Chapter 15: The Dance of Red and Black, The White Wolf's Pact
The fragile peace of King Viserys I's reign shattered with his death. Ravens, their black wings beating like harbingers of doom, brought the news to Winterfell: the King was dead. And before the funeral baked meats had even cooled in King's Landing, a second, more ominous raven arrived. Aegon Targaryen, the King's eldest son by Queen Alicent Hightower, had been crowned King Aegon II in the Dragonpit, his mother and the "greens" of the King's Council having usurped the declared heir, Princess Rhaenyra.
A third raven swiftly followed, this one bearing the seal of Dragonstone. Princess Rhaenyra, Viserys's chosen successor, had been crowned Queen by her own "black" council, denouncing her half-brother as a traitor and a usurper. The Seven Kingdoms, which had known nearly a century of Targaryen peace since the end of Maegor's tyranny, were now split in two. The Dance of the Dragons had begun.
Lord Torrhen Stark, Warden of the North, received these tidings in the Great Hall of Winterfell, his face as impassive as the ancient weirwood in the Godswood. He was a figure of almost mythical antiquity now, his true age lost to living memory, though he maintained the public appearance of a man well into his ninth decade, his white hair flowing to his shoulders, his eyes like chips of ancient ice. His great-grandson, Lord Cregan Stark, a man in his formidable early sixties, stood beside him, his expression grim. Cregan was the acting Lord of Winterfell, the strong hand guiding the North's daily affairs, while Torrhen, the "Old Man of the North," was its revered, almost oracular, elder statesman.
"So, it begins," Torrhen murmured, his voice a dry rustle like autumn leaves. His greensight had shown him this day countless times, the crimson and gold of Rhaenyra's banners clashing with the green of Aegon II's. Kaelen's mind assessed the opening moves of this deadly game; Flamel's vast knowledge recalled the cyclical nature of civil war, the inevitable bloodletting.
"The realm will bleed, Great-Grandfather," Cregan said, his hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword. "And they will call for Northern swords."
"They will," Torrhen affirmed. "Both sides will seek our strength. The North is the largest of the kingdoms, our armies hardy and unbroken by southern decadence. But we must choose wisely, Cregan, or not at all, if that serves us best."
As predicted, envoys soon arrived. First came a rider bearing the green seal of Aegon II, a haughty knight from the Kingswood who demanded, rather than requested, Northern allegiance, reminding Lord Stark of his oaths to the Iron Throne, now occupied by a crowned and anointed king. Cregan received him with cold Northern courtesy, listened to his demands, and sent him packing with a noncommittal reply, stating that Winterfell would consider its loyalties.
Then, more dramatically, came the messenger from Queen Rhaenyra: her own son, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to Dragonstone, riding his young dragon, Vermax. The sight of Vermax, a sleek green dragon no larger than a modest Northern longhall, landing in Winterfell's courtyard caused a sensation. It was the first dragon seen in Winterfell since King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne's visit nearly three decades prior. The Northern lords and smallfolk stared in a mixture of awe and apprehension.
Prince Jacaerys, a youth of barely fifteen but carrying himself with a princely gravity, was brought before Lord Cregan Stark in the Great Hall. Torrhen, a silent, ancient figure, observed from his high seat beside the hearth, his presence lending an unspoken weight to the proceedings. Jacaerys made his mother's case eloquently, speaking of King Viserys's will, of Rhaenyra's rightful claim, of Aegon II's usurpation. He appealed to Northern honor, to the sanctity of oaths.
Cregan, a stern, hard man, was not easily swayed by rhetoric. He listened, questioned, and deliberated. Torrhen, though silent, guided his great-grandson with subtle mental nudges, with shared memories from the Philosopher's Stone of past councils, with the weight of his ancient wisdom. Rhaenyra's claim, by primogeniture as decreed by Viserys, was arguably stronger in terms of established royal will. More importantly, her faction, if victorious, might be more inclined to grant the North the autonomy it craved, or at least, their victory would likely come at a higher cost in Targaryen dragonpower than a swift green victory. The greens, with their Hightower backing and established power in King's Landing, seemed more inclined towards centralized authority.
The negotiations between Cregan and Jacaerys were intense. The young prince, eager for Northern support, was willing to make concessions. Finally, after days of discussion, the legendary Pact of Ice and Fire was sworn. Lord Cregan Stark pledged the swords of the North to Queen Rhaenyra. In return, Prince Jacaerys promised that his firstborn daughter would be wed to Cregan's eldest son and heir, another Rickon (Torrhen's great-great-grandson), binding the Starks to the Targaryen line with blood.
