Chapter 16: The Conqueror's Shadow and the Direwolf's Gambit
The news out of the south came in waves, each more shocking than the last, carried by frantic ravens, by wide-eyed traders fleeing north, and through the more discreet, magically augmented channels of Finnan's network. Aegon Targaryen, with his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys, and their three colossal dragons – the terrifying black Balerion, the fierce Vhagar, and the graceful Meraxes – was carving a fiery swathe through the Seven Kingdoms. Jon Stark, from his silent Frostfangs sanctum, and King Beron, from the stoic halls of Winterfell, watched the unfolding drama with a chillingly calm, analytical gaze, their discussions relayed through the shimmering depths of their obsidian mirrors. Edric, the third immortal of their hidden council, participated with a gravity that bespoke his understanding of the monumental stakes.
They saw Harren Hoare, the arrogant King of the Isles and the Rivers, incinerated within his supposedly impregnable fortress of Harrenhal, its black towers melting like wax under the focused fury of Balerion's flame. They heard of the Field of Fire, where the combined armies of the Reach and the Westerlands, the mightiest host ever assembled in Westeros, were annihilated in a single, horrific afternoon by the coordinated attacks of all three Targaryen dragons. Kings fell, ancient houses were extinguished, and new lords rose on the ashes of the old, all swearing fealty to the charismatic, ruthless dragonlord who had landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush barely a year prior.
"He is not merely conquering, Father," Beron observed, his youthful face, a product of the Elixir, a stark contrast to the near-century of kingship he now bore, tight with concern. "He is forging an empire with dragonfire and blood. His tactics are brutal, efficient. He makes examples of those who defy him utterly, yet shows a conqueror's mercy to those who bend the knee swiftly."
"Valyrian tactics," Jon's voice resonated from the mirror, devoid of inflection. "Overwhelm with superior power, demonstrate the futility of resistance, then integrate the conquered. He learned his lessons well from the histories of his ancestors, even if Valyria itself is dust."
Edric, his brow furrowed in thought as he studied the animated maps Jon projected within their shared scrying space, added, "Their dragons are indeed formidable. Balerion is a match for any of our elder wyrms in sheer destructive power, perhaps even our own Balerion's namesake. Vhagar and Meraxes are swift, their riders clearly skilled. But they are only three. Their lines are stretched. They rely on shock and awe."
"And they are Valyrians," Jon said, a crucial point. "They understand magic, they respect power, and they have an ingrained arrogance that can be exploited. They will expect resistance, or submission. They will not expect… what the North truly is."
As Aegon's conquests continued – the Storm King defeated, the Lannisters and Gardeners submitting after the Field of Fire, Dorne resisting with guerilla tactics but effectively isolated – the hidden council of Stark immortals deliberated their strategy. Publicly, King Beron ordered the formidable defenses of Moat Cailin to be tripled in manpower. He called upon the Northern lords to ready their levies, not for an aggressive war, but for the defense of their homeland. The image projected to the south was one of a grim, determined North preparing to fight for its independence, or at least make any invasion so costly as to be ruinous.
Secretly, Jon orchestrated a far more complex defense. The Starksteel forges in Wyvern's Eyrie went into overtime, producing not just swords and armor for their hidden dragonriders, but also specialized arrowheads and spear points, enchanted to pierce dragonhide – a theoretical application of the Stone's power combined with Valyrian lore, yet to be tested but promising. The wards around Winterfell and other key Northern strongholds were subtly amplified, tied into the North's natural magical currents and anchored by the distant, pulsing power of the Grand Philosopher's Stone. Arya and Lyanna, their nature magic a potent force, worked in concert to enhance the natural defenses of the Neck, weaving subtle illusions into the mists, making the already treacherous terrain even more disorienting and foreboding for any potential southern army. They also reported a growing unease among the wildlife, a sense of the land itself recoiling from the waves of dragonfire washing over the south. Noctua, through Arya, conveyed fragmented visions of black wings against a grey sky, and a king with silver hair demanding fealty.
