Chapter 32 - Submission in Totality

A/N: I originally planned for this to be a longer chapter, maybe featuring some post-campaign chatter between Aegon and Arin's people as they meet with the ones sworn to the Targs, but I figured I'll leave them for the next chapter, which has already been released early on and Ko-Fi. Support me on those sites if you're interested.

Thanks to Tertius711 and Ascalon451 on SB for beta-ing this chapter.

Chapter XXXII: Submission in Totality

1 BC

The North

With six out of seven kingdoms subdued, only the North was left, and then Westeros would be united for the first time in countless millennia since the Dawn Age.

If the North were like the Southern Kingdoms, there would be a series of skirmishes to test the waters, let the Targaryen armies spill blood and earn their glories before the dragons swooped in and annihilated all resistance to the last, signifying the futility of any and all resistance against the Valyrian Dragonlords.

One would expect from mytho-historical tales that the North was a powerhouse, fielding a large and powerful army with an equally robust and thriving economy to support that large army, fleets of ships thronging the seas and mighty castles protecting the only overland route to the rest of the Kingdom.

Alas, reality always saw fit to smash such childish fantasies.

The North's climate was far too cold to be considered pleasant, breeding frigid and pragmatic people with neither patience nor desire for gaudy culture or sophistry. And like every kingdom it was plagued by unending stagnation; its economy was poor and vulnerable, its navy weak and its armies small.

At its peak, the North could only muster up to 50,000 troops when calling the banners - all half-trained levies where most could barely afford a set of chainmail or a proper helmet, an equally low-quality cavalry marching alongside the infantry. As such, the Northmen armies were incomparable to the vaunted knights of the Reach or the armies of the Westerlands. To add insult to injury, any military campaign beyond the North's boundaries would only last up to two or three weeks due to their inferior logistics.

The last factor, along with general disinterest in conquest and a highly inflated view of their capabilities also explained why the Northmen never launched any southbound campaign since King Theon the Hungry Wolf razed Andalos to the ground, never warring offensively against the Andals who in contrast invade each other as frequently as they defended themselves from invasions by fellow Andals.

And due to the foolishness of Brandon the Burner in his emotionally unstable state, the North was left without a powerful navy when it could have dominated the seas of northern Westeros, easily becoming the equal of the Reach or even the Ironborn.

In the castle of Winterfell, alarm bells rang throughout the city as sightings of massive winged beasts were reported. Panicked citizens quickly took cover as guards manned the battlements, and a bewildered Torrhen Stark beheld the sight of mighty dragons landing in the courtyard of Winterfell, next to the Ancient Weirwood that stood for eight millennia.

Torrhen Stark, a young king happily married to Maege Mormont formerly of Bear Island, a king who enjoyed relative peace and prosperity and the support of his vassals, now had to deal with the sudden realisation that dragons - Gods-honest livings dragons - were now roosting directly in his seat of power.

The black-haired man could not help but tremble in his frozen legs, stilling himself by sheer discipline and force of will. His half-brother, Brandon Snow, was far more defiant and was even raring to test his mettle against the famous dragons that burned countless men and forts, but nevertheless he felt a Human's fear.

"I bid you greetings," Aegon greeted with an infuriating smirk, "May I ask who among you is King Torrhen Stark of the North?"

"That is me," Torrhen stepped forward, calm and composed despite his inner turmoil.

"Good. I am Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, and with me are my Sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys along with our dragons Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes," Aegon introduced with a wave of his hand, "I understand our arrival was abrupt and unannounced, but we would be most inclined to accept bread and salt. For all sanity of minds present, of course."

Finding himself dragged forward by the currents of time and fate in a most devilish prank, Torrhen mutely nodded and ordered a servant to offer platters of salt and bread to the Targaryen siblings, who simply broke pieces and dipped them in salt before eating them.

"So, what brings the leaders of House Targaryen to the North, might I ask?" Said Torrhen.

Both the question and the age-old hospitality custom were more formalities than anything, the conclusion a foregone outcome.

"We come to you with a simple offer: To submit to our armies and cease resistance, and join a united Westeros," Said Aegon.

"And what strings are attached to that offer, dragonrider?" Brandon put forth, defiant and arrogant in his stride, "Who says we Northmen cannot simply kill you here and now, and your precious dragons?"

"Brandon, stand down," Torrhen ordered harshly.

