I - THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN (AEGON'S POV)
The wind blowing from the cracks of the Narrow Sea carried a strange taste that morning – not just the familiar acrid salt, but a gelid sharpness, a promise of winter that seemed premature for the season. In Dragonstone, within the black rock fortress that whispered with the echoes of centuries of Valyrian magic, Aegon Targaryen felt that cold to his bones. It was not a cold of the body, which the heavy stone walls and crackling fires in the hearths could banish, but a cold of the soul. An omen.
He stood before the Painted Table, a marvel carved in the image of Westeros. His fingers, adorned with simple gold rings, traced the contours of the continent. His gaze, cold and purple like polished amethyst, was fixed on the vast North, a white and green expanse that stubbornly resisted the shadow of the dragon that now covered the rest of the map. Six kingdoms had bent the knee, or were in the process of bending. Their swords had been broken on the Field of Fire, their stone fortresses melted and reshaped at Harrenhal, their arrogance humbled under the banner of the three-headed dragon. But the North… the North was a silent, untouched stain, a dozen lords united under the giant wolf of Winterfell. The weight of Blackfyre, the Valyrian sword that hung from his hip, was a familiar comfort, a tangible reminder of his might. It was a blade for conquering, but the North did not offer itself for conquest. It shrank back, like a block of granite under frost, waiting.
The conquest had not been just an act of ambition; it had been a necessity, a fire burning in his chest since adolescence, fueled by visions that sometimes assaulted him in dreams. A unified kingdom, an Iron Throne, a legacy that would echo through the centuries. Targaryens were not mere lords; they were the destiny of Westeros. And now, that destiny was bumping against the wall of ice and silence raised by Thoren Stark.
The chamber door, massive and made of ebony, opened with a low creak. Orys Baratheon, his half-brother, right hand, and most loyal friend, entered the room. His presence was solid and comforting, an anchor amidst the currents of doubt that sometimes tried to drag Aegon under. Behind Orys, three maesters, wrapped in their grey robes, looked like nervous jackdaws, their eyes downcast, their metal chains whispering softly with every movement.
"The news from the North, Your Majesty," announced Orys, his voice a low growl that echoed in the empty chamber. "As you commanded."
Aegon did not turn, keeping his eyes fixed on the carved North. "Speak." His voice was flat, a command.
The oldest maester, Gerris, a man whose white beard contrasted with his grey robe, stepped forward. His thin, age-spotted hands trembled slightly as he unrolled a scroll.
"Your Majesty,our informants in White Harbor and the towns along the Kingsroad confirm. The King in the North, Thoren Stark, holds firm in Winterfell. He has not called his banners for open war. Quite the opposite."
The maester paused, swallowing dryly.
"He strengthens the coastal defenses,especially in White Harbor, where the Manderly fleet is on constant patrol. And the warehouses of Winterfell, of White Harbor, and of other smaller castles… are being stuffed with grain, salted meat, fodder. In quantities far exceeding what is needed for a common winter. It is as if…"
"As if?" Aegon's voice cut through the air like a whip, without raising its tone.
"As if he expects a long siege, Your Majesty," the maester concluded, quickly. "A siege of winter, not of summer. He ignores your ultimatums. There is no response, neither of defiance nor of submission. Only… silence."
Visenya, who was watching from the arched window overlooking the turbulent sea, turned around. The hilt of Dark Sister projected over her shoulder like the wing of a bird of prey. Her face, a mask of sharp, merciless beauty, turned to the maesters.
"Ignoring is not a strategy,"she declared, her voice as sharp as the blade she carried. "It is a death sentence. He saw what happened to Harren and his sons. Melted stone is a difficult argument to ignore."
"There is… a detail, My Lady," Maester Gerris hesitated, his eyes blinking rapidly, avoiding Visenya's penetrating gaze. "Or rather, a figure. The crown prince. Theon Stark."
Now Aegon turned slowly. His purple eyes focused on the maester. "The sorcerer. The rumors from the ports of Pentos and Braavos."
