Chapter 18: The Sickness of Kings, The Warden's Unseen Hand
The relentless current of time bore witness to the reigns of more Targaryen kings, each leaving their mark, or scar, upon the Seven Kingdoms. Torrhen Stark, the Ageless Warden, observed from his Northern bastion as Daeron II, the Good, was succeeded by his bookish son, Aerys I, whose reign was largely overshadowed by his Hand, the enigmatic and feared Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven. Then came Maekar I, a stern warrior king, followed by his unlikely fourth son, Aegon V – "Egg" – a monarch who dreamed of reforms for the smallfolk but whose reign would be plagued by tragedy and resistance. Through all these decades, Torrhen endured, a figure of mythic longevity, his true age a secret whispered only by the sighing weirwoods, his public persona that of an impossibly ancient patriarch, his eyes holding the wisdom and weariness of mountains.
The Blackfyre Pretenders remained a festering wound in the side of the realm. The Second and Third Blackfyre Rebellions, though less devastating than the first, still brought bloodshed and instability to the south. The North, under Torrhen's subtle guidance channeled through his then-heir, Lord Willam Stark (Beron's son, Cregan's grandson), continued its unwavering support for the Iron Throne. Northern warriors marched south when called, fought with their customary grim valor, and returned home, leaving the southern lords to their endless, bloody squabbles. Torrhen ensured the North's involvement was always calculated, its losses minimized, its reputation for steadfast loyalty solidified. He watched Bloodraven's machinations with a sorcerer's understanding, recognizing the threads of shadow and sorcery the King's Hand wielded, but Torrhen's own magic, rooted in deeper, more ancient sources and amplified by the Philosopher's Stone, remained far beyond Bloodraven's ken. Winterfell's secrets were shielded by wards that even a greenseer of Bloodraven's caliber could not hope to penetrate.
The greatest trial for the Seven Kingdoms during this period was not war, but plague. The Great Spring Sickness, which erupted during King Aerys I's reign, swept across Westeros with terrifying speed, claiming hundreds of thousands of lives, from the highest lords to the lowest smallfolk. King's Landing became a charnel house. The reigning king and his heirs perished. The Faith proclaimed it the wrath of the gods.
The North, however, fared remarkably well, a fact that further enhanced Lord Torrhen's legendary status. Long before the plague reached its borders, Torrhen's greensight had given him stark warnings. Drawing upon Flamel's vast medical and alchemical knowledge, and the purifying energies of the Philosopher's Stone, he implemented rigorous preventative measures. He instructed Lord Willam to enforce strict quarantines at Moat Cailin and along the coasts. He disseminated instructions for sanitation, for the boiling of water, for the use of specific herbal infusions known for their prophylactic properties – knowledge gleaned from Flamel's ancient texts. In Winterfell's hidden alchemical labs, he brewed potent tinctures, not overtly magical, but alchemically purified and enhanced, which were discreetly distributed through the Maesters and healers across the North, significantly bolstering immunity. He even used the Stone's power to subtly cleanse and ward key water sources and granaries, preventing the spread of the sickness through contamination.
While the south reeled, the North, though not entirely untouched, suffered far fewer casualties. Torrhen was hailed as a savior, his wisdom and foresight credited with preserving his people. None knew of the arcane science, the ancient magic, or the potent artifact that had truly shielded their kingdom. It was another layer to the legend of the Old Man of the North, the Warden blessed by the Old Gods.
His dragons, Skane, Morghul, and Issylra, were now beings of almost elemental power, their connection to Torrhen so profound it was akin to a shared consciousness. They were ancient, their scales like iron mountains, their roars capable of shaking the foundations of Skyfang Hold. Managing their needs over centuries was a monumental task, but Skyfang itself had become a magically sustained ecosystem, a hidden world teeming with unnaturally large and resilient prey Torrhen had cultivated for them. Their mental stimulation was a greater challenge. He often shared his thoughts, his observations of the world, his ancient memories with them telepathically. He set them complex tasks within their vast domain – navigating intricate aerial courses he designed with illusions, solving "puzzles" involving magically shielded targets, or even engaging in mock combat against magically animated golems of stone and ice.
On one occasion, during a particularly violent volcanic upheaval in the uninhabited, northernmost reaches of the Frostfangs – a region even the boldest wildlings shunned – a colossal firewyrm, a creature of myth, was awakened from its eons-long slumber. The beast, wreathed in flame and spewing molten rock, began to carve a path of fiery destruction towards the Shivering Sea, threatening to permanently alter the climate of a vast, remote region. Torrhen, alerted by his warged sentinels and the disturbance in the earth's magical currents, deemed it a worthy challenge for his eldest dragon.
Under the cover of a raging blizzard that blotted out the sky for a week (a blizzard Issylra helped to intensify and direct), Skane, the Golden Terror, was unleashed. The battle between dragon and firewyrm was a cataclysmic spectacle of molten rock and dragonflame, fought in a realm unseen by human eyes. Skane, his ancient power and intelligence far surpassing the brute strength of the primeval wyrm, eventually triumphed, driving the creature back into the fiery depths from whence it came. The volcanic eruption ceased, the land scarred but saved from wider devastation. Any distant, confused reports from lost whalers or wildling hunters spoke only of a week of fire and storm, the wrath of angry gods. Skane returned to Skyfang Hold, exultant and invigorated, his power tested and affirmed. Such interventions were rare, exceedingly risky, but necessary to maintain his dragons' edge and to subtly protect the balance of his domain.
