#Torrhen Stark

[florisbaratheons]

Nearly all the Northern lore facts were wrong

Torrhen didn't bend the knee at the Wall, he bent the knee at the Trident. Jaehaerys didn't fly to the Wall, only Alysanne did. Jaehaerys was in KL for the first six months Alysanne was in the North. Rickon Stark didn't welcome Alysanne, Alaric Stark did. Rickon was Cregan's father, not Alaric.

Alaric Stark didn't go with Alysanne to the Wall, she went by herself. Alaric sent word ahead to the Night's Watch that she was on her way. Alysanne attempted to fly Silverwing beyond the wall twice, Silverwing turned her right around and went back.

Ryan, honey, are you sure you read the book?

[thenorthsource]

Northern Allegiances to House Stark by Sansa Stark | House of the Dragon

Some Northerners still sneer at my ancestor as "The King Who Knelt," forgetting that because of Torrhen, they're alive today to sneer. Their ancestors didn't leave their burned bones at the Trident, and their twisted swords didn't fill Aegon’s new throne.

[novaursa]

Chains of Flame

- Summary: Aegon conquers the North, breaks your betrothal to Torrhen, and takes you as his third wife.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: These events happen right before The Broken Crown. @oxymakestheworldgoround I hope you like it. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The Northmen stand silent, their breath hanging in the cold air as Aegon Targaryen, now styled the Conqueror, steps forward. You watch from a raised platform, your heart hammering as you take in the sight below. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, stands proud and unyielding before the might of the dragonlord. His eyes flicker briefly to you, a look filled with sorrow and a hint of betrayal.

Aegon's voice booms over the gathered men, a stark contrast to the cold stillness of the North. "I accept your submission, Torrhen Stark. You are no longer King in the North, but Warden, sworn to me and mine."

Torrhen nods stiffly, his face a mask of stoic calm. He removes the crown himself, placing it at Aegon's feet. It is a small thing in that moment, the act of surrender, but it feels like a shifting of the world. You feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest.

Aegon gestures, and you see the great crown of the North picked up by Orys Baratheon’s hand. The sight of it, soon to be discarded, makes something in you clench.

But then Aegon speaks again, and you know this is not over. “There is another matter, Torrhen Stark, that we must settle.” His voice is iron, unyielding. “The betrothal arranged by your father—between my sister and you—is no more.”

A murmur spreads through the assembled lords and bannermen. Your breath catches in your throat, though you had known this moment was coming. The promise made to you, to the North, is shattered in an instant, and the sting of betrayal mingles with relief and fear.

Torrhen’s face pales, his jaw tightening. For the first time, his composure wavers. He glances at you again, and you see the raw pain in his eyes. He does not speak, but you can feel the weight of his silent agony. His mouth opens, then closes, as if words would betray the storm raging within him.

Aegon turns to the gathered Northmen, his presence commanding, his tone brooking no dissent. “I will take Y/N as my third wife, joining her to me as a true queen of Westeros. This is the will of the Conqueror. No man will challenge it.”

The crowd erupts, voices rising in surprise and dismay. The North had seen you as their own, a bridge between the frozen lands and the fiery South. And now, you are being taken from them, claimed by the dragon.

You feel Torrhen’s gaze on you, and you force yourself to meet it. His pain is a spear to your heart, for you had cared for him, in your way. He was to be your husband, your future, a man who respected and honored you. But it was not love, not in the way Aegon’s presence invades your thoughts, dominates your heart despite your resentment.

“I will come to Winterfell,” Aegon continues, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “To claim her, as is my right. But I will grant you, Torrhen Stark, time to bid her farewell.” His eyes flick to you, and for a moment, the steel in his gaze softens. “I understand my sister holds you in high regard.”

You want to lash out, to rage at the unfairness of it all. He took your future and made it his own. Aegon’s jealousy, his possessiveness, had bound you to him in chains of blood and fire, and now he stands here, triumphant, while the North mourns the loss of its promised queen.

Torrhen bows his head, the weight of his defeat pressing down on his shoulders. “I thank you for your mercy, my lord,” he says, the words clipped and tight. He does not look at you again, and the distance between you feels like an insurmountable chasm.

The ceremony ends, and Aegon turns to you, his hand reaching out. The crowd parts as you descend, every step heavy, the eyes of the North upon you. When you take Aegon’s hand, his grip is firm, possessive, and something in you breaks.

“I will not forget this, brother,” you whisper harshly as he leads you away, your voice low so only he can hear. “You have taken everything from me.”

He stops, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think you see regret. But then it is gone, replaced by the unwavering determination that has always defined him. “I would take the world for you,” he murmurs, his voice fierce. “And I will make you my queen, as I've promised you.”

You look back once, meeting Torrhen’s eyes across the sea of people. His face is unreadable, a mask of Northern stoicism, but the pain is there, deep and unyielding. You look away, because to hold his gaze any longer would be to shatter entirely.

As you leave, Aegon’s hand never leaving yours, you feel the chains tighten. You are his, now and forever, bound by fire and blood. And the North, once a promise of freedom and peace, is left behind, as cold and distant as a fading dream.

