77 AC
While the Targaryens grappled with their defeat and the chilling implications of Theon Stark's words in the distant Red Keep, and the Martells celebrated in Sunspear, the reverberations of the Northern victory echoed across every corner of Westeros, each region feeling the sting of the Dragon's humiliation in its own way.
In the verdant, prosperous lands of the Reach, within the sun-dappled halls of Highgarden, the mood was one of cautious deliberation rather than outright revelry or despair. Lord Paramount Leo Tyrell, a man known for his shrewdness and penchant for keeping his own counsel, discussed the matter with his closest advisors.
"Eight million dragons," Lord Luthor mused, swirling the wine in his goblet. "A staggering sum. And the North... independent. Who would have thought?" He did not betray much emotion, but his keen eyes held a speculative glint. "It weakens the Crown, undeniably. And a weakened Crown... provides opportunities."
His counselors nodded. The Tyrells, though nominally loyal to the Targaryens, were always mindful of their power and influence. The fracturing of the realm meant new alliances could be forged, new balances of power struck. The North's victory, while not directly benefiting the Reach, certainly shifted the chessboard in their favor.
Meanwhile, in Oldtown, nestled beneath the towering Hightower, the venerable Lord Manfred Hightower, Warden of the Hightower and a powerful beacon of the Faith, shared the same concerns as the Citadel's Archmaesters, though his thoughts were more rooted in the temporal realm. News of the defeat arrived swiftly by raven, quickly followed by the disturbing silence from their northern maesters. The Hightowers, deeply intertwined with the Faith and the Citadel, felt the sting of this new Northern assertiveness keenly.
"A truly black day," Lord Manfred declared to his family, his voice grim. "Not just the shame of the loss, but the fracturing of the realm. And this King Stark… he distrusts the very foundations of our civilization." The lack of word from their maesters in the North was particularly unsettling. It was not merely a loss of intelligence; it felt like a deliberate severing, a declaration that the North would not be influenced by the subtle hand of Oldtown.
In the golden halls of Casterly Rock, Lord Tymond Lannister, though not known for his martial prowess, felt the sting of the defeat keenly. He was a proud man, and his house had paid a heavy price.
"Half the fleet," Lord Tymond lamented, pacing his solar, his voice filled with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "Half of our glorious Golden Fleet, sunk in those frozen Northern waters! For what? To bring the North back to heel, only for them to demand their freedom and beggar the realm besides!"
His sons, Daven and Tybalt, listened in grim silence. Tybalt, though young, already possessed a cold, furious intensity. The loss of such naval power was a grave blow to the Lannisters, a dent in their formidable wealth and influence that would take years to repair. It was a wound that stung, a reminder of the futility of their sacrifice in a war that ultimately achieved nothing for them.
At Storm's End, the ancient seat of House Baratheon, a heavy cloud of sulking hung over the formidable fortress. Lord Steffon Baratheon, a man of blunt force and unyielding loyalty, was seething. The return of his brother, Lord Rogar, perfectly healthy but bearing witness to the defeat, had only deepened his frustration.
"Fought for them, bled for them, gave our best men," Lord Steffon grumbled, his powerful hands clenched into fists. "And what do we have to show for it? A humiliation! The Dragon King bent the knee, and our sacrifices were for naught. The North, independent? It's an insult to everything we stand for!" He threw a goblet against a wall, the sound echoing through the great hall. The Baratheons prized strength and loyalty, and this defeat, this forced capitulation, offended their very nature.
But nowhere was the defeat felt more acutely, more devastatingly, than in the windswept, wave-battered Iron Islands. The Greyjoys, eager to prove their worth to the Iron Throne and perhaps carve out new holdings, had thrown the full might of their longships into the Northern invasion. The result was catastrophic.
"Dead," whispered a gaunt, somber ironborn captain to Lord Quellon Greyjoy, the young, pragmatic Lord of the Iron Islands, whose usual stoicism was now replaced by a haunted look. "Lord Dagon… gone. His ship split, taken by one of those… those beasts."
The silence in the Sea Stone Chair was absolute, save for the moan of the wind off the sea. Their entire fleet, their pride and power, had been annihilated in the icy northern waters. The Iron Islands, for the first time in generations, were truly vulnerable, their raiding days abruptly halted by the loss of every single longship sent North. Families mourned, their hopes for plunder and glory dashed. The cost of their loyalty to the Iron Throne had been their very means of existence. Lord Quellon knew that rebuilding would take decades, if it was even possible. The Ironborn, more than any other, felt the crushing weight of Targaryen defeat.
In the Riverlands, at Riverrun, Lord Paramount Glover Tully, despite his recent role in the negotiations, felt the bitter taste of defeat acutely. He stood by the flowing Tumblestone, watching its ceaseless current with a heavy heart. "Independence for the North," he murmured to his son, his voice laced with disbelief. "Who would have thought it possible? Our own lands, laid waste by Targaryen levies marching north, and for what? To lose a war and see the realm splintered?"
He sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "The Crown's weakness is laid bare for all to see. It changes everything. We've always been caught between great powers, but now, with a sovereign North and a humbled Iron Throne... the Riverlands will need eyes in the back of their heads. The peace we brokered is fragile. It's a peace born of necessity, not friendship." He worried about the future, about how the newfound independence of the North might embolden raiding parties from the Mountains of the Moon or opportunistic lords from other regions, now that the Crown's authority seemed so diminished.
High in the Vale of Arryn, within the pristine, unassailable walls of the Eyrie, Lord Rodrick Arryn looked out over the clouds, his customary stoicism barely concealing his profound unease. As Warden of the East, his primary duty was to maintain the peace and protect the Vale, and the recent events were a jarring disruption to that order.
"Unthinkable," Lord Rodrick said simply to his sworn swords, his voice as sharp and cold as the mountain winds. "The North has stood alone. The Targaryen dragons, humbled. The Seven Kingdoms are no longer whole." He ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "Our loyalty to the Crown has been steadfast, but this… this shifts the very foundation of loyalty. The royal treasury depleted, the army routed, the symbol of Targaryen power diminished. How will the Vale be affected? Will the mountain clans grow bolder? Will other lords see weakness and seek to expand their own power?" The Arryns, ever proud of their unbroken lineage and their impregnable fortress, now found themselves contemplating a world where the power they had pledged allegiance to was far less formidable than they had ever imagined. The realm was fractured, and the implications for the Vale, for all of Westeros, were immense and uncertain.
While the rest of Westeros drowned in their grief or simmered in their resentment, the halls of Winterfell rang with the joyous clamor of triumph. The Great Hall, usually a place of solemn feasts and grim councils, was ablaze with hearth fires and torches, casting a warm, celebratory glow. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, steaming pies, and casks of rich ale. Northern lords and their families, their faces flushed with pride and revelry, feasted amidst the joyous din of harps, drums, and boisterous songs of victory. Children chased each other between the legs of giants, and even the sternest Northmen cracked smiles, their laughter echoing through the ancient stone.
King Theon Stark, seated at the high table with his brother Jonnos Skoll and his closest bannermen, watched his people with a deep, quiet satisfaction. His light grey eyes, usually so serious, held a spark of contentment. This was his dream, his promise, made real.
As the feasting began to wind down and the ale flowed freely, Theon rose to his feet. A hush slowly fell over the hall, respectful and expectant.
"My lords, my ladies, my loyal and brave people of the North!" Theon's voice resonated through the hall, clear and strong. "Tonight, we celebrate. We celebrate not just a victory, but our very essence, our freedom forged in blood and ice. Every one of you, every family, every house, played a part in this triumph. From the mightiest lord to the humblest crofter, from the warriors on the Neck to the women who prayed by the hearth, this victory is yours!"
A roar of agreement and renewed cheering erupted, but Theon raised a hand, silencing them once more.
"Now that all of you, who carved this new path with me, are gathered here," he continued, his voice taking on a more serious, yet deeply hopeful tone, "I have announcements to make for the future of our independent realm. With the North now independent, our burden in the form of gold has decreased drastically. The eight million dragons from the Dragon King will serve not just as a ransom, but as a foundation."
He paused, a visionary glint in his eyes. "Therefore, from this day onwards, the Winterhold College is free for every man and woman of the North! No longer shall knowledge be a privilege. However, its halls will not be open to the idle. To join, one must still pass certain criteria, for wisdom demands diligence. We will raise a generation of scholars, healers, and builders, as strong in mind as they are in body."
Another cheer, this one laced with surprise and excitement, swept through the hall. Education, free to all who earned it – a radical idea for many.
Theon continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords. "And to ensure our unity, to safeguard our future, I declare that every five years, all the lords and their heirs shall attend a Winter Council here in Winterfell. This council will be a place where we discuss our problems, air our grievances, and plan the future development of our North. No longer shall our strength be divided by distance or petty squabbles. We will meet, we will speak, and we will decide our destiny as one."
The hall erupted in thunderous applause and shouts of approval. This was the unity they had fought for, a promise of shared governance and a stronger, more cohesive kingdom.
Theon let the cheers subside, then raised his hand again, a faint smile touching his lips. "But silence yourselves, my friends," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "for there is one more thing. The North… it is our home, our identity. But with our new independence, we need a name. Just because we are to the north, we cannot simply be called 'the North' forever. We need a name that speaks of our strength, our heritage, and our unbreakable spirit. So, I declare that our sovereign kingdom shall hence be known as..."
He paused, letting the dramatic tension build, his eyes gleaming with a fierce pride.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________Poll
name of the kingdom
1. Kingdom of Winter
2. Asgard
3. Skyrim
4. Winterlands
5. Arctic Kingdom