The Stark line continued its inexorable march through time. Lord Willam passed, succeeded by his son, Lord Edwyle Stark – Torrhen's great-great-great-grandson. Edwyle was a quiet, thoughtful man, deeply respectful of his legendary ancestor. He married Marna Locke, and their children, including a young boy named Rickard (father of Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, and Benjen in canon), were now growing up in Winterfell, their lives touched by the subtle, benevolent influence of the Philosopher's Stone that permeated their ancestral home, ensuring their health and resilience. Torrhen watched young Rickard with particular interest. The boy possessed a fierce Northern pride, a strong sense of justice, and, Torrhen sensed, a latent connection to the old magic, a spark that might one day be fanned into a flame.
His primary focus, however, remained fixed on the Wall. His centuries-long endeavor to reinforce its ancient wards was a testament to his patience and power. He had learned to draw upon the very cold of the North, focusing it through the Philosopher's Stone, to mend the Wall's icy structure on a molecular level, sealing microscopic fissures and strengthening its resilience. He wove new enchantments into its foundations, spells of enduring strength, wards against fire and shadow, glyphs that would sing a silent warning to his mind if the true enemy ever began to press against its magical defenses in earnest. He knew he could not hold back the Long Night forever, but he could delay it, strengthen the shield, buy precious time for the realms of men.
His warged explorations beyond the Wall became more perilous. The wildling tribes were increasingly fractured, driven south by a creeping, unnatural cold that was slowly consuming the northernmost lands. He saw entire valleys frozen solid in midsummer, ancient forests encased in black ice, rivers stilled in their courses. The influence of the Others was growing, a palpable aura of despair and encroaching doom. He had yet to see one of the creatures themselves, even in his greensight their forms remained shrouded, indistinct, but their presence was an undeniable, terrifying weight on the world's soul.
He began to subtly influence the Night's Watch. Through anonymous donations of "ice-steel" weapons (attributed to a "grateful Northern lord"), through magically guided shipments of preserved food that arrived at needy castles during harsh winters, through warged animals that "led" lost rangers back from perilous rangings, he bolstered the struggling order. He even subtly influenced the selection of several Lord Commanders, using his mind arts from afar to nudge key electors towards candidates of strength, wisdom, and unwavering vigilance. The Watch remained ignorant of their unseen benefactor, attributing their occasional good fortune to the Old Gods or unexpected Northern generosity.
The Philosopher's Stone was now less an artifact and more an extension of Torrhen's own being. Its energies flowed through him, granting him a profound connection to the natural world, an intuitive understanding of its rhythms and its magic. He could feel the health of the land, the pulse of the seasons, the subtle shifts in the ancient weirwood network that spanned the North. He found he could even encourage the growth of new heart trees in secluded, protected locations, strengthening the conduits of the Old Gods' power, a quiet act of faith and a strategic magical investment.
His greensight, once a chaotic torrent, was now a tool of incredible precision, though its visions of the distant future remained mutable, shifting with the currents of time and choice. He saw the reign of Aegon V, "Egg," his dreams of reform, his tragic end at Summerhall – a catastrophe that Torrhen knew he must observe carefully, for it involved attempts to hatch dragon eggs, a matter of supreme interest and potential threat. He saw the eventual rise of Aerys II, the Mad King, the sparks of Robert's Rebellion, the fall of the Targaryen dynasty. And through it all, the ever-present, ever-growing shadow of the Long Night.
The War of Five Kings, the event he had long foreseen as the catalyst for revealing his own dragons, was still decades away, but the pieces were falling into place. The great houses would weaken themselves further, the realm would fracture, and the North would need its hidden guardians.
One biting winter evening, Lord Edwyle Stark found his ancient grandsire staring out from the highest window of the Warden's solar, his gaze fixed on the aurora-draped northern horizon. Torrhen seemed almost translucent in the pale moonlight, a figure of snow and shadow and ancient sorrow.
"Grandsire," Edwyle said softly, "you look as if you carry the weight of all the winters that ever were."
Torrhen turned, his eyes holding a depth that no mortal could comprehend. "Perhaps I do, Edwyle. Perhaps I do." He placed a hand, surprisingly strong despite its aged appearance, on his great-great-great-grandson's shoulder. "The world forgets. It forgets the true cold, the endless night. But the North remembers. And the Starks of Winterfell must always be the shield against that forgetting."
He did not speak of the Others, not directly. He did not speak of the dragons that slept in their mountain fortress, nor of the Stone that granted him life beyond measure. But in his voice, in his touch, Edwyle felt the chilling immensity of their ancient duty, the sacred trust passed down through generations.
Torrhen knew his time as a public figure, even as the "Old Man of the North," was drawing to a close. Soon, he would need to "pass," to retreat entirely into the shadows, perhaps allowing the world to believe the last of his direct line had finally succumbed to age, while he continued his vigil through his descendants, his true power utterly concealed until the final, desperate hour. The prospect brought a strange sense of peace. Kaelen's ambition had died on an assassin's blade. Flamel's yearning for normalcy had faded over centuries of solitude. Only Torrhen Stark, the Warden, the Guardian, remained, his purpose clear, his resolve absolute. Winter was coming, and he, with his ancient magic and his hidden fires, would be its eternal, unyielding foe.