Torrhen met with Prince Jacaerys briefly before the young prince departed on Vermax. The boy looked at the ancient Lord of Winterfell with a respect bordering on reverence.
"Lord Stark," Jacaerys said, bowing his head. "My mother will be gladdened by your great-grandson's pledge. The North's loyalty is a beacon of honor in these dark times."
Torrhen inclined his head, his ancient eyes holding a flicker of something Jacaerys could not decipher – perhaps sorrow, perhaps pity, perhaps the cold calculation of centuries. "Honor is a heavy burden, young Prince," Torrhen said, his voice like the wind sighing through ancient pines. "May your dragons fly true. And may you remember that winter always claims its due."
With Jacaerys's departure, the North began to prepare for war. Lord Cregan called the banners, and the "Winter Wolves," hardy Northern warriors eager for battle and adventure after generations of peace, began to assemble. They would not march immediately; the Pact stipulated they would join Rhaenyra's forces after the harshest part of winter had passed. This delay suited Torrhen perfectly. It allowed him to observe the opening stages of the Dance, to let the Targaryen dragons bleed each other, before committing Northern lives.
While Cregan managed the mundane preparations for war, Torrhen waged his own secret conflict – a war of observation, of intelligence gathering, of subtle magical influence. His warged ravens soared over the battlefields of the south, his consciousness flitting between them, witnessing the unfolding carnage. He saw the first major dragon casualty at Rook's Rest, where Aegon II, riding Sunfyre, and his brother Aemond, astride the colossal Vhagar (now the largest living dragon in Westeros, save Torrhen's own hidden three), ambushed and killed Princess Rhaenys and her dragon Meleys, the Red Queen. Aegon II himself was grievously wounded, his dragon Sunfyre terribly burned. One Targaryen dragon dead, two more maimed. Torrhen felt a grim satisfaction.
The Philosopher's Stone thrummed with a dark energy, subtly drawing upon the immense psychic fallout of these horrific battles, the terror of burning men, the agony of dying dragons. Torrhen found its power growing, its ability to sustain him, to enhance his senses, becoming even more profound. He was an ancient predator, feeding on the scraps of a dying age, growing stronger as the world around him descended into chaos.
His own dragons, Skane, Morghul, and Issylra, felt his grim mood. Confined to Skyfang Hold, they grew restless, their roars echoing through the mountain fastness. They sensed the distant battles of their lesser kin, felt the disturbance in the world's magical currents as dragonfire scorched the southern skies. Torrhen visited them frequently via the teleportation circle, soothing their agitation, leading them on furious, storm-shrouded flights over the most desolate, unpopulated regions of the far north, allowing them to vent their power against icebergs in the Shivering Sea or desolate mountain peaks. Skane, his golden scales like a forge's heart, would incinerate entire ice floes. Morghul, a creature of shadow and death, would practice his terrifying shadow-translocations, appearing and disappearing amidst blizzards like a vengeful god. Issylra, her ice-breath now capable of creating instant glaciers, would freeze sections of the sea or carve intricate, deadly sculptures from mountain faces. Their power was terrifying, absolute, a force that could shatter armies and break kingdoms. And it remained utterly secret.
The North, under Cregan's firm hand and Torrhen's unseen guidance, remained an oasis of calm. While the Riverlands burned, while fleets clashed in the Gullet, while King's Landing starved under siege and counter-siege, the North's granaries were full, its borders secure, its people safe. Torrhen used the Stone's power to ensure this, subtly warding against the spread of war-born plagues, ensuring favorable (or at least, not disastrous) weather for harvests, and projecting an aura of indomitable strength that deterred any thoughts of opportunistic raids from the Iron Islands or the Vale.
The news from the south grew ever more horrific. Prince Lucerys Velaryon, Jacaerys's younger brother, was slain by Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar over Storm's End, a blatant act of kinslaying that irrevocably escalated the war. Dragonstone fell to Aegon II. Rhaenyra, in retaliation, captured King's Landing, seating herself upon the Iron Throne, only to find the city ungovernable, the smallfolk rebellious. Dragons fought dragons above the Gods Eye, where Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes battled Aemond and Vhagar, both pairs perishing in a fiery apotheosis. The death of Vhagar, the Conqueror's own mount, was a significant blow to the greens, but Daemon's loss was equally devastating for the blacks.
