Chapter 27: The Dragon's Dance Looms, A Wolf's Cautious Peace
The decades following the binding of the Night King settled into a rhythm of vigilant peace for the immortal guardians of the North. King Brandon II Stark, the Greenseer, ruled with a wisdom that seemed to deepen with each passing year, his public reign seen by the North as a blessed era of recovery and quiet strength. The horrors of the "Great Winter" faded into sobering legend, a testament to Northern resilience, its true, apocalyptic nature known only to the very few who had stood against it. By the year 128 AC, Brandon II had governed for nearly three decades, his own son, young Kaelen – named for the great patriarch of their hidden dynasty – now a promising young man of twenty, his magical tutelage under his great-great-great-grandfather progressing at an astonishing pace.
The North thrived. Lands once blighted by the encroaching cold now saw hardy crops return. Villages abandoned in terror were slowly resettled. The Night's Watch, its numbers bolstered and its armories secretly stocked with soulfire steel, maintained a sterner, more effective vigil along a Wall whose ancient magic now hummed with a renewed, if unseen, potency thanks to the Hiemal Vexillum and Kaelen's quiet ministrations. Within Dragon's Maw, the Hidden Council – Kaelen, his sons Brandon Senior (whose consciousness now resided within the great Heart Tree of the sacred valley, a silent, potent guardian), Torrhen, Rickard, and Eddard, alongside Lyra, Arya, and King Brandon II – continued their timeless work. They oversaw the maintenance of the wards upon the Night King's prison, the training of their magnificent dragons, and the meticulous gathering of knowledge that might one day be needed again.
Brandon Senior's existence within the Heart Tree was a source of both sorrow and profound wonder. King Brandon II, through his greenseeing, could commune with him, their minds touching across the veil of wood and spirit. Brandon Senior was not tormented; rather, his consciousness had expanded, merged with the vast, ancient network of the weirwoods, becoming a part of the very soul of the North. He offered fragmented insights, ancient memories from the earth itself, and a constant, unwavering vigilance over the prison he anchored. The valley around the Heart Tree had transformed into a place of eerie, preternatural vitality, where seasons seemed muted, the air always still and charged with ancient magic. Erebus, the crimson-black dragon, had made the high cliffs overlooking the valley his preferred roost, an unofficial, terrifying sentinel to his kinsman's eternal duty.
Young Kaelen Stark, heir to his father Brandon II, was a focal point of the elder Kaelen's attention. The boy possessed a keen intellect, a natural affinity for Flamel's alchemical arts, and a surprising talent for the intricate ward-craft that Eddard specialized in. Unlike his father, his greenseeing was minimal, but his analytical mind and his grasp of complex magical theory were exceptional. Kaelen the Elder saw in him the potential for a different kind of strength, a mind that could master the intricacies of the Philosopher's Stone or the creation of new magical defenses. His training was rigorous, encompassing not just arcane knowledge but the true, secret history of their House, the nature of their immortality, and the awesome responsibility that would one day be his. For now, he was not yet a dragon rider; Kaelen the Elder believed that bond must form naturally, when both dragon and potential rider were ready. Solara and Sylvan, Kaelen's other two personal dragons besides Nocturne, remained unassigned, their immense power held in reserve.
While the North focused on its quiet, internal strengthening and its eternal vigil against the ancient enemy, the southern realms were stumbling towards a precipice of fire and blood. King Viserys I Targaryen's long reign, though peaceful on the surface, had been undermined by his vacillation and the bitter, irreconcilable feud over his succession. His daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, his named heir, was challenged by her younger half-brother, Aegon, championed by his mother, Queen Alicent Hightower, and her formidable father, Otto Hightower, the King's Hand. The factions – the "Blacks" supporting Rhaenyra, and the "Greens" supporting Aegon II – were openly hostile, their enmity poisoning the courts of King's Landing and Dragonstone.
Arya and Umbra, their intelligence network now a subtle, pervasive force, brought increasingly dire reports to Dragon's Maw. They spoke of clandestine alliances, of arms being gathered, of dragonriders choosing sides, their ancient Valyrian pride and ambition overriding any sense of loyalty to the realm's peace. Kaelen, Brandon Sr. (through the Greenseer King), Torrhen, Rickard, and Eddard listened with grim familiarity. The self-destructive hubris of dragonlords was a tale as old as Valyria itself.
"They will tear the realm apart," Torrhen Stark, who had publicly reigned during some of Jaehaerys's most peaceful years, observed, his spectral form radiating a weary disapproval. "All for a chair of twisted iron and the illusion of absolute power."
"And their dragons will be their primary weapons," Kaelen added, his gaze distant. "A war fought with such beasts, unleashed upon each other and the lands they fly over, will be a cataclysm second only to the Doom, or the Long Night we just averted."
The council's primary concern was the North's insulation from this impending inferno. King Brandon II, under Kaelen's guidance, adopted a public stance of absolute neutrality. He strengthened Northern garrisons, ensured granaries were full, and reminded his bannermen of their ancient duty to protect their own lands first and foremost. The North had bled enough in southern wars centuries past; it would not be drawn into a Targaryen family squabble if it could be avoided.
The Hiemal Vexillum, the Dragon Horn, found a new, subtle application during this period. Kaelen, with young Brandon II's greenseeing pinpointing key magical nexuses along the Neck and the North's southern borders, began a series of quiet rituals. These were not aimed at awakening land spirits as before, but at creating vast, intricate wards of misdirection and subtle aversion, designed to make the North seem even more remote, more uninviting, more magically 'quiet' to any southern dragon or sorcerer who might cast a curious or covetous eye northwards. It was a delicate, almost invisible weaving of enchantments, a magical veil to enhance their physical and political isolation.
