77 AC
Kingslanding
Third Person Pov
Two moons had passed since the North's independence, and the realm still reeled from the seismic shift. Whispers of the "ice dragons" that could topple the mighty Targaryen beasts spread like wildfire, fueling awe and terror in equal measure. In the Red Keep, the heart of the once-unchallenged Targaryen power, the weight of their defeat was a palpable presence.
In a somber meeting within the Red Keep, only the adult members of the royal family were present. King Jaehaerys, Queen Alysanne, their second son Baelon, and their recently returned children, Aemon, Alyssa, and Daella, sat around the polished dragonstone table. Their youngest, still children, were spared the grim council. The air was thick with unspoken grief and the sting of humiliation.
"We lost an army," Jaehaerys stated, his voice flat, his gaze unfocused on the distant walls of King's Landing. "Our treasury is half. And the North… the North is gone." He looked at Alysanne, a silent question in his eyes. "How could we have been so blind?"
Alysanne, her face pale, gently gripped his hand. "Hubris, my love. We believed our power absolute, our understanding complete. The North was always different, but we chose to see it as simply another part of the realm to be managed."
Baelon, usually so fiery, now slumped in his seat, his broad shoulders unusually hunched. His gaze was distant, his face drawn. "Vhagar… she fought with such fury," he muttered, his voice quiet, tinged with a raw, uncharacteristic despair. "But that white beast… it just shrugged her off. I wasn't strong enough. We weren't strong enough. We failed them." He looked at his father, his eyes clouded with shame. "We failed the realm. We failed to defend our honor."
Alyssa, though her own ordeal had been harsh, reached across the table and placed a firm hand on her husband's arm. Her usual fiery spirit shone through, now tempered with resilience. "Don't say that, Baelon," she said, her voice clear and steady. "No one could have predicted such a foe. And we fought them, my love. Our dragons are alive. We returned." She squeezed his arm. "That is not failure. That is survival. And we will learn from this. We will be stronger."
Aemon, however, held a different perspective. He had been a captive, yes, but also an observer, privy to insights his family hadn't. He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the table.
"Father, Mother… if I may," Aemon began, his voice calm, scholarly even, despite his ordeal. "During my… stay… I had occasion to speak with Theon Stark." He paused, letting the revelation sink in. "He did not gloat, not truly. He spoke of the North, of us. And he offered… a perspective."
Jaehaerys's gaze sharpened. "What perspective, Aemon? What did this… barbarian king say?"
Aemon met his father's eyes steadily. "He said, 'We people of the North are simple. We do as we tell and speak as we feel. We care not for luxury or pageantry. We are not like southern lords, where we start politics and grab for power like crabs in a bucket. It was bound to happen, if not now, then in the future. We were just different.'" The stark words hung in the air, a chilling testament to the chasm between the two halves of the realm.
Aemon continued, recounting Theon's words with meticulous detail. "'Your father should have known about the oaths of Torrhen Stark and Aegon the Conqueror,' Theon told me. 'Even if he doesn't, he should not have made power moves on North. We Stark ruled the North for 8,000 years, that should tell you about the loyalty of the Houses of North.'"
Baelon scoffed, but Aemon held up a hand. "He saw our efforts to centralize power as a breach of that ancient pact. He sees our royal officials, our septons, our attempts to integrate the North into the larger realm as interference, as a violation of the very terms that brought them into the Seven Kingdoms."
Alysanne listened intently, her brow furrowed. "He truly believes we broke faith first?"
"He does," Aemon confirmed. "He views our actions as an invasion of their autonomy. And he believes their reaction was justified self-defense, a reclaiming of what was always theirs by right of their pact."
A heavy silence descended upon the table as the weight of Theon's accusations settled. It was a truth, ugly and unpalatable, that conflicted with their own narrative of righteous rule.
"And then," Aemon continued, his voice dropping slightly, "as I was being led away, just before my release, he offered a… a warning, and a hope."
He looked directly at Jaehaerys, then Alysanne. "'Do not forget your gods,' he said, 'and become a lackey of the Faith. And be cautious around the maesters and the Faith itself.'"
Jaehaerys frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "What did he mean by that?"
