lie would die here, he thought. The leaves would whisper it to the wind, and the wind would carry it to every root and branch in the North.

He met Torrhen’s eyes, pale and unyielding as stone.

“No,” Aegon said at last. The truth was bitter on his tongue. “I would fight.”

Torrhen’s lips curved, but it was not a smile—only a quiet resignation. “As would I,” he said.

Aegon looked at the carved face, the red eyes bleeding calmly. And then said, quietly, “Then what?”

Torrhen Stark, King of Winter, turned back to the tree. “Peace,” he said.

And the gods were silent.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

The wind curled through the towers of Dragonstone, sharp and restless, stirring the black banners that snapped like angry serpents above the ramparts. The sea below rolled in slow, thunderous waves—a dark and endless rhythm that matched the beat of her impatience. It had been two days since Aegon had flown north on Balerion’s black wings, and the sky itself felt heavy with the waiting.

Rhaenys stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed against the chill, her silver hair pulled loose by the wind. She hated this part: the waiting. The not knowing. She had always been a creature of motion—of laughter, of sun on her skin, of dragon’s wings beneath her. She was no good at stillness, no good at silence.

“He’s been gone too long,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the sky met the sea. Somewhere beyond that line was the North—a land of snow and silence, of ancient trees that whispered in tongues no maester had ever written. She wondered what he had found there, and why he had not returned.

Visenya sat on a stone bench nearby, sharpening her dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. The blade caught the dying light, each pass of the whetstone a quiet promise of blood. She did not look up.

“He went to parley with a king who hides behind trees,” Visenya said dryly. “They probably had to consult a hundred roots and whisper to moss before answering a question.”

Rhaenys smirked despite the worry that coiled in her chest. “Perhaps the wolf king demanded a duel. Axe to axe. No dragons allowed.”

Visenya finally raised her head, the edge of her mouth twisting in dark amusement. “Or perhaps he poisoned him with pine needles and brewed pinecone tea.”

Rhaenys laughed then—a quick, bright sound, though it felt brittle. “Or trapped him in snow and sang lullabies until he bent the knee.” She let the jest linger, but her smile faded. Her brother was strong—stronger than any man she had ever known—but she could not shake the feeling that the North was not like the other kingdoms. There was something old there, something that did not bend or burn easily.

Visenya gave a single sharp laugh, a sound like iron on stone. It was a laugh that could break a man’s heart if he heard it in the dark. She was all edges, that one—born for war, for conquest, for fire. Rhaenys loved her sister, but sometimes she wondered if Visenya had ever felt fear.

The two sisters fell quiet again, the air between them filled with the whistle of wind and the distant roar of the sea. The sky above had turned the color of old steel. Rhaenys turned, folding her hands behind her back. She felt the weight of the horizon pressing down.

“He would tell us what he found,” she said softly. “If it were war, he’d be back sooner.”

Visenya slid the dagger into its sheath with a clean, final motion. Her eyes were hard as the blade itself. “If it’s peace, he returns heavier.”

That silenced them both for a moment, the wind sighing between the stones like an old ghost.

And then—a shadow passed overhead.

Not a cloud.

A dragon.

The wind shifted, warmer now, and the courtyard walls trembled faintly as Balerion’s wings thundered the air. From the tower’s edge, a servant cried out: “He returns! The King is here!”

Rhaenys stepped forward, her breath catching in her throat. She watched the great black shape circle above the keep—no triumph in its descent, only purpose and thought. Aegon came alone, just as he had gone. But something in the slow, measured beat of his wings made her straighten. No victory song. No roar of conquest.

Just flame—and something she could not yet name.

She turned to Visenya.

“Well,” Rhaenys murmured, her voice a quiet challenge. “Let’s hear what the wolf said.”

Rhaenys’s heart quickened as Balerion’s shadow swept across the courtyard—a darkness that swallowed the stones and the men alike. The great black wings beat the air like thunder, sending dust and banners whipping in their wake. She had seen dragons land a hundred times, yet still her breath caught at the sight. Balerion’s descent was always terrible to witness—like night falling.

