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The air was damp and clammy, the raised log-and-plank road, crooked and rotting, and with every wet slap of mud it seemed as though some light flickered in the damp bogs, a will o’ wisp that had already sunk three curious knights off the road and into watery drowning.
Aegon Targaryen clung to the reins of his palfrey; unnerving it was, that the marshes north of the Neck remained a forbidding expanse, the clear line of North and South, Westeros and the Winterlands. The damp and dark was such that he would have wished a different ride; alas, their dearest companions were disinclined beyond the Coldwater, and losing his eldest sister before the campaigns had stayed his hand.
By his side his queen and sister-wife Rhaenys shivered atop her own palfrey, and for that he faulted her not. Rhaenys was no warrior, but Visenya’s loss – Vhagar’s loss – cost them, that they needed all the dragons they could get and to conquer the Vale first, to pincer in the North. It could only be some mark of providence, then, that the northern King had proposed for talks at Moat Cailin. Murmurs in their retinue flying the three-headed dragon banners had already sounded, and by that Aegon knew that they had reached the end of the road.
Rhaenys sucked in a long breath and clicked her tongue at the sight. “There used to be twelve towers?” She turned back, to the herald from the Winterlands.
“Aye,” the herald’s voice was feminine – unexpected as far as either Aegon or Rhaenys had seen of the mainland of the continent, for save their missing eldest sister rare was the woman that took up arms. Lord Frey had identified the messenger as a crannog-woman, one of the tribes who lived on frogs and water-oats within the Neck and would have like as not never stepped before the dragons had their campaign not… faced some unexpected issues. “The master decided that eight would suffice – as it had for millennia.”
“You stand before the King and Queen of all Westeros,” faithful Orys defended them.
The herald considered him, and then turned her head towards the king and queen. “So far, you have conquered only a third of the continent barring Dorne; the Winterlands proper is another third, and the lands of Always Winter being the final third where naught else save the Night’s Watch would treat with the Free Folk. At most, Lord of the Andals you are.”
Aegon interrupted the moment with a tense cough. “You have a sharp tongue for a herald. Do you not fear losing it?”
“I have fought under the Lord Commander. There is more to fear than losing a tongue.”
This drew up the trio short as they exchanged looks.
The Winterlands up in the cold with their grumpkins and snarks may as well be legend to the rest of the Realm; even on Dragonstone, queer stories would filter down through the gateway of White Harbour to Gulltown and Maidenpool and Dragonstone – of three islands swallowed in a great wave, or battlefields vanishing in a blast of thunder, or of men who crossed seven leagues in a step, or the Night’s Watch battling the walking dead. Chief amongst the rumours were of Winter’s guardian, the Storm God Descended, the Last Hero – the Winter by which the Starks engaged to theirs by rite and blood and by which they claimed dominion of the Winterlands. The Winter that the Starks warned would come, so the joke went.
Whatever the rumour was, the yearly tribute paid to the Night’s Watch was the payment many a lord obliged first; even as far south as Highgarden, eminences such as Prince Gawen Gardener had been sent north with tribute and foodstuffs to the Wall. Harlan Tyrell’s assumption of Warden of the South had come with its own challenges once the missing prince had sent his own declaration to rally the Reacher lords, and it was a tense wait for the first lord to take sides – the Green Hand had oft spoken of their deeds in ages past, and it was something that Aegon needed to handle if he intended to rule one realm as one king.
Before he could ask, however, Moat Cailin’s walls loomed over them. The gate was a drawbridge already swung down, and dotting its length were small lanterns of glass on staves of iron that glared so bright, for a single moment Aegon could believe that magic had lasted beyond old Valyria. The winding path beyond the drawbridge was thin and almost labyrinthine, where towers and murder-holes would overlook the passages in ways unexpected of most castles – if the Vale’s Bloody Gate was adamant rock, the Moat was the barrel where fish laid to be shot and gutted.
Yet, its practicality ran alongside unexpected beauty – between the towers, where plank-bridges and cobbled paths led over rills that fed into thin streams, flowers of pink and blue and purple bloomed out of the muddy waters, and wide leaves floated atop, dotting between islands of green that, on closer inspection, bore great leaves of cabbage, rounds of turnips, great sticks of green that held runners of beans, bushes of cranberries. Fins and tails darted between the greens, that where men would peer down to regard the fish, fish would peer up to regard the men, passing strangers in this veil of tears.
