Chapter 3: The Kraken's Shadow, The Dragon's Spark
The vision of the ship, the Valyrian woman, and the precious thrumming warmth of dragon eggs lingered in Torrhen's mind with crystalline clarity. It was an opportunity of such magnitude that it eclipsed even his meticulous ward stone project for the moment. Dragons. The ultimate symbol of power in any world, and a cornerstone of his long-term strategy for Northern independence and security. Flamel's knowledge, combined with his Stark blood and emerging abilities, felt uniquely suited to such a task.
The vision had been specific: a dark-sailed ship with a kraken emblem, battling a storm, heading for the western shores. Ironborn. The Valyrian woman was likely a captive, a prize, or perhaps a desperate refugee who had fallen into their clutches. The eggs, her treasure, now theirs to plunder or ransom.
Torrhen's first act was to retreat to his hidden sanctum. He needed more information, a clearer picture. Flamel's repertoire included scrying rituals, though they were notoriously difficult, requiring a strong sympathetic link or immense personal power to bridge vast distances. He had neither for this specific ship. Greensight was more attuned to fate and significant events rather than precise, real-time tracking of mundane vessels. Warging was his best option.
He spent hours in deep meditation, his consciousness soaring out from Winterfell, seeking suitable avian hosts along the western coastline. Gulls, skuas, peregrine falcons – he slipped from one to another, a fleeting presence in their fierce, wild minds. It was a draining process, like casting a net of awareness across hundreds of leagues of storm-tossed sea and rugged, unfamiliar coastline. Days blurred into a tense cycle of warging, brief rests, and meticulous cross-referencing of his green-seen glimpses with the sparse maps of the western shores available in Winterfell's library.
The North's western coast was its vulnerable underbelly. While the eastern shore saw traders from the Free Cities and was relatively settled, the west was wilder, sparsely populated, and constantly harried by ironborn reavers. House Stark had little naval power to speak of, certainly nothing that could challenge the Iron Fleet in its own waters. Any action he took would have to be swift, deniable, and overwhelmingly decisive.
Finally, after nearly a sennight of relentless effort, he found it. Through the keen eyes of a storm petrel, dancing on the furious winds far out at sea, he spotted a ship matching the vision's description – a battered longship, its single dark sail ripped, the painted kraken on its prow faded and scarred. It was limping towards the jagged coastline near the Sea Dragon Point, a desolate, treacherous stretch of land notorious for shipwrecks and whispered tales of sea monsters.
The Valyrian woman was on deck, huddled against the biting spray, her silver hair a stark banner against the grey gloom. Even from a distance, through the bird's senses, Torrhen could feel the faint, precious warmth emanating from a heavy, iron-bound chest near her.
He needed to act, and act fast. The ironborn would likely make landfall soon to effect repairs, or worse, they might already know the value of their captive and her cargo, intending to take her to Pyke.
His cover story was another extended hunting trip, this time to the far western Wolfswood, ostensibly to deal with rumors of an unusually large and aggressive shadowcat pack threatening the few hardy crofters who clung to life in those remote regions. King Theon, ever approving of martial pursuits, grunted his assent, merely advising Torrhen to "bring back a good pelt."
Torrhen selected a small, elite team. Ser Marlon Mollen, his grizzled, utterly loyal Master-at-Arms, who suspected Torrhen was more than he seemed but would follow him into the heart of the Seven Hells without question. Two younger knights from minor Stark vassal houses, both exceptionally skilled scouts and trackers, their minds subtly fortified by Torrhen over the years to ensure loyalty and discretion. And then there was Ygon, the crannogman. His knowledge of stealth, poisons, and navigating treacherous terrain would be invaluable. Ygon, with his unnervingly perceptive eyes, had simply nodded when Torrhen had requested his presence, as if he'd expected the summons.
They traveled light and fast, pushing their hardy Northern garrons to their limits. Torrhen, using a rotation of warged wolves and birds, kept a constant watch on the ironborn ship and the surrounding coastline. He directed their path through forgotten game trails and ancient, overgrown paths that only Ygon seemed to remember, bypassing the few inhabited areas.