The inevitable summons arrived as Aegon Targaryen, now styling himself Aegon, the First of His Name, King of All Westeros and Shield of His People, consolidated his hold over the six conquered southern kingdoms. A raven, bearing the three-headed dragon sigil of the new Targaryen dynasty, delivered a stark message to King Beron Stark: journey south to the newly founded city of King's Landing, bend the knee, and swear fealty, or face the same fire and blood that had consumed Harrenhal and the armies of the Reach.
The Northern lords, when Beron convened them in the Great Hall of Winterfell, were incensed. Cries of "Never!" and "The North remembers!" echoed off the ancient stones. Many, proud and fierce, urged Beron to lead them south, to fight the Targaryen dragons with Northern steel and courage. They spoke of the North's resilience, its harsh winters that had broken southern armies before.
Beron listened, his face a mask of kingly gravity. He let them vent their fury, their pride. Then, he spoke, his voice calm but firm, echoing the carefully crafted strategy he and his hidden council had devised. "My lords," he said, "I share your outrage. No Stark has ever bent the knee to a southern king born of Andal blood, let alone a Valyrian from an island fortress. But this Aegon Targaryen is not like other kings. He commands dragons, a power not seen in Westeros for generations, if ever on this scale. To fight him openly, with our current strength, would be to invite the fate of Harrenhal upon Winterfell, to see our lands burned, our people slaughtered."
A murmur of dissent went through the hall, but Beron raised a hand. "Yet, to simply surrender our ancient crown, to bow without testing his measure, is not the way of the North either. I will go south. I will meet this Dragon King. I will see for myself the man who claims dominion over us. And I will carry with me the pride and the unwavering spirit of the North. Trust in your King. Trust in House Stark."
His words, though not promising outright defiance, conveyed a sense of strength and purpose that mollified the more bellicose lords. They saw not a king preparing to surrender, but one preparing to negotiate from a position of perceived, if understated, strength.
The true Stark plan, however, was far more nuanced. Jon, Beron, and Edric had no intention of unleashing their own dragons against Aegon unless absolutely necessary, as a last resort to protect the North's ultimate sovereignty and secrecy. Such a conflict would be devastating, win or lose, and would expose their greatest secret to the world. Instead, Jon had devised a gambit, a careful psychological play designed to leverage Aegon's Valyrian heritage and his conqueror's pragmatism.
"Aegon is a builder, not just a destroyer," Jon had counseled through the obsidian mirror. "He wants a stable empire, not a perpetually rebellious one. The North is vast, harsh, and fiercely independent. A protracted war here, even with dragons, would be costly, draining resources he needs to consolidate his southern gains. We must present him with an image of a kingdom too strong to break easily, too proud to crush without immense effort, yet led by a king wise enough to recognize overwhelming power when it is undeniable – but only if that power is demonstrated respectfully, not just arrogantly."
Beron traveled south not with a great army, but with a small, elite retinue of his most formidable household guard, each man clad in subtly enchanted Northern steel (not full Starksteel, but harder and lighter than any southern equivalent), their demeanor one of grim, quiet competence. He also carried with him carefully selected "gifts" for Aegon – not tribute, but tokens of Northern craftsmanship: intricate carvings of weirwood, pelts of shadowcats and snow bears of unparalleled size and quality, and a single, exquisitely crafted hunting spear with a head of polished obsidian, a nod to the ancient magic of the First Men.
The meeting took place at the newly constructed Aegonfort in King's Landing. Aegon Targaryen, flanked by his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys, and with the monstrous black skull of the original Balerion (which Jon knew Aegon had brought from Dragonstone as a symbol of his heritage) dominating the audience chamber, received King Beron Stark. Aegon's dragons – Balerion the Younger, Vhagar, and Meraxes – were visibly present, their immense forms casting predatory shadows over the makeshift fortress.
King Beron, though nearly a century old, stood tall and unbowed, his Elixir-sustained youth projecting an image of a king in his powerful prime. He did not immediately kneel. He spoke to Aegon not as a supplicant, but as one monarch to another, acknowledging Aegon's victories, the power of his dragons, but also emphasizing the North's ancient lineage, its distinct traditions, and the fierce independence of its people.
"King Aegon," Beron said, his voice calm and steady, "you have conquered six kingdoms with fire and blood. The North is the seventh. We are a hard land, a proud people. Our winters are a foe more relentless than any army. Our castles are strong, our men brave. To conquer the North would be a long, bitter, and bloody affair, for both our peoples."
