Chapter 25: The Dragon's Writ
The news of Tywin Lannister's catastrophic defeat at the Green Fork, and the subsequent revelation of four colossal, ancient dragons fighting under the Stark banner, struck Westeros with the force of a physical blow. Maesters in Oldtown frantically searched crumbling scrolls for precedents, finding none that matched this terrifying resurgence of draconic power in the hands of the North, a land long associated with ice and snow, not fire. Kings and claimants across the fractured realm found their meticulously laid plans and ambitions thrown into disarray. Panic, disbelief, and a dawning, horrified respect rippled out from the Trident, carried on the wings of terrified ravens and the whispers of shell-shocked survivors.
In King's Landing, the boy-king Joffrey Baratheon reportedly threw a tantrum that lasted days, his childish cruelty momentarily eclipsed by genuine fear. His mother, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, found her schemes unraveling, her primary military force shattered. Lord Tywin Lannister himself, the Old Lion, retreated westwards with the broken remnants of his army, his legendary composure visibly cracked, his mind grappling with an enemy against whom his gold and cunning seemed utterly inadequate. For the first time in his life, Tywin faced a power that could not be bought, intimidated, or outmaneuvered by conventional means.
Stannis Baratheon, on Dragonstone, received the tidings with his characteristic grim stoicism, but even he, the rightful heir by Robert's law, understood that the game had fundamentally changed. His own claim, based on legitimacy, now seemed a fragile thing against the raw, primordial power unleashed by Winterfell. Renly Baratheon, amidst the flower of southern chivalry in Highgarden, found his massive host and popular support suddenly less imposing. What were knights and summer songs against ancient dragons breathing winter's fire? Balon Greyjoy, his longships poised to raid the North's western coast, abruptly recalled his fleet, the tales of Northern dragons capable of burning krakens from the sea too vivid, too terrifying to ignore.
The North, under the guidance of Torrhen Stark I, the eternal Warden, and his heir, Torrhen III, moved with swift, decisive purpose. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, now also the Dragon's Kin, led his jubilant, awe-struck army into the Riverlands. Lannister garrisons, already demoralized by news of Tywin's defeat, either fled or surrendered without a fight as the shadows of Stark dragons passed overhead. House Tully, with Edmure now Lord of Riverrun after Hoster's recent passing, swore fervent, grateful oaths of fealty to King Robb, hailing him as their liberator. The Riverlords, their lands ravaged by the Lannisters, flocked to the Stark banner, their forces swelling Robb's host. In a matter of weeks, the entire Riverlands was secured, a new, powerful salient loyal to the Stark-dragon kings.
Torrhen I, however, did not allow this initial success to breed complacency. He used Terrax, with a still-shaky but determined Greatjon Umber clinging to his back, and Argent, with a surprisingly adept Maege Mormont, for strategic displays of power. A flight over the Twins, where Walder Frey was dithering over allegiances, resulted in the ancient lord's immediate and unconditional declaration for King Robb, his usual avarice overshadowed by existential terror. A daring, high-altitude pass by Argent over the Iron Islands, her sonic shriek shattering the windows of Pyke's towers, reinforced Balon Greyjoy's decision to keep his reavers leashed. These were not acts of conquest, but brutal, effective enforcements of the new Northern dominance, ensuring their flanks were secure.
The rescue of the Stark girls became a priority. Arya, Torrhen I's scrying confirmed, had escaped King's Landing with Yoren of the Night's Watch and was now lost somewhere in the war-torn Riverlands after Yoren's party was attacked. Torrhen III, mounted on the swift and intelligent Umbra, undertook a series of lightning-fast, low-altitude reconnaissance flights, his dragon's keen senses and his own wargish connection to the land guiding him. Within days, Arya, a wild, terrified little wolf, was found huddled with a few other survivors near the Gods Eye. Umbra's sudden descent from the sky, Torrhen III dismounting like a figure from legend, was a sight that would forever be seared into Arya's memory. She was brought back to Riverrun, tearfully reunited with her mother and brother, her initial terror of the colossal black dragon quickly turning into a fierce, protective awe.
Sansa's situation was more delicate. She was a high-profile hostage in the Red Keep, a pawn in Lannister hands. Torrhen I, through Robb, sent an ultimatum to King's Landing, its terms delivered by a captured Lannister knight sent back under a flag of truce, his eyes still wide with the horror of what he'd witnessed at the Green Fork. The terms were simple: Sansa Stark and the bones of Lord Eddard Stark were to be returned to Northern custody immediately. In exchange, the North would halt its advance, for now, and consider terms for a broader peace, though Northern independence was non-negotiable. Failure to comply, the message hinted, would result in dragonfire visiting not just Lannister armies, but perhaps even the walls of King's Landing itself.
Tywin Lannister, now back in Casterly Rock, advised his daughter Cersei by raven. Faced with an enemy that could incinerate armies and bypass fortifications, even his pride had to bend. After a tense week of silence, a ship bearing Sansa Stark and a casket containing Eddard's remains sailed from King's Landing, escorted by a single, terrified Kingsguard knight. Sansa's reunion with her family in Riverrun was fraught with emotion, her experiences in the capital having left deep scars, but the sight of her mother, her brother Robb, her fierce younger sister Arya, and the tales of her ancient, dragon-riding ancestors, began to kindle a new, resilient Stark fire within her.
With his great-great-great-great-great-nieces safe, Torrhen I focused on the broader strategic landscape. Envoys from both Stannis and Renly arrived at Riverrun, each seeking an alliance with the formidable Dragon North. Torrhen I, with Robb and Torrhen III, received them with cool courtesy. He listened to Stannis's ironclad claims of legitimacy and Renly's boasts of vast armies and popular support. He offered neither his allegiance.