The shores of Dragonstone are shrouded in mist, the air filled with the scent of salt and smoke. The winds whip at the edges of your gown as you stand on the blackened sands, gazing out at the restless waves. The preparations for your wedding are underway, but you feel none of the joy such an occasion should bring. The weight of your destiny, twisted and reshaped by your brother's ambition, presses down on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Behind you, the great castle of Dragonstone looms, its towers sharp and jagged like dragon’s teeth. Within its ancient halls, the fires have been stoked, and the feast is being prepared. But all you feel is cold, an icy knot of anger and betrayal festering in your chest.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the sand draws your attention. You turn to see Aegon approaching, his silver hair gleaming in the faint light. He is resplendent in his Valyrian armor, the black and red of House Targaryen vivid against the stark landscape. His expression is set, determined, but you can see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something that looks almost like hesitation.

“You are avoiding the ceremony,” he says, his voice low, though there is a hint of frustration beneath the calm. “Our guests are waiting. Visenya and Rhaenys, our bannermen, they are all gathered for us.”

Your lip curls in a bitter smile. “For us? Or for you, brother? This is what you wanted, not I.”

Aegon’s jaw tightens, his gaze narrowing. “This is what you have always desired, to be queen. You spoke of it often as a child, remember? That you would rule by my side, united in fire and blood.”

“That was a game,” you snap, the words sharp and hot as dragonfire. “We were children, Aegon! Do you truly believe the dreams of a girl mean I must forfeit my future?”

He steps closer, the heat of him almost tangible, and for a moment, you can see the hurt flickering beneath his anger. “It was not a game to me,” he says, his voice firm. “When you spoke of ruling together, I saw it as a vow. I saw it as a promise that you would be with me, that we would shape the world together.”

You scoff, turning away, your eyes searching the endless horizon as if it could offer some escape. “A promise you forced me into. You shattered my betrothal, Aegon. You took everything I might have had—the North, my own choices—because you couldn’t bear to let me go.”

Aegon’s hand catches your arm, gently but insistently, turning you to face him. His eyes are fierce, blazing with that intensity that has always defined him. “I took what was mine,” he says, and there is a ring of possessiveness in his tone that makes your heart clench. “You were never meant for him, for anyone but me.”

“And what if I say I do not want this?” you demand, pulling your arm free. “What if I do not wish to be your queen, to be bound to you like some trophy to show your might?”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “You may hate me now, sister,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. “But I know you. I know the fire in you, the hunger for more. It was not a game, not truly. I have seen the way you look at the world, the way you yearn for something greater. I have conquered Westeros, yes, but I did it for us, for the promise we made.”

“A promise I was too young to understand!” you retort, frustration boiling over. “You saw what you wanted and took it. You never asked what I wanted, Aegon. You never thought that I might have wished for something different.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I have always known what you wanted, even when you did not. You would have been wasted in the North, trapped in Winterfell with a husband who could never truly know the depths of your fire.”

Your hands clench at your sides, anger and confusion warring within you. “And now I am trapped here, with you. Trapped in a cage of gold and dragonfire.”

Aegon’s eyes darken, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, the heat of him almost suffocating. “Not trapped, beloved,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are not trapped. You are my queen, my equal. This is what I offer you—the world, to rule by my side. Everything we dreamed of, everything we spoke of, it is ours now.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you are caught between the pull of his words and the bitterness in your heart. You had dreamed of this, once, when you were too young to understand the price. But the reality is a bitter draught, and the man before you, the brother who has taken so much, feels more like a stranger than ever.

“I wanted freedom,” you whisper, the words breaking from you like a confession. “I wanted a life of my own choosing, not one bound by your will.”

Aegon’s face softens, and he reaches out, his hand hovering near your cheek, hesitant, as if he fears you will pull away. “And I wanted you, more than the crown, more than any throne. I have always wanted you.”

His words hang between you, heavy and fraught, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between your breaths. You feel the weight of his longing, the possessive need that has driven him to bind you to him, and it terrifies you, even as some small, traitorous part of you is drawn to it.

But you do not yield. You cannot. “You have me now, brother,” you say softly, a bitter edge to your voice. “But do not think it is by choice.”

He flinches, the hurt plain on his face, but he does not look away. “I will make you see, in time,” he says, his voice almost a vow. “I will make you see that this is where you belong.”

And with that, he turns away, striding back toward the castle, leaving you alone on the shore. The wind howls around you, the waves crashing against the rocks, and you stand there, feeling the world shifting around you like sand beneath your feet.

Today you will be wed, bound in the ancient rites of your people, the words of Valyria sealing your fate. And though you feel the fire of your anger burning bright, you know that you are caught, trapped in a web of fate and desire, with no clear way to break free.

The dragon has claimed you, and whether you will burn or rise remains to be seen.

The halls of Dragonstone are alive with the glow of a hundred torches. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dragonfire, a mix of smoke and the salt of the sea beyond. 

