"My lords," Torrhen began, his voice the rumble of a distant avalanche. "You are here because you lost a war. Your kings are dead. Your princes are dead. Your armies are shattered. And your dragons... your dragons are mine."
The finality of that statement hung in the air. The ultimate weapons, the source of Targaryen power for half a century, were now spoils of war.
"You dare!" Ormund Baratheon finally exploded, his rage overcoming his fear. "You murder the royal blood, you steal their beasts, and now you come here to—"
Ormund's words cut off in a choked gasp. He didn't see Edric move. He only felt the cold. A thick, opaque layer of ice instantly encased him from the neck down, freezing him to his chair. His eyes bulged in terror, his mouth open, but only a small, pained wheeze escaped.
"The King is speaking, Lord Baratheon." Edric's voice was quiet, colder than the ice that held the lord. "You will be silent."
He held the spell for a count of three, letting the reality of their situation sink in, before releasing it with a flick of his wrist. The ice cracked and fell away, leaving Ormund sputtering, shivering, and blessedly silent. The other lords stared, their faces ashen.
"As I was saying," Torrhen continued, as if uninterrupted. "The North has no desire for that ugly chair. We have one King, and he does not sit on a throne of southern swords. The North is, and forever will be, an independent kingdom."
"As will Dorne," Deria Martell added, her voice sharp. "Our independence is not a request, my lords. It is a fact, sealed in the blood of your slain Queen Rhaenys."
A new, more calculating silence fell. The lords exchanged glances. This was an outcome they hadn't anticipated.
Tommen Lannister, ever the pragmatist, was the first to find his voice. "Your Grace... Princess. If not you, then who? The Six Kingdoms cannot be left leaderless. You will unleash a Century of Blood. The realm... it needs stability."
"Yes, stability!" Mathias Tyrell almost sobbed, nodding frantically. "The Reach will support whomever King Torrhen names! We will swear any oath!"
Torrhen looked at his son. Edric stepped forward, his cold gaze sweeping over the defeated lords.
"You will have your stability," Edric said, his voice cutting through the hall. "But it will be stability on our terms. The Targaryen line is not extinguished. King Aenys had six children. Four of them rode against the North and died for their arrogance. His son, Crown Prince Aegon is dead. But his wife, Rhaena, and his youngest child, Prince Baelon, and there is also Princess Vaella and Princess Daella, daughters of King Aenys, remain in the Red Keep. They took no part in their father's war."
He was referring to the widow of Prince Aegon, Rhaena, and her younger sisters.
"We will crown Rhaena Targaryen as Queen of the Five Kingdoms. The Crownlands will be hers. She will sit on the Iron Throne. But she will rule as a vassal, not as a conqueror. And she will rule under our conditions."
"A Targaryen?" Rogar Tully stammered, his mind reeling. "After... this? You would place another dragon on the throne?"
"Yes," Torrhen said, his voice firm. "Because you are used to bending to them. Because your smallfolk, who know nothing of this, believe in their right. It is the path of least bloodshed. You will have a ruler, but that ruler will answer to us."
Edric raised a hand, silencing the murmurs before they could begin. "And these are the terms of your surrender. You will listen, and you will agree. There is no negotiation."
He began to dictate the new laws of Westeros.
"Term One: The Dragons. The seven dragons captured at Moat Cailin—Balerion, Vhagar, Starfyre, and the four others—are the spoils of war. They will be taken to the Winter Kingdom, beyond the Wall. They will never again be used as beasts of conquest. They will be studied, and their fire will be put to use in forges, not warfare. The age of dragons as weapons is over, forever."
The lords looked ill. To lose the symbols of their age was a humiliation beyond measure.
"Term Two: The New Contract. The magical contract that bound Aegon and Visenya died with them. We have a new one." Princess Nymeria Martell stepped forward. She unrolled a scroll of pale parchment that seemed to absorb the light in the room, its surface covered in pulsing, sickly green runes.
