Chapter 7: The Dragon's Dance, The Wolf's Watch
The raven arrived on a bitter gust of late autumn wind, its black feathers ruffled, its message even bleaker than the grey sky above Winterfell. King Viserys I was dead. Lord Beron Stark, a man now in his middle years, his dark beard beginning to show the first flecks of grey, read the official scroll from King's Landing with a grim expression. Torrhen, his great-great-uncle, stood beside him in the solar, a figure of immense, quiet age, his silver hair like a crown of winter frost, his eyes holding the unreadable depths of a frozen lake. By his glamour, he was a man well over a century old, yet his posture, when he chose, could still betray a startling resilience.
Before the maesters had even finished decoding the finer pleasantries of the royal announcement, a second raven arrived, this one clearly flown in haste, its message stark and urgent. It was not from the Red Keep's official rookery, but from a contact Torrhen had cultivated within the household of Dragonstone. Aegon Targaryen, the late King's eldest son by Queen Alicent, had been crowned King Aegon, Second of His Name, in the Dragonpit. Rhaenyra, Viserys's declared heir, had been bypassed. The Greens had struck first.
"Usurpation," Beron spat, his hand clenching the Dragonstone message. "Aegon crowned? What of Rhaenyra's claim, sworn by every lord in the realm, myself included?"
Torrhen, who had known this moment was coming for longer than Beron had been alive, merely nodded slowly. "The game has begun, nephew. A game of thrones, played with fire and blood. What was sworn in sunlight is oft forgotten in shadow."
"We swore an oath to Rhaenyra!" Beron insisted, his Northern honor pricked. "The North remembers its vows!"
"And the North remembers survival," Torrhen countered, his voice soft but carrying the chill of the deepest ice. "Oaths are words, Beron. Dragonfire is real. Before you pledge our sons to a Southern inferno, let us understand the shape of the flames." He advised caution, a period of mourning for Viserys, and carefully worded messages to both King's Landing and Dragonstone – condolences to Aegon II, acknowledging his coronation as a matter of fact, and reassurances to Rhaenyra of the North's enduring respect for the late King's will, all while committing to nothing concrete. Buy time. Gather strength. Observe.
Silas, the assassin within him, reveled in the unfolding chaos of the South; it provided cover, distraction. Flamel, the alchemist, saw only the tragic, predictable folly of human ambition, a vast expenditure of life force that could, if one were so inclined, be harnessed – though Torrhen's current focus was preservation, not acquisition. The Philosopher's Stone, secure and thrumming faintly beneath Winterfell, was his ultimate guarantee for the North.
As winter began to tighten its grip on the North, true to Torrhen's anticipation, envoys came. First, a nervous lordling representing Aegon II, bearing lavish promises of royal favor and veiled threats for any who denied the "rightful" king. Lord Beron, guided by Torrhen's whispered counsel during the audience, was polite but non-committal, citing the North's need to prepare for a harsh winter and its distance from the immediate conflict. Torrhen, using Legilimency so subtle it was like tasting the air, confirmed the Green envoy's arrogance and underlying uncertainty.
Then, as the snows lay deep around Winterfell, a dragon's roar split the frozen silence. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra's eldest son and heir, arrived on his young dragon, Vermax. The sight of the beast – green and formidable, if not yet the size of the older dragons – sent a tremor of fear and excitement through Winterfell. The common folk whispered of the return of the Conqueror's beasts, while the castle guard stood with a grim, Northern resolve.
Jacaerys, barely a man grown but carrying the weight of his mother's hopes, was brought before Lord Beron in the Great Hall. Torrhen stood in the shadows near the High Seat, an ancient, observant presence. The young prince spoke eloquently of his mother's claim, of the Greens' treachery, and of the oaths sworn.
During the private negotiations that followed, Torrhen took the lead, his frail appearance belying the iron will and keen intellect beneath. He found Jacaerys earnest, brave, and deeply committed to his mother's cause. Vermax, whom Torrhen observed with intense magical senses from afar as the beast was quartered (with difficulty) in the largest courtyard, was fiercely loyal but still young, its fires hot but its experience limited.