You stand in the center of the great hall, clad in the traditional robes of Valyria. The fabric is exquisite, a deep crimson embroidered with threads of gold and black that catch the light as you move. It clings to your form like liquid fire, and the weight of it feels both regal and suffocating. Your hair, usually left to flow freely, has been intricately braided and adorned with tiny dragon-shaped clasps of silver and rubies, each one a symbol of your house, your heritage, and the heavy legacy you now bear.

The hall is filled with guests, lords and ladies from the corners of Westeros, all here to witness this union, this cementing of power. The faces of those you know—Rhaenys, with her quiet strength, and Visenya, stern and watchful—are a comfort, but only barely. They stand on either side of you, dressed in their own gowns of silver and midnight blue, their presence a stark reminder of what you are about to become. Beyond them, the lords of the realm watch with a mixture of awe and apprehension, their whispers a dull hum in the background of your thoughts.

At the far end of the hall, Aegon waits. He is a vision in black and red, his armor gleaming under the firelight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned proudly on his chest. His silver-gold hair falls loosely to his shoulders, and his eyes—those eyes that have seen the world bend and break under his will—are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

The words of the High Valyrian rites begin, spoken by a priestess who stands between you and Aegon, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. The ancient tongue flows like music, each syllable carrying the weight of history, of old gods and lost empires. The ceremony is one few in Westeros truly understand, its meaning lost to all but those of your blood.

You are asked to recite the vows, and though your voice is steady, you can feel your heart racing, a frantic, caged thing within your chest. You speak the words, pledging your loyalty, your soul, your very being to the man before you. Each phrase is a chain, each promise a shackle that binds you ever closer to him.

Tears sting at your eyes, but you blink them away, your vision blurring for a moment. You will not weep, not here, not before all these people. But the weight of what is happening crashes over you in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. You feel Rhaenys’s gaze on you, warm and understanding, but even she cannot help you now. This is your fate, your destiny, carved by your own brother.

Aegon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His face is inscrutable, the mask of the conqueror, but there is something beneath it, something raw and almost hesitant. He takes your hands in his, his grip firm but not harsh, his skin warm against your cold fingers.

The priestess continues, her voice rising and falling like the tide, calling upon the old gods of Valyria to witness this union, to bless it with the strength of the dragon, the fury of fire. You repeat the vows again, your voice faltering only once, when the tears finally spill over, silent and unbidden.

Aegon’s eyes flicker, a brief, almost imperceptible softening as he watches the tears trail down your cheeks. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, his gaze searching yours, and you see it—a flash of uncertainty, of something almost like regret. But it is gone as quickly as it appeared, his grip on your hands tightening as if to anchor you both.

The priestess holds up a ceremonial blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the firelight. You know what comes next. Aegon takes the blade first, drawing it carefully across his palm. Blood wells up, crimson and stark against his pale skin. He holds his hand out to you, his eyes locked with yours, unyielding and yet—there is a plea there, a silent question.

You take the blade, your hand trembling slightly. The metal is cold and sharp, and when you draw it across your palm, the pain is swift, a sharp sting that blooms into a dull throb. You press your bleeding hand to his, the warmth of his blood mingling with yours, a bond sealed in the oldest way.

“Fire and blood, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. 

The words are a promise, a claim, and you feel their weight settle over you like a mantle. The tears fall faster now, but you do not look away, even as your vision blurs. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, to break, even as your heart shatters within you.

And then it is time for the final vow, the kiss that will seal your fates. Aegon hesitates, just for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours as if seeking permission, understanding. The hesitation is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that surprises you.

The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but there is a fire beneath it, a heat that speaks of all the things left unspoken between you. It lasts only a moment, a fleeting touch, and then he pulls back, his eyes dark and unreadable.

The hall erupts in cheers, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave. You feel the weight of the moment, the finality of it, and it is all you can do to stand, to keep the tears from becoming sobs. You are his now, bound in the ancient rites, the queen to his king, the flame to his fire.

Aegon raises your joined hands, his gaze still locked on yours. There is triumph in his eyes, but there is something else, too—something softer, more fragile, hidden beneath the conqueror’s mask.

The feast that follows is a blur of sound and color, of toasts and laughter that seem hollow in your ears. Aegon’s hand remains on yours throughout, his presence a constant, inescapable force beside you. You smile when expected, nod when spoken to, but inside, you are adrift, lost in the sea of your own thoughts, your own grief.

As the night wears on, the guests begin to fade away, the torches burning low. Aegon turns to you, his expression still unreadable, his hand warm on your arm.

“Are you well?” he asks, his voice quiet, meant only for you.

You look up at him, and for the first time since the ceremony began, you allow yourself to speak the truth. “No,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “No, I am not.”

For a moment, just a moment, you see something in his eyes—a shadow of the boy he once was, the brother you knew before all this. But then it is gone, and he nods, his expression hardening once more.

“I will make it right,” he says, and you can hear the determination in his voice, the fierce resolve that has driven him to conquer, to claim. “I will make you see.”

But you turn away, pulling your hand from his grasp, your heart heavy with the weight of all that has been lost, all that will never be. You do not look back as you leave the hall, the cheers and laughter fading behind you, your tears falling silently in the darkness.