As they neared the coast, the terrain grew wilder, the trees stunted and twisted by the salt winds. The roar of the ocean was a constant thunder. Torrhen found a hidden cove, screened by sheer cliffs and a dense growth of hardy pines, a perfect place to make their base. It was less than half a day's hard ride from where he anticipated the ironborn would land.
"The ship will seek shelter in the lee of a headland known as the Stony Finger, a sennight's walk north of here, if the storm drives them true," Ygon rasped, tasting the wind. "Bad water there. Rocks like teeth."
Torrhen nodded, his own magical senses confirming the old crannogman's assessment. The Stony Finger. He'd seen it in his warged flights.
The plan was forming in his mind, cold and precise as Kaelen's finest work, layered with Flamel's understanding of magical advantage. This would not be a battle; it would be an extermination, swift and silent. There could be no survivors to carry tales back to Pyke.
They waited. Torrhen spent the time in deep meditation, conserving his energy, his mind a nexus of warged senses. He felt the ironborn ship drawing closer, fighting the relentless waves. He felt the fear and desperation of the Valyrian woman, a faint psychic beacon. He also felt the subtle, almost imperceptible thrumming of the eggs, like tiny, dormant heartbeats, a nascent magic calling to his own.
On the second night of their vigil, under a moon obscured by racing clouds, a warged wolf brought him the scent of wet wood, iron, and unwashed bodies. The ironborn had made landfall, just as Ygon predicted, in a jagged inlet beneath the Stony Finger. They were less than thirty men, their ship clearly damaged.
"It is time," Torrhen said quietly to his companions. His grey eyes, in the flickering light of their shielded campfire, seemed to hold the chill of the deep sea.
They moved like ghosts through the night. Ygon led them, his bare feet making no sound on the rocky terrain. Torrhen had already used subtle charms to muffle their footsteps and cloak their scent from any watchful eyes or keen noses. He himself was a shadow within shadows, Kaelen's instincts fully awakened.
They reached the cliffs overlooking the inlet. Below, the ironborn had dragged their battered longship partially onto the shingle. A few bedraggled sentries huddled around a sputtering fire, their vigilance lax after their ordeal at sea. The Valyrian woman was tied to the mast of the ship, the precious chest at her feet.
Torrhen gave silent hand signals. Mollen and the two knights, armed with bows treated with Ygon's fast-acting sleep poison on the arrows (Torrhen having augmented its potency with a touch of Flamel's alchemy), would take out the sentries. Ygon would disable any alarms or traps around their makeshift camp. Torrhen would deal with the Valyrian woman and secure the eggs.
The arrows flew, silent whispers of death – or deep slumber, in this case. The sentries crumpled without a sound. Torrhen, under the cover of a powerful disillusionment charm that made him a mere shimmer in the darkness, slipped down the cliff face like water flowing over stone.
He reached the ship. The Valyrian woman's eyes, luminous violet even in the dim light, widened as he materialized before her. Fear radiated from her, but also a flicker of defiance. She was young, perhaps no older than twenty, her features fine-boned and aristocratic, her wet silver hair clinging to her face. She wore simple, dark clothing, clearly not her own, likely taken from a slain captive or a common sailor.
"Sȳz valonqar," (Good brother/man) she whispered, her voice hoarse, her Valyrian accented but clear. "Kesīr issi?" (Who are you?)
Torrhen ignored her question for the moment. His senses were focused on the chest. It was iron-bound, locked with a complex mechanism. Flamel's knowledge whispered the unlocking sequence through a simple series of targeted magical pulses. With a soft click, the lock sprang open.
Inside, nestled on a bed of what looked like scorched velvet, lay three dragon eggs. One was the color of molten gold, shot through with veins of crimson. Another was a deep obsidian black, its surface strangely warm to the touch. The third was a pale, pearlescent white, shimmering with faint hints of green and blue. The gentle thrumming he had sensed from afar was stronger now, a palpable vibration of latent power, a promise of fire and flight.
