Chapter 46: A King's Summons, A Warden's Passing, and the First Tremors of the Wolf's Winter
The year two hundred and ninety-eight After Aegon's Conquest dawned with an uneasy stillness over the Seven Kingdoms, a deceptive calm before the inevitable storm. King Robert I Baratheon's reign, built on the wreckage of a fallen dynasty, had been one of boisterous peace, but the foundations were riddled with debt, resentment, and the insidious machinations of ambitious courtiers. Lord Jon Arryn, the King's Hand and a pillar of stability, was the primary bulwark against the realm's darker currents. His sudden illness, and swift, unexpected death, sent a shockwave of grief and suspicion from the Eyrie to Sunspear.
News of Lord Arryn's demise reached Warden Willam Stark in the North like the tolling of a funeral bell for an entire era. Willam, his public persona that of a Northman in his venerable eighth decade (his true age now well over a century), received the tidings with grave solemnity. Within the hidden immortal council, the assessment was far colder, far more analytical.
"Arryn was the linchpin holding Robert's court together," Jon Stark's voice, ancient and resonant as the winter wind, echoed from his Frostfangs sanctum through the obsidian mirrors. "His death is no natural event. The whispers from Finnan's network in King's Landing speak of sudden illness, of Maester Pycelle's fumbling, of Queen Cersei's swift consolidation of her Lannister faction. This smells of poison, of intrigue."
"The Lannisters grow bolder," Beron the Elder, his true age now exceeding two and three-quarter centuries, mused from his hidden retreat within Wyvern's Eyrie. "With Arryn gone, Tywin's ambition for his grandson Joffrey will find fewer obstacles."
"And Robert will seek a new Hand," Edric Stark added, his own centuries of experience lending weight to his words. "One he trusts implicitly. His gaze will inevitably turn north, to Eddard."
This prediction proved accurate with unnerving speed. A royal raven arrived at Winterfell, bearing King Robert's black seal, announcing his intention to journey north with his court to offer condolences to his old friend Eddard Stark on the loss of his mentor, and, more significantly, to name him the new Hand of the King.
For the immortal Starks, this royal progress presented both a profound challenge and a long-anticipated juncture. Their carefully maintained secrecy, their Northern autonomy, would be subjected to the unprecedented scrutiny of the entire southern court. And Eddard, their honorable, unsuspecting kinsman, was about to be thrust into the heart of the viper's nest.
Coinciding with this momentous news, Warden Willam Stark's own long-prepared "passing" was set in motion. His public decline had been gradual, his wisdom and strength seemingly ebbing with the grace of extreme old age. His "death," attributed to a peaceful fading in the face of a harsh Northern spring, was announced with solemn pronouncements. The North mourned another great Warden, a man who had seen them through the turbulent end of Targaryen rule and into the uncertain peace of Robert's reign. Willam, rider of the radiant Lumen, then joined the council of his immortal ancestors, his vast experience now fully dedicated to their hidden work. Ten "deceased" Stark Lords, plus Jon himself, now formed the core of the ageless strategists.
Artos Stark, Willam's son, a man whose true age now exceeded ninety years but who, like his kin, bore the Elixir's gift of unaging prime, was acclaimed Warden of the North. His public investiture was a somber, resolute affair, held before the ancient Heart Tree in Winterfell's Godswood. He swore the ancient oaths, his voice strong, his demeanor one of quiet, unshakeable Northern strength. Rider of the mighty earthen dragon Kratos, Artos was known for his strategic mind and his deep connection to the land itself. His first public duty as Warden was to prepare for the arrival of King Robert Baratheon and his court.
The hidden council worked tirelessly. Jon orchestrated a complex series of magical veils and misdirections. Wyvern's Eyrie and its fourteen dragons were shielded by illusions of impenetrable mountain ranges and perpetual blizzards. The North's unusual prosperity was attributed to generations of prudent Stark governance and hardy Northern resilience. The Resonance Dampeners, the Sentinel Stones, the awakened ley line network, the Heart Tree sanctuaries – all were either subtly dampened or their true nature cloaked from prying southern eyes and any mages or seers who might accompany the royal party. The Starksteel weapons of Winterfell's household guard were replaced with their best mundane steel, their elite Winter Wolves remaining entirely unseen.
When King Robert's enormous retinue finally arrived at Winterfell, a river of southern silk, steel, and ambition flowing into the stark grey heart of the North, Warden Artos Stark received them with formal, dignified courtesy. He was flanked by his (immortal) son Rodrik, rider of the ice-dragon Glacies, who appeared as his capable heir, and his (mortal) kinsman, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. The contrast between the boisterous, overweight King Robert and the lean, grim Northern lords was palpable.
Jon and the hidden council observed the royal party with intense scrutiny, using every tool at their disposal. Edwyle, with the psychic Umbra, subtly scanned the minds of key figures – Queen Cersei, cold and disdainful; Jaime Lannister, arrogant and watchful; Tyrion Lannister, his sharp intellect missing nothing; Littlefinger, a miasma of ambition and deceit; Varys, an enigma wrapped in silks and whispers. They sensed the deep currents of mistrust, the festering secrets, the barely suppressed ambitions that riddled Robert's court.