Torrhen tracked each death, each battle, with cold precision. His greensight showed him the trajectory of the war, the mounting losses on both sides. The Targaryen dragons were dying at an alarming rate. Balerion the Black Dread had died of old age years ago. Now Meleys, Vhagar, Caraxes, Arrax (Lucerys's dragon), Vermax (Jacaerys's dragon, lost in the Battle of the Gullet), Syrax (Rhaenyra's dragon, killed by the starving mobs of King's Landing), Sunfyre (Aegon II's dragon, eventually succumbing to his wounds), Dreamfyre, Tessarion, Moondancer… the litany of dead dragons grew longer with each passing moon. It was a self-inflicted purge of Targaryen power, a cleansing fire that would, Torrhen knew, ultimately benefit the North.
Lord Cregan Stark, true to his word, finally led the Winter Wolves south as the war dragged into its third year. A formidable host of hard-bitten Northmen, they marched into a shattered Riverlands, finding Rhaenyra dead, Aegon II briefly restored to a broken throne, and the realm in utter chaos. Cregan's brief, stern tenure as Hand of the King to Aegon II, known as the Hour of the Wolf, saw swift, brutal justice meted out to traitors and poisoners. Torrhen, observing from afar, approved of his great-grandson's decisiveness. The North had honored its pact, shed its blood, and now, with the war finally sputtering to a close with the death of Aegon II and the ascension of Rhaenyra's young son, Aegon III (the Dragonbane, for during his reign the last Targaryen dragons would die out), Cregan would return North, his duty done.
Throughout the Dance, Torrhen had remained in Winterfell, the ancient, unmoving linchpin of his kingdom. He had used the Philosopher's Stone to subtly influence events only when absolutely necessary to protect Northern interests or to ensure the dragon war continued its mutually destructive course. For instance, when a desperate faction of greens, routed in the Riverlands, had considered fleeing north to regroup, Torrhen had subtly amplified the fear-wards around Moat Cailin and conjured illusions of a vast, plague-ridden wasteland beyond it, deterring them. When rumors of a new clutch of dragon eggs being discovered on a remote Essosi island reached him, he had dispatched Morghul on a moonless night across the Narrow Sea, a silent, shadowy messenger of destruction that ensured those eggs would never hatch, their discovery site becoming another forgotten, ill-omened ruin. No new dragon lines would challenge his own.
As the Dance of the Dragons concluded, leaving the Targaryen dynasty deeply scarred and their dragon numbers decimated, Torrhen Stark looked towards the future. The Iron Throne was weaker than it had been in a century. The great houses of the south were exhausted by war. The North, however, was strong, united, and prosperous, its true power still a carefully guarded secret.
Lord Cregan returned to Winterfell a hero, his reputation for stern justice and Northern valor legendary. He was older, harder, his eyes holding the shadows of the horrors he had witnessed in the south. He found his ancient great-grandfather seemingly unchanged, still the wise, enigmatic Warden.
"The South is broken, Father," Cregan reported, his voice weary, as he stood before Torrhen in the Great Hall. "They have bled themselves white. Their dragons are all but gone. Aegon, the boy king, sits a throne of ashes."
"And the North endures," Torrhen said, his voice holding a note of quiet triumph. "You have done well, Cregan. You have honored our pact, and you have shown the southern lords the strength of Northern steel and Northern will."
He paused, his ancient eyes looking through Cregan, towards a far more distant horizon. "But this was merely a skirmish, a dance of fools. The true war, the Great Winter, still awaits. The Targaryens have weakened themselves, and that is good. But the enemy beyond the Wall slumbers and grows stronger with each passing generation."
The Philosopher's Stone pulsed with potent energy, a testament to the immense sorrow and death the Dance had unleashed. Torrhen felt its power infusing him, sharpening his senses, deepening his connection to the ancient magic of the world. He was ready. His dragons were ready. The North, under the long, silent watch of its ageless guardian, was ready for whatever horrors the future might hold. The War of Five Kings was still more than a century and a half away, the revealing of his dragons still a distant contingency. But the Long Night… the Long Night was an inevitability, and Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, the Warden Who Endured, the Lord of Winter Dragons, would be there to meet it, his plans centuries in the making finally coming to fruition.