Chapter 6: The Weight of a Crown, The Price of Winter
The chambers assigned to Torrhen Stark and his closest companions within Riverrun were comfortable enough, yet felt like a gilded cage. The scent of the Trident, damp and heavy, permeated the air, a constant reminder of their precarious position deep within enemy territory. The roars of the dragons, though less frequent now, still echoed periodically across the landscape – Aegon's unsubtle symphony of power. Ghost, confined with Torrhen, paced restlessly at times, his crimson eyes often fixed on the door as if sensing the unseen currents of hostility and suspicion that flowed through the conquered castle.
Torrhen himself projected an outward calm that belied the storm within. He spent the long hours of waiting in apparent quiet contemplation, poring over maps of the North he had brought, or discussing mundane matters of husbandry and trade with Lord Karstark. But beneath the surface, his mind was a maelstrom. His assassin's instincts were on high alert, every shadow, every distant shout, every passing Targaryen guard a potential threat to be analyzed. Flamel's ancient wisdom urged patience and observation, reminding him that even in the face of overwhelming power, knowledge and timing were potent weapons.
He replayed the audience with Aegon countless times, dissecting every word, every glance. Had he pushed too hard? Had his demands been too audacious, perceived as arrogance rather than a genuine attempt to find a workable peace? The foreknowledge of his historical epithet – The King Who Knelt – was a bitter pill. He was determined that if that moment came, it would not be an act of craven submission, but a strategic sacrifice, a painful but necessary price to preserve his people and prepare for the true, colder darkness he knew was stirring far to the North.
His Northern companions were a study in contrasts. Lord Rickard Karstark, a man whose bluntness was usually a prelude to action, was uncharacteristically subdued, his brow furrowed in thought. "You played a bold hand, lad," he'd grunted, after their return from the Great Hall. "Bolder than I'd have dared. If the dragon takes offense, we'll all be tasting his fire."
"We did not come this far to offer our necks without a word, my lord," Torrhen had replied evenly. "The North expects us to stand for its rights, even in the dragon's shadow."
Lady Arya Flint, her face like a carved weirwood knot, had merely nodded, her eyes glinting with a fierce, almost feral approval. "The mountain clans do not break easily, Lord Stark. You spoke with the voice of our hills and our winters. Let the dragon chew on that." Her unwavering stoicism was a silent pillar of support.
Young Maester-in-training Bryen was wide-eyed, diligently scribbling notes, torn between fear and the academic thrill of witnessing history unfold. "Their Valyrian is remarkably pure, Lord Torrhen," he'd whispered at one point, "almost classical. And Queen Rhaenys's grasp of the Westerosi dialects is… formidable."
Torrhen used the waiting period for subtle reconnaissance. Ghost, under the cover of darkness and Torrhen's own skinchanged senses guiding him, became his eyes and ears within the less guarded sections of Riverrun's outer courtyards. The wolf brought back a tapestry of scents and sounds: the nervous chatter of Tully servants, the boastful talk of Targaryen soldiers, the clang of smiths working late into the night, presumably repairing weapons or forging new tools of war. Nothing overtly threatening to their immediate safety, but a constant reminder of the military machine that surrounded them.
Torrhen also focused his own Flamel-honed senses. He could taste the fear in the air, the arrogance, the uncertainty. He noted the subtle magical residue around the Targaryen siblings whenever they passed nearby – a shimmering aura of heat and power, strongest around Aegon, but distinct in Visenya's icy intensity and Rhaenys's more volatile, flickering energy. He made no attempt to probe it directly; that would be foolhardy. But understanding its texture, its feel, was another piece of the puzzle.
On the afternoon following their initial audience, a summons came not from Aegon, but from Queen Rhaenys. She requested Torrhen's presence in the Godswood of Riverrun – a place he had not expected a Targaryen to frequent.
He found her there, standing before the ancient heart tree of the Tullys, its carved face weeping amber sap. Meraxes, her silver dragon, was not present, for which Torrhen was grateful; the confined space of a Godswood was no place for such a creature. Rhaenys was dressed in soft leathers, less martial than her sister, her silver-gold hair unbound and catching the dappled sunlight that filtered through the leaves.
"Lord Stark," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle, though her violet eyes were sharp. "A strange place for a dragon queen to seek solace, you might think."
"The old gods have a quiet wisdom, Your Grace," Torrhen replied, his gaze respectful. "Perhaps even those who command fire can appreciate it."
"Fire is life, Lord Stark. And power. But it can also consume, if not carefully managed." She turned to face him fully. "My brother considers your words. You surprised him. You surprised us all."
"Was that unwise, Your Grace?"
Rhaenys smiled faintly. "Aegon respects strength. And you, for a man who has not faced our dragons in battle, show a… peculiar lack of fear. Or perhaps, a different kind of courage." Her eyes searched his. "Tell me, Lord Stark, this 'Long Night' you spoke of. This ancient darkness beyond the Wall. Is it truly more than a Northern folktale to frighten children?"