"The North has declared its independence, Your Graces," Torrhen I stated, his voice the calm rumble of ancient power, Balerion the Second's immense head visible through a high window of Riverrun's great hall, a silent, potent reminder of who held the true power. "We seek justice for the wrongs done to our House, and security for our people. We have no desire to place another king upon the Iron Throne, nor to be ruled by one. The North remembers its ancient pacts, its own gods. However," he added, a glint in his ageless eyes, "a peaceful, stable Westeros is in everyone's interest, especially with the true Winter that approaches. Should either of you prove capable of forging such a realm, without threatening Northern sovereignty, we might then consider… more formal relations." He was sowing discord, keeping them off balance, ensuring they would exhaust each other, leaving the North as the preeminent, untouched power.
The training of new dragonriders became a quiet priority within the secure confines of the Deepwood, now also accessible via magically shielded passages from Riverrun, thanks to Torrhen I's earth-shaping abilities. Greatjon Umber, his initial terror replaced by a boisterous, almost fanatical devotion, proved a surprisingly capable, if reckless, rider of the mighty Terrax. Maege Mormont, with her grim determination and fierce loyalty, developed a true partnership with the intelligent Argent. Torrhen I identified a few other Northmen and women of proven courage, Stark blood (however distant), or unshakeable loyalty – including young Harrion Karstark and Dacey Mormont – and began their arduous, often terrifying, initiation. Not all succeeded. The ancient dragons were discerning, and some potential riders lacked the will, the respect, or the innate connection required. But slowly, a small, elite cadre of Northern dragonriders began to take shape, though Torrhen I and Torrhen III remained the undisputed masters, their bonds with their chosen mounts forged over decades, even centuries.
The Philosopher's Stone, now pulsing with the amplified energies of the Dance and the recent battles, was a tool of almost unimaginable versatility in Torrhen I's hands. He used it to guide Robb's war council with unerring foresight, his scrying revealing enemy troop movements, supply lines, and even the private counsels of rival kings. He ensured the Northern armies, and their Riverland allies, were always well-fed, their wounds healing with unnatural speed (thanks to potent healing salves and elixirs discreetly distributed by Maester Luwin, who was now privy to some of the "Old King's" more benign magical secrets, attributing them to lost First Men lore). The production of dragonsteel weapons and armor was accelerated, equipping not just the dragonriders but also Robb's elite guard with blades that could withstand dragonfire and cut through lesser steel like butter.
The Faith of the Seven in the south reacted to the Northern dragons with predictable horror and condemnation. The High Septon in Oldtown (the Great Sept of Baelor was not yet built) denounced the Starks as consorting with demons, as practitioners of unnatural sorcery. Torrhen I countered this with a subtle but effective propaganda campaign, carried by Northern merchants and bards. They spread tales of the Starks' ancient connection to the Old Gods, of dragons as noble protectors of the innocent, of their fire being used only against oathbreakers and tyrants like the Lannisters. They highlighted the North's piety towards its own ancient deities, its justice, its prosperity. Slowly, amongst the smallfolk weary of war and the cruelty of lords, a different narrative began to take root: perhaps these Northern dragons were not demons, but a sign of a new, stronger, more just power rising.
As the War of the Five Kings ground on, with Stannis and Renly inevitably turning on each other (Renly's assassination by shadow magic, a dark art Torrhen I noted with cold interest, scrying its origins to Asshai), and Balon Greyjoy launching his ill-fated raids against a now dragon-protected North (his fleet was comprehensively incinerated by Argent and Terrax in a single, terrifying coastal engagement), the Lannister regime in King's Landing grew increasingly desperate. Tywin, despite his genius, could not conjure a defense against dragonfire. He sent envoys to Riverrun, offering peace, vast concessions, even a royal marriage between Joffrey (or Tommen, should Joffrey meet an "accident") and a Northern lady, in exchange for an end to hostilities.
Torrhen I, through Robb, rejected all offers that did not explicitly recognize permanent Northern independence and significant reparations for Lannister crimes. He had no interest in southern thrones or alliances sealed with the blood of his kin. His goal was a secure, autonomous North, free to prepare for the Long Night.
One evening, as he scryed the far North with the Stone's amplified power, Torrhen I received his most chilling vision yet. He saw not just stirring wights or shadowy figures, but a colossal wall of blue-white ice, miles high, slowly grinding southwards from the uttermost pole, an unnatural glacier that radiated an aura of absolute zero and soul-crushing despair. At its heart, he glimpsed a citadel of impossible, crystalline geometry, and within it, a presence, a consciousness of unimaginable age and cold malice – the Heart of Winter. And he saw, with horrifying clarity, that its slow advance was subtly accelerating, as if the weakening of fire magic in the world, the death of so many southern dragons, had lessened some ancient restraint.
"The true enemy gains strength, Torrhen," he said to his heir, his voice heavy. "This war in the south, however necessary to secure our borders, is a fleeting distraction. We must conclude it, on our terms, and then turn all our power, all our resources, northwards. The expedition to the Heart of Winter cannot be delayed much longer. The fate of the living world may depend on it."
He made a decision. It was time to end the southern war, decisively. He would not march on King's Landing to claim the Iron Throne. Instead, he would dictate the terms of a new order from a position of unassailable strength. He began to draft a proclamation, the Dragon's Writ, to be delivered to all remaining kings, lords, and the High Septon. It would outline the North's permanent independence, its borders, its terms for peace and trade with the southern kingdoms, and a stark warning: any who dared threaten the North or its allies would face the full, unrestrained fury of its ancient dragons. It was not a declaration of conquest, but a declaration of boundaries, of a new balance of power in Westeros, enforced by the last, greatest fire. The age of petty squabbles was over. The age of the Winter Dragon had begun, and its true purpose was only just starting to unfold.