She watched as Aegon guided the beast down, his posture measured, his movements deliberate. No triumph gleamed in his eyes, no smile curved his lips. Only that cold, distant focus that had grown sharper with every mile he’d flown north. Aegon was a conqueror, born to forge kingdoms with fire—but in this moment, he looked older than his years, burdened by something she could not name.

He dismounted with the easy grace of a man at home in the saddle, his cloak of black and red trailing behind him like a shadow. The men in the yard, hardened soldiers all, fell silent as he passed. Even the noise of horses and steel seemed to hush.

Aegon paused, his gaze sweeping the assembly. “Ready the men,” he commanded, his voice low but iron-strong. “We leave at dawn.”

The words were simple enough, but Rhaenys heard the strain beneath them—the tightness that had not been there before he’d flown north. Something had changed him. She felt it in her bones, like a storm yet to break.

Orys Baratheon straightened from his place by the columns, his grin fading to a soldier’s mask. Lord Velaryon, arms folded in sea-green silk, exchanged a wary glance with Celtigar, whose crimson clasp trembled in his fingers. Even Visenya’s hard eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin, dangerous line.

Aegon moved past them all without another word, his cloak stirring like the tail of a hunting cat. Rhaenys felt Visenya’s gaze on her, sharp and questioning. She met it with a look of her own—calm, but laced with worry.

She followed, Visenya a step behind. They crossed the yard together, boots echoing on the cold stone, and climbed the winding stairs to the map room.

As they entered, the air felt heavy—thick with the scent of ash and old secrets. The carved table of Westeros lay before them, painted rivers and mountains stretched like offerings on a pagan altar. Aegon stood there, hands braced on the table’s edge, his head bowed as if in prayer.

Visenya stopped at his right, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Rhaenys moved to his left, her presence gentler but no less firm. She reached for him—not with words, but with the silent weight of family. She had always been the bridge between them: the fire’s warmth, not its fury.

She studied her brother’s face, saw the lines carved by wind and worry, the shadows beneath his eyes that no sleep could chase. She had seen him carry the weight of conquest, but this was different—he carried something else now. Something older. Something colder.

“Brother,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding. “What did the wolf say to you ?”

Aegon’s fingers traced the Neck on the painted table, slow and uncertain—a king’s hand made hesitant by something neither crown nor sword could master. His eyes were shadowed, the firelight catching lines that had not been there before.

“He will bend the knee,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “But only after the South is brought to heel. Only when the realm is one—no kingdoms left to rise against us.” He paused, the weight of the words pressing him down like old stone. “Until then, he keeps his crown. His people keep their ways. His gods… watch.”

Visenya’s snarl was quick and sharp. “They dare to set conditions on us? On you?” Her hand fell to the pommel of her sword, knuckles white. “Burn the snows, brother. Melt their woods and bury their gods. They’d kneel fast enough then.”

Aegon did not look at her. His eyes remained on the table, as if the painted mountains might shift and answer him. “You did not stand there, beneath the branches. You did not hear them.” His voice was distant, wrapped in something neither sister could touch.

Rhaenys stepped closer, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “The trees?” she asked, her voice a whisper. “The old gods?”

Aegon’s lips twitched—no smile, only a shadow of something he could not name. “They watched me, Rhaenys. The heart trees and the men who guard them. Eyes older than kings, older than dragons. And voices…” He shook his head. “I felt them. Like a dream half-remembered. Like a song I could not understand.”

Visenya scoffed. “You’ve grown soft, brother. Listening to trees and dreams while the world waits for your flame.” Her eyes were sharp enough to cut. “A king must conquer, not kneel to roots and ghosts.”

Aegon finally looked at her, and for a moment his eyes were as cold and black as the stone beneath them. “Would you have me burn what cannot be burned?” he asked, the question heavy with something she could not name.

Visenya’s mouth tightened, but she said nothing.

Rhaenys watched them both, feeling the wind from the Narrow Sea seeping through the stones. Aegon was changed; she felt it in the marrow of her bones. He was still her brother, still the dragon she loved—but there was a distance now, a shadow that had settled over him like falling snow.

“Did they frighten you?” she asked gently.