"More than rumors, Your Majesty," the second maester, a younger man named Willifer, interjected. His tone was less fearful and more laden with a mixture of dread and intellectual fascination. "The captains of ships that dare to trade with White Harbor, and even with the wildlings beyond the Wall, tell stories that defy reason. They say Prince Theon is no ordinary man. That since childhood, he would disappear for weeks in the Wolfswood and return with eyes that had seen things no man should see. That the wolves howl his name not in fury, but in recognition, as if he were one of them. They say he can make the cold obey him with a whisper, that the shadows lengthen to kiss his feet, and that the trees whisper ancient secrets in his ears."
"Superstitions of simple men who spend too much time on the dark sea," Visenya spat, though her hand rested instinctively on the pommel of Dark Sister. "A Valyrian steel blade cuts a sorcerer's flesh as easily as that of a common soldier. Flesh bleeds, bones break."
"Perhaps, My Lady," Willifer conceded, bowing slightly. "But the loyalty he commands among the Northmen is not superstition. It is tangible. The mountain clansmen, the fiercest and most independent of all, come down from their stone forts not just to Winterfell, but to see him. And there are the disappearances… He vanishes for months at a time. They say he travels to the frozen lands beyond the Wall, to treat with the Thenns, with the giants… and with things older still."
Rhaenys, who had entered the room silently, drawn by the conversation, heard the last part. Her face, usually so full of joy and curiosity, was serious, a shadow of concern clouding her delicate features.
"Older things?"she asked, her melodious voice breaking the tension. "What things, maester?"
"The Children of the Forest, My Queen," whispered Willifer, as if afraid the very name would conjure them. "They say he is a friend to them. That he is not a sorcerer, but rather… a singer of the earth. That he learned the arts that were here long before the First Men raised the first stone."
The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with implications. The Children of the Forest were legends, tales to frighten children by the fireside. But in a world where dragons flew over the land and men forged swords of starfall steel, legends took on a different weight. The air in the room seemed to grow colder.
Magic, thought Aegon, his hand tightening firmly on the hilt of Blackfyre. The blade seemed to vibrate slightly, like an animal sniffing danger. They rely on ghosts and ancient dreams. I have Balerion. I have this blade. Fire and Valyrian steel purify all impurities, all shadows. He refused to fear old wives' tales.
It was then that the heavy door opened again. A guard of the fortress, dressed in Targaryen colors, announced:
"A messenger,Your Majesty. From the North. He insists on seeing you. He brings a message from Prince Theon Stark."
The room fell silent. Aegon exchanged a look with his sisters. Visenya looked mortally offended by the audacity; Rhaenys, deeply intrigued.
"Bring him in," Aegon ordered.
The man who entered was the very image of the North. Tall, dressed in grey wolf pelts and boiled leather, he smelled of wind, pine, and cold earth. His face was hewn from granite, and his eyes, the color of steel, were hard and fearless. He did not kneel. He inclined his head briefly, a gesture of acknowledgment, not submission.
"A message for Lord Targaryen," the man said, his voice grave like stones rolling down a mountain. "From Theon Stark."
He held out a scroll of tanned leather, sealed not with wax, but with a white, translucent substance that looked like pure ice. Strangest of all, the ice did not melt in the relatively mild climate of the room. The seal was stamped with the head of a giant wolf, carved in impressive detail.
Orys, with a grunt of distrust, took the message and handed it to Aegon. Breaking the seal was a strange sensation – a cold moisture that burned his fingers slightly, followed by a dry, clean snap. The parchment inside was of a rough texture, like tree bark. The handwriting was precise, angular, almost non-human.
Aegon read in silence, his face a mask of stone. Then, he read aloud, his clear, cutting voice filling the chamber:
"To Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone,
Your fire burns strong in the south. We have heard the whispers of the flames through the riverlands, and seen the smoke that rises from Harrenhal. It is an impressive spectacle, without a doubt. The North, however, is not made of dry wood for your bonfire. It is made of ice and stone, of deep roots and deeper memories. Winter has been our ally for ten thousand years, and it is not impressed by the passing heat of a dragon's summer.
