PROLOGUE: THE WHISPER OF FEAR
The room was opulent, a reflection of the power gathered within it. Heavy Myrish carpets muffled footsteps, and the scent of Qartheen incense mingled with the smell of Lysene wine and the anxious sweat of men. Merchants from Pentos with ring-laden fingers, priests from Norvos with braided beards, magisters from Volantis in robes embroidered with gold thread – all the great powers of Essos, or at least those who believed themselves to be, were there.
The topic was singular and urgent: the staggering growth of Westerosi influence. "They are everywhere!" shouted an obese merchant from Pentos, his face red with indignation. "Their ships dominate the trade routes, their products flood our markets! Those grey Northern fabrics everyone covets, warmer than our finest wools!"
"And the weapons," added a magister from Volantis, nervously touching his family ring. "That enchanted icy steel... any common sword is worth a fortune, but a blade forged in the North? It's the price of an army of sellswords. And only they know how to make them."
"It's their faith," argued a priest from Norvos, striking his staff on the floor. "This devotion to a single god and that immortal king erodes the ancient beliefs! The youth no longer respect their fathers' gods."
The debate heated up, each defending their own view and blaming the others. A sellsword captain from Myr, his face scarred by battles, grumbled: "The problem is that this Stark... he doesn't move. His fleet patrols, his trade flows, and anyone who dares threaten a Northern ship disappears. Simply disappears. They say the seas around White Harbor are guarded by ice monsters."
"But... do what?" asked the Pentoshi merchant, his initial fury giving way to a more restrained tone. "Send a fleet? Attack the North? Who would be so foolish as to..."
His voice died. No one finished the sentence. The silence that followed was eloquent. They complained, raged, but none of them had the courage – or the madness – to openly challenge the North. The memories of Qarth, of the Tower of the House of the Undying reduced to a smoldering stump by a single gesture from Theon Stark, were still too vivid. The fate of anyone who crossed the King of Winter was a tale told in whispers to frighten disobedient children in all the Free Cities.
It was then that he stood up. A younger man, with hair of a faded silver-gold and fine features that betrayed a not entirely Essosi bloodline.
"You all miss the mark," his voice was a low hiss, laden with deep contempt. "I see only frightened old men babbling about ghosts. The one responsible for this is not 'Westeros'. It's the North. It's their king." He paused dramatically, his eyes scanning every face in the room. "While we sit here, debating like flies buzzing over a corpse, the power of the King of Winter grows. His influence spreads like ice. So I ask you again, the supposed lords of Essos: what will you do about it?"
The heavy silence returned, even more oppressive.
"What?" he spat, his frustration overflowing. "What do the most powerful lords of Essos fear? One man? A petty sorcerer from a frozen land?"
It was then that a laugh cut through the air like a whip. Deep, resonant, and laden with an ancient fire. All eyes turned to Benerro, the High Priest of R'hllor from Volantis. His red robes seemed to glow with their own light.
The young man of Blackfyre blood turned to him, his face contorted with anger. "What are you laughing at, priest?"
Benerro stopped laughing, but a condescending smile remained on his lips. "I laugh at a child who, knowing nothing of the deeper paths of the world, comes to this meeting of distinguished men to spout nonsense." His fiery eyes burned the youth. "The King of Winter is no common man, fool. And his title is no mere vanity. It is a truth. It is a warning."
He raised a hand, as if pointing north. "I have seen in the flames. I have seen the shadow he casts upon the world. Sending men against him is like sending tallow candles to quench the sun. You play with forces your limited mind cannot comprehend." His voice became an icy command. "Leave, little black dragon. Return to your conspiracies. Do not bring the terror of winter upon us with your insolence."
The young Blackfyre stood frozen, humiliation burning his face. He spat a stream of curses, turned sharply, and stormed out of the room.
But Benerro's words had followed him. Little black dragon. The terror of winter.
As he left the opulent building and stepped into the hot, humid street of Pentos, an inexplicably cold breeze swept over him, causing his skin to prickle. He looked up at the scorching sky. And he saw it. A single, solitary, impossible snowflake, dancing in the air before landing softly on the sleeve of his tunic, where it instantly melted, leaving behind only a small damp spot and a primordial terror.
Without a word, the Blackfyre descendant gathered his men and departed, quickening his pace. Fear was now his companion.