Aegon’s gaze turned inward. “No,” he said. “But they… reminded me. Power is not just fire and blood. There are older things. Deeper things.” He closed his eyes, and for a moment he looked more a man than a conqueror. “The North will kneel, in their time. And when they do, they will do so by their own choice, not at the tip of a sword.”

Visenya’s laugh was bitter. “You’d let them test us? A challenge, like some game of crows and bones? We are dragons, Aegon. Let them feel our fire.”

Aegon’s head bowed slightly, shadows carving lines beneath his eyes. His voice, when it came, was low and ragged. “You were not there,” he said, each word falling like a stone. “You did not stand beneath branches older than our line. You did not feel the cold of winter seep into your bones—cold that no dragon’s fire could chase. You did not hear voices speaking in a tongue older than Valyria, voices that whispered truths I cannot name. Dreams I cannot forget.”

His gaze rose then, meeting hers across the table—hard, but haunted. “Some fires,” he said, “burn in ways even we cannot tame. Some fires would consume everything we seek to rule.”

Visenya opened her mouth, but the words died on her lips. Even she could feel the weight in his tone—the shadows that clung to his skin.

Aegon’s eyes turned back to the map, the painted kingdoms lying quiet and waiting. “The South is ours to tame,” he said, voice taut with something deeper than weariness. “Let the North watch—for now.”

Silence settled, thick as the fog outside the castle walls.

Rhaenys felt the distance in him—a distance not even a dragon could fly. She reached for his hand, her own warm against his cold fingers. “We’ll follow you, brother,” she whispered. “Wherever the road takes us.”

Aegon’s hand tightened around hers, just for a moment. Then he released it, his gaze already turning to the painted table and the kingdoms yet unconquered.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow, the realm is waiting.”

Chapter Text

Aegon

The Iron Throne was colder than he had expected. Even with the fires roaring in the hall, the seat’s jagged blades pressed cold iron into his back—a hundred swords of dead kings and broken lords, all sharpened by Balerion’s flame, all melted into a single, jagged shape. Each blade whispered to him of rebellion and oaths, of the price paid in blood for the crown he now wore.

His conquest, he reminded himself. His legacy.

Yet as he sat there, the weight of it felt less like victory and more like a burden—a heavy, iron burden that no dragon’s flame could melt. He had always known the throne would be cold, but he had not expected it to bite so deep.

He looked down at his hands. They were clean—no blood today, not yet. But the ghosts of the fallen clung to them all the same, like shadows cast in firelight. Every sword on that throne had been wrested from a man who once called himself king. Every blade a voice, silent now but unforgotten.

He had done it. King of all Westeros.

Or nearly all.

The room stretched below him, a long aisle flanked by lords and ladies, bannermen and brothers, conquered and crowned. They wore the colors of every kingdom—Reach green and gold, Westerlands red and lion, Stormland black and stag. Even the Eyrie’s pale blue shimmered beneath the torchlight, a reminder that no kingdom had escaped his grasp.

They bowed when he entered. They bowed when he sat. They bowed still.

All of them.

Except two.

His fingers tapped restlessly against the arm of the throne, a sound like a sparrow’s wing against iron. Dorne, still smoldering, still resisting in its own way—elusive, not broken, but not whole either. And the North—a kingdom that had not been conquered, only waited.

Aegon exhaled slowly, letting the heat of the hall fade into memory. His mind drifted—not to the battles he had won, but to the godswood, where snow fell silent and the eyes of the heart tree bled red. He remembered Torrhen Stark—calm as winter—speaking of peace and pride, of paths walked not for glory but for the good of the living.

He remembered the Weirwood Council—the High Greenseer, older than the roots beneath the world, speaking of a time yet to come. Of dragons turning on dragons. Of destruction and fire without end. Dreams, he had told himself then. Dreams are wind.

But now, seated on his throne of swords, he felt a chill in his blood that no fire could chase away. The air in the North had held truth. Heavy truth. Old truth. Even the stones had felt honest there—no flatterers, no silken words. Only silence and eyes that saw too much.

He shifted slightly in the throne, the iron groaning beneath him. The North had not been conquered. It had chosen its moment. It had watched, and it had waited.

His gaze fell once more to the swords around him—taken from six kingdoms. But not from Winterfell.

