The sky above Moat Cailin was a graveyard of ambition. The roar of dragons had been replaced by the mournful whistle of the wind through the marshes, a sound now underscored by the low, pained groans of the eight captive Targaryen beasts.
Edric Stark, his crystalline wings retracting into his back with a sound like shattering glass, stood amidst the steam and carnage. His Ice Blade was still in hand, its lethal cold a stark contrast to the rapidly cooling bodies of King Aenys and Prince Aegon. T
he surviving dragons—Balerion, Starfyre, and the six younger beasts—were hopelessly entangled in colossal chains of magically-dense ice, each link as thick as a man's torso.
He did not waste time. He turned his gaze to the dragons, his power surging. The temperature, already plunging from his very presence, dropped to an unnatural, excruciating low. The air around the dragons solidified, the frost biting deep.
The beasts, wounded and riderless, thrashed wildly against their chains, their roars turning to agonized shrieks. But the cold was absolute, a crushing, anesthetic force. One by one, their movements grew sluggish, their eyes rolled back, and they fell into a deep, unconscious stupor.
With the sky secured, Edric turned his attention to the ground. The ninety-thousand-man Targaryen army stood frozen in terror, their vanguard drowned in mud, their royal command slain before their very eyes. He took a single step forward, and his voice, amplified by the wind, boomed across the causeway—a sound of ice grinding against stone.
"I am Edric Stark, Prince of the North! Your liege lords are dead. Their dragons are captive. Your army is broken."
He pointed the Ice Blade at the sea of dragon banners. "You have one choice. Stand down and surrender, or the blood of every Andal here will flood the Neck and turn this swamp to a frozen red grave. Decide now."
From the terrified ranks, a single figure in gleaming, golden-lion armor stepped forward, his helmet held in his trembling hand. He was Tommen Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, the appointed commander of the ground forces.
He had seen magic that day that defied all sanity. He had seen princes and kings die like common men, and he had seen the Black Dread itself wounded and chained.
He gulped, his throat dry, the commanding presence of the Ice Prince pressing down on him like a physical weight. He nodded, his voice hoarse. "We stand down. The army of the Six Kingdoms surrenders to House Stark."
Edric held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once. He turned, his ice-wings unfurling again, and with a single, powerful beat, launched himself back into the air. He soared over the causeway and landed with impossible lightness on the ramparts of Moat Cailin.
King Torrhen Stark and Brandon Snow were waiting. The old king's face was grim, but his eyes blazed with a fierce, burning pride. He clapped his armored hand on his son's shoulder, the metal ringing.
"You have saved the North, Edric," Torrhen's voice was thick with emotion. "You have ended a war our ancestors could only dream of fighting."
Brandon Snow, ever the grizzled warrior, simply grinned, clapping Edric on the back so hard it would have staggered a normal man. "Gods be good, lad. I thought Alaric was a terror. You... you're a bloody blizzard."
From the walls below, the Northern soldiers, having witnessed the god-like victory, erupted. A single chant began, growing from a murmur to a deafening roar that shook the ancient towers.
"EDRIC! EDRIC! ICE DRAGON! ICE DRAGON! STARK!"
The lords of the North—Umber, Karstark, Glover, Manderly—raised their swords, their voices joining the thunderous chorus for the prince who had torn dragons from the sky.
That night, the great hall of Moat Cailin, a place usually damp and grim, was alive with the roaring fires and triumphant shouts of victory. Barrels of ale and "Stark's Fire" whiskey were cracked open.
Soldiers sang songs of the "Winter King" who froze fire and the "Ice Dragon" who hunted Targaryens. Torrhen and Edric sat at the high table, their joy tempered by the gravity of what came next.
The next morning, the mood was one of cold, hard politics. Tommen Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, was brought to the solar, not in chains, but as a defeated peer. He stood before Torrhen, Edric, and Brandon.
"The Targaryen dynasty is broken," Torrhen stated, his voice flat. "Their armies are shattered, and their beasts are our prizes." He gestured to the south. "But the Six Kingdoms remain, leaderless and in chaos. This cannot stand. It invites anarchy."
Tommen Lannister, pale but composed, simply asked, "What are your terms, Your Grace? Will you sit the Iron Throne?"
Torrhen shook his head. "The North has one King. We have no interest in your southern squabbles. But we will have security. We will have a permanent end to this threat. In one moon's time, I will travel to King's Landing. All Lord Paramounts of the five kingdoms will meet me there. We will be joined by the Ruling Princess of Dorne. Together, we will decide the fate of your realms and dictate the terms of your surrender."
Tommen, seeing no other choice, bowed his head. "The Westerlands will abide, King Torrhen. I will send the ravens."