You desire a crown that is not yours. My father, King Thoren Stark, will not kneel. The spine of the North does not bend so easily. But war is a waste of good Northern blood, blood that will be needed when the true winter comes, and it is on its way, believe me.
Come. Fly to the Crossings of the Neck, where the lands of the Freys meet the marshes. Look for the clearing of the Crow Stone, a black rock that resembles a crouching raven. We will be waiting. Only you and your sisters. Bring your dragons, if it gives you comfort. Your presence may be impressive.
But come during the day. At night, the shadows in these marshes… grow teeth, and they are not shadows that fire can dispel.
Theon Stark, Heir to Winterfell."
The reaction was immediate and violent.
"It's an obvious trap!" Orys growled, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "They'll lure you into a swamp and have archers hidden among the reeds!"
"It's an insolence that reeks of treason!" roared Visenya, her eyes flashing with pure fury. "He summons you? As if he were a lord calling his vassal? He must be punished with fire and blood! Winterfell must burn!"
Rhaenys approached, reading the message again over Aegon's shoulder, her soft perfume contrasting with the smell of smoke and anger in the room.
"It's strange,brother," she said, her voice thoughtful. "It's not a formal challenge to war. It's… an invitation. A dangerous one, yes, but an invitation nonetheless. He speaks of the true winter as if it were a reality, not a metaphor. And this ice seal…" She touched the now-melted substance on the table. "How did it not melt?"
"It's a trick," Visenya said with disdain. "Some maester's artifice."
"Or not," whispered Rhaenys.
Aegon remained silent, studying the parchment. The audacity of the young Stark was monumental. But within that audacity, there was a deep, disturbing confidence. He does not fear the dragons. He invites them. The memory of the rumors about the sorcerer prince echoed in his mind.
"He speaks as if we were children playing with fire while a storm approaches," Aegon said finally, his voice low and dangerous. He looked at the faces around him: the fear of the maesters, Visenya's impatient fury, Rhaenys's inquisitive caution, Orys's fierce loyalty. He touched the pommel of Blackfyre. The blade seemed to sing softly, eager to prove its worth.
He wants to frighten me, thought Aegon, his own anger beginning to boil, clearing the doubts. He wants me to see the North as a place of untouchable mystery. But I am not Harren the Black, hiding behind walls of stone. I am the dragon. And dragons do not fear the darkness; they light it with their fire.
"Orys," said Aegon, his decision made. "Prepare the dragons. Visenya, Rhaenys, you will accompany me."
"Brother!" Orys protested. "It's madness!"
"It is a demonstration of strength," Aegon corrected, a cold smile touching his lips. "If this princeling believes his ice tricks can intimidate me, he is sorely mistaken. We will meet him. We will show him, and all the North, that the only power that matters in this world is that which can reduce castles to smoking puddles. If he is the winter, then we are the summer that will consume it."
The determination on his face was absolute. Curiosity, and a deep desire to crush this insolence under his heel, spoke louder than caution.
II - THE CLEARING OF THE CROW STONE (AEGON'S POV)
The journey north on Balerion was a familiar experience, but the air grew progressively colder as they left the Crownlands behind. The green riverlands gave way to more rugged landscapes and, finally, to the muddy marshes of the Neck. The location described in the message was easy to find: a rocky elevation in the middle of a sea of stagnant water and reeds, crowned by a black formation that indeed resembled a giant crouching raven.
As they approached, Aegon scanned the terrain with a falcon's eyes. There was no sign of a trap. No glint of armor among the vegetation, no suspicious movement. Just an open clearing on top of the elevation and, in the center, a crude oak table with three rustic chairs.
And two men.
Balerion landed with an impact that made the rock tremble. Meraxes and Vhagar landed behind, their roars filling the air with a primordial sound of power and destruction. The combined shadow of the three dragons was so vast it seemed to swallow the afternoon sun.
