77 AC
Moat Cailin
Third Person Pov
Early morning, the Neck's mist clung to the parley tent outside Moat Cailin. Inside, the tension was suffocating. King Jaehaerys, weary but determined, stood with Queen Alysanne and their second son, Baelon, his fury barely contained. Surrounding them were the defeated Southern lords: Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Glover Tully, Lord Leo Tyrell, and Lord Rodrick Arryn, their faces grim with recent losses and deep humiliation.
The heavy silence stretched, thick with unspoken defeat and anxious anticipation.
Then, the tent flap opened. A Northern herald's voice boomed: " Theon Stark, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell!"
King Theon Stark entered, his presence dominating the space, his stark features unyielding, his Grey eyes holding a cold, intelligent glint. His twin swords, Jon and Theo, were absent, a gesture of parley, but his formidable aura remained.
Behind him followed Jonnos Skoll, King Theon's brother, a man of similar build but with a flicker of curiosity in his Dark grey eyes. Trailing them, other Northern lords filed in – Umber, Dustin, Bolton, Flint – their faces grimly satisfied, their furs and leathers a stark contrast to the Southerners' finery. They moved with an air of quiet triumph, their gazes lingering on the defeated Southern council, ready to claim their hard-won victory.
The air in the parley tent was thick enough to cut with a Valyrian steel blade. Northern lords, a formidable, silent wall, faced the grim-faced Southerners across the polished table. The scent of damp earth and the lingering, metallic tang of battle clung to the canvas walls, a stark reminder of the recent carnage.
King Theon Stark, a figure carved from the very rock of the North, stood at the head of his side, his gaze unwavering as it met Jaehaerys's. No words had yet been exchanged, but the tension was a living thing, a coiled viper ready to strike.
It was Queen Alysanne, however, who dared to pluck the viper. Her silver hair, usually a soft halo, seemed to shimmer with defiance even in the tent's dim light. She held herself with an unyielding grace, her eyes, typically pools of warmth, now sharp and penetrating as she fixed them on the King in the North. There was no tremor of fear in her voice, only the clear, steady ring of a queen addressing an equal, despite the crushing weight of their defeat.
"King Theon Stark," she began, her voice cutting through the suffocating silence. Every ear in the tent strained to catch her words. "We are here to discuss the terms of peace. My husband, King Jaehaerys, seeks the return of his son, Prince Aemon, his daughter, Princess Alyssa, and his loyal lords, Rogar Baratheon and Tymond Lannister."
She paused, letting the heavy declaration hang in the air, a formal opening to a negotiation that felt anything but civil. Alysanne's gaze remained locked with Theon's, refusing to break, even as her own heart must have ached for her captured children.
"Tell us, then, King Theon," Queen Alysanne continued, her voice gaining a steely edge, though the unspoken burden of their humiliating defeat pressed down on every syllable. "What are your terms for the return of our hostages?"
The question, direct and piercing, landed like a gauntlet thrown onto the table. It demanded an answer, forcing Theon Stark to lay bare the price of his unparalleled victory. Every eye in the tent, both North and South, remained fixed on the King in the North, waiting to hear the demands that would define the future of their shattered realm.
Alysanne's question, clear and unwavering, hung in the cold air, a challenge echoing the very defiance of the North. King Theon Stark's light grey eyes, hard as winter ice, met her gaze without flinching. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a grim curve that held no warmth. He paused, letting the tension in the tent reach a near-breaking point, savoring the moment of absolute power.
"Queen Alyssane," Theon finally began, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, a sound that seemed to carry the ancient chill of the North. He made no pretense of formal pleasantries, no softening of the blow. "The North has fought your dragons, your armies, your intrusions. And we have proven our strength."
His gaze flicked briefly to Jaehaerys, then back to Alysanne, a flicker of something akin to contempt in his eyes. "You came to break us. Instead, you have broken yourselves upon our shield, upon our stone, and upon the teeth of our direwolves and cold breath of ice dragons."
Then, his voice hardened, each word a hammer blow. "My terms are simple, yet absolute. For the return of Prince Aemon Targaryen, Princess Alyssa Targaryen, Lord Rogar Baratheon, and Lord Tymond Lannister, the Iron Throne will make two declarations."
He paused, letting the import of his words sink in. The Southern lords shifted uneasily, a collective intake of breath.
"First," Theon's voice resonated through the tent, echoing off the canvas walls, "the Iron Throne shall formally and unequivocally recognize the absolute independence of the Kingdom of the North. No more Wardens of the North. No more fealty sworn to your Southern crowns. We shall be a sovereign realm, free to rule ourselves as we always have."
A murmur swept through the Southern side of the table, quickly stifled by the King's stony gaze.