The month that followed the Battle of Moat Cailin was the longest in Westerosi history. It was a month where an entire continent held its breath, trapped between a dead era and a terrifying, unknown future.
In King's Landing, the silence was heavier than any siege. The Great Hall of the Red Keep, built to house the glory of Aegon the Conqueror, had become a cold, cavernous tomb. The Iron Throne, that jagged monstrosity of melted swords, loomed at the far end of the hall, unoccupied, its very presence a mockery of the dynasty that had forged it.
The Lord Paramounts of the defeated Six Kingdoms had gathered, not as rulers, but as supplicants awaiting judgment. They sat at a long, oaken table, the empty chairs of the slain Targaryen princes serving as grim reminders of the new power dynamic.
Ormund Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, was a thundercloud of a man. His face was purple with suppressed rage, his house's blood-ties to the Targaryens making this defeat a profound, personal humiliation. He hadn't spoken a word since arriving, merely gripping the pommel of his sword, his knuckles white.
Beside him, Mathias Tyrell of Highgarden was his opposite. He was pale and sweating, his fine silks rumpled. His house had been gifted the Reach for kneeling, and he fully intended to keep it by the same means. He was a reed in the wind, ready to bend to whichever storm blew strongest.
Rogar Tully of Riverrun appeared simply lost. His family owed their entire legacy to Aegon's destruction of Harren Hoare. He was a man adrift, his loyalty now homeless, his expression one of deep, conflicted dread.
At the far end sat Roderick Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie. He projected an air of supreme arrogance, as if this entire affair was a distasteful squabble far below his mountain fortress. But his eyes, sharp and nervous, never strayed far from the hall's entrance. Even the Vale's impunity felt thin in this new, magical age.
And then there was Tommen Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. He was the pragmatist, the commander who had chosen surrender over annihilation. He was the only one who had seen the Ice Prince in action, the only one who truly understood the totality of their defeat. He was not here to fight or posture; he was here to negotiate his survival.
"They make us wait," Ormund Baratheon finally growled, his voice a low rumble. "The Northern savages make us wait in our own keep. It is an insult."
"It is their right," Tommen Lannister replied, his voice flat. "They are the victors. We are the vanquished. I suggest you remember that, Lord Ormund, lest your temper cost you more than just your pride."
"Pride is all my house has left!" Baratheon snapped, half-rising from his chair.
"Then be prepared to lose it," a new voice said, this one female, sharp, and laced with the heat of the desert.
The great oaken doors of the hall swung open, and Princess Deria Martell, Ruling Princess of Dorne, entered. She was not announced. She needed no herald. She was flanked by two hundred of her elite guard, their light armor gleaming, their spears held at the ready.
Beside her walked her daughter and heir, Princess Nymeria Martell, whose watchful, intelligent grey eyes—a clear inheritance from her father, Alaric Stark—swept the room, assessing every lord, every knight, every shadow.
The Southern lords watched, stunned, as the Dornish delegation marched into the hall and took seats at the council table as if they owned it.
"You have no right here, Martell," Roderick Arryn scoffed, regaining his composure. "This is a council of the Six Kingdoms."
"Was," Deria corrected him, her voice ringing with authority. "It is now a tribunal of the victors. And we, unlike you, were never conquered." She looked down the table at the empty throne. "We are here to ensure the mistakes of your broken dynasty are not repeated."
Before Lord Arryn could sputter a reply, the very air in the center of the hall changed. A biting cold dropped the temperature by twenty degrees, and the lords' breath plumed in front of their faces.
Then at last came the stark retinue. First came Brandon Snow, the grizzled commander of Moat Cailin, his face a roadmap of scars, his hand resting casually on his greatsword.
He was followed by King Torrhen Stark. The old king, his grey beard long and his eyes weary but iron-firm, leaned on his Valyrian steel sword, Ice, as if it were a walking stick. He wore no crown, only the grim mantle of his authority.
Finally Edric Stark walked through. The hall fell into a terrifying, absolute silence. The gathered lords—even Ormund Baratheon—took an involuntary step back. This was not the man they had heard whispers of. This was the element itself.
Edric's presence was an aura, a physical weight of absolute cold. His pale blue eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own, and the Ice Blade of the Night King, sheathed at his hip, radiated a visible frost that crept along the scabbard.
He was the Ice Dragon, the Kingslayer, the man who had single-handedly executed the entire Targaryen line of command. He was the most dangerous man in the world, and he looked at the gathered lords with an indifference.
Torrhen Stark did not look at the Iron Throne. He walked to the head of the long council table and sat, placing Ice on the wood before him. Deria Martell sat at his right. Edric and Brandon stood behind the king's chair, two wolves guarding their alpha.