Avarice, cold and sharp, a sensation Kaelen had known well, pricked at him. But it was tempered by Flamel's scholarly awe and Torrhen's own grim purpose. These were not mere treasures; they were the future of his House, the ultimate guardians of the North.
He carefully lifted the eggs, one by one. They were heavier than they looked, surprisingly dense, their surfaces smooth yet somehow alive. He had prepared a satchel, heavily padded and warded with enchantments to maintain a stable temperature and to shield their magical signature.
"Skoros nēdenkirī?" (What do you want?) the woman asked, her eyes darting from the eggs to his face, which was still partially obscured by shadows and his disillusionment charm.
"The eggs," Torrhen replied, his Valyrian equally fluent. "And your silence."
As he spoke, Mollen and the others had efficiently and silently dealt with the remaining ironborn. Poisoned blades, garrotes, and swift, brutal blows ensured that the reavers died in their sleep or with barely a gasp. It was grim work, but necessary. Torrhen had no compunctions about eliminating pirates, especially those who threatened his acquisition.
Now, the Valyrian woman. She was a complication. She knew of the eggs. She had seen his face, however briefly.
"They are mine," she stated, a surprising strength in her voice despite her bonds. "From the Smoking Sea, a legacy of my ancestors. House Vaelaros of Old Valyria." Her chin lifted defiantly.
Torrhen considered her. Flamel's mind arts offered solutions. He could Obliviate her, wipe her memory of the eggs, of him. Or he could kill her. Kaelen would have chosen the latter without hesitation – a loose end. Flamel might have sought to preserve her knowledge, if she possessed any beyond her lineage.
"Valyria is dying," Torrhen stated, his voice flat. He had seen it in his greensight, the slow cancerous rot beneath the Freehold's splendor, the Doom that was still perhaps a generation or two away but inevitable. "Your legacy is ash and shadow."
Her eyes flashed. "Valyria will endure! The dragons will rise again!"
"Perhaps," Torrhen said, noncommittally. "But these dragons will rise in the North. Bound to a new lineage. A stronger one, rooted in the old magic of this land."
He needed information. "Why were you with the ironborn? Did they take you from Valyria?"
A flicker of pain crossed her face. "I fled. The infighting between the Dragonlords, the sorcerers… it grows too deep. My House was small, caught between an alliance with the Freehold'ers and those who would see them fall. I sought refuge, passage west, away from the scheming. I had hoped to reach Lannisport, perhaps, or even Oldtown, to find allies, to bide my time. These… savages," she gestured with her head towards the fallen ironborn, "attacked my ship near the Stepstones."
Her name, she eventually revealed, was Elaena Vaelaros. Her family had been minor dragonlords, their power waning even before the current strife. These eggs were her last hope, smuggled out at great risk.
Torrhen weighed his options. Killing her felt… wasteful. She possessed knowledge of Valyrian dragonlore, however fragmented. And a living Valyrian, bound to him, could be useful in understanding and nurturing the dragons. But she was also a risk.
He made his decision, a synthesis of Kaelen's pragmatism and Flamel's subtle manipulation.
"You have two choices, Elaena of House Vaelaros," Torrhen said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, imbued with a subtle charm of compulsion. "You can die here, your legacy truly becoming ash, your eggs lost to you forever. Or, you can serve me. You will teach me what you know of dragons. You will assist in their hatching and their raising. In return, you will live. You will have a place of safety, and perhaps, one day, you will see dragons fly again, even if they are not solely yours."
He let a sliver of his true power, the ancient, chilling magic of Flamel, bleed into his presence. Elaena shivered, her violet eyes wide with a new kind of fear, not of crude ironborn brutality, but of something far older, colder, and more calculating.
"What guarantee do I have?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"My word," Torrhen said. "And the understanding that your life depends entirely on your usefulness and your discretion. Betray me, or speak of what you've seen here to anyone, and your death will be slow and… imaginative." He let the threat hang, Kaelen's menace surfacing just enough.
