77 AC
South of Neck near river Trident
A moon after the summons, the Lord Paramounts, Lord Corwyn Velaryon, Master of Ships Manfryd Redwyne, and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ryam Redwyne gathered at a pavilion on the southern bank of the River Trident, beneath Targaryen banners. They awaited Lord Theon Stark and his bannermen.
When the Northern party arrived, led by a grim King Theon Stark and his brother Jonnos Skoll, a tense silence filled the pavilion. The Northerners' eyes swept over the Southern lords, with Theon Stark's gaze settling on King Jaehaerys' empty chair. The two delegations waited, the air thick with the weight of history and the uncertainty of the future, each side poised for the first word that would determine the course of the parley.
Sensing the palpable tension and the reluctance of either side to break the silence, Lord Rodrik Arryn, Warden of the East, stepped forward. His voice, though calm and measured, carried a note of authority that commanded the attention of all present. "Lord Stark," he began, his gaze sweeping across the Northern delegation, "we thank you for making the journey. The road from Winterfell is long, and these are...troubled times."
Before Lord Arryn could continue, a murmur of protest arose from the Northern bannermen. "Your Grace," one of them growled, his voice rough and defiant. Several other Northern lords echoed the sentiment, their voices a low rumble of discontent.
Theon Stark raised a hand, his gesture silencing his bannermen. His face, though stern, held a hint of weariness. "Enough," he said, his voice carrying a quiet authority that brooked no argument. "Lord Arryn speaks the truth. These are troubled times, and we have more pressing matters to discuss than titles and courtesies. Though I suspect the road from Winterfell was not as long as you Southerners think " He turned his gaze back to Lord Arryn, his expression firm. "Please, continue, Lord Arryn."
Lord Arryn continues, "there is no need for war between us. Let the royal decree pass. The crown has said they will grant a favor in return."
Before Lord Arryn could elaborate, a low growl rumbled through the Northern lords. "A favor?" one of them scoffed, his voice laced with indignation. "A favor for surrendering our ancient rights? For bending the knee to a foreign king after generations of independence?"
"Aye," another added, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "What favor could possibly be worth the shame of betraying our heritage?"
Theon Stark, however, remained impassive, his gaze fixed on Lord Arryn. He raised a hand slightly, silencing his restless bannermen. The tension in the pavilion thickened, the air crackling with unspoken defiance and simmering resentment.
The restraint of the Northern lords was not matched by their Southern counterparts. Lord Lannister, ever quick to anger, rose to his feet, his face flushed with indignation. "Enough of this Northern bluster!" he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "You speak of ancient rights? You are rebels! Savages who cling to outdated customs and defy the King's law!"
"Savages?" Lord Baratheon bellowed, his booming voice echoing through the pavilion. "They are little better than wildlings! Untamed and unruly, they know nothing of civilization or proper fealty!"
"They are barbarians," Lord Tyrell added, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "Living in their frozen wasteland, worshipping trees, and resisting the progress of the realm. They should be grateful for the King's attention, not demanding concessions!"
The Northern lords, who had endured the insults with stony silence, finally found their voices. Lord Ryswell, his face etched with cold fury, stepped forward. "We are not the savages you paint us to be, Southern lords," he said, his voice sharp and clear. "We are the descendants of the First Men, who held this land when your ancestors were still painting themselves blue and cowering in caves."
Lord Dustin, his gaze sweeping across the assembled Southerners, added, "We have our own knowledge, our own traditions, forged in the crucible of long winters and harsh realities. We are not greedy for power like you, nor are we craven in the face of danger. We have defended this realm from wildlings, from slavers, and from any who dared to threaten our borders, long before your dragons graced these shores."
Lord Umber, his voice a low rumble that nonetheless commanded attention, spoke last. "All we ask is what is our right. We ask for what is ours, not as a favor, but as a matter of justice."
Lord Arryn, seeing the parley teetering on the brink of collapse, stepped forward, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "My lords, please," he said, his voice calm but firm, striving to defuse the escalating tension. "Let us not descend into insults and accusations. We are here to find a path forward, a way to avoid the bloodshed that threatens to engulf this realm."
He turned to address Lord Stark directly. "Lord Stark, the King asks for your surrender. He believes this is the only way to prevent the deaths of thousands, Northmen and Southmen alike. As a sign of good faith and to ensure the future peace of the realm, these are his terms:"
Lord Arryn paused, and the terms were:
"You will take the black, and serve the Night's Watch."
"Your grandson will be sent to King's Landing, to serve as a ward to Prince Aemon."