Tonight, you are queen. But you are also alone, your heart a battlefield, your soul caught between fire and blood, love and resentment. And the man you once called brother, the boy who once made you laugh, is now the king who has taken everything.

[august-diehl]

KINGS OF WESTEROS DURING AEGON'S CONQUEST

Aegon's Conquest, also called the Conquest, was the campaign in which Aegon I Targaryen conquered most of Westeros. Aegon subdued six of the Seven Kingdoms, successfully resisted only by Dorne.

[sansacherie]

while i do think that scene with jace and cregan where they talk about torrhen stark painfully cringe and could have been written better, i did appreciate the history revisionism going on.

because like no.... torrhen did not bent the knee because he thought aegon was this super duper awesome special guy who was needed for the seven kingdoms. torrhen gave up his crown because the guy had 3 dragons (one of whom was vaghar, and yet she wasn't even the biggest.....) and he just extinguished the gardener line (with the tyrells now replacing them) and the lannisters barely surviving. the dude made the understandable choice in that circumstance.

120+ years later jace is aegon's descendant so it doesn't surprise me that of course he has a romanticised view of it. as for cregan...i don't know if we're actually meant to take his words at face value. but he is talking to a targaryen, with a dragon.... i don't know, but it immediately think of that "conquests and rebellion" video the original series had where the conquest is retold from the pov of the major houses (ie oberyn for martell, jaime for lannister) when we got to the starks....yeah it was made very clear about torrhen's intentions which had nothing to do with glorifying aegon

the problem is will the general audience realize this.... probably not lolol

[fandomlife-confessions]

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

The Dragon and His Third Wife Masterlist

Summary: Reader is the daughter of Torrhen Stark (The King Who Knelt) and becomes the third wife and Queen to Aegon the Conqueror. Her first visit down south to meet the Targaryen King is one that leaves the young wolf to question everything. She comes to realise only one thing: Starks don’ t cope well down south.

The Pact of Ice and Fire

A Union of Ice and Fire

The Bond of Ice and Fire

The Kin of Ice and Fire

[thot-chi]

Aegon the Conqueror: marriage is also a way for bringing together houses. (Wiggling his eyebrows.)

Torrhen Stark:...You have two wifes...

Aegon: BUT NO HUSBAND (wiggling eyebrows with more aggression)

[allovesthings]

If you are writing a tv show about a part of the history of Westeros....Maybe, just maybe, you should know and fact-check the rest of the history you are telling ?

Torrhen Stark did not kneel in the north or the wall and that's not even fire and blood, they mention it directly in a song of ice and Fire.

They literally have another Stark who people are kneeling to at the place where he knelt for Aegon.

Like that's a pretty significant thing that happened in the books ?

[patrocles]

LORDS OF WINTERFELL + THEIR BASTARD SIBING - Torrhen Stark & Brandon Snow

To say that Torrhen Stark's decision to bend the knee to Aegon I was an unpopular one was an understatment. The king had ruled for nearly twenty years by that point and had maintained a rare tenure of peace and agricultural prosperity before the arrival of the Targaryen invaders. But while the decision to give up his crown may have saved the lives of the people of the North, it cost him the respect of his sons, his lords, and his brother, Brandon Snow.

Brandon was nearly a decade younger than the king, only just older than Torrhen's sons. The two had been close all their lives, as Brandon was raised within the royal Stark family amicably. He was trained as a warrior, one of the finest archers of the land. And he was bold, too. But like the rest of the North, Brandon held on to his grudges. It would be many months before Brandon spoke to Torrhen again after bending the knee to Aegon, and many more years before he considered forgiving his elder brother.

Torrhen prevented Brandon from trying to kill the dragons of Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. Before departing Winterfell, Brandon carved three arrows. He prayed over them, willed the power of the Old Gods to guide them true and slay the beasts. But Torrhen forbade him from using them. They argued and raged at each other before finally Brandon agreed to treat with Aegon, but left his bow behind. By the next morning, Torrhen handed his crown to the conqueror and Brandon spat at his feet.

It was not that Torrhen did not believe his brother could accomplish his mission, and for many years after it haunted him that perhaps he should have let the boy try. But he knew that Brandon would die a martyr in the attempt. Perhaps it as his selfishness to not see his brother, and eventually his sons to die pointless deaths. In the attempt to find a peace, he lost his brother's respect, and his sons struggled to even look at him. Brandon lived in his rage; anger at Torrhen's cowardice, anger at himself for listening to him. But Brandon could not fathom a king's responsability to his country, and did not bear the weight of it. Perhaps Torrhen was preventing his brother from an inevitable failure that which he would be blamed for. The bastard that could not kill a dragon. He gladly kept Brandon's resentment for the rest of his life, if meant saving him that.

[tylands]

ASOIAF LIVES SERIES

THE LIFE OF: TORRHEN STARK, THE KING WHO KNELT

"All through the night messages went back and forth. The next morning, Torrhen Stark himself crossed the Trident. There across the south bank of the Trident, he knelt, laid the ancient crown of the Kings of Winter at Aegon's feet, and swore to be his man. He rose as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North - king no more. From that day to this day, Torrhen Stark is known as The King Who Knelt... but no northman left his burned bones beside the Trident, and the swords Aegon collected from his vassals were not twisted or melted nor bent." - Fire & Blood, pg 22.

