77 AC
Moat Cailin
Third Person Pov
The acceptance of Theon Stark's terms sent a ripple of disbelief, then a grim resolve, through the southern camp. The shame of surrender gnawed at them, but the King's word was law. Swiftly, ravens were dispatched to King's Landing, bearing the devastating news and the unprecedented demand for eight million gold dragons from the royal treasury. The realm's coffers would be stripped bare, alliances strained, and ambitious lords undoubtedly eyeing the suddenly weakened Iron Throne.
Over the next moon's turn, a tense, uneasy truce settled over the Neck. No more swords clashed, no more arrows flew. Instead, a steady stream of heavily guarded wagons began the arduous journey from King's Landing, laden with the vast sums of gold. It was a humiliating parade, a physical manifestation of the Targaryen defeat, broadcast for all of Westeros to witness.
During this month, a strange, strained semblance of normalcy descended upon the war-torn lands. Negotiations, as bitter as they were necessary, took place almost daily in the parley tent. Lord Glover Tully, despite the weight of his task, proved himself a shrewd negotiator, working tirelessly with Jonnos Skoll and other Northern lords to hammer out the intricacies of future relations. Trade routes, border disputes, the precise demarcation of the newfound Northern independence – every point was argued fiercely, tempered by the ever-present knowledge of the hostages held within Moat Cailin and the unspoken threat of the ice dragons lurking in the northern skies.
Northern envoys, their faces often impassive, occasionally betrayed a flicker of triumph. Southern lords, their pride wounded, swallowed bitter pills. Yet, the work continued. They hammered out agreements on access to certain ports, on the passage of merchants, on mutual defense against wildlings or pirates, forging a new, awkward peace born not of desire, but of cold, hard necessity.
The Ransom Paid, The Hostages Returned
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last of the eight million gold dragons arrived. The sheer volume of coin was staggering, mountains of gold piled in the makeshift counting house established near the parley tent, each piece a symbol of Targaryen defeat. Northern masters of coin, their eyes gleaming, counted every coin, every scale, with meticulous care, their faces betraying no emotion as they tallied the crushing ransom.
The moment of exchange was fraught with tension. King Jaehaerys, Queen Alysanne, and Prince Baelon, along with their remaining lords, stood grimly on the muddy ground outside the tent. Across from them stood King Theon Stark, Jonnos Skoll, and their most trusted bannermen, their faces impassive. There was no warmth, no false pleasantries, only the cold, hard reality of a transaction.
Then, from the opened gates of Moat Cailin, a contingent of Northern guards emerged. Between them, walking steadily, if a little stiffly, were the hostages. Prince Aemon, thinner, his scholar's hands bearing calluses from hard labor, but walking upright. Princess Alyssa, her fiery spirit still evident in her determined stride, though her clothes were plain and her hair lacked its usual adornment. Behind them came Lord Rogar Baratheon, bruised but unbowed, his bull-like frame still imposing, and Lord Tymond Lannister, looking remarkably well-fed for a prisoner of war.
A collective sigh of relief, audible even in the tense silence, swept through the southern contingent. They were alive. They were healthy. The North had kept its word.
King Theon Stark, his light grey eyes sweeping over the returned prisoners, offered a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Your kin, King Jaehaerys," he stated, his voice flat. "As per our agreement. The gold has been counted."
Jaehaerys, his eyes fixed on his children, could only nod, a profound wave of relief washing over him, momentarily eclipsing the bitter taste of defeat. Alysanne rushed forward, embracing Aemon and Alyssa fiercely, tears finally permitted to fall down her cheeks. Baelon clapped Aemon on the shoulder, a silent testament to his joy and relief.
The Southern party wasted no time. Once Aemon, Alyssa, Rogar, and Tymond were safely among their own, they turned to leave, the humiliating retreat expedited by their desperate need to simply be gone from this cursed, triumphant Northern ground.