"The Gift, that stretch of land south of the Wall, will be granted to the Night's Watch in perpetuity."
"And there will be a 20% increase in the taxes levied on the North."
A tense silence followed these pronouncements. Then, a voice, cold and clear, cut through the stillness. Jonnos Skoll, who had been sitting beside his brother, rose to his feet. "These are the terms of the North," he declared, his gaze sweeping across the stunned Southern lords. "The North will remain independent, as it has always been. We will swear no oaths to your king, pay no tribute, and send no hostages."
King Jaehaerys, who had remained seated and silent throughout the tense exchange, finally erupted. The Northmen's defiant response shattered the fragile hope of a peaceful resolution, and a torrent of royal fury poured forth.
"Insolence!" he roared, his voice echoing through the pavilion, causing several lords to flinch. "Insolence beyond measure! After all the concessions offered, after our willingness to even parley with such blatant treason, you dare to dictate terms? You, a collection of frozen barbarians, clinging to your petty kingdom as if it were some divine right! The Iron Throne has rules these lands, and you, Stark, are nothing but a rebellious dog nipping at its heels!"
His face was a mask of incandescent rage, his eyes blazing like dragonfire. "Independence?" he spat the word as if it were a venomous serpent. "You will have independence in your graves! You will learn what it means to defy the blood of the dragon, to reject the rightful authority of your king! I offered you a chance for peace, a path to avoid utter destruction, and you have thrown it back in my face with such arrogant contempt! Prepare yourselves, Northmen, for the storm that is coming! Prepare to learn the true meaning of fear when the dragons take to the sky!"
Despite the King's furious outburst, Jonnos Skoll remained standing, his face betraying no fear or anger. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and steady, a stark contrast to Jaehaerys's enraged bellowing. "Used for your benefit, Jaehaerys Targaryen," Jonnos began, his gaze unwavering. "For decades, the North has bled under the rule of the Iron Throne. We have been nothing more than a frozen wasteland to be bled of its wealth, a source of coin for your southern ambitions and lavish spending."
He continued, his voice gaining a subtle edge of bitterness. "Were we ever consulted on matters of the kingdom? Were our voices ever heard in the halls of King's Landing when decisions that affected our very lives were made? No. We were a distant land, a source of taxes and little else. Our traditions were ignored, our concerns dismissed, our people treated as an afterthought."
Jonnos's eyes swept across the assembled Southern lords, his expression challenging. "Thirty million dragons," he stated, the number hanging heavy in the air. "Thirty million dragons have flowed from the North to your coffers since King Jaehaerys ascended the Iron Throne. And how much have the other kingdoms contributed, I wonder? Half, perhaps? Less?"
He paused, letting his words sink in. "If this is not injustice, Jaehaerys Targaryen, then tell me, what is? We have borne this burden in silence for too long, hoping for a measure of fairness that has never come. Our independence is not born of mere defiance, but of a desperate need to govern ourselves, to protect our people and to keep the fruits of our labor for the benefit of the North, not to fuel the endless appetites of the South."
Jonnos Skoll continued, his voice resonating with conviction. "Torrhen Stark bent the knee, yes. He did so for his people, to spare them the dragon's fire, and for the promise of protection for his kingdom. That was a pact made in a time of conquest, a pragmatic decision born of necessity. But we, his descendants, will not stand idly by while you Southern lords view the North as nothing more than a pawn in your political games. We will not allow our ancient ways to be eroded by your southern ambitions, nor will we tolerate the spreading of your foreign faith within our borders."
Theon Stark, who had been listening intently to Jonnos, raised his hand once more, a silent command that immediately hushed the impassioned lord. He turned his gaze slowly, deliberately, surveying each of the assembled Southern lords within the tent. His eyes, the grey of a winter storm, lingered on Lord Lannister's sneering face, then swept across the impassive visages of Lord Baratheon and Lord Tyrell. He noted the unwavering gaze of Lord Arryn, the grim countenance of Lord Velaryon, and the quiet intensity of the Redwyne brothers.
Finally, his gaze settled upon King Jaehaerys, who watched him with a mixture of fury and something akin to grim anticipation. For a long moment, the two kings held each other's stare, the unspoken chasm between their cultures and their ambitions stretching wide and deep. The air in the tent crackled with the weight of their silent confrontation.
Then, Theon Stark spoke, his voice low and steady, carrying a chilling finality that echoed through the pavilion. His eyes never leaving Jaehaerys's, " We will meet you... on the battlefield."