Aegon dismounted, feeling the comforting weight of Blackfyre on his hip. Visenya and Rhaenys stood by his side, forming a trinity of silver, steel, and determination. Their eyes adjusted to the scene, searching for any detail out of place.
King Thoren Stark was like an extension of the elevation's own stone. A man in his fifties, his hair grey and cropped short, his face a map of hard lines carved by decades of winters and judgments. His eyes, grey like a stormy sky, watched Aegon not with hatred, but with a deep, merciless assessment. He was seated with an unmistakable royal posture, wearing a simple grey tunic and a wolfskin cloak. It was the stillness of a cliff that had endured series of storms.
And beside him, the prince.
Theon Stark was younger than Aegon had imagined, perhaps no more than twenty years old. Slender, with hair as black as jet that contrasted brutally with his pale skin. His eyes, however, were the most disturbing thing: a blue-ice so pale they almost seemed white, without any trace of discernible warmth or emotion. He did not look like a warrior or a lord. He looked like a scholar, or a poet from a dark court. But there was a serenity about him, an absolute calm that was more frightening than any aggressive posture. And he was… smiling. A small, ironic smile that did not reach his icy eyes.
On the table, there was a simple clay pot and three wooden cups.
"Lord Targaryen!" Theon's voice was surprisingly clear and carefree, cutting through Vhagar's residual roar like a thin blade. "And Ladies Visenya and Rhaenys. What an honor to have the lord of three dragons in our company. I see you found your way without trouble. The weather is pleasant for a flight, is it not?"
The insolence, thought Aegon, feeling anger begin to boil in his veins. He acts as if we are at a garden party, not on the brink of war.
It was then that Aegon noticed the first anomaly. Balerion, normally an impassive and dominant presence, was restless. The great black head moved to the side, low, hot smoke issuing from its nostrils, and its eyes, the size of shields, fixed on Theon not with the usual predatory hunger, but with a deep caution, almost a… reluctance. Vhagar, the youngest and most impulsive, growled low, a deep vibration that Aegon felt through the soles of his boots. Meraxes, ridden by Rhaenys, snorted, but it was a sound more curious than threatening.
They sense, Aegon realized, his own alert instinct rising to a crescendo. They sense something in him. Something that is not natural.
Theon completely ignored the dragons' reaction, as if they were irritable dogs. He picked up the pot.
"The tea is of moss and pine bark.A Northern delicacy. Unfortunately, the rather… dramatic arrival of your beasts cooled it a bit. Let me fix that."
He did not light a fire. He did not blow on embers. He simply wrapped his long, pale hand around the clay body of the pot. For a second, the air around his hand seemed to tremble, distorting the light like heat over a flame, but emanating an intense, visible cold that made the damp marsh air condense into a thin mist. A faint cracking sound of ice was heard. When he tilted the pot to serve his father's cup, a thick, icy steam rose from the liquid, forming a white cloud that hovered over the table before dissipating.
"Ice preserves the flavor," Theon commented, serving himself as if nothing extraordinary had happened. "Fire, as you must know, tends to destroy it. It is such a… brute tool."
Aegon felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was not an illusionist's trick. It was a casual, supernatural control over an elemental force. The invitation to sit, not made but implied by the scene, became a test of will. Refusing would show weakness. Accepting meant submitting to his theater.
He walked to the table and sat in the vacant chair, facing Thoren Stark. Visenya and Rhaenys remained standing, slightly behind him. Visenya's hand rested firmly on the hilt of Dark Sister.
"King Thoren," Aegon began, his voice sounding harsh and loud in the quiet air. He refused to look at the steaming cup of tea Theon had placed before him. "Your crown is the last missing from my collection. The South is mine. The Seven Kingdoms will be one. You may kneel now, with honor, and rule the North in my name. Or you may follow the path of Harren Hoare. The choice is yours."
It was Theon who answered, his tone still light, almost playful, a stark contrast to the gravity of the moment.