"He sees our devotion to the Seven as a weakness, a subservience to a foreign power that seeks to dictate terms even to kings," Aemon explained. "And the maesters… he views their influence with suspicion, as an insidious means of control from the outside."
Alyssa shivered slightly, remembering the stark, unyielding faces of the Northmen. "They are a different breed."
"Indeed," Aemon agreed. "But then, as he turned to leave, his very last words to me were, 'I hope to meet in the future where our both kingdoms are on friendly terms. So when the darkness comes to the realm, we can Stand united.'"
Jaehaerys, who had listened with a growing intensity, his face already etched with the recent defeat, now contorted into a grim mask. His silver brows drew together, his lips thinned into a hard line, and his eyes—those keen, intelligent violet eyes—deepened with a sudden, dreadful understanding. This was no casual comment. This was a reference to the Aegon's prophecy, a dread knowledge passed down through generations.
He exchanged a knowing, somber look with Aemon. In that brief, shared glance, a silent conversation passed between father and son. Aemon's own gaze held a similar gravity, a recognition of the terrible weight of foretelling that had just been uttered by the King in the North. It was the chill of ancient prophecies, of the very reason their ancestors had forged seven kingdoms, a darkness that transcended the petty squabbles of lords and kings.
Around them, the others in the room bore only confusion. Baelon, his earlier despair replaced by a baffled frown, exchanged a puzzled glance with Alyssa. Her own brow furrowed in questioning. Queen Alysanne, ever perceptive, watched the silent exchange between her husband and son, a flicker of concern entering her eyes as she tried to decipher the sudden, profound shift in their demeanor. The "darkness" Theon spoke of clearly held a meaning for Jaehaerys and Aemon that escaped the rest. Their faces were a tableau of incomprehension, reflecting the vast gulf of esoteric knowledge that separated them from the King and his scholarly son. The very air in the chamber seemed to grow colder, charged with an unidentifiable dread.
The King of the North, who had just humiliated them, crippled their treasury, and taken their kin, now spoke of a future unity against an even greater threat. It was a paradox that left the Targaryens in the Red Keep with a new, unsettling understanding of the world and their place within it.
Dorne
As the Targaryens grappled with their defeat and the chilling implications of Theon Stark's words in the distant Red Keep, a vastly different scene unfolded in the sun-drenched, vibrant lands of Dorne. The news of the Targaryen army's decimation at the Neck, the humiliation of the Dragon King, and the crippling ransom paid for his kin, had reached the southern principality with a speed that defied distance.
In the ancient, sprawling stronghold of Sunspear, within the cool, arcing halls of the Old Palace, Prince Lewyn Martell hosted a celebration that was both jubilant and pointedly defiant. The air was thick with the rich scent of Dornish spiced wine, the earthy aroma of roasted goat, and the heady perfume of blooming night-blooming jasmine. Musicians played spirited, rhythmic tunes on stringed instruments, and the laughter of bannermen echoed off the mosaic-tiled walls.
Prince Lewyn, a man of sharp wit and keen political acumen, sat at the head of a long table laden with delicacies. His dark eyes, usually reserved, gleamed with unconcealed satisfaction. He wore light silks, befitting the Dornish heat, and a goblet of potent red wine rested in his hand.
"To the North!" Prince Lewyn declared, raising his goblet high, his voice ringing with clear, resonant joy. "To King Theon Stark! May his reign be long, and his defiance remembered!"
His bannermen, fierce and proud Dornish lords and knights, roared their approval, raising their own goblets with equal enthusiasm. "To the North!" they chanted, the name of the distant, cold kingdom now synonymous with Targaryen downfall.
"The Dragon King thought to burn them under his heel," Lord Uller of Hellholt boomed, his craggy face split by a wide grin. "He sent his dragons, his armies, his gold... and the North threw it all back in his face! What a sight that must have been!"
"Eight million gold dragons!" chuckled Lady Toland, her eyes bright with amusement. "And their precious realm splintered! The sun shines brighter in Dorne this day, my Prince, knowing that the dragons bleed, and their coffers run dry."
Prince Lewyn took a long, satisfied draught of his wine. The defeat of the Targaryens, while far from their own borders, was a victory for Dorne. For generations, they had defied the dragons, choosing to bleed rather than bend. This humiliation of the Iron Throne, the shattering of its aura of invincibility, was a validation of their own fierce independence. It weakened their ancient enemy, and it showed the entire realm that even the most powerful could be brought low.