On crossing the last zig-zagging bridge, Rhaenys jumped at a sudden crack of wood on stone, which on turning around turned out to be a wooden tube that was fed water. Where it filled the tube swung down, emptying its load before swinging back, to knock atop its rest with a decisive clack.
With a blush crossing her beautiful face, Rhaenys shuddered before she stood closer to Aegon. “I- I thought… we were watched.”
The herald’s answering smile was all teeth. “So you are.”
At least the great hall was warm – logs burned amongst the firedogs in the fixed wall-hearths. Great curtains tied to poles by the walls hung the sigils of the Winterlands. The curtains ran along the walls, and above them blocks of glass were interspaced to let in sunlight – only to illuminate the lords of the Winterlands that lined the walls with their bodies, clad in fur and boiled leather and studs of iron and steel and chain-mail. Already this sight was more luxurious than even the Graftons of Gulltown, but all of this led down the path of matted rushes, to the raised dais at the end, where three faldstools stood.
King Torrhen was the most identified at the centre, his crown an open circlet of hammered rune-carved bronze surmounted with nine longswords. His faldstool was of oak, free of ornamentation – though Aegon could not recall what was carved, his attention held behind what should be his greatest rival, the King of the Winterlands himself.
The seat behind Torrhen’s left was a foldable faldstool of ironwood joined by mortise and tenon, the hinge where the legs were bound in a crosswise position prominently displaying medallions with a carved spiral. The backrest was overlaid with furs of white and grey, and its armrests were carved as two snarling wolf heads. Its occupant shared similar features with the king, being of long face, dark hair and stormy eyes – though the effect was somewhat lessened by the booted leg tracing up his right leg, its toe clearly divided and with both parts capped in metal.
Said boot led up to tapered breeches that wrapped around the owner’s calf, led to black under a dark surcoat, from which snarling direwolf heads with red eyes glared in profile. The neighbour merely glanced up, and nestled within black furs Aegon was faced with a stare that would have shamed even the rubies on his crown or the light of dragon fire, set in a face of fine Valyrian beauty, though framed in white-silver rather than the beaten gold-silver of old Valyria.
Behind himself, Aegon heard a gasp from Orys, and his concern magnified when he turned around, to see his Hand and friend flushed, veins almost throbbing in his throat. His eyes widened and began to bulge, and he started shaking, choking gasps for breath that seemed stolen from his lips. Rhaenys gave a gasp as Orys fell to his knees.
The man blinked, and then returned to the game of teasing his neighbour behind their King and leaving Aegon standing before the eyes of the Winterlanders. Aegon saw another Stark or relative thereof hiding his face in his surcoat, more than one barely stifled sneer or amused glance or, in the case of the man with the chained-giant sigil on his surcoat, hiding his face in the tankard.
Torrhen Stark rose, and the moment passed to a beat of respect. “Welcome to Moat Cailin,” he gave. “Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.”
“I suppose I should be flattered,” A small smile. “For you to use that honorific.”
“That will not be the case for long, but you are a king still.” Aegon lifted his chin to gesture by Torrhen’s right. “Not that your subject cares for authority.”
The hall tensed, though upon seeing the subject of attention a susurration – a giggle, to great incredulity – echoed in the hall. The centre of attention lounged back in his faldstool; it was an impressive effect, that without the crown present one would have thought him the king.
Wordless, Torrhen cast the Valyrian a glance.
“Was this held under a flag of peace?” came the rejoinder.
“…”
“Have they taken guest rights?”
From the dawning realisation, Aegon was beginning to have an uncomfortable feeling.
“Then, our uninvited guests deserve everything they get,” was the glib conclusion, cheered by a few of the Winter lords. “And the lout was staring at my Magnar.”
Orys sputtered, but Aegon shook his head. “Usually… a Magnar of the north would not be… so… obscenely familiar.”
A wrinkle of the Stark nose probably held back many a curse or retort. “Your Grace, might I introduce Prince Eddard Stark, appointed Magnar of the Moat, who had so very kindly lent us his castle for the proceedings this day. Ned, King Aegon and Queen Rhaenys.”
The poor man on the ironwood faldstool now looked much harried, even as he rose and descended the dais to give the necessary courtesies. His… boon companion… followed, though keeping a distance and giving only a nod rather than sketching a bow or even bending the knee.
