ASOIAF: The True House of Dragons

Aegon left the Vale with three crowns of great significance.

They were the Queen Regent's crown, her son's small crown, and the Falcon Crown worn by the kings of House Arryn for a thousand years.

The combined forces of the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Crownlands under House Targaryen gathered into a mighty army of nearly twenty thousand. In tight, orderly formation, they marched out from the Vale, encircled by the Mountains of the Moon.

No sooner had the Targaryen army passed through the treacherous Bloody Gate than they encountered the King in the North, Torrhen Stark, who had led the Northern host south himself.

They met unexpectedly on the northern bank of the Trident, swords drawn in tense confrontation.

In terms of numbers, the two sides were evenly matched. But overhead, the three dragons of House Targaryen circled and soared, casting immense shadows across the land. An invisible pressure, like a storm cloud, began to weigh down on the hearts of every Northern warrior.

The sharp-eyed Northern barbarians quickly noticed something strange: the Targaryen host was made up of a surprisingly diverse mix of people.

There were men from the Riverlands, the Stormlands, the Vale, slaves from Volantis, and even Northmen...

"What? Northmen?!"

Cries of surprise echoed through the Northern ranks.

In the tense standoff, familiar Northern warriors couldn't suppress their curiosity and began calling out to each other.

Torrhen, wearing his crown, coughed heavily a few times, signaling to his nobles to quiet the growing chatter in their lines.

But a few thick-skinned Northern barbarians seized the lull to shout across the field, making loud plans with their countrymen to go fishing in the Trident together once the battle was over.

Aegon rode out calmly on a white horse, emerging slowly from the ranks of the Targaryen army.

The noise from both sides gradually faded. All eyes widened, fixed on the young Dragonlord.

Thanks to Torrhen's deliberate spread of favorable tales, Aegon's reputation had already swept through the North like wildfire. Minstrels had sung his praises until the man seemed more myth than mortal.

Whether it was the fearsome bulk of the Black Dread or Aegon's fearless deeds in the Stormlands, all of it served to prove that this was a king of strength, skill, and ambition—one to be feared.

Torrhen held a massive Valyrian steel greatsword nearly two meters long—Ice. The blade gleamed with a cold light as he gripped it in reverse and spurred his horse forward. With an imposing air, he rode to the front lines, facing Aegon directly.

In the eyes of those watching, the two kings stood on the brink of battle, each ready to charge at the slightest spark.

Tension spread across the battlefield like a thick fog. Warriors on both sides were sweating, their nerves stretched tight.

"King Torrhen, your name precedes you," Aegon called out. "But your actions are unwise. To challenge the Dragonlord of Valyria is no different from striking a rock with an egg."

Though not far from Torrhen, Aegon raised his voice deliberately so that all could hear.

Torrhen's face flushed red. Most assumed it was from anger—but in truth, he was fighting back laughter, barely able to contain it.

"Even if you hold the overwhelming advantage—even if your dragons could destroy the North with ease—the warriors of the North will never retreat! We do not bow to tyranny! In the North, men fall in battle—but no one surrenders!"

Torrhen roared the words at Aegon, his voice echoing across the field like thunder.

His impassioned declaration sent a surge of pride and rage through the Northern army. One after another, they shouted back at the Targaryens. Some of the more hot-blooded among them even reached for their swords, ready to charge without waiting for a signal.

Aegon remained stoic, his expression cold as ice. He raised one hand to the sky.

From above, Balerion the Black Dread dove down, a beast nearly a hundred meters long, its massive form blotting out the sun. The earth trembled with the force of its descent, and the thunderous presence silenced every Northern barbarian who had been shouting moments before.

Where moments ago they had fidgeted like ants on a hot pan, the Northmen were struck speechless by the awe-inspiring might of the Black Dread. Almost as one, their eyes turned to their king.

Torrhen did not disappoint.

Like a fearless warrior, he paid no mind to the monstrous presence looming above. He rode his warhorse forward with unwavering composure, straight to Aegon Targaryen—beneath the looming head of Balerion, large as a mountain.

In that instant, every Northman stood stunned by Torrhen's defiant act.

They asked themselves if they could have done the same—ridden so calmly to stand before a dragon like a living mountain, offering themselves up to its jaws.

Balerion's massive head loomed above Aegon, hot steam hissing from his cavernous nostrils. His dragon fangs, sharp as blades and as large as horses, jutted out with terrifying menace.

And yet, before this nightmare of a beast, their king stood unflinching—boldly confronting Aegon face-to-face.

Every Northman's heart pounded in their chest. They stared at the King in the Winter, eyes full of worry, reverence, and a flicker of hope.

"I've said it before—the people of the North do not fear tyranny! Even if you had ten dragons, a hundred dragons, you'd still fail! You'll never force the North to yield!" Torrhen shouted coldly, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

His words reignited the fighting spirit of the Northern host. They panted heavily, eyes locked onto the Targaryen army, burning with unyielding resolve.