"And second," Theon continued, his voice rising, "in recompense for the devastation wrought upon our lands by your invasion, for the lives lost, for the disruption of our peace, the Iron Throne shall pay a sum of eight million gold dragons." He punctuated the number, letting it hang in the air, a colossal sum that would cripple the Iron Throne's treasury for decades. "This sum is to be delivered within one moon's turn, in coin, not in promises."
He finished, his light grey eyes still locked on Alysanne's, then swept across Jaehaerys and his shell-shocked lords. His posture was unyielding, his words delivered with the finality of a decree. "Once the money is delivered," Theon added, his voice flat, "the hostages will be returned to your camp."
The audacious demands, delivered with such cold authority, shattered the fragile composure of the Southern contingent. Eight million gold dragons? And independence? It was an insult, a humiliation that went far beyond mere defeat.
Jaehaerys, who had listened in strained silence, his silver hair seeming to bristle, could contain his fury no longer. His fist slammed onto the table, the sharp crack echoing through the stunned tent. His violet eyes, usually so calm, blazed with a righteous, incandescent rage.
"You speak of terms?!" Jaehaerys's voice ripped through the silence, raw and powerful, vibrating with indignation. "You speak of recompense and independence?! You have broken oaths, Stark! Oaths sworn before gods and men! The North, by pact, was to be under the rule of the Iron Throne for perpetuity! House Targaryen forged a unified realm, and your ancestors bent the knee!"
His gaze, searing with contempt, fixed on Theon. "This is not merely rebellion; this is an affront to three generations of peace, to the very fabric of the Seven Kingdoms!"
King Theon Stark, however, remained utterly unperturbed by the Dragon King's outburst. His light grey eyes, cold as glaciers, held Jaehaerys's fiery gaze without flinching. A faint, almost pitying smirk touched his lips, a stark contrast to Jaehaerys's blazing fury.
"Oaths?" Theon's voice was quiet, almost conversational, yet it cut through Jaehaerys's rage like a blade. "Perhaps you should first read the terms of that oath before you come to such a meeting, claiming rights you clearly do not understand."
He stepped forward, his presence radiating an undeniable authority that even Jaehaerys's outburst could not diminish. "My Grandfather, King Torrhen Stark, bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror. And a peace was made. A peace that Aegon, in his wisdom, understood."
Theon's gaze swept across the bewildered Southern lords, then back to Jaehaerys. "The terms were clear, King Jaehaerys. House Stark would rule the North. The Crown would not interfere in its ruling, nor in its religion. And when the Targaryen call the banner, the North would respond. A simple understanding, a sacred trust. A king's word for a king's word."
He paused, letting his words hang heavy in the air. "Maegor the Cruel, for all his monstrousness, understood this. That is why he did not care what happened in the North. We were left to our own devices, as the pact decreed. We governed ourselves, worshipped our Old Gods, and we never interfered or asked what happened in the south"
Theon's voice grew colder, more accusing, each word a precise, calculated blow. "But ever since you took the throne, Jaehaerys… all you have done is interfere in the happenings of the North. You start increasing taxes. Not only that you also increased taxes on the goods which everyone in this tent knows are only produced by north. You sought to meddle and draw new borders on our lands, which have been under our rule for centuries. You wanted to bend north and do whatever you desire. "
He raised a hand, his gesture dismissing Jaehaerys's claims with disdain. "So I say to you, King Jaehaerys, King of the Five Kingdoms, you were the first one to break the word! You broke the pact. You dishonored the agreement between Torrhen Stark and Aegon Targaryen. And by doing so, you declared war on the North's freedom and our ancient ways. Therefore, we have been more than justified in our reaction. We have merely claimed back what was ours by right and ancient pact, and we have defended our people from your broken oaths and your conquering ambitions."
Theon's words hung in the air, cold and undeniable. Jaehaerys, for all his customary eloquence and kingly wrath, found himself speechless. The raw, logical assault on his perception of Targaryen rule was more damaging than any spear thrust. He had indeed, since ascending the throne, pursued a policy of unifying the realm, of strengthening the Crown's reach, believing it was for the common good. But Theon had twisted that very vision into an act of aggression, a betrayal of an ancient, sacred trust. The truth of the matter was complex, but Theon had presented it simply, powerfully, unanswerably.
Alysanne, ever perceptive, saw the momentary falter in her husband's formidable presence. She saw the rage in his eyes war with a deeper, more painful understanding. This wasn't just about the terms; it was about the very foundation of their rule.
"King Theon," Alysanne interjected, her voice calm, a stark contrast to Jaehaerys's fury. She placed a hand on her husband's arm, a silent plea for restraint. "The pact between Torrhen and Aegon… it was an ancient agreement. But we are here to discuss the present and the future. Our kin, our lords, are in your keeping. What guarantee do we have, should we agree to your terms, that they will be returned?"