Elaena stared at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "I… I accept."
Torrhen cut her bonds. He then set about meticulously erasing all traces of their presence and the ironborn camp. Flamel's magic was invaluable here. Transfiguration turned the ironborn bodies and their ship into mundane rock and driftwood, which the incoming tide would scatter. Spells cleansed the bloodstains, erased footprints, and restored the natural state of the inlet. By dawn, it would be as if no one had ever been there. The efficiency of it was chilling, even to Marlon Mollen, who watched with grim acceptance.
The journey back to Winterfell was swift and tense. Elaena Vaelaros, now dressed in spare Northern clothes, rode silently, her expression unreadable. Torrhen kept her close, his senses always alert for any sign of deceit. He knew she was biding her time, assessing him. He, in turn, was assessing her. Her knowledge, however limited, of Valyrian dragonlore could save him decades of painstaking research and dangerous experimentation.
Upon their return, the official story was that Torrhen's party had indeed found a large shadowcat, and in its lair, a dying foreign woman, the sole survivor of a shipwreck, clutching a strange, locked chest. Her mind was addled from her ordeal, they claimed, and she spoke only a queer dialect of Valyrian. Torrhen, with his scholarly interest in languages, had taken her under his protection. Maester Walys, after a cursory examination, confirmed she was weak but would likely recover, though her memories were hazy. Subtle suggestions from Torrhen, using Flamel's mind arts, ensured the Maester's diagnosis aligned with the fabricated tale.
Elaena was given secluded chambers within Winterfell, ostensibly for her recovery. Torrhen visited her daily, officially to practice his Valyrian, unofficially to begin the slow process of extracting her knowledge and ensuring her loyalty. He used a combination of Flamel's Legilimency – subtle probes, not forceful intrusions – to gauge her truthfulness and to understand the depth of her lore. He discovered she knew the basics of egg incubation, the importance of fire and blood, and certain Valyrian chants and rituals meant to bond with a hatchling. It was a start.
The dragon eggs now resided in the deepest, most heavily warded chamber of his hidden sanctum. The air within was kept unnaturally warm by magical means, mimicking the geothermal heat of dragon lairs. Torrhen spent hours there, sometimes with Elaena (always under his watchful eye and magical compulsion to secrecy), studying the eggs, feeling their faint life-force, and meticulously preparing for the hatching. Flamel's texts, combined with Elaena's fragmented lore, were slowly forming a comprehensive plan. It would require a significant magical ritual, involving fire, blood – his blood, Stark blood – and precise Valyrian incantations.
King Theon, meanwhile, was growing more insistent about Torrhen's marriage. "You're not getting any younger, boy. The North needs heirs. There are good, strong Northern lasses. A Flint girl, a Glover, even one of the Umber lasses if you like them wild."
Torrhen, preoccupied with his draconic acquisitions, knew he couldn't stall much longer. "I am considering my options carefully, Father," he would say. "The future Queen of the North must be chosen with wisdom, not haste." His greensight had still not given him a clear vision of his future wife, only the sense that she would be vital for his lineage. For now, the dragon eggs were his priority. Their successful hatching would shift the balance of power in the North – and eventually, the world – more profoundly than any marriage alliance.
One evening, as he examined the obsidian egg, feeling its surprising heat pulse against his palm, a fierce, possessive joy filled him. It was Kaelen's thrill of a successful kill, Flamel's delight in a profound alchemical discovery, and Torrhen's own cold satisfaction at a crucial step in his grand design. He was the King Who Knelt, yes, but he would kneel from a position of unimaginable, hidden strength. The North would endure. And it would have dragons. His dragons. Bound to his blood. The first true Northern dragons since the Age of Heroes.
The storm that had brought him this prize had passed. But Torrhen knew other storms were coming, larger and more terrible. And he, with his ancient magic, his assassin's cunning, and his newfound draconic power, would be ready to ride them. The game of thrones was played with many pieces, and he had just acquired the most powerful ones on the board. Now, he just needed to awaken them.