"A collection?What an interesting hobby, Lord Targaryen. My father always collected ancient swords. I find it less problematic than collecting crowns, I imagine. Less… prone to bloody accidents."
Aegon finally turned his gaze to the young prince, his patience wearing thin.
"I do not speak to you.I speak to the King."
Thoren Stark spoke for the first time. His voice was low and rocky, carrying the weight of countless winters.
"My son speaks for me,Lord Targaryen. As much as your sisters speak for you. The North has not knelt for thousands of years. We will not kneel to a lord from a rocky island who thinks dragons are substitutes for honor, history, and law."
"Honor does not melt Valyrian steel," Visenya snarled, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her blade. "And history is written by the victors. The fate of Harrenhal awaits you, Stark. It is a lesson that seems to need relearning."
Theon took a sip of his tea, which must have been ice-cold, without any sign of discomfort.
"Ah,Harrenhal. A monument to arrogance, as you say. They say the ghosts of Harren and his sons still howl in the drafts of that ruin." He stared at Aegon, his smile becoming a thin, cutting line. "Ghosts are curious creatures. They remember the heat. It is one of the last sensations they had. But the cold… the cold that I carry silences them, freezes them in their eternities of torment. The cold I can bring would make the ghosts of Harrenhal seem like a memory of a summer's day."
As he spoke, Theon picked up his cup. With a casual gesture of his free hand, he ran his fingers over the surface of the dark liquid. Instantly, a thin layer of ice formed, cracking with a delicate, crystalline sound when he broke it with his fingernail. He looked at the fragment of ice between his fingers and then blew it gently towards Aegon. The ice flake did not fall. It hovered in the air between them, spinning slowly, capturing the faint sunlight like a tiny, deadly diamond.
Aegon felt the muscles in his stomach contract. Behind him, he heard Rhaenys hold her breath. Balerion let out a deeper growl, and Vhagar beat its tail on the ground, making the rock tremble. The dragons were visibly agitated.
"Parlor tricks," Aegon forced himself to say, his voice a little weaker than he would have liked. "You freeze tea and make snow to entertain children. This will not stop my knights. It will not deter my dragons."
"Won't it?" Theon's question was a loaded whisper that, nevertheless, seemed to echo in the clearing. The hovering ice flake fell and dissolved. "Let's test that theory."
He did not make a dramatic gesture. He simply placed the palm of his right hand flat on the surface of the oak table.
A low, sharp hiss filled the air, the sound of moisture being sucked away and frozen instantly. Under his hand, a flower of thick, white frost exploded across the wooden surface. It was not a slow growth. It was an eruption, crawling like a vitreous, intelligent serpent directly towards Aegon. The advance of the ice was not fast, but it was inexorable, a trail of pure winter propagating.
Aegon pushed his chair back with a screech, leaping to his feet. His hand flew to the hilt of Blackfyre, partially unsheathing it. The dark, smoking Valyrian steel glittered with a singing sound. The frost stopped abruptly a hand's breadth from where his hand had been, but the cold emanating from the now-icy table was a physical blade against his face, a sharp, penetrating pain. He could see his own breath forming dense white clouds in front of him.
"See," whispered Theon, his voice soft as falling snow, but with the force of an avalanche. "This is just a sample of the cold that I am. A fraction of the power that rests within me. Wait until you see what happens when I truly open up."
Aegon Targaryen was breathless. Not from exertion, but from the pure, primordial, gelid fury consuming him, mixed with a fear he had not felt since childhood. He looked at Thoren Stark. The King in the North remained impassive, watching him as a man watches the weather change. He was not surprised by his son's power. He trusted him.
Aegon then looked at Balerion. The great beast was now clearly disturbed. Its neck retracted, its head lowered into a defensive posture, and a continuous growl, like the sound of breaking stones, came from its throat. It did not see Theon as prey. It saw him as a threat. Balerion the Black Dread, fearing a single man.
This perception was more devastating than any display of magic. Aegon's absolute certainty – the belief that his dragons were invincible, the foundation of all his power and conquest – cracked at that moment.