"The North remembers its oaths, Prince Jacaerys," Torrhen began, his voice surprisingly firm. "But oaths are a two-way street. What assurances can Queen Rhaenyra offer the North in return for its allegiance, for the blood of its sons?"
Jacaerys, eager and perhaps a little naive about Northern pragmatism, spoke of justice, of righting wrongs, of future gratitude.
Torrhen smiled, a faint, chilling expression that did not quite reach his ancient eyes. "Gratitude cools faster than Northern winters, young Prince. We require more."
What followed was the negotiation of the "Pact of Ice and Fire." Torrhen, with Beron's backing, drove a hard bargain. He didn't just demand a royal princess for a Stark – a betrothal between Jacaerys's (as yet unborn) daughter and Beron's youngest son, Rickon. He insisted on guarantees of Northern autonomy in internal affairs, significant reductions in taxes for a generation once Rhaenyra was on the throne, and, most crucially, substantial aid – gold, craftsmen, and even Valyrian steel if any could be spared – for strengthening the defenses of the Wall and Moat Cailin against future threats, be they Wildling or Ironborn. He also subtly probed Jacaerys about Rhaenyra's war council, her resources, and her strategies against the more numerous dragons of the Greens.
Jacaerys, desperate for Stark support, agreed to most terms. The Pact was sealed with blood oaths before Winterfell's heart tree, its ancient, carved face seeming to watch with solemn approval as the young prince swore his vows. Torrhen felt a grim satisfaction. The North had committed, yes, but on terms that would significantly benefit its long-term security. If Rhaenyra won, the North would be well rewarded. If she lost… well, the North was far away, and winters were long.
With the Pact made, a slow, deliberate mobilization began. Torrhen ensured it was managed with utmost efficiency, drawing upon the vast, hidden resources he had accumulated. Moat Cailin was garrisoned to its full strength, its ancient towers subtly reinforced by spells woven into their foundations by Torrhen himself over the years, making them more resilient than any foe could imagine. White Harbor's defenses were bolstered. Small companies of men were dispatched to the Wall, ostensibly to aid the Night's Watch, but also to act as an early warning system.
The famed "Winter Wolves," the thousands of Northmen who would eventually march south, were a point of contention for Torrhen. Beron, his honor fired by Jacaerys's visit and the oaths sworn, was eager to send a substantial force. Torrhen argued for a smaller, more elite contingent. "Send wolves, nephew, not sheep," he counseled. "Two thousand of our fiercest, best-equipped men, led by a commander of unshakeable loyalty and grim courage. Enough to honor our pact and make a difference in a decisive battle, but not so many as to leave the North vulnerable. Our true strength must remain here, to guard our own lands."
He took personal charge of outfitting this elite force. Their steel weapons, forged in Winterfell's smithies, were subtly imbued with alchemical treatments derived from the Stone's energies, making them stronger, sharper, and more resistant to chipping or breaking. Their boiled leather armor was similarly enhanced, offering greater protection than its appearance suggested. He even provided their commanders with detailed maps of the Riverlands and Crownlands, drawn from Flamel's encyclopedic memory of terrain and his own scrying.
As the Dance of the Dragons erupted in the South with savage fury – the battles at Rook's Rest, the Gullet, the fall of Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen – Torrhen became the North's eyes and ears. In his most secret chamber, where the air itself hummed with contained power, he would spend hours gazing into a large, silver scrying mirror, its surface reflecting not the candlelight of the room, but the burning fields and dragon-scorched castles of the South. Flamel's mastery of scrying, combined with the Stone's amplification, allowed him to witness key events, to track the movements of armies and dragons, to gauge the shifting tides of war.
The Weirwood Network also served him, pulsing with faint impressions from across the North – the passage of ships off the coast, the mood of the border clans, the first stirrings of spring in the southern foothills. It was a subtle, often cryptic, intelligence, but it painted a picture of his domain's quiet readiness.
