Chapter 16: The Conqueror's Shadow, The Wolf's Guile
The winds sweeping south from the North carried more than just winter's chill in those waning years of the first century BC; they carried whispers of unease, of a world teetering on the brink of transformation. Within Dragon's Maw, the Hidden Council of Stark immortals felt the shift like a pressure change before a monumental storm. King Rickard Stark, Kaelen's great-grandson, now a young man of twenty-five, bore the public mantle of King in the North, his features already settling into the stern, thoughtful lines of his ancestors. Privately, he was an ageless soul, a dragonlord, and the newest member of a vigil that stretched beyond mortal comprehension. The year was 3 BC. Aegon Targaryen, now twenty-four, was no longer a distant rumor but a palpable force, his ambitions casting a long shadow from Dragonstone.
Reports from Arya and Umbra, their shadowy network extending even into the fledgling port Aegon was raising at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, were stark and unambiguous. Aegon Targaryen, with his formidable sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys, and their terrifying triumvirate of dragons – Balerion the Black Dread, Vhagar, and Meraxes – was making his move. He had landed. He was demanding fealty. And where it was not given, he answered with fire.
The news of Harrenhal's horrific end – its colossal towers melted like wax candles under Balerion's breath, King Harren the Black and his sons perishing in their own monument to hubris – sent a shockwave of terror through Westeros. Then came word of the Field of Fire, where the combined armies of the Reach and the Westerlands were decimated by all three Targaryen dragons. Kings fell, ancient houses were extinguished, and the map of Westeros was being redrawn in ash and blood.
"He is not merely a conqueror," Kaelen observed, his voice a low rumble in the obsidian council chamber, his ageless eyes fixed on the magically projected map where kingdoms flickered and died. "He is a force of nature, like the Doom itself, but guided by a single, indomitable will." He, Brandon, Torrhen, Eddard, Lyra, Arya, and King Rickard were assembled, the weight of generations of planning pressing down upon them.
"His dragons are magnificent, terrifying," Arya added, her voice quiet but firm, Umbra a deeper patch of darkness at her feet. "Balerion… he is a true echo of the old Valyrian might. Even Nocturne would be hard-pressed against such a beast in a straight confrontation, Father."
Kaelen nodded. "A direct draconic confrontation is what we must avoid, if possible. Our strength lies not merely in our own dragons, but in our secrets, our unity, and the ancient magic of the North. We cannot allow Aegon to learn of Dragon's Maw, nor of our true nature. The long-term consequences would be catastrophic." The original directive from Kaelen's past life as an assassin, caution above all, was paramount. Revealing their dragons now, even to defeat Aegon, would expose them to a world not ready for such power, and invite endless conflict. Their true enemy was the one that slept beneath the ice.
Publicly, King Rickard Stark called his banners. He ordered the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin, already subtly reinforced by Kaelen and Eddard's earth magic over the decades, to be fully garrisoned. He spoke to his lords of Northern resilience, of their ancient duty to defend their borders. There was no fear in Winterfell, only a grim, watchful preparedness. The North would not be taken unawares.
Then, the ravens arrived. Black wings against a grey sky, carrying the imperious summons of Aegon Targaryen, now styling himself King of All Westeros. King Rickard Stark was to present himself at Aegon's Fort on the Blackwater, to bend the knee and swear fealty, or face the same fate as Harren the Black.
The council debated for days. Outright refusal meant war, a war that, even with their eight dragons (including the unpredictable Erebus), would be devastating and would inevitably expose their greatest secret. Sending an envoy seemed weak, a prelude to surrender.
"We cannot kneel as supplicants," King Rickard stated, his youthful voice resonating with the ancient pride of his house. "But to invite Balerion's fire upon our lands, upon our people… that is a failure of kingship."
It was Kaelen who proposed the path, a strategy woven from centuries of Flamel's diplomatic cunning and the Nightingale's understanding of leverage. "Aegon is a conqueror, yes, but he is also a builder of empires. He will desire stability, legitimacy. He knows nothing of our true strength, but he will understand the cost of a protracted war in the North, a land that has broken greater armies than his. We will not show him our dragons. We will show him our resolve, and offer him something more valuable than a broken vassal: a powerful, autonomous ally in the North, a bulwark against the true darkness he cannot yet perceive."
The plan was audacious. King Rickard Stark would go south, not with an army to challenge Aegon, nor with a dragon to match his, but with a small, elite retinue of his most trusted lords and household guard. His true weapon would be the knowledge Kaelen had armed him with – knowledge of the North's ancient history, its unique magical resilience, and carefully selected fragments of prophecy gleaned from Flamel's lore and Kaelen's own greendreams, prophecies that might speak to Aegon's own nascent destiny and the vital role the North would play in the long centuries to come.
The journey south was a somber procession. King Rickard, garbed in the simple grey and white of House Stark, rode at its head, Veridian a silent, powerful presence in his mind, though the emerald dragon remained hidden in Dragon's Maw. Rickard felt the weight of his ancestors, of Kaelen's long game, on his young shoulders. He was the public face of a hidden, immortal power, walking into the den of the world's new, fiery apex predator.
Aegon's Fort was a chaotic, sprawling encampment rapidly transforming into a fortified city. The air thrummed with the power and menace of the three Targaryen dragons, often seen circling overhead or resting like living volcanoes on the hills surrounding the bay. Balerion the Black Dread was a sight that could freeze the heart of the bravest man – a mountain of black scales and hellfire, his roar the sound of continents breaking.