[thenorthsource]

TORRHEN STARK -> THE KING WHO KNELT

Some Northerners still sneer at my ancestor as "The King Who Knelt," forgetting that because of Torrhen, they're alive today to sneer. Their ancestors didn't leave their burned bones at the Trident, and their twisted swords didn't fill Aegon’s new throne.

@thenorthsource for Palestine, Lebanon, and Sudan: @sansacule donated to Dina Maliha and requested Torrhen Stark.

[novaursa]

The Queen's Choice

- Summary: On your way to Essos, your love for Torrhen wins. You turn your dragon North.

- Paring(s): sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided), targ!reader/Torrhen Stark

- Note: This is one of the possible endings of The Broken Crown where Y/N goes to Torrhen instead to Essos.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana @sunset18rose

The cold wind of the Narrow Sea bites against your cheeks, a stinging reminder of the decision you've made. Beneath you, Tesaerix beats her great wings, slicing through the air with a ferocity that matches the turmoil in your heart. The horizon blurs into the pale sky, Essos beckoning you with the promise of escape, of freedom from the entanglements of your brother’s desires.

Yet, the further you fly, the more the fire within you flickers and wanes. Aegon had no right to make such decisions for you. To demand you be his. Your heart clenches with the memory of Torrhen Stark's solemn eyes, the gentle strength in his voice when he spoke of the future you were to share. The love that had grown between you, warm and sure like the spring thaw breaking Winterfell’s long-held snow.

You inhale sharply, the freezing air burning your lungs as a sudden realization strikes you. You don't want to run away. To Essos, to anywhere. It is the North you crave, the embrace of a man who would not seek to conquer you but cherish you as an equal. Your hands tighten on the reins as you make your decision.

“Tesaerix, turn north,” you command, your voice firm. The dragon responds with a deep rumble, shifting her course abruptly. The sea below shifts from the steel-blue of the Narrow Sea to the darker shades of the Shivering Sea, the air around you becoming sharper, colder.

Your heart thunders louder with each beat of Tesaerix’s wings. You imagine Torrhen, standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, his dark hair swept back, his gaze fierce and unyielding. Would he welcome you after all that has transpired? After Aegon's insult, his claim on you?

No, you tell yourself. Torrhen Stark is no meek southern lord to bow and scrape. He will understand why you have come. He must.

When the first glimpse of the North appears beneath you—the stark, snow-capped peaks of the mountains—the ache in your chest lessens. Soon, the sprawling gray walls of Winterfell come into view, smoke curling from the chimneys like a warm, beckoning hand. You draw a deep breath as Tesaerix lets out a piercing roar, announcing your arrival.

Below, you see movement, a flurry of figures rushing about in alarm. Tesaerix descends in a wide spiral, her wings stretching out like great sails, catching the icy wind. You spot him then, Torrhen, rushing out from the gates, his head tipped back, eyes wide with disbelief.

He’s clad in dark furs, his shoulders squared, his face a study in shock and something else—something that makes your heart squeeze painfully. He shouts something, though the wind snatches his words away before they can reach you. The men around him are bristling with weapons, though none dare raise them as you land.

Tesaerix’s talons scrape the frozen earth as she settles, her breath fogging the air as she lowers her head, allowing you to slide down. Your legs are unsteady as they hit the ground, but you keep your gaze locked on Torrhen, your heart pounding in your throat.

He is already striding towards you, his eyes blazing. “Y/N,” he breathes, stopping just short of reaching for you, as if he can hardly believe you’re real.

“Torrhen,” you say, his name a whisper on your lips. You search his face, looking for any trace of anger, rejection. “I…I couldn’t go. I couldn’t leave you.”

He lets out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders sagging with relief. “You came back,” he murmurs, and then, in a surge of movement, he pulls you into his arms, crushing you against him. The furs of his cloak are soft against your cheek, his body solid and warm as you melt into him.

“I love you,” you confess, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I want to be with you, not as a queen forced into another’s bed, but as your wife. Truly.”

Torrhen pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours. “Aegon won’t allow it. He—”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt, your voice fierce. “Let him rage. I will not be his plaything. I am no prize to be won or lost in his war.”

His expression softens, a look of such tenderness crossing his features that your breath catches. “You would stay here, in the North? With me?”

You nod, your throat tight. “If you’ll have me.”

He smiles then, a slow, warm smile that banishes the last of your doubts. “I would be a fool not to.” He presses his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air. “Welcome home, my love.”

You close your eyes, letting the words wash over you. Home. Yes, this is where you belong, here in Torrhen Stark’s arms, beneath the great walls of Winterfell. No longer a pawn in Aegon’s game, but a woman with a future she has chosen for herself.

And for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel truly free.