Part 1: THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN AND THE WHISPER OF DESTINY
Theon POV
The years, as always, flowed like the river beside Winterfell - constant, relentless, carrying entire generations in their current to the sea of oblivion. I watched the parade of faces, each believing themselves unique and fundamental, only to be replaced by others, so similar in their dreams and flaws. Mortality was a tedious spectacle, but occasionally punctuated by moments of interest. Like now.
I was in the great hall of the Black Shield Castle, the imposing fortress of House Truefyre that rose in the mountainous lands of the North. The air vibrated with the energy of the Ascension Festival, celebrating the founding of the Northern Dragon Houses. The main event was the Great Northern Tournament, a tradition that had gained strength precisely because of the influence of those same houses. The jousts, a practice once foreign to the North, had been adopted by the dragon families as a form of training and sport, and the rest of the Northern nobility, always eager to please those who possessed the winged beasts, had embraced the fashion with growing enthusiasm over the years.
The noise of the crowd filling the stands, the Truefyre banner - a brown one-headed dragon on a red field - fluttering proudly everywhere, the characteristic smell of horses, sweat, and roasted food. It was a spectacle of life, loud and vital. Beside me, Gael watched with her characteristic serene smile, while Edwyle Stark, the current Lord of Moat Cailin, held his young son, Rickard, on his shoulders so the boy could see better over the heads of the crowd. The Stark lineage continued, strong and resilient through the generations.
But the true surprise of this festival was among the distinguished guests. There he was: Aegon V Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, already with graying hair and a face marked by the weight of a crown that should never have been his. Beside him, his wife Betha Blackwood, a woman of Riverlands blood who had brought a touch of Southern courage to the royal court, his son and heir, Prince Duncan, and the legendary Ser Duncan the Tall, now more a living legend than a warrior in his prime, but still imposing in his armor.
The joust final was about to begin, and the tension in the air was palpable. On one side, the old Ser Duncan, a giant faded by time, but still dangerous like an old bear. On the other, Baelor Truefyre, son of Vaelor and heir to the Black Shield. The young man was the living image of his lineage: ebony skin, hair so silver it verged on pure white, and the characteristic lilac eyes of Valyrian blood, which seemed to burn with quiet ambition.
However, his true advantage lay not only in his lineage or training. While all Northerners received their enhancement runes at fifteen - intricate patterns carved directly into the skin that amplified their natural abilities - the runes of the nobles were visibly more complex and powerful. And among all, the runes of the Starks remained superior, a closely guarded secret that kept our family at the pinnacle of power. Baelor's runes, though not as powerful as those of the Starks, glowed softly in the sunlight when his lance struck Ser Duncan's shield with relentless precision.
The impact was devastating. Baelor's lance, enhanced by the runes snaking up his arm under his armor, struck the old knight's shield with a force that was not purely human. Ser Duncan, with all his experience and residual strength, was thrown from the saddle like a rag doll. The thud echoed through the arena, followed by a momentary silence of disbelief, and then by a thunderous ovation that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. The legend had fallen before the new power - youth enhanced by runic magic triumphing over pure experience.
The banquet that followed was an authentically Northern celebration, with tables laden with roast boars, dark rye breads, and barrels of the best Northern ale. At the High Table sat the Starks, the Truefyre and Northern Targaryen Dragon Houses, and, as guests of honor, the Southern Targaryens. I watched old Lord Lucerys Targaryen, his face marked by time like a map of his many decades of life, talking animatedly with Aegon. There was a palpable melancholy in that scene, an echo of a shared past that no longer existed, briefly uniting two branches of a family tree that had grown in radically opposite directions.
The next morning, Aegon came to me in the castle gardens. Frustration and a stubborn spark of hope burned in his eyes, revealing the weight of his forty-some years of reign.
"Theon,"he began, dispensing with the usual formalities one king would normally maintain with another monarch. "I need to ask you. I need to try. Permission to claim a dragon."
I looked at him, at the man who bore the burden of a throne he had never wanted, still seeking the power his lineage had once personified in its days of glory.
"Aegon,"I said, my voice softer than usual, laden with rare understanding. "Sometimes, things are not meant to be. Fate weaves its threads in ways not even I fully comprehend. But if this is what your heart truly desires, I will not stop you. You may try."
Visible relief washed over his face, followed by an immediate tightening of anxiety that contracted his shoulders.
"But,"I continued, and the air around me seemed to cool slightly, carrying the weight of the words to come, "you know you must not force it. And there is one rule that cannot be broken. Do not approach the Cannibal."
This caught him completely by surprise. His eyes widened momentarily. "The Cannibal? But... he's just a dragon. The largest and oldest, yes, but..."
