Chapter 30: The Trident's Toll and the Winter King's Choice (Aegon's Conquest: Part 3)
The air itself seemed to crackle with a palpable tension as the two great hosts faced each other across the muddy, turbulent waters of the Trident. On the southern bank, Aegon Targaryen's army, smaller but hardened by victory and shadowed by the terrifying silhouettes of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes, waited with the patient confidence of conquerors. On the northern bank, King Torrhen Stark, the King of Winter, stood at the head of thirty thousand Northmen, the largest army the North had ever mustered. Their faces were grim, their ancient banners snapping in the biting wind – direwolves, mormont bears, umber giants, karst sunbursts, and among them, the newly respected wolf-and-kraken of House Volmark, whose young Lord Heir, Torrhen Volmark, rode beside his King.
The mood in the Northern camp was a volatile cocktail of fierce pride, ancestral defiance, and a gnawing, unspoken dread. Tales of Harrenhal's molten towers and the charnel horror of the Field of Fire had preceded Aegon's march, carried by fleeing refugees and the somber reports relayed by Torrhen Volmark from his father's "extensive intelligence network." Every Northman knew what they faced, yet the blood of the First Men ran deep, resistant to bending the knee.
In the King's pavilion, a vast tent of grey canvas, the councils were long and fraught. Lord Umber, his voice like grinding millstones, bellowed for war. "Let these Targaryens taste Northern steel! We have faced down Andal invaders, wildling hordes, and winter's wrath! Shall we now cower before three overgrown lizards and their purple-eyed master? The North remembers its kings!" Many of the mountain clan chieftains and younger, hot-blooded lords echoed his sentiment, their honor pricked, their understanding of dragonfire dangerously abstract.
Lord Wyman Manderly, ever the pragmatist, counseled caution. "My King, valor is a noble quality, but what valor is there in leading our sons to an pyre? Harrenhal's stones weep black tears. The Reach is a field of ash. These are not mere beasts, Your Grace; they are the fire of gods or devils, against which mortal armies shatter."
It was into this cauldron of pride and fear that Torrhen Volmark, guided by the constant, silent counsel of his father Aelyx from the distant sanctuary of Skagos, injected his carefully weighed words. He was young, barely twenty-six, but his role in the Ironborn War, his father's immense wealth and power, and his own undeniable intelligence granted him a voice that belied his years.
"My King, my lords," Torrhen Volmark began, his violet eyes sweeping the council, his demeanor one of solemn respect. "Lord Umber speaks of Northern courage, and he speaks true. No man here doubts the heart of a Northman. Lord Manderly speaks of caution, and his wisdom is also undeniable. My father, Lord Aelyx, who has studied the histories of Valyria and the nature of its… greater beasts, has impressed upon me the unprecedented nature of this threat."
He paused, choosing his words with the precision Aelyx had drilled into him. "He bid me ask not if we are brave enough to fight – for that answer is self-evident – but what manner of North we would be fighting for if the outcome is a kingdom of widows and orphans, our ancient forests aflame, our keeps smoking ruins, and our King a martyr whose sacrifice achieves naught but our annihilation. Harren the Black was brave. Mern Gardener was brave. Their bravery did not save their lines, nor their kingdoms. Their lands are now ruled by Aegon's appointees."
He then presented detailed, chillingly accurate (though its true source remained hidden) accounts of the dragons' capabilities: their speed, the range and intensity of their fire, their coordinated tactics. He spoke of the psychological terror they inspired, a weapon as potent as their flames. He never explicitly advised surrender, but he painted such a stark picture of the alternative that the unspoken conclusion hung heavy in the air.
"My father believes," Torrhen Volmark continued, "that the true strength of the North lies not merely in its arms, but in its endurance, its people, its ancient traditions, and the unbroken line of Stark kingship. These are the treasures we must preserve, even if it means swallowing a bitter cup of pride. Aegon Targaryen seeks dominion, yes, but he has also shown himself willing to accept the fealty of those who bend, leaving their ancient houses and customs largely intact. Perhaps… perhaps there is a path that preserves the North, even if it alters its crown."
