Chapter 8

"Your grace, even if you could be taught, for what reason would I teach you?" Atlas' words echoed through the room, cutting through the uneasy murmurs. 

The air in the grand chamber grew thick with tension, Atlas' bold words resonating like a thunderclap. The murmurs that had lingered in the background now hushed into a heavy silence, as if the very walls were holding their breath, awaiting the storm that loomed.

Aerys, sitting upon his throne, his regal demeanor masking a simmering anger, retorted, "Because I am your King."

Atlas, undeterred, replied with a dangerous edge, "I don't remember swearing fealty, your grace."

"Show some respect for the King, you-"

"It seems a rat has found its way into your court, your grace, maybe you need to hire better maids," The once-hallowed phrase "your grace" now dripped with mockery, and it caused the courtiers bristled, their discomfort manifesting in uneasy shifts and exchanged glances.

The kingsguard drew their swords, and Ser Gerold Hightower, their lord commander, said "Your grace, allow us to cut down this cur where he stands,"

As if a symphony of steel, Atlas' dragon knights mirrored the Kingsguard, unsheathing their Valyrian Steel swords. The familiar smoky ripples were apparent to all in the room.

"Valyrian steel..." an anonymous voice whispered, the surprise evident in its hushed tone. The courtiers, as if sharing a collective realization, exchanged glances that mirrored the astonishment that rippled through the room.

The passing seconds echoed with the weight of a possible clash, and those seconds felt like hours as the silence seemed to permeate through the very essence of the room. 

'Let's see how they react to this,' Atlas thought smugly before he decided to showcase his 'magic.' With a nonchalant wave of his hand, Atlas teleported every single sword drawn by the Kingsguard from towards him.

The court beheld the spectacle with fear, as Atlas demonstrated his clear mastery over the Arcane. The swords, once firmly gripped by the Kingsguard, now orbited around Atlas like ethereal guardians. Any doubts about Atlas' prowess were dispelled instantly.

Atlas cast a discerning gaze around the room, absorbing the fearful expressions of the attendees. His eyes, once playful, seemed to transform into ice-cold orbs and as he looked at the King, he seemed to be looking into his soul. 

"The way this meeting will go lies solely in your hands, Aerys Targaryen. Choose carefully."

The words hung in the air like an ominous decree, and in a moment of desperation, Aerys turned to his Kingsguard and shouted, "Kill him! End this madness!"

The Kingsguard ran forward, their loyalty unyielding, even without weapons. Ser Gerold led the charge, lunging forward with a determined glint in his eye. However before he could get close, Atlas, with a mere flick of his wrist, sent the man spiraling away.

Ser Barristan Selmy, although off put by the ease with the Lord commander was defeated, still charged forward, yet this time Gerold, one of Atlas' dragon knights, stepped forward. He spoke with an air of disdain, "You dare!" With inhuman strength, he delivered a powerful punch to Ser Barristan's jaw, rendering the knight unconscious. "You are all so weak!" Gerold declared, effortlessly dispatching the remaining members of the Kingsguard.

Only one stood defiant amidst the fallen—Ser Oswell Whent.

"You coward! Give me a blade if you're so confident!" He demanded, and Atlas in response, waved his hand to allow his sword to return to his grasp. The man would not be able to harm Gerold even with his weapon.

Ser Oswell looked surprised, as if not expecting his demand to be adhered to, but he quickly steeled himself, before charging at Gerold.

Oswell struck out with a quick lunge, one Gerold easily dodged, before returning an overhead strike. Steel met steel in the clash, but Valyrian steel proved superior as the sword was easily broken in half.

Chaos ensured, as the so-called 'best of the realm' found themselves bested by a single unknown knight, and so effortlessly too. The courtiers seemed to be overrun with fear, as they retreated from the throne room. Soon the once grand chamber was enveloped by a haunting silence, as Gerold stood over the iconic kingsguard.

Atlas turned his attention back to Aerys Targaryen, seated on the Iron Throne, and with a subtle wave of his hand, conjured a parchment into existence. The parchment bore the seal of House Stark and materialized into Aerys' stunned hands. 

"I trust you will find solace in your decision, Aerys Targaryen," Atlas intoned, his words carrying an air of finality, "This decision was brought up by your arrogance," Atlas and his companions began to walk out of the room, and no one dared stop them. 

Aerys looked down at the parchment in his hands, and he began to tremble. On the parchment there were only a few simple words, however, these words would forever change the realm.

'King Rickard Stark sends his regards.'

—

"Gerold, let's leave them with something to remember huh?" Atlas, now mounted on dragonback, soared over the city towards the Great Sept of Baelor. His presence cast a shadow over the grand structure, a prelude to the impending spectacle.

Atlas, with a wave, emptied the space. The sept's occupants found themselves abruptly relocated to the streets of the city. Confusion and disbelief painted the faces of those who had once occupied the halls.