Torrhen knew this was a test. Not just of his knowledge, but of his sincerity. He met her gaze evenly. "It is as real as the Others who brought it, Your Grace. As real as the Wall that was built to hold them back. A winter that lasted a generation. A darkness that sought to extinguish all life. The North remembers, even if the South has forgotten. And the signs… the signs suggest its return may not be mere fancy." He allowed a sliver of the chilling certainty he felt from his encounter in the Winterfell Godswood to colour his tone.
Rhaenys was silent for a moment, her gaze distant. "Valyria too had its ancient prophecies, its tales of ultimate endings. Most dismissed them as myth, until the Doom came." She looked back at him. "My brother seeks to build an empire that will last a thousand years. Such a darkness… it would be a threat to all he wishes to achieve."
"Indeed, Your Grace. A united Westeros, a strong Westeros, would be better positioned to face it. But a North that is broken, its spirit crushed, its people alienated… it would be a weakness in the shield, not its strength."
"You argue your case well, Lord Stark," Rhaenys said, a hint of admiration in her voice. "You fight with words as fiercely as any Northern warrior might fight with an axe." She paused. "My sister, Visenya, believes you are merely cunning, that your talk of ancient evils is a ploy to extract concessions. She thinks the North should be made an example of, like Harrenhal."
Torrhen felt a chill at Visenya's name. He knew she was the more ruthless of the two sisters. "Queen Visenya is a warrior. She sees the world in terms of strength and submission. But there are strengths beyond the battlefield, Your Grace. The resilience of a people. The endurance of a land. The memory of the old gods."
"And you believe these will be enough to sway my brother, when he has Balerion the Black Dread at his command?"
"I believe," Torrhen said carefully, "that a wise king builds his house on stone, not on ash. I offer him stone, Your Grace. Hard, unyielding Northern granite, but stone that will support his kingdom, if treated with respect."
Rhaenys studied him for another long moment, then gave a slow nod. "You have given us much to consider, Lord Stark. Aegon will summon you soon." With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Torrhen alone with the weeping heart tree and the heavy weight of unspoken possibilities. Had he gained an ally, however tentative? Or merely provided more ammunition for his detractors?
The final summons came as dusk was settling over Riverrun. The Great Hall was less crowded this time, the atmosphere more formal, more grim. Aegon sat upon the Tully high seat, flanked by Visenya and Rhaenys. Dark Sister lay across Visenya's lap. Aegon's expression was unreadable, carved from stone.
Torrhen entered, his Northern contingent a small, resolute island in a sea of Targaryen power. Ghost walked silently at his heel, his red eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight.
"Lord Torrhen Stark," Aegon began, his voice resonating with authority. "We have considered your proposals. Your… terms for the North's submission to our rule." He paused, the silence stretching, taut and heavy. Torrhen kept his breathing even, his gaze locked on the Targaryen king. This was it. The culmination of all his planning, all his fear, all his desperate hope.
"You ask for autonomy in your laws and customs," Aegon continued. "You ask for the Old Gods to remain untouched. You ask that House Stark remain Lords Paramount of the North. And you ask that our dragons not be garrisoned upon your lands without your consent." He recited the points accurately, his voice betraying no emotion.
"These are significant concessions," Visenya interjected, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel. "Concessions no other kingdom has been granted. Concessions born of your audacity, not your strength."
"My sister voices the concerns of many," Aegon said. "To grant such terms might be seen as weakness. It might invite other lords to press for similar privileges."
Torrhen remained silent, letting them speak. His fate, and the fate of the North, hung in the balance.
Aegon leaned forward. "However," he said, and Torrhen felt a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere, "the North is different. Your arguments regarding its vastness, its harshness, and the… unique nature of its people and its ancient threats, have merit. A protracted war in the North, as winter approaches, would indeed be costly. And the tales of the Long Night… they are not unknown to us. Valyria had its own libraries, its own prophecies."
He looked at Rhaenys, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Then he looked back at Torrhen.
"Therefore, we are prepared to offer this:" Aegon declared. "House Stark shall indeed remain Lords Paramount of the North, and Wardens of the North. You shall retain the right to dispense justice according to your ancient laws and customs, so long as they do not directly contradict the King's law on matters of treason, murder of royal officials, or rebellion against the Iron Throne. The Old Gods of the Forest may continue to be worshipped, and no septs or septries will be forced upon your people, though the Faith of the Seven must be permitted for those who choose to follow it."
Torrhen listened intently, his mind racing. It was not everything he had asked for, but it was more, far more, than he had dared to truly expect. The King's Law override was a significant concession from his side, but perhaps unavoidable.
"And the dragons?" Torrhen asked, his voice carefully controlled.
Aegon's lips curved into a semblance of a smile. "My dragons go where I command. However, I have no desire to garrison them in the frozen North if their presence would incite true unrest rather than ensure loyalty. So long as the North remains loyal, and meets its obligations to the Crown, my dragons shall not be a permanent fixture in your lands. Though expect them to visit, Lord Stark. It is good for kings to see all corners of their realm."
