The air in Moat Cailin's great hall was thick with the scent of pine and whiskey, the glow of Alaric Stark's magic lamps casting long shadows across the stone walls.
The North had triumphed, Alaric's four-hundred-meter wooden titan having caged Aegon Targaryen's dragons, Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes, and captured Aegon and his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys. King Torrhen Stark stood resolute.
The North's lords cheered Alaric's name, their faith in his magic unshakable. The Southron army, led by lords Loren Lannister, Garlan Tyrell, and Osric Tully, remained frozen outside, cowed by the titan's might.
That evening, Alaric, Torrhen, and Brandon gathered in a smaller chamber, its walls hung with wolf pelts and lit by a single magic lamp. A heavy oaken table bore tankards of "Stark's Fire" whiskey and maps of the Neck.
Torrhen leaned back, his iron crown glinting, and fixed Alaric with a look of awe. "Alaric, that titan of yours, four hundred meters of wood and wrath! I've seen your wolves, your lamps, your steel, but this? It's like the old gods themselves stepped from the weirwoods. How in the name of all that's holy did you conjure it? Speak plain, brother."
Brandon, swirling his whiskey, grinned, his rugged face alight. "Aye, Alaric, I thought you'd gone mad when you stood alone at the gates. Then that… thing rose, bigger than the Wall, snatching dragons like a falcon takes sparrows! I nearly dropped my sword watching it. What's the trick? Is it those potions, those runes, or something else?"
Alaric, leaning against a wolf carving, smiled, his eyes glinting with the memory of sage mode. "Magic, brothers, pure and simple—well, not so simple. It's called Sage Art, a technique from my… studies." He hesitated, guarding the secret of the Library of Knowledge and his Hashirama Senju bloodline. "I draw on nature's magic, the energy of the earth itself, and shape it through my circuits. That titan's a manifestation of that power, woven with wood and will. You could learn it, too, with your circuits awakened by the potion. But it'd take years—decades, maybe—to summon anything near that size. It's not just power; it's control, focus, and a bit of madness."
Torrhen chuckled, sipping his whiskey. "Madness, you say? That's you to the bone, brother. I've seen you forge swords that heal and burn, wolves big as horses, lamps that glow without flame. But a wooden god taller than Harrenhal? That's a tale for the ages. You've made the North a legend today, Alaric. Aegon thought to burn us, but you caged his dragons like hounds. Now, what's our next step? We've got the dragonlord and his queens in chains, their army quaking outside. Do we press the advantage or parley?"
Brandon slammed his tankard down, eyes fierce. "I say we end it now. Kill the dragons—Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes. Chop their heads off and mount them on Moat Cailin's walls. Without their beasts, Aegon's nothing but a man with a fancy crown. His lords'll scatter like roaches. We've got the titan, the Winter Wolves, and our runed blades. Let's finish this and send a message: the North bows to no one."
Alaric shook his head, his voice calm but firm. "Killing the dragons is tempting, Brandon, but shortsighted. Give Aegon his beasts back—bound by terms, of course. The South's united under one king now, but that unity's fragile. Lannisters, Tyrells, Tullys, Baratheons—they'll squabble for power, carve up their new realm with knives behind smiles. We can use that. Sue for peace, but on our terms. We make them sign a magical contract, one only Starks and Targaryens will know. It'll bind Aegon and his sisters to peace with the North, soul-deep, unbreakable. We keep it secret from our bannermen—Umber, Karstark, Bolton, the rest. If they know, they'll grow soft, thinking we're safe forever. And if trouble comes—not from the South, but beyond the Wall or across the sea—they won't be ready. We stay sharp, always."
Torrhen nodded, stroking his beard. "Clever, Alaric. A contract to chain the dragons without spilling their blood. I like it. The South's lords are already scheming. Let them tear at each other while we stand strong. But what's in this contract? What do we demand of Aegon to ensure he never turns his fire north again?"
Alaric leaned forward, his hands tracing invisible runes. "The contract's simple but ironclad. Aegon swears peace with the North, no war or conquest, now or in his heirs' time. His dragons never fly past the Neck without our leave. In return, we free his dragons and let him keep his southern throne. We'll demand trade rights—our whiskey, glass, and paper flowing south, their gold and grain coming north. But the contract's magic binds their souls: if they break it, they will burn out, or worse. It's a leash they can't slip, and they'll never know its full power."
Brandon grinned, his eyes gleaming. "A leash for dragons, eh? I like it better than killing them. Let Aegon play king in his muddy fort, while we grow richer and stronger. But keep it from Umber and Bolton—Harlon's too loud, Ryman too sly. They'd either boast or scheme. Agreed, Torrhen?"
Torrhen raised his tankard, his voice firm. "Agreed. The contract stays between us and the Targaryens. Our lords fight better when they're hungry, not complacent. Alaric, prepare the contract. Tomorrow, we meet Aegon and his queens, lay out the terms, and see if they've got the sense to sign."
The next morning, in Moat Cailin's great hall, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys sat opposite to trio of brothers, their faces defiant but strained. Aegon's ruby crown sat crooked, his violet eyes burning. Visenya's braid was tight, her hand twitching for *Dark Sister*, now in Northern hands. Rhaenys, silver hair disheveled, glared, her whip confiscated.
Torrhen sat at the table's head, flanked by Alaric and Brandon. The hall's magic lamps cast a stark light, and the air was heavy with tension.