"Queen Rhaena, her son Prince Baelon, and every heir of their blood, for all time, will sign this contract," Edric stated. "It magically binds them, body and soul, from ever raising arms, plotting, or using any magic against the independent kingdoms of the North and Dorne. The slightest hostile intent, the barest thought of betrayal, will result in immediate, agonizing death. There will be no more wars of conquest."
"Term Three: The Borders. The borders are now permanent. The North's domain ends at the Neck. Dorne's domain begins at the Prince's Pass. All ancestral claims by any house, including the new crown, are hereby renounced, magically and legally. You will swear new oaths to this map."
"Term Four: Reparations." Princess Deria spoke now, her voice like steel. "Aegon Targaryen, in his madness, waged a genocidal war on Dorne. He burned our lands, slaughtered our people, and left us with famine. For this, there is a price. The Stormlands," she leveled her gaze at a pale Ormund Baratheon, "will cede the Dornish Marches to Dorne, effective immediately. Furthermore, the Crown will pay a tribute of twenty million gold dragons—ten million to Winterfell, ten million to Sunspear—as recompense for this unprovoked aggression. It will be paid over ten years."
The hall exploded.
"Cede the Marches!" Ormund roared, finding his voice. "That is Baratheon land! We will die before—"
"You will die if you do not," Edric cut him off, the cold in the room dropping again. "Your choice, Lord Baratheon. Cede the land, or I will cede your head from your shoulders and give Storm's End to a more pliable house."
"And twenty million!" Tommen Lannister choked. "The realm will be beggared!"
"The realm is beggared," Torrhen said simply. "You wagered your kingdoms on a war of conquest, and you lost. You will pay your debts."
"And... and if we refuse?" Roderick Arryn asked, his voice a high, thin whisper, his arrogance shattered.
Edric Stark smiled. It was the most terrifying sight the lords had ever witnessed. It was the smile of a glacier, slow, cold, and unstoppable.
"Refuse?" Edric mused. "Then the North will take the Iron Throne. And my first act as King will be to fly to the Eyrie. I will test if your 'impregnable' castle can withstand being frozen from the inside out, and then I will hurl it, and you, from the top of the mountain."
He turned his pale eyes to Tommen Lannista. "My second act will be to march on Casterly Rock. I wonder how much of your gold will remain after I freeze the sea and bring a glacier down upon your pretty little hill."
He looked at Rogar Tully. "My third will be to find out if fire truly can burn on water. But I know for a fact that ice can stop it."
His gaze settled back on Lord Arryn. "Do you wish for me to continue, Lord Arryn? Or have you seen the wisdom in our terms?"
The threat was absolute. The silence was the silence of the grave. The lords of the south, the proud lions, stags, and falcons, were utterly broken.
"We... accept," Tommen Lannister said, sinking into his chair. One by one, the other lords nodded, their faces masks of defeat.
"It is done," Torrhen Stark declared. He rose from his seat. "Bring us the Targaryen children."
Pregnant Princess Rhaena, 24, and her son Crown Prince Baelon, who was 3 years old, and Princess Vaella and Daella were brought into the hall. They were young women, dressed in black, their faces pale with terror. They had been prisoners in their own home, listening to the muffled shouts, and now stood before the men who had slaughtered their entire family.
Torrhen explained the terms. They were not gentle. Rhaena would be Queen. Her son would become King after her, and any other surviving Targaryen blood would be safe. They would keep their titles and their lands. But they would be rulers in name only, their power checked by a magical leash and the memory of this day.
Rhaena, seeing the frozen, defeated faces of the Lord Paramounts and the icy stare of Edric Stark, knew she had no choice. It was this, or the extinction of her line. With a trembling hand, she took the quill.
"I accept," she whispered.
She signed the magical contract. The green runes flared with a sickening light, sealing the pact. She made her son sign it, and then her sisters signed after her.