Chapter 9: The North Remembers, the Dragon Provides
Winterfell, 65 AC
The Seven Kingdoms had known unbroken peace for nearly two decades under King Aenys I Targaryen. The Dragon Bank overflowed, the Royal Academy produced generations of loyal minds, the Bloody Dragons kept order with iron devotion, and the High Tower's flame burned as a constant reminder of divine rule. Yet the North—ever the outlier—did not share fully in that golden age.
Two consecutive summers had brought frost instead of sun. Crops withered in the fields; granaries emptied. Then came the reports from the Wall: wildling raids growing bolder, Mance Rayder's name whispered in the snow, thousands gathering beyond the ice. Lord Rickon Stark sent ravens south—urgent, humble, addressed to "the God-King Aenys." The North asked for grain to feed its people and swords to hold the Wall.
Aenys answered swiftly.
Within a fortnight, a fleet of dragon-prowed ships sailed up the White Knife, holds bursting with grain from the Reach and Riverlands—wheat, barley, dried peas, salted pork—enough to feed every man, woman, and child north of the Neck through the coming winter. Printed broadsheets accompanied the cargo: "The dragon feeds his children. The North is not forgotten." Smallfolk wept in the streets of White Harbor as wagons rolled north.
Aenys himself followed.
He flew on Vhagar's Shadow—black wings edged crimson, the dragon grown monstrous in size and temper—accompanied by Maegor on his own beast, a dozen Bloody Dragons as vanguard, and Alyssa riding Starfyre. The king landed in Winterfell's godswood, the ancient weirwood's red leaves shivering in the downdraft. Lord Stark knelt; Lady Catelyn Stark—tall, auburn-haired, graceful—stood beside him with their children: Robb the heir, Sansa the eldest daughter (sixteen, red-haired and dreamy-eyed), Arya the wild one, Bran the curious boy.
"Your Grace," Rickon said, voice rough with gratitude. "The North will never forget this kindness."
Aenys dismounted, cloak of crimson samite sweeping the snow. "The realm is one. What threatens the North threatens the dragon. We will end the wildling threat together."
A grand feast was prepared that night in Winterfell's great hall—long tables groaning under venison, trout, black bread, and the southern grain now baking into fresh loaves. Banners of wolf and dragon hung side by side. Lords of the North—Umber, Karstark, Manderly—raised horns to the king who had saved them from starvation.
During the feast, Aenys sat beside Lady Catelyn. She was thirty-eight, still strikingly beautiful, her Tully blue eyes sharp with intelligence and quiet strength. Conversation flowed—polite at first, then deeper. She spoke of the North's burdens; he spoke of the realm's unity. Wine warmed the hall; music rose from lutes and pipes.
Later, when the hall quieted and most had retired, Catelyn slipped away from her husband's side. She found Aenys in the guest tower chamber assigned to him—fire roaring in the hearth, shadows dancing on stone walls carved with direwolves.
She closed the door softly.
"Your Grace," she whispered, "the North owes you more than grain can repay."
Aenys rose from his chair, monstrous presence filling the room. "The debt is paid in loyalty."
She stepped closer, hands trembling only slightly as she unlaced her gown. Silk pooled at her feet. Beneath, she wore nothing—skin pale in firelight, breasts full, hips curved from bearing children. "Then let me repay in the only coin I have."
He did not speak. He simply reached for her.
They came together fiercely. Aenys lifted her onto the table, spreading her thighs. His breeches fell; the monstrous cock sprang free—eleven inches, thick as a wrist, already hard. Catelyn gasped at the sight, then guided him inside her. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming; she bit her lip to stifle a cry as he filled her completely. He thrust deep, slow at first, then harder—hands gripping her hips, leaving marks. She wrapped her legs around him, nails digging into his back, moaning softly against his neck.
"God-king," she breathed, the Academy-taught title slipping out unbidden.
He fucked her until she shattered—walls clenching, body trembling. Then he buried himself to the hilt and came—thick, hot ropes flooding her womb, the system's fertility enhancement ensuring the seed took root. When he pulled out, white seed leaked from her, dripping onto the table. Catelyn touched her belly, eyes wide with secret knowledge.
"This stays between us," Aenys said quietly.
She nodded, kissed him once—soft, grateful—and slipped from the room.
Nine moons later, in the depths of winter, Lady Catelyn would give birth to a boy—dark-haired like the Starks, but with faint violet flecks in his eyes that no one dared mention. Rickon claimed him as his own; the North whispered of a "dragon's gift." The child was named Eddard—strong, quiet, destined for Winterfell's lordship in another life. The secret remained buried, known only to two people and the system that tracked [Bloodline Infusion: Stark Branch – 12% Valyrian].
The war against the wildlings began at first light.
Aenys led from the air. Vhagar's Shadow scouted the Wall's length, mapping wildling camps. Maegor and Alyssa flanked him, dragons wheeling in formation. Ground forces—Northern levies reinforced by Bloody Dragons—marched north under Lord Stark's banner.
The decisive battle came at the Fist of the First Men.
Wildlings—ten thousand strong under Mance Rayder—had massed in the valley, hoping to overwhelm the Night's Watch and flood south. Giants roared, mammoths trumpeted, spears glinted in weak sunlight.
Aenys struck first.
Vhagar's Shadow dove from cloud cover, black flame washing over the front ranks. Mammoths panicked, trampling their own. Maegor's dragon strafed the giants; Alyssa's silver beast harried the flanks. Below, Bloody Dragons formed phalanxes—fanatic cries of "Father Aenys commands!" rising above the din—cutting through wildling lines with system-forged steel.
Mance rallied his people, horn blowing defiance. Aenys landed amid the chaos, dismounting with sword in hand. Weapon-master skill turned him into death incarnate: parry a spear, decapitate a raider, dodge an arrow, impale a Thenn. Maegor fought beside him—axe cleaving skulls—while Alyssa rained arrows from dragonback.
The wildlings broke. Mance was captured alive—bound in chains, brought before Aenys on the blood-soaked Fist.
"Yield," Aenys said simply.
Mance spat. "Free folk kneel to no king."
"Then die free."
A single stroke of Valyrian steel ended him. The remaining wildlings scattered or surrendered. Thousands were resettled south of the Wall—granted land in the Gift, sworn to the dragon. The Wall stood secure.
The North feasted again that night—victory horns sounding, fires burning high. Lord Stark raised a toast: "To the dragon who saved us twice."
Aenys smiled, eyes on the horizon. The realm remained whole.
And in Winterfell's nursery, a dark-haired boy with violet-flecked eyes slept soundly—another thread in the dragon's endless tapestry.
(Word count: 2006)