Brandon Snow huffed angrily, but obeyed silently.

Aegon simply smiled, unbothered by the hot-headed Brandon as he continued, "Do any of you possess magical weapons or spells with which to kill dragons? Have you or your ancestors ever had a history of fighting dragons before? Better still, can you truly match a warhost two hundred thousand-strong with your inexperienced armies or miniscule navies?"

Neither Torrhen nor Brandon could argue against Aegon, wincing at the reality plastered in their faces.

"I thought so," Aegon said matter-of-factly, "If you choose to resist, we will burn the North to the ground. No amount of pride or defiance will save you from a dragon's might, I assure you."

Brandon snarled at this, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white and his fingers drew blood, but stayed firmly rooted in place rather than punch and break Aegon's nose for his rudeness. Torrhen, on the other hand, felt an eerie sense of foreboding and surprising calmness.

He's right; we simply do not have the means to fight the dragons no matter what, and they can annihilate us with ease; the Burning of Harrenhal and the Field of Fire has amply demonstrated such. And even if by some miracle we can fight dragons, we are outnumbered four-to-one by their armies, and we have no defence against their superior naval power. Yet we must not forget that the dragons easily landed in Winterfell with no one capable of prior warning. And come winter, we would have no food or shelter, and we would be easy pickings regardless.

Torrhen heaved a heavy sigh, his face curling in displeasure and recalcitrant acceptance, and the tension faded from his shoulders.

"Brother, you cannot be serious!" Brandon shouted, his tone one of desperate pleading.

But Torrhen would not be swayed, and he could see in the eyes of Torrhen's courtiers and guards that they had neither heart nor courage to defy Targaryen aggression.

Dismayed, he left without another word, and Torrhen made no move to stop him. From the corner of his eye, Torrhen could see tears falling from his half-brother's eyes.

For what it's worth, I'm sorry Brandon.

Aegon looked dispassionately at the retreating form of Brandon Snow, then back at Torrhen.

"If you wish to formalise your surrender, we will wait at the ruins of Moat Cailin," Aegon stated, "Be sure to bring every single Lord of importance along with the entirety of the North's martial strength."

"May I ask why, Lord Aegon?" Said Torrhen.

Aegon smirked again, "Every single Lord of importance will be attending your formal surrender, to witness you willingly forgo your crown at my feet along with the entirety of my warhost."

And with that, the Targaryens turned to mount their dragons and promptly left.

By the Old Gods, I pray this is the right decision to make.

IIOII

Moat Cailin

The ruined fortress was once called many names: The 'Gateway of the South' and 'Bulwark of Grey Snow' to name but two, famed for serving as the blockade against which Andal Crusades broke upon like water against the rocks. Once it was a mighty fortress boasting tall walls and twenty towers bristling with armaments, and it is said that he who controlled Moat Cailin controlled all trade between the Neck and the rest of the North.

Now it was a shadow of its former glory, two ruined, ugly, squat towers the only indication of the stronghold's presence. Though imposing from the south, the rotting wood left the towers vulnerable from the north and east.

It was here that the Targaryen host awaited the arrival of the Northmen, a mighty sprawling camp extending for miles as clusters of tents overshadowed the squat ruins. Banners of many colours and insignias were displayed, but the ones most prominent and dominating the centre were the Three-Headed Dragon on black, where the Targaryen dragons awaited.

The Dornish contingent - numbering a measly one thousand and five hundred - took the rear flank and flew the banner of the Crimson Fox, but their presence was keenly felt, especially by the armies of their direct neighbours.

For the Reachmen, they were… more or less lukewarm due to their humane treatment of prisoners of war and the respect they afforded to the brave brothers under King Mern the Bloodhand who fought in the Battle of the Eyarha Plains, despite slaughtering three-quarters of the Reach Army in the process. Though the loss of three Valyrian Steel blades stung, they could only settle for grumbling since Arin upheld the laws of ransom.

The Stormlanders, on the other hand, were hugely conflicted; they permanently ended the raiders of the Red Mountains, ending countless houses and forcing those that remained to submit - a handful of small, miniscule houses with no history of kingship. However, in the process they now had the presence of a ruler who had no qualms with ending houses no matter their history, and who had a preference for removing the rights of nobles rather than rely on their support, willingly jeopardising the stability of his own realm. This man also defeated the Reach in open battle, and though it was a pyrrhic victory, it was one that cemented his capability in defeating larger, superior armies.

