The night had been long upon the banks of the Trident. Across the river waited Aegon Targaryen, his queens, and three dragons whose shadows seemed larger than castles. Behind Queen Torryn Stark stood thirty thousand northmen. Some had spent the darkness sharpening swords. Others had prayed. Her bastard brother Brandon Snow had crossed the river beneath a banner of peace and returned only at dawn, carrying words from the Dragonlord.

As the morning mist lifted, Torryn emerged from her tent wearing her bronze crown and a cloak of grey fur. The ranks of her army parted before her. Some men lowered their eyes in relief. Others watched with open bitterness, believing their queen had chosen submission over glory.

Torryn walked on regardless.

At the ford she crossed the river alone, the cold water swirling around her boots. On the opposite bank the dragons waited, vast and terrible. Balerion's black scales drank the sunlight.

Without hesitation, Torryn removed the ancient crown of the Kings of Winter.

"The North remembers its dead. I would not add thirty thousand more to their number."

She stepped forward and laid the crown at Aegon's feet.

"I am Torryn Stark. I yield my crown, my sword, and my fealty."

Then, before dragons and kings and all the watching realm, she knelt.