"Indeed, my lords," Lewyn agreed, his smile widening. "The Dragon King, who believed himself the Young King, now tastes the bitter fruit of hubris. Let them squabble amongst themselves, lick their wounds, and bleed their gold. While they do so, Dorne will remain strong, unbent, and unbroken. For every coin that leaves their treasury for the frozen North, it is a coin that cannot be spent against us."
The celebrations continued late into the Dornish night, a stark counterpoint to the somber mood in King's Landing. For the Martells and their bannermen, the defeat of the Targaryens was not a tragedy, but a triumph, a resounding affirmation of their own long-held defiance.
Citadel
While the Targaryens grappled with their defeat in the Red Keep and the Martells celebrated in Sunspear, a different, more chilling concern gripped the silent, ancient halls of the Citadel in Oldtown. Here, amidst mountains of scrolls and the clinking of chains, the Archmaesters, the collective brain of Westeros, gathered in their inner sanctum. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, lamp oil, and unspoken apprehension.
High Maester Vorian, his face a web of wrinkles, presided over the grim assembly. Archmaester Perian listened with a rare, uneasy silence. Archmaester Tormund, ever focused on healing, now worried about the realm's health in a political sense.
"The defeat at Moat Cailin," High Maester Vorian began, his voice a low, raspy murmur that resonated with the weight of his wisdom, "is unprecedented. Not since the Conquest has the Iron Throne suffered such a resounding, comprehensive blow. The loss of the army, the crippling of the treasury, and most critically... the secession of the North." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his peers. "This shakes the very foundations of the realm as we know it."
Archmaester Pylos, a stern man who oversaw the Ravenry, cleared his throat. "The implications are vast. The balance of power is irrevocably altered. Other kingdoms, emboldened by the North's defiance, may consider their own claims to autonomy. The faith of the smallfolk in Targaryen might... it will surely waver."
But a deeper, more immediate concern gnawed at them, one that was only hinted at by the subtle shifting in their seats and the worried glances exchanged between the most senior scholars.
"Beyond the political tremors," Archmaester Gareth, the dour Maester, finally voiced the unspoken dread, "there is a matter of… communication. Or rather, the lack thereof." He adjusted his spectacles, his fingers nervously drumming on the table. "Our Northern maesters. It has been over two moons since the battle. We have received no reliable word from them since the initial, fragmented reports of the Targaryen defeat."
A palpable unease settled over the room. Each maester present knew the critical role their brethren played throughout the realm. Maesters were the eyes and ears of the Citadel, loyal servants who served lords but ultimately reported to Oldtown. They were spies, historians, counselors, and chroniclers all rolled into one, subtly influencing events for the greater good, as they saw it.
"Maester Quillan at Winterfell," Archmaester Tormund murmured, rubbing his chin. "Maester Corbin at Torrhen's Square. Maester Borin at Bear Island. And those sent to other, smaller keeps." His voice trailed off. "Not a single raven. Not a single message regarding the aftermath of the battle, the health of the captured royals, or the disposition of the Northern forces. It is… concerning."
High Maester Vorian leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Indeed, it is. We sent them to attend to their duties, yes, to counsel their lords. But also, to observe. To report on the true strength of the Northern lords, their allegiances, their intentions. To be our eyes and ears within their courts. And for the past two moons, there has been silence. A complete, uncharacteristic blackout."
Archmaester Perian, usually aloof, now spoke, his voice unusually grave. "The King in the North, Theon Stark, clearly views our order with suspicion." Lyra's gaze hardened. "If he has cut off our lines of communication, if he has... silenced our brethren... that represents a new and dangerous precedent. It indicates a level of control, a distrust of outside influence, that we have not seen since before the Conquest."
The Archmaesters looked at each other, the unspoken fear heavy in the air. Their network, their carefully cultivated web of influence across Westeros, relied on the loyalty and freedom of their maesters. If Theon Stark had severed that link, if he truly believed them to be instruments of Southern power, then the Citadel's ability to monitor, to guide, to truly understand the realm was in jeopardy. The North was not just politically independent; it was becoming a black box, a region beyond their subtle reach, and that, perhaps, was the most unsettling implication of all.