"He is not a common dragon, Aegon," I interrupted, my voice now flat and final like the icy steel of the North. "He will not be mounted. He was not in the past, he is not now, and he will not be in the future. He is a force of nature, as ancient and untamable as the Winter I represent. If you go to him, if you provoke him even unintentionally, he will not burn you. You will be banished. Exiled from the North forever."
Aegon fell silent, the reality of my words sinking deeper than any blade could. He tried, of course. He and his son Duncan spent days in the mountain valleys where the smaller dragons, descendants of Sheepstealer and the eggs Gael had brought, made their nests. They approached with the finest offerings, with soft and persuasive words, with the blood of Valyria running in their veins as a final argument.
And they failed. As I knew they would.
The dragons watched them with ancient and profoundly disinterested eyes, blowing smoke laden with disdain before moving away with graceful movements that showed complete indifference. The dragon blood was in them, yes, but it was a distant blood, diluted by generations of separation from the magic that had once fueled their ancestors. The spark needed to ignite the flame of bonding simply no longer existed in this lineage.
Seeing them depart back to the South a few days later, Aegon's posture was that of a man defeated not by an army or a political rival, but by a ghost - the ghost of his own imperfect legacy. Genuine pity echoed in me. Not even my influence, the stability I had brought to the realm, or the friendship he had persistently sought had been able to alter the course of the destiny that seemed traced for him. If this was the path forged by Aegon's own actions and fundamental essence, who was I to interfere? The universe, at times, insists on its symmetry in mysterious ways.
I returned to Winterfell, to my ice throne and the eternal silence of the old gods whispering through the red leaves of the weirwood trees. Events would continue to unfold, as they always had through the centuries. I would watch them, as I had watched everything since memory existed. The action I so longed for might not come from the decadent South, but from some other unexpected source. The board was set, and the pieces were moving with increasing urgency. It remained only to wait and see which of them would finally break the monotony of time that seemed to stretch into infinity.
part finala: THE FURY OF WINTER
Theon Stark, the King of Winter, Immortal Lord of the North, had witnessed the passage of centuries. Wars, plagues, triumphs, and tragedies - he thought nothing could surprise him anymore, much less shake him. Death was a constant companion, a fact of existence he had long accepted.
But the Fire at Summerhall... even knowing it would happen, even feeling the echo of the disaster through the webs of fate, the magnitude of the tragedy struck him like a physical blow. The loss of so many... of Aegon, the well-intentioned and stubborn man; of Duncan, the heir with a noble heart; of the young woman and the baby... a grotesque farce of fire and ambition. He spent days locked in his quarters, not in mourning, but in a silent, cold rage against the mortal stupidity that seemed to be a universal constant.
To distract himself, he plunged into his laboratory beneath Winterfell, surrounded by ancient scrolls and precision instruments. He was researching improvements for his people's runes, seeking to further refine the power that already made them the most formidable in Westeros. It was during this meticulous work that a sudden sensation, a stab of genuine surprise, made him stop and stare open-mouthed.
Through his connection to the alert runes carved into the walls of White Harbor, he felt it. An attack. A fleet, flying the black three-headed dragon banner of the Blackfyres, attempting to invade the North through the eastern gate. Led by Maelys the Monstrous.
The initial surprise soon gave way to furious bewilderment. Why? The question echoed in his mind. What madness was this? Attacking the North? The kingdom that had stood unyielding for centuries, protected by its geography, its magic, and its iron will? It was an act of suicidal desperation, or of arrogance bordering on insanity.
The battle, if it could be called that, was brief. The enchanted explosive ballistae on White Harbor's walls, an invention Theon had implemented years prior, sprang into action. Precise, devastating volleys obliterated the invading ships before they could even seriously approach the defenses. The attackers, what remained of them, retreated in disarray, leaving behind the burning wreckage of their fleet.
When the surprise passed, only rage remained. A cold, absolute rage. How dare this scum? How dare this descendant of traitors and exiles, this monster in body and soul, stain the shores of the North with his presence? The act itself was militarily insignificant, but it was an insult. An affront to his authority, to the security of his kingdom.
He summoned Rickard Stark, the young and promising Lord of Winterfell, who governed the lands in his name. The young man, upon hearing of the attack, turned pale, but his posture remained firm.
"What should we do, Your Grace?" asked Rickard, his voice restrained.