"You are a sorcerer," Aegon spat the words, his voice laden with a hatred that tried to suffocate the fear.
Theon rose slowly. His father did the same, a tower of silence and strength beside the slender son. Theon's smile returned, but now it was something ancient and terrible, as cold as the heart of winter.
"I am the Son of Winter," he corrected, his voice gaining a strange resonance, as if a thousand whispers echoed behind it. "And the winter that I carry with me is coming for you, Aegon Targaryen. It does not care about your titles or your crowns. It merely… consumes."
He made a wide gesture, encompassing the dragons, the sisters, Aegon himself.
"So do what you must.Bring your army. Bring all your dragons. And if you find me on a good day, you might even make it back alive to your wives. On other days… well, the ravens of the North need to eat."
The audacity was so colossal, so grounded in real and terrifying power, that it left Aegon speechless. Any threat he could make would sound weak, childish, against that silent promise of contained annihilation. He had arrived as a conqueror and was being dismissed as a nuisance.
Without uttering another word, he sheathed Blackfyre with a brusque movement. He turned on his heel, his boots striking the icy ground of the clearing. He mounted Balerion with a harsh command. The dragon, relieved to be moving away from the source of its discomfort, rose to the skies with a powerful thrust of its wings, its roar sounding less like a war cry and more like a warning of danger.
Visenya and Rhaenys did not need to be called. They mounted Vhagar and Meraxes, and the two dragons followed their older brother south, their flight seeming, for the first time, less like a triumph and more like a retreat.
III - THE BITTER AFTERtaste (AEGON'S POV)
Aegon did not look back. His pride was in tatters. His mind, a storm of fury and doubt. He could feel Theon Stark's icy gaze on his back, even hundreds of feet in the air. The image of the table freezing under his casual touch burned in his mind more vividly than any flame.
He is not a man, thought Aegon, the words echoing in his skull. He is a force of nature. How does one fight the winter?
But then, the anger returned, hotter and more determined than ever. The doubt turned into a resolution of steel. Magic was a weapon, yes. But fire was the answer to everything. If his winter was powerful, Aegon would bring a summer so intense it would melt even the memories of the cold. Blackfyre seemed to pulse in its scabbard, eager to prove its worth against this new threat.
He remembered Theon's words. "Bring all your dragons."
And that was exactly what he would do. Not for a battle, but for an eradication. He would burn the Wolfswood until not a single shadow remained for him to converse with. He would melt Winterfell stone by stone, until the very ice in the ground boiled. He would hunt Theon Stark through the skies with Balerion, and when he found him, there would be no talk, no duels. There would be only fire, pure and absolute.
The fear he had felt in the clearing became the fuel for his vengeance. The North would learn that there was no power on earth superior to that of an enraged dragon and a Valyrian steel sword in the hands of its conqueror. The battle to come would not just be for the conquest of a kingdom. It would be a cosmic war, a primordial conflict between Fire and Ice. And Aegon Targaryen was determined to prove which of the two was the true master of the world.
Meanwhile, in the clearing of the Crow Stone, Theon Stark watched the three black dots disappear into the southern horizon. The smile vanished completely from his face, replaced by an expression of deep and ancient seriousness.
He snapped his fingers.
With a sighing sound, the ice that covered the table turned to vapor, disappearing without leaving a single trace of moisture. The wood was dry and intact, as if nothing had happened.
Thoren Stark placed a heavy hand on his son's shoulder.
"You provoked him.He will bring everything he has. All the fury of the south."
Theon turned to his father, his icy eyes reflecting the grey sky.
"He would have anyway,father. A man like Aegon Targaryen does not share the world. He just wanted to see the monster he would face. I showed him a shadow." He looked north, towards the lands of his ancestors, and a cold much deeper than the one he had conjured settled in his gaze. "When he returns with fire and blood, we will show him the true face of the winter that I carry within me. And he will discover that some monsters… cannot be killed with fire. They only sleep. And I, Theon Stark, am the guardian of that sleep."