As for the Westerlands, they were wholly beneath everyone's notice, save as a horrifically damaged party whose presence was insignificant, even more so than the Valesmen.

Most times, the Stormlanders and Reachmen regarded them with heavy caution, keeping their distance. The rest regarded the Dornish with indifference.

"You know, seeing this ruin of a fortress, I can't help but feel it deserved better."

Aegon Targaryen stared at the ruined fortress of Moat Cailin with cold indifference and casual disappointment.

"It's only to be expected," Visenya remarked, "The Northmen grew too complacent and remained poor, and they cannot afford to rebuild this valuable fortress. A shame really."

"And here I thought most of Westeros was a disappointment; this takes it to a whole new level," Rhaenys affirmed, "Do you think if Arin were born a Northman rather than as a Dornishman, things would be different?"

"Only that he would be wearing Northman colours and wielding Northern magic instead," Aegon shrugged with a smile, "Orys, coin for your thoughts?"

"Only that I share such with you, brother," Orys answered with a casual shrug.

A guard approached and saluted Aegon as he spoke, "My Lord, Lord Arin is here at your behest."

"Good, let him through," Aegon ordered.

The guard obeyed, and here the Targaryen siblings took in Arin Rada's appearance for the first time.

Muscular with olive brown skin, dressed in half-plate armour and thick clothing for winter, carrying himself with quiet confidence and diligence, never quaking in the presence of their mighty dragons despite knowing their power and capabilities. Sheathed by his side was Dawn, the legendary blade feeling at home on his waist. He was surrounded by several nobles and guards; some carried themselves with the same confidence as Arin, others shied away and stayed behind.

Orys instantly felt as if he looked upon a sleeping dragon, a subtle yet dangerous creature whose ambitions were thankfully sated for the time being.

"So, we finally meet in person," Aegon greeted Arin with a bright, beaming smile, "I am Aegon Targaryen, Lord of my house and Dragonstone, soon to be king of all Westeros."

"The pleasure is mine, Your Lordship," Arin greeted back with a more professional smile, "With me are gathered my trusted generals and all the nobles of import in Dorne."

"Truth be told, with how recent your rebellion was, I did not think you would come, Lord Arin," Visenya stated, "I believed you would stay behind instead and focus on shoring up your rule."

"I would never miss this for the world, Lady Visenya," Arin replied with slight mirth, "It's not every lifetime you get to witness the bloodless submission of an entire kingdom."

"Truer words have never been spoken, Lord Arin," Rhaenys smirked, "Though I cannot help but feel sorry for King Torrhen Stark; once he surrenders, he will be the object of ridicule long after his time on this world has passed."

"The right thing to do is not always the popular thing to do," Arin stated, "It's a lesson that rulers in chaotic times must learn, sooner or later."

"Speaking from experience, Lord Arin?" Asked Visenya, her expression indiscernible.

"Yes," Arin answered without hesitation.

Huang Xue took his place by Arin's side, smiling and fanning himself despite the chilling, biting winds that assaulted his being.

"So this is the North…" Huang Xue mused, "A land fitting for uncivilised barbarians, I must say."

"Westeros is technically full of uncivilised barbarians, and Yi-Ti does practise some barbaric customs itself," Arin pointed out.

"Pot calling the kettle black," Franklyn added in with a coy smirk.

Huang Xue simply rolled his eyes in response.

"If only they took the opportunity to innovate and develop their technology, perhaps House Stark would have ruled over a more powerful and wealthy kingdom than any other place in Westeros," Huang Xue muttered, a tone of displeasure in his voice, "And yet it is laughably poor and weak, and like the Dornish of old they allowed their magical arts to die out."

"And Yi-Ti is similarly stagnating with no real contenders to their power and hegemony, as you told us before," Franklyn countered again.

Huang Xue glanced at Franklyn, masking slight irritation, before huffing and saying nothing.

"Interesting company you keep," Orys remarked to Arin, "A foreigner, a Water Wizard and former mercenary form part of your entourage."

"And who all hold important positions in Dorne, Lord Orys," Arin said, "Can you say you don't hold interesting company yourself in the Stormlands?"

"The loud, obnoxious kind, but point taken, Lord Arin," Orys smirked.

To the side, Garen looked upon the barren frozen wastes of the North with no small amount of derision.