The meeting took place in Aegon's hastily constructed audience hall. Aegon Targaryen sat upon a simple, iron throne – not yet the monstrous Iron Throne of later years, but a seat that already radiated an aura of absolute power. He was flanked by his sister-queens: Visenya, stern and warrior-like, her hand resting on the pommel of her Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister; and Rhaenys, more graceful, her beauty masking a keen intellect. All three possessed the striking silver-gold hair and violet eyes of Old Valyria.
Aegon, though only a few years older than Rickard, carried himself with an unnerving presence, his violet eyes sharp, appraising. "King Rickard Stark of Winterfell," Aegon's voice was deep, resonant. "You have come. Will you bend the knee and spare your people my wrath, as others have wisely done? Or will your ancient pride doom your kingdom to ash?"
Rickard met Aegon's gaze, his own grey eyes steady. He did not kneel. "King Aegon Targaryen," he responded, his voice clear and carrying. "I have come to speak for the North. We are an ancient kingdom, older than any south of the Neck. Our traditions are deep, our people hardy. We have weathered millennia of winters that would shatter your southern lands. We do not seek war with you. But the North does not break easily."
Visenya scoffed, her hand tightening on Dark Sister. "Words are wind, Stark. We have dragons. What answer does your ancient kingdom have for Balerion?"
This was the crux. Rickard took a breath, drawing upon the counsel Kaelen had so carefully imparted. "The North has faced down grimmer foes than dragons, Queen Visenya. Foes of ice and shadow, against whom even dragonfire might struggle. We are the shield that guards the realms of men from the true darkness that lies beyond the Wall. A shield that has held for eight thousand years."
He then spoke of the Long Night, not as a mere legend, but as a cyclical, recurring threat, a doom far greater than any squabble between mortal kings. He revealed carefully chosen fragments of Kaelen's (and Flamel's) knowledge – prophecies hinting at the return of this ancient enemy, of the vital role the Starks of Winterfell, the blood of the First Men, were destined to play. He did not speak of their own dragons, nor their immortality, but he wove a narrative of the North as a kingdom with a sacred, ancient duty, a unique magical resilience tied to the Old Gods and the very land itself.
"To break the North, King Aegon," Rickard continued, his voice resonating with a conviction that caught even Aegon's attention, "is to shatter that shield. To weaken the one kingdom that truly understands the long winter ahead. We offer you not a broken vassalage, but a steadfast alliance. The King in the North will be your Warden of the North, his armies your first defense against the horrors of the far places. We will acknowledge your supremacy over the Seven Kingdoms you forge, but the North must retain its autonomy, its traditions, its sacred duty to prepare for the true war to come."
He then played his most subtle card, a piece of information Kaelen had unearthed from Flamel's obscure Valyrian texts – a half-forgotten prophecy from before Valyria's prime, one that spoke of a Prince That Was Promised, a hero of Targaryen blood who would be vital in the fight against the Great Other, but only if the ancient pacts between fire and ice, between the dragonlords and the blood of the First Men, were honored. He implied that the Starks held keys to this ancient understanding.
Aegon listened, his violet eyes narrowed, occasionally glancing at Rhaenys, whose expression was thoughtful. Visenya remained skeptical, but even she seemed intrigued by Rickard's unwavering conviction and the talk of ancient prophecies that resonated with their own Valyrian lore.
The negotiations were tense, lasting for days. Aegon was a conqueror, accustomed to submission. But he was also a pragmatist. The prospect of a costly, brutal war in the vast, inhospitable North, against a people who seemed almost eager to speak of ancient dooms and their role in fighting them, was unappealing. Rickard's offer of a strong, autonomous Warden of the North, who would acknowledge his overall sovereignty but manage his own domain and focus on the true northern border, began to make strategic sense, especially if these prophecies of a greater threat held any truth.
In the end, a pact was struck. King Rickard Stark did not kneel in the same manner as the other defeated kings. He pledged his fealty to King Aegon as his High King, acknowledging him as the unifier of Westeros. In return, Aegon Targaryen named Rickard Stark Warden of the North, affirming House Stark's ancient rights and its unique responsibility to guard the realms against the perils beyond the Wall. The North retained a significant degree of autonomy, its laws and customs respected. It was a nuanced victory, a bending of the form but not the substance of Northern independence.
Rickard Stark returned to Winterfell not as a defeated king, but as the King Who Guarded the Pact. The North breathed a collective sigh of relief. They had avoided war, their ancient dignity largely intact. Within Dragon's Maw, the Hidden Council acknowledged the success of their gambit. They had faced the Conqueror and his dragons, and through guile, hidden knowledge, and a deep understanding of their adversary, they had preserved their secrets and their kingdom's core sovereignty.
"Aegon is a means to an end," Kaelen mused, as they reviewed the terms of the pact. "His united kingdom, if it endures, might be better positioned to face the Long Night than seven squabbling realms. But his dynasty is young, his understanding of the true enemy nonexistent. Our vigil, our preparations, must continue, more vital now than ever."
The Targaryen dynasty began its reign, the Iron Throne slowly taking shape from the swords of vanquished foes. The world outside changed, but within the North, the true power remained hidden, its ageless guardians watching, waiting. The first whispers of winter's return, the subtle signs Arya had noted, grew no louder for now, but they lingered in the backs of their minds, a constant reminder of the true war that lay ahead, long after Aegon Targaryen and his dragons were dust and legend. The Starks of Winterfell, immortal and vigilant, armed with their own dragons and the wisdom of ages, stood ready. Their true enemy was not of fire, but of ice, and its coming was as inevitable as the turning of the world.