The great hall of Winterfell is filled with the low murmur of voices as Torrhen’s bannermen gather around the long table, their expressions a mix of apprehension and resolve. The flames in the hearth crackle and dance, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, but the warmth does little to dispel the chill that hangs in the air.

Torrhen stands at the head of the table, his hands braced on the worn wood, his gaze sweeping over the men who have served his family for generations. His decision to take you in as his own has stirred more than just concern among them; it’s sparked a fear of what may come.

“She is Aegon’s queen,” Lord Cerwyn says, breaking the silence. His voice is steady but edged with worry. “By taking her into your home, you risk the wrath of the Dragon himself. What will happen when Aegon and his sisters come to reclaim what he sees as his?”

The murmurs grow louder, the men shifting uneasily. Torrhen straightens, his gaze hardening. “Aegon made a promise to me,” he says, his voice carrying through the hall. “He pledged Y/N to me in marriage, to bind the North to his cause, to ensure peace between our people. He broke that promise when he took her for himself.”

“But you swore fealty to him,” Lord Manderly interjects, his thick brows drawn together in a frown. “You bent the knee, denounced your crown. To go against him now would make you an oathbreaker.”

“Aye, I swore an oath,” Torrhen replies, his tone unwavering. “But it was Aegon who broke faith first. He swore to honor our alliance, to make Y/N my wife, not another conquest for his own ambitions. It was not I who severed our agreement but him.”

A heavy silence falls over the hall as his words sink in. The truth of it is undeniable, but it does little to ease the tension. The men exchange uncertain glances, each weighing the cost of defiance against the honor of their lord.

“And what will you do when Aegon comes north with his dragons?” Lord Glover asks, his voice low. “Will you fight them? We’ve seen what those beasts can do. Harrenhal, Storm’s End… there’s no fortress that can withstand their fire.”

Torrhen’s jaw tightens, but his eyes burn with determination. “We will do what we must to protect our home and our honor. If Aegon thinks he can take her from me, he will find that the North is not so easily subdued.”

Lord Umber lets out a bark of laughter, though there’s little humor in it. “And do you think we can stand against them like Dorne? Hide in the mountains and strike from the shadows? We are not made for such warfare.”

“No, we are not,” Torrhen agrees, his gaze steady. “But we are not without our own strength. Unlike Dorne, we have a dragon of our own.”

The mention of Tesaerix brings a murmur of surprise, heads turning towards the open courtyard where the great beast rests. Her presence, a golden and cream colossus with blood-red eyes, is a stark reminder of the power she wields.

Lord Cerwyn’s brow furrows. “And you think one dragon is enough to face three?”

Torrhen’s mouth sets into a grim line. “It may not be enough to defeat them, but it is enough to make them think twice before they bring war to our lands. Aegon may have his sisters, but Y/N is no less fierce, and Tesaerix will fight for her as fiercely as any of their dragons would.”

Lord Bolton, who has remained silent until now, leans forward, his pale eyes glinting. “And if they come not for war, but to treat? To offer terms?”

Torrhen’s gaze does not waver. “Then we will hear them. But I will not send Y/N back to him like a piece of cattle. If Aegon wishes to negotiate, he will find that the North does not forget broken promises.”

The men exchange looks, and though there is still doubt in some eyes, there is also a flicker of resolve. Torrhen’s words, his determination, have stirred something within them.

“And if he brings his fire and blood?” Lord Manderly asks, his voice grim.

Torrhen’s eyes harden, his stance unyielding. “Then we will give him the North’s cold fury in return. He may be a dragon, but we are wolves. And wolves do not bow so easily.”

There is a long silence, the weight of his words settling over them. Slowly, one by one, the bannermen nod, their faces set in expressions of grim determination. They know the cost of defiance, the danger that looms on the horizon, but they will stand with their lord, as they have always done.

Torrhen straightens, his gaze sweeping over them, a fierce pride in his eyes. “Prepare the defenses. Send word to every holdfast, every village. If Aegon means to bring war to the North, he will find we are not so easily conquered.”

And with that, the meeting is adjourned, the men dispersing to carry out his orders. Torrhen watches them go, his heart heavy but resolute. He knows what is coming, the storm that will soon break over them all. But for now, he has you, and he will not let any force in the world tear you from his side.

No matter the cost.

The sky above Winterfell is a tumultuous gray, clouds churning like the restless sea. Torrhen stands at the head of his gathered bannermen, his face a mask of calm resolve, though you can feel the barely contained fury radiating from him. You stand by his side, your chin lifted, hands clenched at your sides. The wind tugs at your cloak, whipping the fabric around you like a banner.

Across the courtyard, Aegon sits astride Balerion, his face etched with fury. On either side of him are Rhaenys and Visenya, their dragons coiled like serpents, eyes glowing with predatory intent. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and the palpable threat of fire.

“You dare,” Aegon’s voice booms across the courtyard, cutting through the frigid air like a blade. “You dare defy me, Torrhen Stark? You shelter my wife in your halls, defying your oath of fealty?”

Torrhen does not flinch, his gaze locked on Aegon’s. “You broke your oath first, Aegon,” he says, his voice steady. “You promised Y/N to me as my wife, to seal the alliance between our houses. You shattered that promise when you took her for yourself.”

