292 AC
Dragonhold
Third Person POV
The day after the grand tourney, the festive atmosphere of Dragonhold had given way to a more subdued, yet equally purposeful, air. The pavilions still stood, but the throngs of common folk had begun their journeys home, leaving the castle grounds to the nobility and their retinues.
Within the ancient walls of Dragonhold, far from the bustling lists and feasting halls, a private meeting of immense consequence was convened. The chamber was smaller, more intimate than the Great Hall, its stone walls absorbing sound, creating an atmosphere of hushed gravity. A single, polished oak table dominated the room, surrounded by comfortable, high-backed chairs.
The attendees were few, but their power was immense. On one side sat the Targaryen patriarchs: King Maekar Targaryen, his stern features unyielding, but his eyes holding a deep intelligence. Beside him were his brothers, Prince Aelor Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, a man of quiet wisdom, and Prince Aerion Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones, his martial bearing softened by the calm of the room. Prince Rhaegar, the Crown Prince, thoughtful and composed, and Prince Baelor, powerful and direct, completed the Targaryen contingent.
Opposite them sat the Starks, radiating their customary Northern strength. King Rickard Stark, the King of Asgard and Warden of the North, held himself with a quiet dignity. Beside him sat his sons, Prince Brandon Stark, the visionary inventor whose mind raced far beyond the present, Prince Eddard Stark, and Prince Benjen, his younger brothers, ever honorable and steadfast.
The initial hours of the meeting were dedicated to the future. They discussed trade relationships, the routes of the burgeoning railway network, and the potential for further developments and technological exchange. Rickard spoke of Asgard's advancements in engineering, offering blueprints for new port technologies and more efficient mining techniques. Maekar, in turn, outlined the Crown's plans for urban expansion and agricultural modernization in the South.
They deliberated on shared economic ventures, on the mutual benefits of seamless trade between their two mighty kingdoms. The discussions were pragmatic, forward-thinking, and underscored the deep, enduring alliance that had shaped Westeros for over a century. The atmosphere was one of collaboration, of two powerful entities working in harmony for collective prosperity.
As the talks concluded, reaching a consensus on the next five years of joint ventures and reciprocal benefits, a subtle shift occurred in the room. King Rickard Stark, who had contributed diligently to the trade discussions, leaned back slightly in his chair. His gaze, which had been focused on the maps and ledgers, now settled directly on King Maekar.
"King Maekar," Rickard began, his voice dropping slightly, a change in tone that immediately commanded attention. The casual hum of agreement in the room faded.
"Did your predecessor," Rickard continued, his eyes piercing, "ever tell you about the Aegon's Prophecy?"
The words hung in the air, a sudden, unexpected question that shattered the comfortable atmosphere of trade and progress.
King Maekar's usually stern face underwent a startling transformation. His eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to genuine shock, followed swiftly by a flash of unease, crossed his features. He stiffened in his seat.
He held Rickard's gaze for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between the two kings. Then, slowly, with a barely perceptible nod, Maekar confirmed, "Yes. My father... he spoke of it. In hushed tones. As his father did before him."
The Targaryen princes, who had been listening intently, exchanged confused glances. Aegon's Prophecy? They had never heard of it. The King's sudden distress was unsettling.
Rickard's expression grew more grave. "The time for that darkness to approach," he stated, his voice low and resonant, "is coming, King Maekar. And we, the realm, must be prepared."
King Maekar's composure, usually unshakeable, visibly faltered. A look of outright panic, raw and unconcealed, spread across his face. His hands clenched on the table, his knuckles turning white. The color drained from his cheeks, leaving them ashen.
The Targaryen family members in the room, witnessing their formidable King's sudden distress, immediately grew worried. Prince Rhaegar's brow furrowed with deep concern. Prince Baelor shifted uneasily in his chair, his usual confidence replaced by a rare unease. Prince Aelor and Prince Aerion exchanged worried glances.