Torrhen spoke first, his voice steady. "Aegon Targaryen, you came to burn the North, but my brother's titan caged your dragons. Your army stands frozen, your conquest stalled. We offer peace, but on our terms. Sign a magical contract—swear no war against the North, keep your dragons south of the Neck, and open trade between our realms. Refuse, and your dragons die, their heads adorning our walls. Choose."
Aegon's face twisted, his voice a snarl. "You dare dictate terms to me, Stark? I am Aegon, King of Westeros, forged in fire and blood! I burned Harrenhal, crushed the Gardeners, and humbled Lannister. You think your wooden giant scares me? I'll not sign your sorcerer's pact. Release us, or my dragons will rise again, and Moat Cailin will be ash!"
Visenya's eyes narrowed, her voice cold. "Your magic is impressive, Stark, but it's wood. Wood burns. Free our dragons, let us go, or we'll find a way to break your chains. Valyrian blood bows to no one, least of all Northern wolves."
Rhaenys, softer but sharp, added, "You've won a battle, not the war. Our dragons are our strength, but we've men, too—sixty thousand, ready to march. Sign a fair truce, keep your North, but don't think you can leash us like dogs. We are Targaryens."
Alaric laughed, leaning forward, his eyes glinting. "Fair truce? You came to burn us, Rhaenys. Your dragons are caged, their jaws shut by my titan. Refuse the contract, and we kill Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. What then? Your lords stand outside, too terrified to move. Without dragons, what stops them from turning on you? Loren's greedy, Garlan's cunning, Osric's opportunistic. They'd storm Dragonstone, end your line, and carve up your 'kingdom' before winter. Sign, or your house dies."
Aegon paled, his defiance cracking. He glanced at his sisters, then spoke, his voice low, urgent. "You speak of threats, but I've seen a dream—a darkness from the North, beyond your Wall. A cold that kills, a winter that buries all. I conquer to unite Westeros against it. If you kill my dragons, you doom us all. Join me, Stark. Rule the North under my crown, and we'll face this threat together."
Torrhen's eyes hardened, his voice cutting. "You think we don't know, Targaryen? Our Wall, seven hundred feet tall, wasn't built to stop wildlings alone. Our words, 'Winter is Coming,' aren't just a boast—they're a warning, etched in our blood for millennia. We've guarded against that darkness since before Valyria rose. We don't need your crown to fight it. Sign the contract, or your dragons die, and your dream with them."
Brandon leaned in, *Frostbite* gleaming. "You heard him, Aegon. Your dream's nothing if your beasts are dead. Sign, or we'll send your heads south with your dragons'. The North's ready for winter—you're not."
Visenya hissed, "You mock our blood, Stark. Valyria ruled empires when your ancestors were carving sticks. This contract—what's to stop you from betraying us?"
Alaric smirked, raising a parchment glowing with runes. "The contract binds both ways, Visenya. Break it, and your soul pays the price—agony, maybe death. It's magic, not trust. Starks and Targaryens alone will know its terms. Our lords stay ignorant, hungry, ready for any threat. You sign, you keep your throne south of the Neck. Refuse, and you're nothing."
Rhaenys, eyes wide, whispered, "Aegon, they're serious. Without our dragons, we're vulnerable. The South's lords are loyal only while we're strong. Sign it, brother, or we lose everything."
Aegon clenched his fists, his voice shaking. "You leave me no choice, Stark. I came to unite, not to kneel, but your sorcery's too strong—for now. I'll sign your damned contract, but know this: I'll not forget this humiliation."
Torrhen slid the parchment across, his voice iron. "Sign, or your dragons' blood stains the Neck. Your choice, Targaryen."
Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys, faces grim, signed the runed contract, its glow flaring as their oaths bound their souls. Then they asked about future betrothals. Torrhen nodded, satisfied. "Wise choice. Now, on the future Betrothals? We'll consider it, but don't hold your breath. The North's ours, and we'll not chain it to your house lightly."
Alaric leaned forward, his tone sharp. "And a word of advice, Aegon: don't war with Dorne. They'll burn before they bend, not like us. Their people love their Martell princes. Burn their castles, and they'll flee to the deserts, kill your men in their sleep, poison your wells. Harrenhal fell because the Riverlands hated Hoare's tyranny. Dorne's different—they'll die free. Make peace, not war, or you'll bleed for nothing."
Aegon, rubbing his wrists as the cords were cut, nodded grudgingly. "Your words have weight, Stark. I'll… consider Dorne. But what of the South? My lords expect terms."
Torrhen stood, *Stormdancer* sheathed. "I'll summon Loren, Garlan, Osric, and Orys Baratheon for peace talks. We'll open trade—our whiskey, glass, and paper for your gold and grain. The North and South will deal as equals, not master and servant. Agreed?"
Aegon exhaled, his voice bitter. "Agreed, for now. But the North and South won't stay apart forever."
Alaric snorted. "The Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years, before Valyria's first dragon hatched. You think your fire scares us? The North never broke to Andal schemes in six thousand years, nor to your dragons now. Remember that."
Emissaries were sent, and the Southron lords arrived, awed and wary, their armies still cowed by the titan. In the hall, terms were set: peace, trade, and mutual respect, the contract's magic a secret.
The dragons were released, their bindings dissolved, and they took wing, roaring but subdued. Aegon and his sisters mounted, their eyes promising future reckonings, and led their army south.
The Northern lords, gathered outside, cheered as the Southrons retreated, chanting, "Stark! Alaric! North!" Alaric's titan stood sentinel, a warning to Westeros, as the North prepared for winter, its magic and steel unbroken.