He would have to warn his children one day. The North was not like the rest. It would kneel, yes—but only because it had chosen to. And only so long as it was respected.

A murmur stirred in the court, a ripple that ran through the silks and chainmail like wind through a field of grass. A movement near the doors drew every eye, and the air itself seemed to shift—heavier, as if the weight of a thousand winters had entered the hall.

Then came the voice of the herald, trembling but clear. “Your Grace. The Northern delegation has arrived.”

Aegon watched the hall. The southern lords stiffened in their seats, surprise flickering across painted faces and jeweled collars. Whispers rose and fell like dry leaves, brittle with anticipation. They had expected a last campaign, a final war to claim the last kingdom. Aegon saw it in their eyes: they wanted fire and conquest, the satisfaction of a final kneeling.

But they did not understand. They never had. They thought he had broken the world and built it new, but some things—he knew now—had never been broken at all. Some things had only waited, patient as snow.

He straightened on the Iron Throne, the cold blades pressing into his spine, a reminder of every king who had fallen before him. His voice was calm, low and unyielding. “Bring them in.”

The hall fell silent.

The great doors of the throne room swung open, and the air changed—not from wind nor smoke, but from something deeper. A hush settled, like the scent before snowfall, like the hush of the world before something sacred arrived.

They entered not as conquerors, nor as conquered, but as witnesses to history.

Torrhen Stark came first, tall and broad-shouldered, his grey cloak draped like the wolf’s pelt it resembled. At his side padded a direwolf, massive and silent, eyes like burnished gold—watchful, patient, and old. The beast moved with the calm certainty of a creature that feared no man.

Brandon Snow followed, younger, sharper, a second direwolf—white as snowdrift, eyes red as blood—at his side. Even from the Iron Throne, Aegon felt the power in them. Not the power of armies or gold, but something older, something that no fire could burn away.

The gasps that rose from the southern lords were soft, but no less sharp. Silken sleeves trembled, and gold-threaded cloaks shifted as if to ward off the cold that walked with the Northerners. A few took half-steps back, as if distance could shield them from the truth that entered the hall.

Even Rhaenys leaned forward slightly, her eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. Visenya’s gaze was harder—narrowed and calculating, her hand drifting to the pommel of her sword. But Aegon did not move.

I have seen them before, he thought. I have stood in their shadow and felt no fear.

Behind the Stark brothers came a line of Northern lords, cloaked in sober greys and deep greens. No bright banners or gleaming armor—only the quiet strength of old houses who had ruled their lands long before dragons had crossed the sea. Their expressions were carved from the same ice and stone as their homeland. They did not gawk. They did not smile.

And then he saw him—Grovemaster Theon, robed in winter white. The collar of weirwood leaves at his throat caught the torchlight, each carved leaf a memory of a pact older than any maester’s chain. His eyes were calm and deep, like still water over roots. Aegon remembered him well—the one who had borne the message north of the Neck, the one who had stood beside the High Greenseer beneath the heart tree, when Aegon’s dreams had been laid bare before the council of trees.

Aegon’s gaze drifted lower, to the sword at Torrhen’s back—a greatsword of Valyrian steel, dark as smoke and cold as a shadow. Its edge gleamed in the torchlight, but its weight felt heavier than steel. It had not been forged for blood, he thought, but carried for generations as a promise of balance.

And Brandon’s sword—white as milkglass, its hilt of weirwood veined with crimson—resonated with a presence he could not name. It did not hum like Valyrian steel. It breathed, as if something in it listened still.

He remembered that sword. Brandon had drawn it at the Weirwood Council, when he had spoken of death without fire, of things older than kings. And the singers had quieted—not in fear, but in reverence.

What enemy required such a weapon? Aegon wondered. What battle demanded magic older than dragons?

Not men, he thought. Of that he was certain.

The Northern procession advanced, each step measured, every movement steeped in purpose. No boot rang out. No voice whispered. The direwolves moved like mist, the Grovemaster’s staff tapping once, twice, and then falling still.

When they reached the base of the throne, the hall held its breath. Even the Iron Throne seemed to quiet, the cold blades waiting for the moment to come.