"These Northmen are no better than the Dornish," Garen put forth, "Squandering their alliance with the Children of the Forest and the Giants and letting their own Kingdom rot in stagnation. Unworthy of their inflatable proud, boring history. House Stark is not unlike House Martell in this regard."

"And here I see they already earned your distrust."

Maryse of the Tian Feng Huang approached, wrapped in a thick cloak and shivering slightly despite the extra thick layers she wore. By her side was Lewyn Qorgyle, similarly distressed by the cold and hugging her tightly as if she were a warm hearth.

"Why should I care for some isolated northern barbarians with little creativity in their naming sense?" Garen scoffed, "I'd rather prefer the deserts of Dorne to this frozen wasteland; House Stark has ruled for eight millennia only because they had no true challengers to their rule."

"And that makes them worse than House Martell?" Maryse asked.

Garen scoffed again, but shook his head.

"Much as I hate to admit it, at least House Stark made sure to entrench its dominion across all the North, securing the staunch loyalty of its vassals and annihilating those few who would have truly threatened their rule," Garen opined, his tone carrying grudging approval, "Though like House Martell, they've seen fit to let live a troublesome house like House Bolton."

Lewyn's face curled in disdain, and Maryse was quick to pat his shoulder.

"Are you alright, Lewyn?" Asked Maryse.

"...I am," Lewyn said, "Just… disappointed."

"In House Stark?" Asked Maryse.

Lewyn nodded, "It seems every other kingdom loves to propagate stagnation of some sort; it's too easy to take Arin's dedicated ambition for granted."

"And as we all know, there is no second or third Arin in the world - never in a hundred lifetimes," Maryse gently pointed out with a smile.

Lewyn simply hummed in response.

"Ah, here comes the delegation now," Visenya pointed to the horizon.

From the snowy mists emerged a large host of Northmen - the entirety of the North's martial strength - marching towards the ruins of Moat Cailin and hoisting the banners of the Grey Direwolf.

In all honesty, compared to the mighty chivalrous armies of the Reach, the black-clad legions of the Targaryens and the small entourage of Westerlander gold-clad lions and steel-gleaming Dornishmen, the Northmen were exceedingly bland and unimposing to the rest of the Westerosi; their armour, while functional, did not inspire awe of strong, angry half-wolf barbarians as the tales described, and their time spent in such a bleak wasteland meant the Northmen cared nothing for ornamentation or bright colours of any kind except perhaps for the ferocious predators some wore as cloaks over their forms: Direwolves, bears, shadow cats and the like.

Many hoped Lord Bolton's cloak was merely that of shaved apes, but the horrors of the Dreadfort purveyed regardless of reality.

Arin himself was exceedingly unimpressed with the Northmen, a blank stare reflected in his eyes as he looked at the encroaching entourage of King Torrhen Stark who trotted ahead of the main host.

"If he's expecting to impress the North's strength upon us, he is sorely failing," Rhaenys remarked.

"I doubt that's his intention, dear sister," Visenya countered, "Rather, I think he is doing the exact opposite."

"My thoughts exactly, Visenya," Aegon smirked, "And here comes the guest of honour."

IIOII

Torrhen Stark felt a terrible dread settle in his gut the moment he set eyes upon the combined armies of the Targaryen warhost. As if the sight of three gargantuan fire-breathing beasts was not enough, they now had to contend with a superior army in terms of quality and quantity, and far more experienced in battle than the rest of the Northmen combined.

Brandon Snow, Torrhen's sons and many of his vassals still remained defiant and brave in the face of such overwhelming odds, but not Torrhen, not the pragmatist who sat upon the throne as countless other Starks sat the Throne of Winter.

Approaching ahead of the Northern entourage, he stayed within arm's reach of the Targaryen siblings who approached him like old friends who just reunited.

"King Torrhen Stark," Aegon greeted, arms outstretched as if anticipating a hug, "Have you chosen to accept my offer?"

Torrhen dragged his frozen knees, his feet creaking with every step.

Then, slowly, he fell to his knees much to the dismay of all the Northmen who watched. Brandon and his sons, especially, were beset with anger and betrayal beyond measure.

"I, Torrhen Stark, Fifth of my Name and King in the North… submit to House Targaryen."

And with that, the North was annexed under the Targaryen domain, and Aegon's Conquest came to its conclusion.