He felt the distant screams of dying dragons through the ambient magical currents of the world, a chilling testament to the war's brutality. Each dragon death was a lessening of Targaryen power, a fact Silas noted with cold approval. He strengthened Winterfell's wards to their absolute peak, adding new layers designed to specifically counter dragonfire, drawing upon the Stone's inexhaustible reserves. He envisioned Winterfell as an iceberg, its visible strength only a fraction of what lay hidden beneath, a fortress of ice and magic that no dragon, he hoped, could truly conquer.
The internal dynamics of the North remained his constant concern. Some of the more hot-blooded Northern lords, like the Umbers or Karstarks, chafed at the limited commitment, eager for glory in Southern fields. Torrhen, through Lord Beron, managed them with a deft hand. He reminded them of past Southern betrayals, of the harshness of Northern winters that demanded every able-bodied man, of the wisdom of their ancestors who had always prioritized the North's own survival. His pronouncements, delivered with the gravitas of a man who had seen more than a hundred winters, carried an almost divine weight. No lord dared openly defy the Winter Sage.
One particularly ambitious young Bolton lord, rumored to be discontent with Stark's cautious policy and perhaps eyeing an opportunity for his own house, found himself plagued by a series of unfortunate, entirely "natural" events. A prize kennel of hunting dogs fell sick and died. A vital bridge on his lands collapsed during a minor flood. Whispers of ancient curses being stirred by his disloyalty began to circulate among his own smallfolk. The young Bolton quickly, and publicly, reaffirmed his unwavering loyalty to House Stark. Torrhen, who had merely nudged probabilities and amplified existing weaknesses with subtle magic, allowed himself a rare, fleeting smile.
Lord Beron eventually chose Lord Roderick Dustin, a battle-hardened warrior known as "Roddy the Ruin," to lead the two thousand Winter Wolves south. Torrhen met with Roddy before his departure, a private audience in the Godswood. He didn't offer strategic advice in the conventional sense; Roddy was a master of that. Instead, he gave him a small, smooth weirwood token.
"Carry this with you, Lord Dustin," Torrhorren said, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "It is a charm blessed by the Old Gods. It may offer some small protection when the fires burn hottest." The token was, in fact, a subtle magical beacon, linked to Torrhen's own senses. It would allow him to get a clearer impression of the battles the Winter Wolves faced, and, if the direst need arose and he could do so without revealing his hand, perhaps offer some minuscule, deniable magical assistance – a sudden gust of wind to misdirect dragonflame, a moment of unnatural fear in an enemy's heart. It was a desperate measure, one he hoped he would not need to use.
He also gave Roddy a sealed vial containing a single, ruby-red drop of undiluted Sanguine Elixir. "Should you suffer a wound that even your maesters deem fatal, drink this. It may grant you the strength to see one last dawn." It was a potent gift, one that could save Roddy's life, but also one that, if its effects were too miraculous, could raise questions. Torrhen trusted Roddy's Northern discretion.
As the Winter Wolves marched south, a column of grim, determined warriors vanishing into the snow-swept landscape, Torrhen stood on the battlements of Winterfell, the wind tugging at his silver hair. The air tasted of snow and distant smoke. The Dance was in full swing. Dragons fought dragons in the skies, kinslayers battled kinslayers on the ground, and the realm bled.
He felt a profound sense of detachment, the ancient, weary perspective of one who had seen civilizations rise and crumble. Yet, beneath it, Silas's core imperative burned cold and clear: protect what is yours. The North was his. He had nurtured it, fortified it, shielded it with a century of secrets and sorcery.
He touched the cold stone of the battlements, feeling the thrum of the wards woven within, powered by the sleeping giant of the Philosopher's Stone far below. Winterfell was ready. The North was ready. He was its silent guardian, its eternal watchman. The dragons could dance their fiery path to ruin. The wolf would endure. And when the long night of their war finally ended, the North would still be standing, perhaps stronger than ever before, a testament to the unseen hand that had guided its destiny through the storm. The cost of Southern folly would not be paid by his people, not if Torrhen Stark had anything to say about it. And his voice, though often silent, resonated with the power of ages.