His words, delivered with a calm conviction that resonated with Aelyx's own subtle mental promptings from afar, began to sway the more thoughtful lords. The image of a North preserved, even under a distant Targaryen overlord, was far preferable to a North utterly destroyed in a blaze of futile glory.
From within Mount Skatus, Aelyx watched the unfolding drama with the intensity of a grandmaster observing a critical chess match. Lyra and Daenys, their faces pale with the strain, provided a near-constant stream of greensight impressions: the mood of the Stark camp, the arrogance of the Targaryen host, the layout of the land, even snatches of Aegon's own pronouncements to his war council. Tibbit's agents, disguised as sutlers and camp followers on the fringes of both armies, relayed more mundane intelligence through magically linked communication stones that Aelyx had provided to Torrhen Volmark.
Aelyx was playing a delicate game. He needed King Torrhen Stark to make the pragmatic choice, the one that would ensure Skagos's continued secrecy and its lord's public standing as a loyal vassal of a preserved Northern kingdom. A direct, magical intervention to influence the King was too risky, too easily detected by other potential sensitives, and could unravel decades of carefully laid plans. Instead, he relied on his son's intellect, his persuasive abilities (subtly amplified by Aelyx's own projected confidence and clarity of thought), and the stark, undeniable truth of Aegon's overwhelming power.
Aegon Targaryen, confident in his might, sent envoys across the Trident. They offered terms: bend the knee, swear fealty, and King Torrhen Stark would remain Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, his people spared, their laws and customs respected. Defy him, and the North would suffer the fate of Harrenhal and the Field of Fire. The message was blunt, backed by the sight of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes circling lazily in the sky above the Targaryen camp, their shadows falling like omens upon the Northern host.
For three days, King Torrhen Stark wrestled with his decision. He walked the ramparts of his makeshift fortifications, staring south at the Targaryen dragons. He prayed in his tent before a small, carved weirwood idol. He listened to the divided counsel of his lords. He saw the fear in the eyes of his young soldiers, and the grim determination in the faces of his veterans.
His half-brother, Brandon Snow, a skilled warrior, argued passionately for an attack, perhaps a night assault to try and kill the dragons on the ground. Others proposed retreating behind the formidable defenses of Moat Cailin and waging a long, bloody war of attrition. But Torrhen Volmark, ever present, ever reasonable, gently dismantled these arguments.
"A night assault, Lord Brandon?" he would say respectfully. "Against a camp guarded by dragons whose senses are far keener than our own, whose riders are Valyrian? And even if one dragon were slain, two remain, their fury likely to be even more terrible. Moat Cailin? It is strong against land armies, yes. But can its twenty towers withstand the focused fire of three dragons from above, as Harrenhal could not? For how long could we sustain such a siege, with our supply lines cut, our lands to the south ravaged?"
Aelyx, through his son, fed King Torrhen specific intelligence about the dragons' vulnerabilities – they were less agile on the ground, their eyes susceptible to precisely aimed projectiles – but also their overwhelming strengths, making it clear that any attack would be a desperate gamble with catastrophic potential consequences. He even allowed Lyra to subtly 'leak' a particularly harrowing vision of Winterfell itself in flames should the King choose defiance, a vision that Torrhen Volmark could then recount to his King with genuine, chilling conviction.
On the third night, King Torrhen Stark made his choice. He summoned his lords and announced his decision, his voice heavy with the weight of history. "I have looked into the eyes of my men. I have looked at the strength of our enemy. I have prayed to the Old Gods. They have offered no sign of victory, only visions of slaughter if we fight. The North has endured for eight thousand years because its kings have known when to fight, and when to preserve their people. I will not be the king who presides over the death of the North. I will not be King Harren. I will cross the river. I will bend the knee."
