ASOIAF: The True House of Dragons

Although Torrhen, King of the North, had already secretly pledged himself to Aegon, many of his bannermen remained in the dark. Believing themselves under threat from a Targaryen invasion, they were still actively preparing for war.

As soon as Aegon's letter arrived, Torrhen did not hesitate. He immediately dispatched the remaining two thousand members of his personal guard from White Harbor to Dragonstone.

At that moment, Torrhen had staked everything on his decision.

Every winter in Westeros claimed countless lives in the North. They not only had to remain ever vigilant against wildling incursions, but powerful beasts from beyond the Wall would also appear from time to time.

Torrhen was tired—tired of a life spent running, scraping, and bleeding to survive.

If Aegon could keep his word—waiving all winter taxes on grain ships arriving at White Harbor and ensuring that soldiers from all over Westeros would contribute to the defense of the Wall—then Torrhen felt he could accept him. This so-called High King, this self-styled big brother... he might just be worthy of that recognition.

The people of the North had always been practical.

Survival and benefit—such matters were always weighed simply and plainly.

In the days that followed, Torrhen and his council received a new envoy—one sent by Harren the Black, King of the Iron Islands and Riverlands.

Pressed by the might of the Dragonlord, Harren sought to ally with the North to resist the expansion of House Targaryen.

"Your Grace, this is a gift from the gods!" one of Torrhen's advisors urged with delight. "The Dragonlord is too terrifying and powerful. We should ally with the Iron Islands and the Riverlands."

Torrhen remained seated, calm and silent, atop the throne of Winterfell. On his head rested the Eternal Winter Crown, which shimmered with a ghostly cold light. Carved from a single slab of meteorite, it had been passed down by House Stark for tens of thousands of years.

Below, his bannermen continued to speak at length, offering lofty speeches about shared fate and mutual survival.

But to Torrhen, it all sounded like the incessant buzzing of flies echoing through the hall.

The Citadel has already warned that this final autumn is nearing its end, he thought, weary. Instead of helping me prepare grain, you ask me to strike down my closest friend? When winter comes, the wildlings will attack the Wall more fiercely than ever, driven by hunger...

He sighed internally, a deep exhaustion weighing on his chest.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Torrhen rose, using the greatsword Ice—the ancestral blade of House Stark—to steady himself.

"Your Grace…" Harren's envoy, seeing Torrhen move, looked to him in anticipation.

Torrhen stepped down from the throne, dragging the massive blade behind him. His expression was like a frozen wasteland, utterly devoid of warmth.

All eyes in the hall followed his every step, the screech of Ice scraping against stone ringing sharply through the air.

Sensing something amiss, Harren's envoy dropped to his knees, eager to plead his case again.

"Your Grace—ah!!"

Before the words were finished, the envoy's head had already flown into the air. Blood sprayed upward, painting the space above the throne room in a crimson arc.

Torrhen stood cold and silent, gently wiping the blood from the blade of Ice.

He spoke just one phrase, flat and unyielding:

"Winter is coming."

...

Aegon led an army of over ten thousand men, moving in stops and starts for more than half a month before finally reaching the shores of Gods Eye.

Standing atop Balerion, he gazed into the distance, taking in the full expanse of the lake.

All around the lake, reeds spread like a dense forest, growing wild and unchecked. Slender yet tough, the stalks were crowned with overlapping layers of leaves that swayed gently in the breeze. Waterfowl soared and dove among the reeds, occasionally plunging into the water or flapping upward with loud cries that echoed across the lake's surface.

Dismounting from Balerion, Aegon looked to Rhaenys and sighed.

"These wild roads are impossible. If we want to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, I wager we'll spend half our time just marching."

The infrastructure of Westeros was in dismal shape. The so-called roads were nothing more than narrow animal trails, rough and uneven. Carriages were unusable, and the army's progress was constantly impeded by difficult terrain.

"The lords of Westeros spend their days fighting and killing one another," Rhaenys said with a sigh. "Looks like building roads was never their concern."

Rhaenys, who had grown up on Dragonstone, found the wild mainland landscape both new and fascinating. Along the journey, she and Aegon had left traces of their affection in forests and streams, beside rivers and groves, atop ancient trees—and, of course, on dragonback.

Aegon shook his head slightly, his gaze steady.

"One day, I'll build a road that connects all Seven Kingdoms. I'll call it the Kingsroad. Without trade, how can Westeros afford its heavy taxes? If all we have are serfs, we'll be left with nothing but the northwest wind to eat."

"What's the northwest wind?" Rhaenys asked, smiling.

"It's a saying," Aegon replied patiently. "It means being so poor, you've nothing left to eat."

...

Now, the army was encamped on the lakeshore, with Harrenhal looming faintly on the opposite bank. From the camp, it would still take two days' march to reach the fortress.

Aegon's force now numbered close to twenty thousand and was made up of a chaotic mix of factions.

His commanders included everything from slave traders of Volantis, Torrhen's Northern guards, former retainers of House Targaryen, and newly surrendered Westerosi nobles.

Though the Targaryen dynasty enjoyed strong logistical support from the Federal Council and was well supplied with provisions, it was short on manpower and population.

In this age of conquest, Aegon turned no one away. So long as someone could fight, they were enlisted.

As night fell, a thin mist began to rise from the surface of Gods Eye, wrapping the lake in a soft, translucent veil. The reeds within it faded in and out of sight.

Stepping out of his royal tent to inspect the camp, Aegon immediately sensed something amiss.

The infrared imaging in his artificial eye detected a cluster of red dots hidden among the reeds along the lakeshore.

"Enemy attack!" Aegon shouted.

He reacted instantly, sounding the alarm to his commanders by horn, then rushed to the dragon camp, mounted Balerion, and soared into the night sky.