As the Targaryen party, their dragons a stark reminder of their lost supremacy in the skies, began their slow, silent march away from Moat Cailin, a sound began to rise from within the fortress. At first, it was a murmur, then a swelling chorus, growing louder and louder with each step the Southerners took.
It began with a few isolated shouts, then dozens, then thousands, echoing from the black stone walls, from the victorious Northern soldiers now lining the battlements, from the very swamp itself.
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
The roar of "The King in the North!" still echoed across the Neck, a thunderous testament to their hard-won freedom. As the last echoes faded, King Theon Stark stepped forward, his voice, though not raised, carried with the weight of authority and the resonance of the ancient North. He stood before his assembled lords and people, his gaze sweeping across the faces of those who had fought and bled for this day.
"My lords, my people of the North," Theon began, his voice a low rumble that silenced the lingering cheers. "Today, we stand on the precipice of a new era. For decades, we have endured the yoke of the South, their laws, and their arrogance. We have bled for their greed, and watched as our hard work is taken for granted. But no more."
He paused, his light grey eyes, hard as the winter ice, swept across the crowd. "Today, we have not only won a battle. We have won our freedom. We have reclaimed our birthright. We have proven to the Dragon King, and to all of Westeros, that the North remembers. That we do not bend. And that we will not be broken."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, a low growl of satisfaction.
"But this victory," Theon continued, his voice gaining strength, "was not won by kings and lords alone. It was won by every man who stood his ground on the causeway, every woman who tended the wounded, every child who prayed for our safe return. It was won by the courage of our warriors, the loyalty of our bannermen, and the unwavering spirit of the North itself. And it was won with the help of allies we did not know we had."
He gestured towards the sky, though the ice dragons were no longer visible. "Therefore, the spoils of this victory shall be shared. The eight million gold dragons, paid by the Dragon King for the lives of his captured kin, will not be hoarded in royal coffers. They will be distributed justly, to honor the past and secure our future."
Theon's voice resonated with a deep, unwavering resolve. "One third of that sum will be divided amongst the lords of the North. Not as a reward, but as a recognition of the sacrifices they have made, the men they have lost, and the lands they have defended. It is their due, a testament to their unwavering loyalty and strength."
He paused, his gaze softening slightly as he looked upon the faces of the common folk. "Another third will be distributed to the families of every soldier who fought and who fell in the fight for our independence. To every widow, every orphan, every parent who mourns a son or daughter lost in the mud and blood of the Neck. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten. Their names will be etched in the annals of the North, and their families will be cared for, so long as the North endures."
A hush fell over the crowd, a mixture of grief and gratitude.
"And the final third," Theon declared, his voice ringing with renewed purpose, "will be invested in the future of the North. It will be used to rebuild what was broken, to strengthen what was weakened, and to improve the lives of every man, woman, and child in our kingdom. We will build stronger defenses against future threats, increase roads for trade to other towns and villages. We will invest in the education of our children, so that they may grow to be wise and strong. We will ensure that the North thrives, not just survives."
He raised his hand, his gaze encompassing the entire gathering. "This is not just a victory of arms; it is a victory of the spirit. It is a chance to forge a new North, a North that is strong, prosperous, and free. A North that will endure for generations to come. Let the South know that we have not only won our independence, but we have also secured our future. Let them see that the North is not a land to be conquered, but a kingdom to be respected."
Theon Stark's voice, filled with the strength and resolve of his ancestors, echoed across the Neck, a promise to his people, a challenge to the world. The North had won its freedom, and now, it would build a new destiny.
Theon Stark's words ignited the crowd. Murmurs turned to fervent support, and lords stood tall with newfound conviction. Commoners roared their approval, the chant swelling: "THE KING IN THE NORTH!" "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
The cry, a thunderous affirmation of Theon's leadership and Northern independence, spoke of centuries of oppression and an unbroken spirit. It declared the North's united and unyielding rise.Soldiers, hardened by battle, roared their approval. Men and women of all ages joined the unified, powerful chant.
Theon Stark, a symbol of Northern strength and resilience, stood as their true king. The North had found its voice: "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"