A stunned silence greeted his words, followed by murmurs of dismay from the war hawks, and quiet nods of grim acceptance from the pragmatists. Brandon Snow argued, pleaded, but the King's decision was final.
The next morning, under a grey, weeping sky, the world watched as King Torrhen Stark, the last King of Winter, rode alone across the Trident. He approached Aegon Targaryen, who sat impassively upon a simple camp chair, his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys at his side, their dragons looming behind them like sentient mountains. Torrhen Stark dismounted, unbuckled his ancient sword, and laid the Crown of Winter – a heavy circlet of bronze and iron, bearing nine black iron spikes in the shape of longswords – at Aegon's feet. He knelt in the mud of the riverbank.
Aegon Targaryen, his Valyrian features unreadable, accepted the submission. He bid Torrhen Stark rise, not as a defeated enemy, but as his new liege man. He confirmed him as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, his lands and titles intact, his people spared the horrors of dragonfire. The King Who Knelt, history would call him, a name some would whisper with shame, but many more, Aelyx knew, would remember with gratitude for his wisdom and his sacrifice of pride for the sake of his people.
Aelyx, receiving the news in his sanctuary on Skagos, felt a profound, cold wave of satisfaction. His strategy had borne fruit. The North was preserved, its ancient ruling house intact, its social fabric largely undisturbed. His public shield remained strong. Torrhen Volmark had played his part to perfection, his influence critical in guiding the King of Winter towards this difficult but necessary decision.
Lord Torrhen Volmark, in the aftermath, was among the first of the Northern lords to publicly commend King Torrhen Stark's courage and wisdom, deflecting any praise from himself. He ensured that House Volmark's oath of fealty to the new Targaryen regime was sworn promptly and unequivocally, through their liege lord, the Warden of the North. This maintained the established feudal hierarchy and reinforced Skagos's position as a loyal, integral part of the Northern polity, now within a larger, unified realm.
The armies at the Trident dispersed, the Northmen marching home with heavy hearts but relieved that their homes and families were safe. Aegon Targaryen, his dominion now extending over six of the Seven Kingdoms (only Dorne remained defiantly unconquered), turned his attention to consolidating his rule, to forging a new capital at King's Landing, and to the monumental task of governing his vast, newly acquired empire.
For Aelyx, the submission of the North marked the end of one phase of anxious observation and the beginning of another. The Targaryens were now a permanent fixture in Westeros. Their dragons were the ultimate arbiters of power. Skagos's secrecy, the hidden nature of its true strength, became more critical than ever. Any hint of another Valyrian dragonlord dynasty, particularly one with dozens of dragons and advanced magic, could provoke a devastating, preemptive response from King's Landing.
Within Mount Skatus, life continued its secret, accelerated pace. The dragon breeding programs intensified, Aelyx now focused on developing strains that were not just powerful, but perhaps also more easily concealed or possessing unique abilities that could counter the Targaryen behemoths if necessary. Magical research redoubled, Aenar and his team of house-elf enchanters working on ever more sophisticated wards and illusions. The Volmark children and grandchildren continued their rigorous training, the lessons of Aegon's Conquest now central to their understanding of power, politics, and draconic warfare.
Aelyx knew that Aegon's reign, however powerful, would not last forever. Dynasties rose and fell. Dragons died. Empires crumbled. His own ambitions were measured in millennia, not mere centuries. The Targaryens were a new, significant factor in the equation, a powerful piece on the great board of Westeros. He would watch them, study them, learn from them, and if necessary, subtly influence their path from the shadows, always ensuring the preservation and advancement of his own eternal, hidden kingdom. The King of Winter had knelt, securing peace for his generation. The Shadow King of Skagos remained standing, unseen, patiently preparing for the long game, for the future ages when his own dragons, and his own immortal line, would truly shape the destiny of worlds.