“I would extend guest rights,” Torrhen spoke once Prince Eddard and his… companion… had risen back behind the dais, “but I suspect that the following words and arguments would have us just as quickly withdrawing them, so let us get to the point while you still have your arms. You wish for our kingdom.”
The tone that this topic was brought up could have just as easily been talking about the weather.
“I want all seven.”
Torrhen said nothing, though the grey of his stare could match the storms along Crackclaw Point.
Aegon met his stare evenly. “King Torrhen. I, Aegon, the First of my Name, offer you this. Bend the knee, and you will rise a King no longer, but Warden of the North. You shall continue to rule, as you and your family have ruled for thousands of years. Your bannermen will keep their lands and titles. Westeros is a land divided, senseless and continuing. Together, we will lift this land from a collective of petty and squabbling kingdoms, to the one united realm that this continent has never known evermore.”
Where lords or knights south would have erupted in rage like the Last Storm, or called their banners as the Two Kings, the Winterlands instead were silent, with only the crackle of flame or the rustle of a wandering boot occurring in the background.
“You know, Prince Gawen Gardener brought up an interesting question,” Torrhen’s words broke the silence to replace it with tension more like a drawn bowstring. “What will happen with the Night’s Watch?”
“The… army at the Wall?” Aegon’s brow furrowed. “The order of black brothers fulfil a… noble obligation to safeguard the realm beyond the Wall. They honour all kings and obey none – surely… as King of the North you would have your concerns.”
“King of the Winterlands, Your Grace.” The Valyrian spoke up. “The ‘North’ implies that all the lords from the western shores of Salt Quay to Bear Island, to the east of White Harbour and Last Hearth, are centred not at Winterfell, but somewhere down the Riverlands.”
Aegon frowned. “That is why I have built the Aegonfort – that all of Westeros will centre at mine castle. High atop the Eyrie or deep within Casterly Rock, they now bend the knee to me – as they should. That an order will obey not the King of the Realm is ridiculous, when they take tribute and taxes to fight fairytales under some figure of myth and legend.”
Behind the northron King, Aegon could now see the Stark relation by Torrhen’s chair take on a strange look as though praying for patience. What ventilation there was in the hall calmed, or seemed to freeze. Even Torrhen Stark had a distinctly hunted look, the kind that mere mortals would take upon their first sight of a dragon.
The Valyrian was no longer smiling. It should have made no difference to his face, but as he gripped the armrests it seemed as though the fires wilted, the lichens on the walls grew laden with hoarfrost, and Aegon’s breath steamed out with cold.
Wait, that last one, that was…
The Valyrian was stopped when Prince Eddard reached over to lay a hand on his. “Calm, my dear. The queen is freezing.”
Aegon turned to his queen, who shuddered and stared from under frost-laden eyelashes where under her silks, her arms quickly moved to rub her flesh. Behind her, Orys was shaking ice crystals out of his beard. “What fell sorcery is this?”
“Oh gods,” Torrhen spoke. “Tobi, they think you’re a legend.”
“They talk about you like the snarks and grumpkins,” the Stark relation spoke in gay cheer. “Like you haven’t outlived their old Valyria.”
“Shut up, Brandon,” came the low hiss from the only sane Stark that was Prince Eddard, though it was not enough as his hand lifted to let the Val- the being rise, and with his rise a cold breeze blew through the hall to tug at Rhaenys’s skirts and the flames within the Great Hall sputtered, the Hall turning dim as the glass blocks overhead frosted over.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the being hissed, as from his hip clanked the gold and ruby pommel of what Aegon recognised to be the lost Dark Sister. “Tobirama of the North. I have the honour to be, since the Wall’s establishment, the one and only Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. A few years back the late King Arryn had traded the space above the Vale under the Night’s Watch obligation… so surprised I was to find a dragon flying about to spy on the Winterlands, my throwing lance was in hand and the dragon in the Bite before I thought to inform Winterfell.”
Faced with Aegon’s stupefaction, Torrhen only groaned. “You missed a few titles. Master of the Moat, Bane of Winter... the only one relevant here, though, is Dragonslayer. Well, then, Your Grace… currently House Stark only holds Tobi back due to the Night’s Watch agreement with us. Us losing the Crown, means that you will renegotiate with him.”
Then his teeth were bared with a wolfish delight. “Quite honestly? I think you will end up trading the entire Seven Kingdoms by itself.”