“I am the King of Westeros,” Aegon snarls, Balerion’s wings flaring slightly as if in response to his rider’s rage. “She is my queen by right!”

“Not in the eyes of the Old Gods!” Lord Cerwyn shouts, his voice ringing out clear and strong. “Under their gaze, your union is nothing but a mockery!”

The roar that tears from Aegon’s throat is almost inhuman, echoing off the walls of Winterfell. Visenya and Rhaenys exchange a glance, their faces unreadable, but there’s a tautness to their expressions, a wariness that hints at their uncertainty.

“I will not be questioned by a pack of northern curs!” Aegon roars, his eyes blazing as they settle on you. “Y/N, you are my wife, bound to me by fire and blood. I command you to come to me now.”

A shiver of fear runs through you, but you stand your ground, your heart pounding in your chest. You take a step forward, your voice ringing out clear and strong. “I will not go with you, Aegon. If you try to take me back to Aegonfort, I swear I will hurl myself from the highest tower. You will not have me as your queen, not ever again.”

A stunned silence falls over the courtyard. Even the dragons seem to pause, their massive forms shifting restlessly as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Aegon’s face pales, his fury momentarily giving way to something almost like desperation.

“Y/N, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he begins, his voice lowering, almost pleading. “You are mine. We can—”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice as cold as the northern wind. “I was never yours. I was a pawn in your game, a prize to be claimed. But I am done with being used. If you think to force me back, you will find only my lifeless body when you return to Aegonfort.”

Aegon’s expression shatters, rage giving way to something raw and broken. He glances towards Visenya, as if seeking support, but her face remains impassive, her hand resting lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt.

Rhaenys shifts uneasily on Meraxes, her eyes darting between you and Aegon. “Brother, this is madness,” she murmurs. “There is no victory to be won here.”

“You would make yourself a martyr?” Aegon spits, his voice shaking. “For what? For him?” His gaze flickers to Torrhen, filled with contempt and something else—something that twists in your gut, a pain you wish you didn’t recognize.

“For myself,” you say quietly, your voice steady. “For the right to choose my own fate.”

The silence stretches, a taut, fragile thread that seems ready to snap at any moment. Aegon’s hands are clenched so tightly around Balerion’s reins that his knuckles are white, his chest heaving as he struggles to regain his composure.

“Aegon,” Torrhen speaks, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “You can’t force her to love you. This is over.”

Aegon’s eyes blaze with fury, but the fight seems to drain out of him, his shoulders slumping. He looks at you, truly looks at you, and you see the understanding dawn in his eyes, the realization that this is a battle he cannot win.

“You would leave me,” he says, his voice hollow, empty. “For him.”

You meet his gaze steadily. “I already have.”

For a moment, he seems about to argue, to rage, but then his shoulders sag, and he looks away, defeated. Visenya murmurs something too low for you to hear. Rhaenys’ expression is soft, almost pitying, as she watches her brother crumble.

“I won’t forget this,” Aegon says finally, his voice tight with barely suppressed emotion. “The North will answer for this betrayal.”

Torrhen steps forward, his face set in an expression of unyielding resolve. “The North is ready, Aegon. We will defend our own.”

There’s a long pause, and then, without another word, Aegon turns Balerion away, his sisters following suit. The dragons take to the sky, their massive wings beating the air as they rise into the gray sky, the sound of their departure a dull roar that echoes long after they’ve disappeared from view.

Torrhen’s hand finds yours, his grip warm and reassuring. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your body trembling with the aftermath of the confrontation.

“He’s gone,” Torrhen murmurs, his voice low. “You’re safe now.”

You nod, though the weight of what has just happened still hangs heavy in the air. Safe, yes. For now. But you know this is not the end. Aegon may be gone, but the shadow of his anger, his betrayal, lingers still.

But as you look up at Torrhen, at the fierce determination in his eyes, you feel a spark of hope. 

[jays-asoiaf-reblogs-and-archive]

Art by Jota Saraiva

[lunarmoonanons]

Would you do a Aegon I x Stark!reader?

You didn't specify if you wanted this to be yandere, so it's just a regular oneshot.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕  

Fire in the North

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕  

Masterlist

When the news of her brother’s submission to the dragon king reached YN, she portrayed no obvious emotion. But inside there was rage and hate. She hated the Targaryen lord who came to her kingdom, winning it not by any true action of strength but by his showing off of his beast. Deeper than her rage though, she had understanding. 

Her brother had to bend the knee for their people, that would make him seem weak but he only ever cared for his people. And she couldn’t truly despise the Targaryen for using his dragon as a means of intimidation, not when she had a large direwolf by her side doing the same. But her frustration snapped when she heard the man would come to her home in Winterfell to determine their terms of fealty. Not wanting some foreign man on a large beast to step on the land of her father. For the sake of her people she would swallow her anger. Many a man whispered that her brother should’ve fought, that he disgraced his name by kneeling, that even his sister would have rather died by the sword. YN knew that truly this was wounded pride and anger that some non first men descendant would rule over them. 