Torrhen processed this. Visits were one thing; a permanent, occupying force was another. It was a carefully worded compromise, but one he could likely live with.
"And what obligations does the Crown expect of the North?" Torrhen asked.
"The North will swear fealty to House Targaryen as the rightful rulers of the Seven Kingdoms," Aegon stated. "You will provide levies and taxes as requested by the Iron Throne, proportionate to your lands and population, though we understand the North's resources are not as plentiful as those of the Reach. You will not make war upon other lords of the realm without the King's leave. And you will answer the King's summons to council or to war when called."
Standard terms of fealty, more or less.
"These terms… " Torrhen began slowly, choosing his words with infinite care, "are a foundation upon which a lasting peace between the North and the Iron Throne might be built." He looked at his companions. Lord Karstark gave a slow, grudging nod. Lady Flint's expression remained impassive, but he sensed a lessening of her fierce tension.
"Is this acceptance, Lord Stark?" Aegon pressed, his violet eyes boring into him.
Torrhen took a deep breath. This was the moment. The moment that would define his reign, his legacy. The King Who Knelt. He could still refuse. He could still lead his people into a bloody, desperate war, a war they would almost certainly lose, though they would exact a terrible price. He thought of the wards around Winterfell, the alchemical weapons he'd prepared, the nascent connection to the weirwood network. They were defenses, yes, but were they enough to truly defy three dragons and the might of a unified South? Or were they merely tools to make the North a harder pill to swallow, to achieve the best possible terms in a losing game?
He thought of his younger siblings, Lyanna and little Brandon, and Eddard. He thought of the faces of the Northern smallfolk, who would bear the brunt of any war. He thought of the Others, waiting in the frozen dark. The North needed to be strong for that true enemy, not bled white in a futile war against dragons.
His assassin's pragmatism, Flamel's long view of history, and the nascent Stark sense of duty to his people converged. This was not surrender. This was a strategic retreat, a preservation of strength, a bending of the branch so it would not break in the storm.
Slowly, deliberately, Torrhen Stark, son of Beron, acting Lord of Winterfell, went down on one knee. He felt the cold stone of Riverrun's floor beneath him. He heard a collective intake of breath from his Northern retinue, a sigh from Rhaenys, a faint, almost inaudible grunt of satisfaction from Visenya. Ghost, beside him, whined softly, pressing his great head against Torrhen's side.
"Before the Old Gods and the New," Torrhen said, his voice clear and steady, though every word felt like a lead weight, "I, Torrhen of House Stark, acting in the name of my father, Lord Beron Stark, do hereby swear fealty to Aegon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm." He raised his eyes to meet Aegon's. "The North will keep faith, so long as faith is kept with us."
Aegon Targaryen's expression did not change, but there was a new light in his violet eyes. He rose from his seat and drew his Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre – a blade whose history Torrhen knew all too well. He did not raise it to knight Torrhen, or to menace him, but held it point down, almost like a scepter.
"Rise, Torrhen Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," Aegon proclaimed, his voice filling the hall. "Your oath is accepted. The North is now part of our realm. So long as you and your descendants remain true to this oath, House Targaryen will uphold its end of this accord."
Torrhen rose, the weight of his decision settling upon him like a physical cloak. He was the King Who Knelt. He had bent the knee. But he had done so, he fiercely told himself, to save his people, to preserve what he could of Northern autonomy, to buy time. Time to strengthen the North, not just against southern kings, but against the true winter that was coming.
The formalities that followed were a blur. Oaths were recorded by Maesters. Lord Karstark and Lady Flint, their faces grim but resigned, also swore fealty on behalf of their houses. Torrhen felt a profound weariness, but also a strange sense of clarity. He had made his choice. Now he had to live with its consequences, and ensure it was the right one.
As they were preparing to depart Riverrun the next morning, Rhaenys Targaryen sought him out one last time. Meraxes was nearby, her great golden eyes watching them, smoke curling from her nostrils.
"You have a heavy burden, Lord Stark," she said quietly. "Many in your land will call you coward. Many will say you betrayed your ancestors."
"Let them," Torrhen said, his gaze steady. "My concern is for the living, and for the generations to come. Winter is coming, Your Grace. For all of us. And the North must be ready."
Rhaenys looked at him, a long, searching look. "Perhaps you are right, Torrhen Stark. Perhaps you are more than just the King Who Knelt." She offered him a small, wry smile. "Ride safely. And pray your Northern winters are not too harsh for us southerners when my brother decides to visit."
Torrhen merely inclined his head. As he mounted his horse, Ghost at his side, ready to begin the long journey back to a North that was now part of a larger, dragon-ruled kingdom, he knew his path was set. He had bought peace, for now. But the price was eternal vigilance, and the silent, secret continuation of his work. The dragons had been pacified, but the Others still waited. And Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, the assassin reborn, the alchemist in the shadows, had only just begun to prepare for the true Long Night. His vigil was far from over.