"You are the bravest and most valiant king I've ever seen. I truly admire your courage. But know this—my conquest will not be halted by fearlessness alone," Aegon called back loudly.

The two men stood face to face, hurling words at each other with such force that spittle flew between them.

Torrhen shouted, "King Aegon Targaryen, I've heard you're a warrior without equal. If you can defeat me—the strongest man of the North—then I, the King of Winter, will kneel before you in honor of your valor!"

"Very well! If you know my name and still dare to make such a demand, then I shall grant it—last King of the North!" Aegon replied, his voice full of steely resolve.

The warriors on both sides were stirred to the core by the kings' fiery exchange. Their blood boiled as they erupted into frenzied cries.

"King against king! King against king! King against king!"

The chant surged like a tidal wave, growing louder and louder, resounding across the battlefield.

Torrhen wheeled his horse around to face all his vassals, raising his arms high as he roared, "My people! Do you stand with your king? Do you dare let me fight? Do you have the courage to let me fight?"

"Fight! Fight, fight, fight!!"

The Northmen roared like enraged beasts, their battle-lust ignited. Many of them beat their fists against their chests, the sound booming like war drums.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Torrhen's lips—his plan was nearly complete.

If he were to surrender outright, his reputation would be ruined, and rebellion would soon follow in the North. So he and Aegon had carefully staged this confrontation, crafting a performance to convince the war-hungry Northerners to accept Targaryen rule of their own accord—and to allow Torrhen to step down peacefully.

Now, the tension had reached its peak. Everything was proceeding as planned.

Torrhen and Aegon slowly dismounted. They stepped onto the pebbled shore of the Trident's north bank, ready to fight on foot.

This battle—hailed by some as the clash of the century—unfolded under the eyes of nearly forty thousand men.

Both kings were famed warriors, and their duel lived up to every tale. Valyrian steel clashed in a blur of power and skill, each blow fierce and formidable.

They traded strikes with practiced precision, making the battle all the more spectacular. Every soldier on the field watched, transfixed, their cheers rising in waves.

The fighting raged on, so intense and balanced that the two kings were forced to pause and catch their breath more than once.

After thousands of exchanges, it came down to a single move. Torrhen, just one step behind, was narrowly defeated by Aegon—and the grand drama of this kingly duel came to its conclusion.

Aegon reached out and pulled Torrhen up, shouting with emotion, "You are the strongest, bravest warrior I've ever met in Westeros. Had I not borne the sacred power of the Valyrian Dragonlords, I might not have defeated such a bold and honorable man. You have my deepest respect."

Torrhen clasped Aegon's hand tightly and stood, then bellowed in return, "Your Grace, you are without a doubt the most powerful and regal king I have ever faced. Compared to you, I am indeed lesser. But the North has always known how to accept defeat with honor.

From this day forth,

All the people of the North shall recognize only you as the rightful High King, and will obey only the laws of the Targaryen dynasty."

With those words, Torrhen knelt without hesitation and solemnly placed the crown of the King in the North at Aegon's feet.

Though their praise for one another may have sounded excessive, they hadn't lost sight of their purpose.

Aegon, visibly moved, helped Torrhen to his feet and gave him a firm pat on the back. The two naturally slung arms around each other's shoulders.

The Northmen, momentarily stunned, were caught off guard. But some were genuinely touched by the powerful display of emotion, and unable to contain their feelings, they began applauding Aegon and Lord Torrhen with heartfelt enthusiasm.

Aegon and Torrhen joined in the applause, and at Aegon's gesture, the Targaryen army followed suit. Thunderous clapping filled the battlefield.

Once the mood had settled a little, Aegon slowly raised his hands and gently pressed down.

The applause gradually died away. All the Northmen now had their eyes fixed on their newly sworn king.

Aegon stepped forward confidently, chest lifted high, and proclaimed in a loud, clear voice:

"From this day forth, no grain ship bound for White Harbor in winter shall be taxed—not a single coin! No one is to charge even a penny more for the food that keeps our Northern brothers and sisters alive. This is the first law I decree as your king!"

The Northmen were stunned silent at first, then erupted into a thunderous roar of cheers that shook the sky.

Aegon raised his hands again, and slowly lowered them. The cheering faded into silence.

Then he declared again, "From now on, all regions of Westeros shall equally contribute warriors to the Wall, to defend humanity's most vital frontier! Each of us bears the responsibility and duty to protect it!"

His words struck deep. Many among the Northmen were so moved that tears welled in their eyes.

In that moment, Aegon had fully won their loyalty and admiration.

The two greatest hardships of the North—winter starvation and the burden of guarding the Wall—had claimed countless lives over generations. For Aegon to address both with such understanding and to establish laws solely for the benefit of the North, it was clear he carried the North in his heart.

He was, without doubt, the true king the North had longed for.

One by one, the Northern warriors dropped to a knee, and then, like falling dominoes, the entire Northern host followed, kneeling in unison before Aegon. Their voices rose in a single, powerful chant, proclaiming their loyalty.