When Torrhen returned from the riverlands, head high, YN was waiting for him in the courtyard. YN’s wolf walking forth to bump her nose against Torrhen’s wolf. As he got off his horse and stood before his sister YN felt tears prickle in her eyes. Relief that her brother was alive, grief that her world was to change, and pity for the impossible situation her brother was placed in. The two hugged tightly, Torrhen let out a few tears into her shoulder as he whispered that he just wanted to keep everyone safe, YN rubbed his back to comfort him. Their reunion was cut short by the sound of a dragon roaring, the monster flew through the air and landed within meters of the castle. Torrhen pulled away to compose himself and YN hardened her expression. 

“Calm yourself YN” He whispered. 

“I will bite my tongue, for if I don’t I will most likely destroy what peace you gained.” YN said with a short temper. Icy tone biting the air. Snowstorm, her wolf, circled back to the woman. “Remain close to me Snowstorm, I’d rather not have a foreign king snatching you like he snatched this land.”

Torrhen sighed, and squeezed her hand for support. The foreign king finally made his way to the pair. He looked just as YN thought he would. Strange. His strange white hair, tall stature, and unnerving violet eyes. He reminded her of the stories of whites her nan would tell her. 

Aegon knew the north would be stubborn against his rule over them, his show of strength needed to be backed up by his terms for the north. He needed the north to know they had knelt. He thought that Visenya would like it here, if she’d visit. The land was fierce like her. When he approached the northern king, his focus shifted to the woman next to him. Her gray eyes, cold looking skin, and black hair was a type of beauty he was unfamiliar with. She was beautiful like the cold spring that shined over snow. But she gave him no kind look, her eyes glared at him, piercing his flesh like daggers. Next to her was a large wolf, almost the size of a horse. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, my… king.” Torrhen said. YN nodded to the new king, but said nothing. Praying to the old gods that she may be graced with patience.

“Thank you, Lord Torrhen. Let us go inside and discuss the terms of your wardenship over the north.” Aegon sounded very kingly, YN would admit that but she’d refuse to sit near him. 

“Of course. YN will you join us?”

“No. I have better things to do.” The woman snapped. 

“Such as, sister?”

“Such as none of your affairs.” With that she stomped away, Aegon watched the back of her hair swish around. 

“Your sister reflects northern ferocity quite well.” 

Torrhen apologetically nodded to the man. As they discussed his wardenship of the north, Torrhen remained as stubborn as he could. He would kneel for the north, but refuse to submit it to the same treatment as the south. Aegon was gracious and strong. Agreeing that the north would not submit to the faith of the seven, their gods were old and sacred. They were not of andal blood and their connection to the land was more important. Torrhen was adamant about the importance of the wall and their truth about winter. The people of the north would have more freedoms than some of the lands but their fealty to the Targaryen king must be absolute. That was what he wanted. Well that and one other thing. 

“Your sister is without a husband?” Aegon asked. “To solidify our agreement, perhaps I could take her as a wife. She would be queen alongside my sisters, and would want for nothing.” 

“I couldn't do that to my sister. I won’t force her into a marriage. She’d hate me, and would despise you.” Torrhen denied. 

“You are her lord, she would do as you say.” 

“The fuck I would.” Both men turned to see a fuming woman. She had only caught the last of their conversation. “You would try to have me as another bride for your inflated ego? Do you not have enough under your thumb?” 

Aegon stood and turned to the girl. “YN.. my lady let me explain.”

“No, you listen to me. You can come to my home, and command us with your massive beast, you can control lands with your fire, but I am of the first men. I worship the old gods and I would never want you. The only feasible way you could have me is kicking and screaming.” YN turned to Torrhen. “So command me then brother. Betray me like you betrayed our kingdom.”

“YN, I would never do that to you.” Torrhen tried to calm her. “But please, calm yourself. He is our lord now and we must-”

“I would not have you if you are unwilling, my lady.” Aegon stated. “I will not force you to wed me, but I wish for our peoples to have a bridge.” 

“I am not an object for you to build anything off of.” YN snapped, her wolf growled behind her. Aegon put his hands up in a sign of good faith. 

“My apologies, my lady.” He bowed his head slightly. “I would respect your wish. But allow me to preach my position to you.”

“Do as you wish, MY KING. I have no authority over you.” YN turned to leave. 

Afterward, Aegon and Torrhen made well in favor. Aegon resolved with Torrhen to write to his sister. At least he would have an honest chance to court her then. Truly he just wanted to apologize for the circumstances for how they met. 

The first couple of letters he had sent were not responded to. He was certain she was burning them. His revsolve almost waned, until one night when a raven was sent, the crest of the starks sealed over it. It was a small thing, no bigger than his finger. But the message sent gave him some joy. His sister, Rhaenys, shared his joy as she was also interested in his story of the cold beauty from the north. Visenya just wanted to meet the woman who stood to a king and told him to piss off. 

The message she had sent was simple and short. 

“I forgive you.”

[cookie-de-baunilha]

i’m still pissed off that they changed the location where torrhen stark knelt from the riverlands to the wall smh