Aegon, his Valyrian features impassive, his violet eyes sharp, listened. Visenya, her hand on her Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister, looked disdainful. Rhaenys, softer, seemed more intrigued.
Beron continued, "Yet, I am not a fool. I have seen what your dragons can do. I do not wish the fate of Harrenhal upon my people, nor the devastation of another Field of Fire upon my lands." He then presented his "gifts," each a subtle message of the North's unique character and resources.
The crucial part of Jon's plan came next. Beron, in a seemingly offhand remark, spoke of the ancient magic of the North, of the Old Gods and the weirwoods, of the resilience of the First Men who had weathered countless winters and resisted Andal invaders for millennia. He did not speak of dragons, nor of their own potent sorcery. Instead, he hinted at a deep, primal strength inherent in the land itself, a power that even Valyrian fire might find difficult to extinguish.
"There are old powers in the North, King Aegon," Beron stated, his grey eyes meeting the Targaryen's violet ones. "Powers that sleep, but do not die. Powers that your Valyrian ancestors, in their wisdom, learned to respect, or at least, not to provoke needlessly." He let the implication hang in the air.
Jon, observing through a tiny, almost invisible scrying enchantment woven into a clasp on Beron's cloak, saw Aegon's eyes narrow slightly. The Targaryen King was a product of Valyria, a land steeped in magic and ancient lore. He would understand the concept of primordial, territorial spirits, of magic tied to the land itself, distinct from the dragon-magic of his own people.
Then Beron made his offer, the one Jon had meticulously crafted: "The North will acknowledge you as King of All Westeros, Aegon Targaryen. We will not take up arms against your rule. We will provide aid and counsel when requested, as befits loyal bannermen. In return, we ask that our ancient customs, our laws, and our right to govern ourselves under the Stark banner be respected. We ask that no Targaryen dragons fly uninvited over Northern lands, and that no southern armies be garrisoned within our borders without our consent. We will be your shield in the North, but we will remain the North, undivided, untamed."
It was a bold proposition. Not outright submission, but a conditional fealty, an offer of alliance that preserved Northern autonomy.
Aegon Targaryen was silent for a long moment. He looked at his sisters, then back at Beron. Jon could almost see the calculations in his mind: the cost of a Northern war versus the benefit of a loyal, strong, and largely self-governing Warden of the North. The hint of ancient, unknown magic likely also played a part, a wild card he might not wish to test.
Finally, Aegon spoke, his voice devoid of the arrogance he had shown other conquered kings. "King Beron Stark. You speak with the wisdom of your ancestors. The North is vast, and its people fierce. I came to Westeros to unite, not to destroy entirely. Your terms… are acceptable. Bend the knee, swear your oath, and you shall remain King in the North, my Warden. Your customs shall be respected. The North will know peace under my reign, so long as it remains loyal to the Iron Throne."
Beron Stark, King in the North, slowly, deliberately, knelt and offered his oath of fealty to Aegon Targaryen, the First of His Name. It was a public act of submission, one that would be recorded in the histories. But Jon, Beron, and Edric knew the truth. It was a strategic victory, a preservation of their secrecy and their true power. The North had bent, but it had not broken. It had yielded a token, but retained its soul.
As Beron journeyed back to Winterfell, the news of his "honorable peace" was met with relief, if not outright joy, by most Northmen. They had avoided war, preserved their way of life. Aegon Targaryen, meanwhile, turned his attention to the final, defiant kingdom: Dorne.
In his Frostfangs sanctum, Jon Stark allowed himself a rare, cold smile. The first great test of their hidden reign had been navigated successfully. The Targaryens were now a known quantity, their power assessed, their ambitions charted. The North remained secure, its true strength still a secret whispered only between three ageless Starks and the ancient winds.
The Conquest was over. The reign of dragons had begun in Westeros. But in the deep North, older, colder, and far more patient powers continued their silent vigil, their gaze fixed on a much longer, much darker night yet to come. Edric's children, Torrhen, now a keen-eyed lad of fifteen, and Serena, thirteen and already showing signs of her Aunt Lyanna's empathy with nature, were beginning to ask questions about the old tales, about the magic whispered in their bloodline. The cycle continued. The vigil would endure.