"Father!" Prince Rhaegar exclaimed, his voice sharp with concern. "What is it? What prophecy? What darkness are you speaking of?"
"What is happening, Your Grace?" Prince Baelor demanded, his voice tinged with alarm. "Why do you look so... distressed?"
King Maekar took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain his composure. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes still wide with an unsettling dread. The silence in the room was absolute, everyone hanging on his every word.
"The prophecy," Maekar finally managed to say, his voice strained, "passed down from King to heir, from Aegon the Conqueror himself. A secret guarded by our house for centuries. A warning."
He looked at his sons, his brothers, his gaze filled with a terrible weight. "Aegon foresaw a great winter, a darkness that would come from the true North. A darkness that would extinguish all life, all warmth, unless a Targaryen was on the Iron Throne, united with the realm, to face it."
Rickard Stark then continued, his voice barely a whisper. "We call it... the Long Night. And he is an ancient enemy. Creatures of ice, that bring only death. The Others, White Walkers, and their leader, Night King."
A collective gasp went through the Targaryen side of the table. Their faces, already pale, turned ashen. The ancient enemy? The Others? These were mere myths, bedtime stories for children. Yet, their King's fear was undeniable.
"Queen Alysanne," Maekar added, his voice tinged with a distant horror, "with her dragon Silverwing, tried to cross the Wall. To see what truly lay beyond. But Silverwing refused. She would not go north. A dragon... a creature of fire... recoiled from what lay beyond the Wall. It was a sign."
The words hung in the air, chilling the chamber more effectively than any Northern wind. Ten dragonriders, powerful, confident, suddenly faced with a threat that even their ancient beasts feared. The very foundation of their power seemed to tremble.
Prince Rhaegar's eyes were wide with a dawning terror. Prince Baelor's usual strength seemed to drain from him. Prince Aelor and Prince Aerion looked utterly stunned. They were dragonlords, rulers of a prosperous realm, but this... this was a threat beyond their comprehension, beyond their conventional warfare.
King Maekar, still visibly shaken, turned his gaze back to King Rickard, his voice now desperate. "King Rickard," he pleaded, the formality of their titles momentarily forgotten. "You know of this. You always have. The North... you have always lived with the whispers. What... what should we be doing for future preparation? How do we prepare for such an enemy?"
Rickard Stark, his face grim, met Maekar's gaze. There was no panic in his eyes, only a deep, ancient understanding. He had always known.
"King Maekar," Rickard said, his voice slow and deliberate, "the legends from the true North are clear. Only three things can defeat them."
He held up his fingers, ticking them off. " Fire can burn his minions. which can be provided by the breath of your dragons."
" Steel forged with magic, imbued with ancient power. Cold steel, made with true fire. We have Valyrian Steel and Asgard also has few magic swords"
"And dragon glass." Rickard's gaze was piercing. "Obsidian. Black as night, sharp as a razor. It shatters them."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "We, the North, are already preparing. We have increased the mining of dragon glass from Skagos. We are forging weapons, spearheads, daggers. We are preparing for the day they come."
Rickard's gaze then swept over the Targaryen princes, his voice a low, urgent warning. "I know Dragonstone has vast amounts of it. A mountain of dragon glass, waiting to be mined. Your ancestors mined it for tools, for trinkets. Now, you must mine it for survival."
"Prepare yourselves for it, King Maekar," Rickard concluded, his voice resonating with a chilling finality. "We do not know when the enemy will knock on our doors. But we know for sure... that winter is coming."
The words hung in the air, cold and stark, echoing the ancient motto of House Stark. The Targaryens, for all their dragons, their power, their golden age, were suddenly faced with a threat that transcended politics, beyond all understanding of ordinary warfare. Their faces were grim, resolute. The pleasant veneer of the tourney, of their golden age, had been stripped away, revealing the terrifying truth that had always lurked in the distant, forgotten North.