Not all dragons possessed night vision—but Balerion, the Black Dread, might have been an exception.

Rhaenys's dragon, Meraxes, lacked such sight, so she remained behind in camp with her mount.

As Aegon flew over the lake, he saw a number of longships slipping quietly through the reeds.

Fortunately, the Targaryen army had already discovered the Ironborn's ambush, and the longships were retreating in haste, trying to escape the lakeshore under Targaryen control.

Aegon sneered in contempt.

You've come this far—you think I'll just let you go?

Balerion swooped down, his massive tail lashing across the water. In a single strike, over a dozen longships were smashed like brittle kindling. The Ironborn aboard tumbled into the lake like rag dolls, defenseless and helpless, quickly becoming food for the lake's fish.

Aegon had no desire to unleash dragonfire here—not because he spared his enemies, but because the terrain around Gods Eye was far too wild. The dense vegetation, thick reeds, and the dry autumn air made it a tinderbox. If Balerion unleashed even a few breaths of his inextinguishable black flame, it could easily consume everything—perhaps even his own forces.

After several rounds of aerial strikes, Aegon completely wiped out the ambushing Ironborn before returning to camp.

Thanks to his early warning—and the nobles and commanders acting swiftly to maintain order—there was no chaos in the ranks.

...

The next morning, the rising sun cast golden light across Gods Eye.

Soldiers looked out at the ruined reeds and the severed limbs drifting in the water. Then, a thunderous roar of celebration broke out across the camp.

Each and every soldier felt a wave of relief and silent gratitude.

They were on the side of the Dragonlord—and glad for it.

The army resumed its march, following the lakeshore with Harrenhal in their sights on the opposite bank.

The towering fortress could already be seen faintly in the distance.

Along the way, Aegon discovered two more groups of Ironborn lying in ambush among the reeds and willow groves.

It was utter folly.

Without hesitation, Aegon ordered his longbowmen to draw and fire. Arrows rained down like a swarm of locusts, cutting the Ironborn to ribbons in an instant.

Aegon had no idea that each of the two ambushes he had just crushed had been led by one of King Harren's sons. The former heir himself had died in silence beneath a storm of arrows, his corpse sinking quietly to the bottom of the lake.

During the two-day march toward Harrenhal, aside from those two doomed ambushes, there was a near-constant stream of Riverlands nobles arriving to kneel before the advancing royal army.

House Blackwood, House Mallister, House Vance, House Frey, House Strong...

In just one day, the army was forced to halt nearly ten times due to the sheer number of Riverlands lords blocking the road to pledge their allegiance. Clearly, the plan to reach Harrenhal by nightfall would not be possible.

Aegon received the defecting lords in his command tent, and from their conversations, he finally came to understand the situation.

Though House Hoare had ruled the Riverlands for three generations, the native lords of the Trident harbored no affection for their Ironborn rulers. When "Black" Harren built the monstrous fortress of Harrenhal, tens of thousands of laborers perished from overwork, while the region was ruthlessly stripped of materials and gold. Both nobles and commoners alike had been drained of everything.

When Aegon neared Gods Eye, Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun had already raised a rebellion. He had originally been summoned to garrison Harrenhal, but instead, he chose to defect to House Targaryen—becoming the first to raise the banner of the three-headed dragon over his castle.

Now, Lord Tully himself was leading a force of knights and archers to Heart Tree Ford, where he planned to rendezvous with Aegon.

The Riverlands lords who had arrived ahead of him had only done so to compete for the honor of being the first to surrender. They had broken off from Tully's main host and ridden ahead in hopes of earning favor and reward.

Upon learning all this, Aegon's gaze turned deep and thoughtful as he looked toward the road ahead.

Lord Tully's efforts to incite so many lords to rise against King Harren were no small matter. For being the first major lord to submit, Aegon did indeed owe him a reward.

Yet, in Aegon's original plan, Harrenhal was to remain under direct royal control—a vital stronghold governed by a Crown-appointed Magister of the Riverlands.

Aegon did not intend to grant Harrenhal to anyone outside the royal house, and he didn't even want the Riverlands to remain an independent ducal domain.

I'll meet with Lord Tully first, Aegon thought. Then I'll decide.

...

After several more hours of marching, the army arrived at Heart Tree Ford, the location described by the Riverlands lords. It was a shallow part of Gods Eye, where more than a dozen striking heart trees stood along the banks.

Beneath the towering weirwoods, roughly two hundred knights and over a thousand archers were resting.

As the army of the Targaryen dynasty appeared on the horizon, a ripple of commotion ran through the waiting soldiers.

From among them, a knight wearing a silver trout on his chest and a blue cloak across his shoulders rode forward alone.

The middle-aged knight dismounted calmly before the royal army, removed his steel helm and tucked it under his arm. Dropping to one knee in front of the royal pavilion, he bowed his head and waited in silence.

The army parted slowly to let their king through.

Aegon approached on a white horse, the sound of hooves echoing as he drew near and gazed down at the kneeling knight.

It was indeed Lord Edmyn Tully. At a glance, the noblemen of the Riverlands behind Aegon had made it clear: this tall young man in a deep crimson robe was none other than King Aegon I of the Targaryen dynasty.

Yet Edmyn still found it difficult to believe. Aegon looked far too young.

Lord Tully drew the sword from his belt, laid it across both palms, and raised it high above his head.

Aegon dismounted and walked toward him.

Edmyn stared at the steel boots before him, swallowing nervously.

Would House Tully rise to stand at the summit of power in the new Targaryen dynasty—or be cast aside as just another modest second-rate house?

It all hinged on this very moment.

Edmyn hoped with everything in him that Aegon would prove generous.

If... if I could be granted the title of Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, then House Tully would ascend to greatness in a single stroke.