Erebus, the untamed, seemed to sense the shift in the world's magical currents. He became more restless, his flights from Dragon's Maw longer, often taking him high above the southern mountain ranges, his smoldering eyes turned towards the distant, troubled lands of the Targaryens. Arya, through Umbra, sometimes felt a flicker of Erebus's contemptuous curiosity, a primal understanding of the destructive fire that was brewing in the south, so similar to the cataclysm that had birthed him, yet so much pettier in its cause. He remained a creature of his own counsel, but Kaelen noted that his patrols around the Heart Tree valley, where Brandon Sr. stood his eternal watch, became even more frequent, as if guarding that sacred place from any possible contagion of the coming chaos.
Kaelen himself, now bearing the weight of over two centuries in this Stark life, plus Flamel's six, found his thoughts turning often to the deeper mysteries of the Philosopher's Stone. It had granted them immortality, fueled their defenses against the Long Night, and brought prosperity to their lands. But Flamel's journals hinted at further, almost terrifying, potentials: the ability to perceive the deepest flows of life energy in the world, to subtly influence the growth and health of entire ecosystems, perhaps even to glimpse the true, underlying fabric of reality itself. These were powers Kaelen approached with extreme caution, knowing that such profound understanding could lead to godhood, or madness. His primary focus remained the protection of his line and his land, but the allure of ultimate knowledge, the alchemist's eternal quest, still burned within him, a quiet counterpoint to his duties as the North's hidden guardian.
The inevitable finally occurred in the year 129 AC. King Viserys I Targaryen died in his sleep. Before his death could be publicly announced, Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of Aegon's Kingsguard, crowned Aegon II King in King's Landing. When Princess Rhaenyra on Dragonstone learned of her father's death and her half-brother's usurpation, she was enraged. She held her own coronation, and the Dance of the Dragons, the war of succession that would tear Westeros apart and drench it in dragonfire, began.
Ravens flew to Winterfell from both King Aegon II and Queen Rhaenyra, each demanding fealty, each promising rewards for loyalty and threatening devastation for defiance. King Brandon II Stark summoned his public council of Northern lords to Winterfell. The air in the Great Hall was thick with tension. Some younger lords, fired by tales of glory, urged him to pick a side, to win honor and favor from the eventual victor. Older, wiser heads cautioned neutrality, reminding him of the North's traditional isolationism.
But the true decision was made far from Winterfell, within the fiery heart of Dragon's Maw. Kaelen, Brandon Sr., Torrhen, Rickard, Eddard, Lyra, Arya, and King Brandon II gathered before the projected map of Westeros, now scarred with the symbols of the rival Targaryen factions.
"Both sides will bleed the realm dry," Eddard stated, his voice heavy. "Their dragons will turn fertile lands to ash. This is a war with no true victor, only varying degrees of loss."
"And yet, we cannot remain entirely aloof," King Brandon II countered. "If one side achieves a swift, decisive victory, they may remember who offered aid, and who stood aside. Or worse, who defied them. The North needs allies, or at least, a lack of powerful enemies, in the long run."
Kaelen listened, his ancient eyes weighing the myriad possibilities. His primary directive was, as always, the North's security and the preservation of their secrets. To commit their own dragons, their hidden power, to either Targaryen faction was unthinkable. But a carefully chosen diplomatic alignment, one that cost little in blood or treasure but secured future goodwill or vital concessions, might be prudent.
"Rhaenyra has the stronger claim by her father's will," Lyra offered. "And her faction includes houses like Velaryon, with their own naval power and Valyrian heritage. Aegon II is propped up by the Hightowers and a sudden coup."
Arya, ever pragmatic, added, "Both sides have many dragons. Both are capable of immense destruction. The question is, which outcome best serves the North's long-term interests? Which Targaryen, if victorious, would be more likely to respect our autonomy, to understand our unique role as guardians against the true North, and less likely to pry into our secrets?"
Kaelen finally spoke, his voice calm amidst the swirling uncertainties. "The Children of the Forest spoke of pacts between fire and ice, of the blood of Old Valyria and the blood of the First Men needing to stand together when the true Long Night comes. This… this Dance is a perversion of that, dragonfire turned upon itself. But even in such madness, choices must be made." He looked at King Brandon II. "Your father, Jonnel, and his father Rickard before him, navigated the early Targaryen kings with wisdom, securing our pacts of autonomy. You must do the same. We will not send our armies south to die in their fires. We will not reveal our dragons. But a carefully worded pledge, an offer of specific, limited aid that aligns with our strengths – perhaps grain from our bountiful harvests to feed their armies, or stout Northern timber for their fleets, but not our swords or our secrets – might be considered."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over his immortal kin. "Rhaenyra's sons are young. If she wins, her line may yet remember ancient duties. Aegon II is the creature of ambitious men. Consider carefully, Brandon. The ripples of this decision will be felt for generations. Your greenseeing may offer insight into the truer hearts, the likelier outcomes."
King Brandon II Stark, the Greenseer King, nodded, the weight of the decision settling upon him. The Dance of the Dragons had begun, and the North, despite its hidden power and its desire for isolation, could not entirely escape the shadow of its fiery, self-destructive rage. His choice would determine whether that shadow merely grazed them, or threatened to consume them in its flames. The eternal vigil of the Starks had entered a new, perilous chapter.