"Seven blessings!" Atlas shouted mockingly before he beckoned his dragons to unleash their powers. The majestic creatures bathed the Great Sept of Baelor in a symphony of destruction. Flamed danced alongside freezing gusts, and the once-revered sanctuary was reduced to rubble in mere minutes.

The city below bore witness to the unprecedented display. And once the dragons ceased their attack, they roared. The roar of the dragons, especially Ancalagon, echoed through the streets, creating a cacophony of terror for the city's residents. The symbol of the Faith's authority was annihilated, just like that.

Atlas, perched atop his dragon, surveyed the aftermath with an air of satisfaction. The once-grand sept now stood as a smoldering reminder of the power of dragons.

"They won't forget that." He stated, before he looked to his companions, "Let us return home." Even as the dragons had flown away, the people who bore witness to such a spectacle were frozen, their shock was palpable. 

—

The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow in Rickard's solar as Atlas stood before the Lord now King. 

"Congratulations on your promotion my friend," The words hung in the air like a delicate fragrance. Despite the circumstances, Rickard did not seem as exhilarated as most men would be.

"Sigh, was there truly no other way?" Rickard's pondering filled the room, his voice carrying the burden of contemplation. Never did he expect to be King in the North, he assumed that title long dead ever since his ancestor Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the conqueror.

"Rickard, this has been your bannerman's wish ever since your ancestor knelt 266 years ago, and this has been the wish of every Stark which came before you. It is a cause for celebration." 

The room seemed to absorb the weight of the moment. Rickard who was now king, contemplated what led to this moment. "We swore an oath, Atlas. An oath to the iron throne, in front of the Heart Tree."

"Rickard, they shat on your oath more times than I can count. The new gift was taken from you, causing your people to starve, and when your ancestor begged the Reach for food, they declined, and what did the Targaryens do? Nothing. When they promised the pact of ice and fire for your houses loyalty in the dance, what did the Targaryens do? Spat in your ancestor Cregans face. Time and time again you and your people have been spat upon by those from the south, they call you and your people barbarians, I say enough is enough."

Atlas continued, "The threads of this wish are woven into the very fabric of the North, embrace it, my friend, for this has been a long time coming. The North looks to you for guidance, and as this war breaks out, stand tall. You are a King now Rickard, the legacy of your house converges upon this moment," Atlas concluded.

Rickard nodded a gesture that conveyed both gratitude and understanding. After a moment of shared silence, he spoke, "You are right, Atlas, I thank you for this. The North remembers, and we will remember this favor." Standing up from his seat, he extended his hand, and the two engaged in a firm handshake, sealing the significance of the moment.

"So, your grace, is it time to break the news to the North?" Atlas inquired, a playful smile on his face.

"By the Gods, that title will take some time to get used to, and Atlas, you've no need to call me that," he responded. The room echoed with their laughter, a reprieve from the solemn atmosphere that was present moments ago.

As the laughter subsided, the mood shifted, and Atlas' expression grew more serious. "Rickard, within the next moon or two, I will be leaving." The gravity of his words hung in the air.

Rickard's demeanor shifted, and he sighed before taking a seat, pouring drinks for both himself and Atlas. "Going back home friend?" he asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

"I will not be leaving for good, Rickard, and no, I won't be heading home," Atlas explained.

"Then where?" Rickard inquired.

"My journey takes me east, towards Essos. I plan on building a kingdom for myself there." 

"Don't want to be left behind?" Rickard joked, and the two shared a quick laugh before he continued, "What about Avalon?"

"I will make frequent visits, but Liam will be my Steward. I have full trust in his capabilities to care for the city in my absence," Atlas assured,

Rickard took a drink from his cup, and looked at his reflection for a moment, "I suppose I cannot convince you otherwise." Sighing, Rickard acknowledged the resoluteness in Atlas' decision.

"I need to do this Rickard. I am a builder first and foremost; I find joy in building. I have built here, and now it is time I build elsewhere," Atlas explained, his words carrying a sense of purpose. "Do not worry, my friend, I will visit often. I still have my goddaughter to look after," he added with a smile.

When Lyanna was born, Rickard had asked Atlas to be her godfather. Their friendship over time had only gotten tighter, and Rickard could say he was closer to Atlas than any of his other friends.

"I'm sure Brandon and Eddard will miss you as well," Rickard remarked with a smile of his own, acknowledging how their bond has grown.

"As will I, especially Brandon. So full of energy," Atlas replied, a fondness evident in his tone.

"Aye, four years old and already causing so many problems," Rickard laughed, before he took another drink from his glass and pondered. "Join us for the celebration at least, Atlas—the celebration of our independence. It is mostly due to you after all."

"Aye, Rickard, I will do so."