Chapter 80: The North's Choice
The silence that followed Balerion's thunderous roar was absolute. It was a sound of ancient power, of dragons that melted stone and razed kingdoms. The Northern lords, a grim and hardened lot, stood frozen, their hands still hovering near their sword hilts. They had faced the Bolton betrayal, the Lannister armies, and the relentless cold of a harsh land. But they had never faced a living myth.
At the front of the formation, a young man of twenty-two years stood with a defiant posture that belied his shock. His face, etched with the grim resolve of a survivor, was not one of fear. This was Jon Snow, the King in the North, and in the crook of his arm, he held his own dragon, a small beast whose black scales and defiant green eyes were a testament to his own lineage. The small dragon, no larger than a warhorse, let out a tiny, high-pitched growl, a brave but futile challenge to the colossal beast before them.
Jon's eyes met Maegor's, his own grey gaze unblinking. He saw a man who looked like the heroes of old, a man with the legendary silver hair and purple eyes, wielding a sword he knew only from songs. But he also saw a man who had come with fire and brimstone, demanding submission. A king from the South, even with a dragon, was still a king from the South.
Jon stepped forward, leaving the ranks of his bewildered lords. His voice, though not magically amplified like Maegor's, was clear and firm, carrying the weight of his resolve. "My King," he began, using the title with a deliberate, pointed respect, "we did not forget history. We remember Torrhen Stark. He chose to save his people from fire. I am no different. I will not kneel out of fear. My people have bled enough."
A low murmur of approval rippled through the Northern ranks.
"We have fought against betrayal," Jon continued, his voice rising with a desperate passion, "we have fought against the false crowns of King's Landing. We have fought to survive in a land that has been broken by winter and by war. We will not be easily intimidated. We will not see our homes burn."
Maegor listened, a cold, appraising look in his eyes. He saw not a coward, but a king forged in steel and honor. The ancient Maegor within him, the ruthless conqueror, saw a man who should be crushed. But the Maegor who had been raised in the cold, who had seen Jon's quiet dignity on the Wall, saw something else. He saw kin. He saw a man who deserved to be an ally, not an enemy.
"Your honor is noted, Jon Snow," Maegor replied, his voice still commanding, but with a subtle change in tone. "But your defiance is foolish. Your people have bled enough. The true enemy is not here. The true enemy sits on a throne of lies in King's Landing. The true enemy is a long winter that is coming from the North."
Jon's eyes widened at the mention of the winter. A knowledge he held close, a truth he had seen with his own eyes. A truth that only a man who had been beyond the Wall would believe.
Maegor took a step forward, Blackfyre a dark, humming presence at his side. "Your small dragon, a brave but foolish beast, cannot win this war. It cannot save your people from the fire of Cersei Lannister. But mine can. I am here not to conquer, but to save. I am here to offer you an alliance, a partnership. I am the King, but you, Jon Snow, will be my Warden of the North. You will rule your people, but you will do so under my banner. You will be my hand in the North, my voice in the cold. We will fight together, against the lies of the South, and against the long winter that is coming."
He looked at the Northern lords, his Draconic Persuasion (Tier 2) and Conquest Aura (Epic) subtly influencing their will, not with fear, but with a promise of strength, of an alliance they could not refuse. "I will not see your people burn. I will not see the North bleed. But you will kneel. You will kneel not to a king from the South, but to a king who has come to save you. You will kneel to the Dragon, and you will rise as our greatest ally."
A silence, pregnant with possibility, fell over the courtyard. The lords of the North, who had been so defiant moments before, now looked at each other. They saw the truth in Maegor's words. They saw an alliance that would save them from certain destruction. They saw a dragon that could win the war against Cersei. They saw a king who, for all his arrogance, offered a path to survival.
Jon Snow, his own internal conflict finally resolved, looked from the small, defiant dragon in his arm to the colossal beast beside Maegor. He saw a chance to save his people. He saw a chance to win the war. He saw a king who, for all his flaws, was the one who could lead them to victory.
Slowly, deliberately, Jon Snow knelt.
He did not kneel out of fear, but out of a pragmatic choice for the survival of his people. He knelt not just to a king, but to an alliance.
"I, Jon Snow, King in the North, swear fealty to Maegor Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," Jon said, his voice ringing with a newfound purpose. "I will be your Warden of the North, your hand in the cold. I will fight for you. And my people will rise as your greatest allies."
One by one, the Northern lords followed their king's lead. Lord Royce, Lord Manderly, the Mormonts, the Boltons (the new, loyal ones, under a new banner)—they all knelt. They did so with a sense of grim duty and a flicker of hope. They had been through too much to not seize this opportunity. The North had made its choice. They would not burn. They would rise, under the banner of the Dragon.