King Robert, oblivious to the ancient powers that watched him, boisterously greeted his old friend Eddard, offered his condolences, and, in the crypts of Winterfell before the stone likenesses of Stark kings (many of whom were, in fact, still very much "alive" and observing him), he made his offer: "You are the Hand of the King, Ned. I'll not take no for an answer."
Eddard, honorable to a fault, torn between his duty to his friend and king, his love for his family, and his deep aversion to southern politics, eventually, reluctantly, accepted. The immortal Starks had foreseen this. They knew Ned's honor would compel him. While they could not overtly intervene in his decision – for Ned was Lord of Winterfell in his own right, and their deepest secrets were not his to know – they held grave concerns.
"He is a wolf walking into a lion's den, armed only with his honor," Cregan Sr., his true age now nearing two centuries, observed grimly. "Honor is a poor shield against poison and daggers in the dark."
"Yet, his presence in King's Landing may offer a small measure of stability, a voice of reason, however briefly," Jon mused. "And it will provide us with an unparalleled, if unwitting, source of intelligence from the heart of the Red Keep. Warden Artos, you will ensure Lord Eddard is… subtly guided. Finnan's network will provide him with carefully curated information, appearing as timely warnings from 'concerned friends.' We cannot save him from his own choices, but we can perhaps arm him with enough knowledge to navigate the worst of the vipers."
Then came the incident that sent a true shockwave through both the mortal and immortal Starks: young Bran Stark's fall from the Broken Tower. The boy, Ned's second son, a child known for his adventurous spirit and his love of climbing, was found broken and unconscious at the tower's base, his life hanging by a thread.
Arya Stark, her spirit intertwined with the ancient stones of Winterfell and the weirwood that watched over it, felt the incident like a physical blow. Noctua, the seer-dragon, shrieked in its hidden eyrie, its mind filled with fractured images of a golden man, a secret tryst, and a child's innocent eyes seeing too much. Umbra, through Edwyle, sensed a maelstrom of fear, guilt, and murderous intent emanating from certain members of the royal party.
This was a direct attack on a Stark, on Northern soil, a child with undeniable magical potential – Bran's dreams had long been noted by Arya and her kin. The hidden council convened in an emergency session, their usually calm deliberations now charged with a cold fury.
"This was no accident," Rodrik Stark, his voice tight, his bond with the ice-dragon Glacies radiating a chill even through the obsidian mirror. "The boy saw something he should not have. The Lannisters are involved."
"Our policy of non-interference in southern squabbles is one thing," Beron the Younger declared, his usual diplomatic calm replaced by a warrior's edge. "An attack on a child of our House, within the walls of Winterfell itself, is another."
The temptation to unleash their power, to bring the swift, terrible justice of the North down upon the perpetrators, was immense. But Jon Stark, his ancient gaze unwavering, held them back. "Patience," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Our true enemy is not a scheming queen or her incestuous Kingslayer brother. They are but insects, however venomous. To reveal ourselves now, to unleash our dragons upon King's Landing for vengeance, would be to win a fleeting battle but lose the eternal war. It would expose us, make us the target of every ambitious lord and fearful peasant from Dorne to the Wall. The Long Night would find us unprepared, our greatest weapon – our secrecy – shattered."
He paused, then continued, his voice softening slightly. "However, Bran Stark is of our blood. He carries the Spark. Arya, Lyarra the Younger," he addressed his ancient kinswoman and Willam's gifted daughter, "you will go to him. Not overtly. Use your healing arts, the whispers of the weirwood, the life-giving energies of the Stone channeled through your hands. Ensure he survives. His mind, his Sight, may yet be a weapon in the true war to come. But his legs… his legs are the price of this lesson, a grim reminder of the dangers that lurk beyond our borders, and within our own halls when the South comes calling."
And so, while Maester Luwin despaired, Arya and Lyarra the Younger, cloaked in shadow and silence, subtly guided the flow of life energy within the broken boy, ensuring his survival, even as his physical crippling became a tragic certainty. They sensed the potent, awakening Greensight within him, a wild magic that would now be his only way to truly "fly."
As King Robert and his court, including a reluctant Eddard Stark, prepared to depart for King's Landing, leaving behind a grieving Catelyn and a broken Bran, the immortal Starks finalized their own plans. Warden Artos Stark would rule the North with quiet strength, his son Rodrik his public heir, and Rodrik's son, young Ben Stark (now the thirteenth immortal, rider of the storm-dragon Nimbus), taking on greater responsibilities within their hidden framework. Ben's own first child, a son they had named Torrhen after the revered Warden who had "died" during the Dance, was a babe in arms, the next link in their unending chain.
The Game of Thrones had truly begun. The pieces were in motion. Eddard Stark was walking into a nest of vipers, his honor his only shield. The Lannisters were ascendant. Robert Baratheon was a king in name only, his reign already crumbling. And Jon Snow, the boy with dragon blood and a wolf's upbringing, remained at Winterfell, his destiny a silent, growing enigma that the immortal Starks watched with profound, if distant, interest.
Jon Stark, from his ageless vigil, looked out upon a world teetering on the brink. The madness of Aerys had given way to the folly of Robert, and the true Winter was always drawing nearer. "Let the game play out," he murmured to the silent, listening peaks of the Frostfangs. "Let the lions and stags and dragons tear at each other. We will watch. We will learn. We will endure. For our war is not for a throne of iron, but for the dawn itself."