Aegon watched them all—lords of the North and beasts of the old blood—and still he remembered the godswood, the red eyes bleeding softly in the snow, the truth in the air that no conqueror could command.

He had thought he would greet them with triumph. With dominance.

Instead, he sat in silence. And waited.

The southern lords shifted, eyes flickering from the Stark brothers to the dragons that stood at Aegon’s side. Some reached instinctively for the hilts of their blades, though none dared draw steel here. The silence was a living thing, pressing at the edges of the hall like a breath held too long.

Torrhen Stark stood beneath the Iron Throne—tall, broad-shouldered, the grey direwolf by his side as silent as snow. The firelight caught the white streak in his beard, the lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of hard winters and harder choices. There was no defiance in his posture, but neither was there submission. Only a calm that felt older than any crown.

Then he spoke, his voice carrying like ice cracking across a frozen lake.

“Six kingdoms.”

The words fell into the silence, and for a heartbeat the entire hall held its breath. Confusion and offense sparked among the southern lords like dry grass catching flame.

Aegon saw Visenya’s face twist, her lips curling with scorn and a flicker of anger behind her cold mask. Rhaenys, though, sat still—her eyes locked not on Torrhen, but on the direwolves. She knew, he thought. She saw what others could not.

Aegon felt the weight of every eye on him. The Iron Throne pressed cold into his back, as if the dead kings it had devoured were whispering in his ear. He answered only with a nod.

“Yes. Six kingdoms.”

Torrhen’s lips curved faintly—not mockery, but a recognition of something shared between them. A long, hard road. “And what of the one in the sand?”

A deadly stillness fell. The words hung in the air like a drawn blade. Every man in the room expected fire, a king’s wrath, an order to kill. But Aegon did not reach for Blackfyre.

He rose, the Iron Throne groaning beneath him. The hall seemed to shrink as he stood, shadows dancing across his face. His voice was low, unshaken, like the distant thunder of a coming storm.

“I went,” he said. “I burned. And I left.”

That was all. And somehow, it was enough.

A heartbeat later, he saw Torrhen’s lips curve again, not with derision but with an old man’s understanding—an understanding that came from winters survived and oaths kept. A ghost of a smile in a world that never stopped testing kings.

Torrhen turned to Brandon, his words slipping into the Old Tongue—soft and swift, the sound like water over stone. Brandon’s lips twitched with a faint smile, as did the Northern lords behind them. Even Grovemaster Theon gave a slow, respectful nod, his carved collar of weirwood catching the torchlight.

Aegon watched them, the memory of the godswood heavy in his mind. The red eyes of the heart tree bleeding softly, the words of the High Greenseer still echoing like a song he could not name. Dragons turning on dragons. Fire without end.

Then Torrhen removed his crown—bronze and steel, plain and strong, forged long before the Conquest was ever dreamt. He stepped forward and placed it, with slow, deliberate care, at the base of the Iron Throne.

Then he knelt. His head bowed low, the direwolf beside him settling like a grey mountain.

And in a voice that carried through stone and time, he said:

“I, Torrhen Stark, once King in the North, now Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do swear fealty and obedience to Aegon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm. From this day until my last.”

Brandon Snow knelt beside him, his sword’s white hilt glowing faintly in the torchlight. The Northern lords followed, their faces unreadable, yet their eyes shone with a quiet pride—a pride Aegon felt in his own blood.

And then…the direwolves bowed, heads lowered to the stone, bodies hunched in a posture not of submission, but of recognition. As if acknowledging not just a king, but a truth older than any sword or dragon.

Aegon felt the moment strike him like a blow—heavy in his chest, his breath caught. It was not fire that forged this unity. It was will. It was choice. It was truth.

Behind him, he heard Rhaenys shift, and then she knelt, eyes never leaving the direwolves. Even Visenya, after a long pause, followed, though her jaw remained tight.

And one by one, across the great hall, the lords of Westeros bent the knee—not because they were ordered, not because they feared his dragons, but because the last free king chose to kneel first.

Aegon stood at the peak of silence, at the heart of a bowing realm. And he knew—in that moment—he was no longer simply a king.

He was a legend.