Theon's light grey eyes flickered to Alysanne, a flicker of grudging respect perhaps, for her composure. "My word," he stated, his voice flat. "And the word of the North. We are not oathbreakers, unlike some who wear crowns." His gaze held a pointed accusation for Jaehaerys. "My ancestors ruled for eight thousand years without breaking their word. A Stark's oath is carved in stone, not written on flimsy parchment."
Baelon, his patience frayed, could no longer hold his tongue. "Your word? After what you've done? You blew up our lines with… with sorcery! You brought monsters from the sky! You speak of ancient pacts, then unleash horrors no man has ever seen!" His hand instinctively went to where a sword would normally hang.
Jonnos Skoll, Theon's brother, stepped forward slightly, a hand on his own blade. "Be careful, Targaryen. We are in peace meeting. And your 'monsters' saved you from ours."
"Enough, Jonnos," Theon commanded, his voice sharp. He looked at Baelon. "The explosions, as you call them, were an answer to your aggression. The dragons, as you call them, are our allies. They chose to fight for the North against your invasion. They answered a cry for aid from a realm being attacked. They are not beholden to your Valyrian magic, and their fire is their own." He paused, a challenge in his light grey eyes. "As for our word, you will find it as hard and true as the ice in the deepest caves. Once the gold is counted, and the declaration is made, your kin will walk free."
Jaehaerys took a slow, deep breath, wrestling with his pride, his fury, and the undeniable, crushing reality of his situation. He looked at Alysanne, then at Baelon, his brave, impatient son, still bristling with defiance. He thought of Aemon, his scholar and heir, and Alyssa, his fierce, fiery daughter, shackled in Northern dungeons. He thought of Rogar, his most formidable general, and Tymond, his ever-loyal Hand. Their lives hung in the balance.
He looked at Ser Ryam, his face a mask of weary wisdom, silently urging him to consider the greater good. He looked at Glover Tully, pale but resigned. Leo Tyrell and Rodrick Arryn, though silent, their expressions spoke volumes: this was a war they could not win, not against such unforeseen power.
The eight million gold dragons would not beggar the realm, but it would sting deeply. Recognizing Northern independence would splinter the unified Seven Kingdoms he had worked so hard to build, a dream he had championed since his coronation. It would be a humiliating, devastating blow to Targaryen prestige, a stark admission of defeat. But the alternative… the alternative was a protracted, unwinnable war against an enemy that wielded powers beyond his comprehension, a war that would consume his remaining sons, his queen, and perhaps even his own life and legacy.
His own dragons, while still magnificent, had been humbled. He knew their limitations, their pain from the cold flame. He knew the cost of fighting creatures that could freeze as well as burn. And his army was shattered, routed, scattering in the swamp.
Slowly, agonizingly, Jaehaerys straightened. His silver hair, usually meticulously combed, was slightly disheveled, and his eyes held a profound sadness, a defeat deeper than any battle. The rage was gone, replaced by a cold, hard pragmatism. He was not just a king; he was a father, and a realist.
"King Theon Stark," Jaehaerys said, his voice surprisingly calm now, though tinged with immense pain. Each word was a bitter mouthful. "You have laid out your terms. They are… exacting. And they demand a surrender of principles that have guided my reign."
He paused, a flicker of the old Targaryen fire momentarily returning, only to be extinguished by the cold logic of necessity. "But the lives of my son and daughter, the lives of my loyal lords, are paramount. And the cost of continuing this war, against such… unforeseen might…" He left the sentence hanging, the unspoken threat of the ice dragons and Theon's terrifying prowess understood by all.
He looked at Alysanne, who offered him a small, almost imperceptible nod of support, her own heartbreak masked by queenly resolve. He knew she understood the impossible choice he faced.
"Therefore," Jaehaerys's voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried absolute finality. He straightened his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height, the weight of the realm settling heavily upon him. "Though it pains me beyond measure, and though I believe you have broken faith with the ancient pact… I, Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and, Lord of the Six Kingdoms…"
He took another breath, the words catching in his throat. "…agree to your terms."
A collective gasp escaped the Southern lords, a mixture of shock and a desperate, bitter relief. Baelon's face contorted in a silent scream of disbelief, but he held his tongue, knowing his father's word was absolute.
Theon Stark's grim smile widened, a flicker of genuine triumph in his light grey eyes. "A wise decision. Even for a Dragon King." He extended a hand, not for a shake, but a gesture to the Northern herald. "My herald will draft the declaration of Northern independence, to be signed by your hand. And my masters of coin will arrange the exchange of the gold. Once signed, once counted, your kin will be returned to you, unharmed."
The very air in the tent seemed to hum with the seismic shift that had just occurred. The North, once a dominion, was now a sovereign kingdom. The Targaryen reign, once seemingly unchallengeable, had been brought to its knees, forced to pay a crippling price for its ambition. The Age of Dragons, as they knew it, had just been redefined, and a new, chilling chapter had begun.