Theon looked at the young Stark, seeing the blood of his ancestors burning in his eyes. "You must prepare the troops for war, Rickard. But not to defend. To end this." He turned to Alice Makima, who stood motionless in the shadows, her yellow eyes gleaming with immediate understanding. "Alice. Summon the banners. All of them. I will make this Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion the last one. Truly."
He then dictated a message, his voice sharp as the winter wind. "Send a raven to King's Landing. To Jaehaerys the Second. Tell him that the scum of his family, the rotten spawn he failed to eradicate, dared to attack the Kingdom of the North. Tell him that Winter will come for the Blackfyres. And that he must prepare his army, for I will lead the response myself."
The mobilization of the North was a spectacle of terrifying efficiency. Theon did not summon his entire strength. He didn't need to. Forty-five thousand men, the cream of the Northern armies, veterans hardened by battles against wildlings and trained from birth, gathered. And with them, three dragons.
Gael rode Silverscale, her faithful companion for generations. Baelor Truefyre, heir to the Black Shield, was on Sheepstealer, the ancient beast of his grandmother now loyal to his blood. And Visenya, Lucerys's granddaughter, commanded Morning, the dragon once belonging to Rhaena Targaryen, now a imposing adult, large enough to burn castles and no longer fear scorpions, except for a lucky shot to the eyes, like the tragedy that befell Meraxes.
But Theon had learned from the mistakes of the past. For each dragon, he had prepared protection: an enchanted eyepatch, forged of icy steel and woven with runes of enhanced vision. It protected the weak point without obstructing the dragon's sight, an innovation that made his dragons even more formidable.
The army marched south, arriving at the Twins. As expected, the massive gates of the Frey fortress were closed. Theon, mounted on his warhorse before his army, did not mince words.
"Open the gates," his voice echoed, flat and emotionless, but carrying unquestionable authority. "Now."
The gates opened just enough to allow a small party through. Lord Walder Frey, a man already old but with eyes still shrewd, emerged accompanied by his sons and guards.
"King Theon," said Lord Walder with a calculated bow. "A Northern army at our gates is... an unusual sight. The Twins are a fortress, not an inn. We cannot simply open our gates to tens of thousands of... well, to a foreign army." His eyes scanned the Northern warriors with disdain. "Who knows what intentions these Northern savages might have? You act as if the laws of hospitality do not apply to entire armies."
One of his sons, a younger, more arrogant man, laughed. "They think they can just march through our lands as if they owned them. Savages being savages, even wearing pretty armor."
Theon watched the spectacle with infinite patience. "I am marching south to deal with a threat that dared to attack the North. Will you deny passage to your king?"
Lord Walder smiled, showing yellow teeth. "The King in the North, perhaps. Here at the Twins, we recognize the Iron Throne. And even for a king... passage has its price." His eyes gleamed with greed. "For an army of this size... let's say, two complete suits of icy steel, with their swords. That should suffice to cover the... risk."
The Frey men laughed openly, mocking the Northmen.
Theon looked at Lord Walder, his face an icy mask. "You lead this party?"
"Yes, I am Lord Walder—"
Theon cut him off. "The name is irrelevant." He paused, the silence growing heavier with each second. Then, he pointed to the ten men accompanying the Frey. "Choose one. From among your ten."
The Frey looked confused, then ashamed. Feeling challenged, he pointed to one of his own men, a captain standing beside him. "I choose him! A duel, then? Is that your champion?"
Theon snapped his fingers.
There was no sound. Just a blast of cold so intense it made the air tremble. In an instant, the nine other Frey men accompanying the leader were transformed into statues of perfectly sculpted ice. Their expressions of scorn and mockery were frozen for eternity on their faces, their bodies locked in casual poses.
Lord Walder fell to his knees, trembling uncontrollably, a puddle forming beneath him.
Theon looked at him without pity. "Return to your castle. Passage is no longer necessary."
He then led his army a safe distance from the Twins castle, to the banks of the Green Fork. Raising his hands, Theon channeled his power. From the water, a massive bridge began to form, not of stone or wood, but of pure, translucent ice, as wide as a king's road. He enchanted it with runes of preservation, ensuring it would not melt under the sun or with the river's flow.
His army began to cross the ice bridge, a silent testament to the power of the King of Winter.
Theon looked south, towards the Riverlands. The rage still burned within him, but now it was focused, sharp. Maelys Blackfyre had made the ultimate mistake. He had brought war to the North, and Theon would respond in kind.
A cold smile touched his lips. He had been bored. He had wanted a diversion, some action to break the monotony of the decades.
And now he had it.