Chapter 3: Runes of the Old Gods and Shadows from the East
The air in Maester Arryk's private study was thick with the scent of aged parchment and dried herbs, a familiar comfort to Torrhen, who, at eighteen namedays, now possessed a key to this sanctum. Not a purloined one, as his younger, more recklessly desperate self might have once considered, but one earned through years of feigned scholarly devotion and the Maester's eventual, grudging trust. Arryk, his eyesight failing and his joints stiffening with age, had begun to rely on Torrhen's sharp eyes and steady hand to transcribe crumbling texts and organize his chaotic collection of scrolls. It was a strategic victory, won through patience, a virtue both the assassin and the alchemist in him prized.
Amongst the mundane histories and healing treatises lay the real treasures: the restricted texts. There was the 'Codex of the Wolf's Blood', a brittle, leather-bound volume that hinted at the skinchanging abilities of ancient Starks, though it was frustratingly vague and couched in allegorical language. More practically, there were fragments on the runic magic of the First Men, detailing symbols that, when carved into specific materials and empowered by will or blood, could invoke protective or strengthening enchantments. And, most pertinent to the looming threat, there were the copied Valyrian scrolls. These spoke not only of dragon husbandry but also, buried within veterinary notes and breeding lineages, of their vulnerabilities – their susceptibility to certain toxins if they reached the softer tissues of the mouth or eye, their intense dislike for particular sonic frequencies, and, fascinatingly, their inherent connection to the volcanically active regions of their homeland, suggesting a magical resonance that might be disrupted or even turned against them.
Flamel's memories provided the framework to truly unlock these cryptic Westerosi texts. The alchemist had encountered countless forms of elemental magic, symbolic warding, and creature lore across centuries and continents. He could see the underlying principles where a Westerosi Maester might only see myth or superstition. For Torrhen, it was like having a Rosetta Stone for the arcane.
His hidden cellar workshop had expanded. It now housed a small, specially constructed forge, not for smithing steel in the traditional sense, but for the delicate art of imbuing metals and stone with enchantments. He'd spent months painstakingly learning to carve the First Men's runes – symbols like the 'Stark Direwolf' for loyalty and strength, the 'Winter's Heart' for resilience, and the 'Sentinel Tree' for watchfulness – into slabs of ironwood and obsidian. He then, using Flamel's techniques for magical imbuement, channeled his own energy, sometimes augmented by small, carefully controlled rituals drawing on the ambient power of the Godswood, into these carved materials.
His current project was ambitious: creating focal points for the wards he envisioned around Winterfell. He couldn't simply weave spells into the air; they needed anchors, points of resonance. He was crafting a series of fist-sized obsidian discs, each intricately carved with a complex matrix of Northern runes and Flamel's own alchemical symbols for grounding and amplification. These, he planned to secretly embed within the oldest, most magically resonant sections of Winterfell's foundations and walls, forming a network that, when activated, would create a multi-layered defensive shield. The theory was sound, combining the raw, earthy magic of the First Men with the more refined, controllable techniques of Flamel. The practice was exhausting, demanding immense concentration and precise energy control. A single slip could render a disc inert or, worse, dangerously unstable.
His outward persona remained that of the quiet, scholarly young lord. He accompanied his father, Lord Beron, more frequently now on his circuits through the North. These journeys were invaluable. He saw firsthand the rugged terrain, the fiercely independent spirit of the Northern houses, their strengths and their deep-seated suspicions of outsiders. He listened during the often-tense councils with lords like the gruff Howland Reed, who had succeeded his father in the Neck and whose crannogmen held the strategic gateway to the North, or the proud, prickly Wyman Manderly in White Harbor, a newer house to the North but vital for its port and burgeoning wealth.
Torrhen never offered unsolicited advice in these high-level meetings, but his father would often discuss matters with him in private afterwards. "Lord Dustin seems restless," Beron might say, rubbing his grey-streaked beard. "He complains about the tribute requested for the Wall, yet his own lands are closest to the wildling threat beyond the Sea Dragon Point."
Torrhen would offer a measured response. "Perhaps a reminder of the Barrow Kings' folly in challenging Winterfell's authority in ages past would cool his ambition, Father. Or a more direct inquiry into what aid he requires to feel secure. Sometimes a complaint is merely a poorly phrased request for assurance." He knew from his future-knowledge that House Dustin could be… problematic. Subtly reinforcing their loyalty now was crucial.
His assassin's eye missed nothing: the way a lord's guards held their weapons, the whispers in a tavern, the quality of a keep's defenses. He mentally cataloged it all, cross-referencing it with his knowledge of future allegiances and betrayals. He was building a mental map of the North's true strength, not just its proclaimed loyalties. Flamel's alchemy also provided him with subtle tools for these journeys. A colorless, odorless potion that, when added to wine, would loosen tongues without obvious intoxication. A powder that, when scattered, would allow him to track footprints even on hard ground by enhancing their faint heat signature, visible only to his specially prepared gaze. Small advantages, but advantages nonetheless.
The news from the East was becoming less rumor and more hard fact. Ravens from the Citadel, and more reliable merchant reports reaching White Harbor, spoke of Aegon Targaryen's decisive victories. He had forged a small but powerful domain, bringing Volantis to heel after the bloody battle in the Disputed Lands where the Volantene fleet was shattered. He had Balerion, the Black Dread, a beast of terrifying size and power, and his two sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, rode Vhagar and Meraxes. They were no longer just another band of Essosi warlords. They were a force poised to reshape the world.
The lords of Westeros, however, remained largely complacent, consumed by their internal squabbles. Torrhen read the dispatches with a grim sense of inevitability. King Argilac the Arrogant of Storm's End was openly dismissive. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock believed their gold could buy any army. The Gardeners of Highgarden trusted in their vast levies. None of them truly understood what was coming.
"They are fools," Torrhen muttered one evening, rereading a report in the privacy of his chambers. "They think their stone walls and mailed knights can stop dragonfire. They haven't learned Valyria's lesson."
A soft knock came at his door. "Torrhen? Are you in there, communing with more dusty scrolls?" It was Lyanna, now a young woman of sixteen, her voice retaining its bright, teasing quality. She still possessed a wild beauty, her dark Stark hair often escaping its braids, her grey eyes sharp and intelligent.
Torrhen quickly concealed the Valyrian dispatch. "Enter, Lya."
She slipped in, a grin on her face. "Father is in a mood. Lord Slate just arrived with news of ironborn reavers near the Stony Shore. Brandon is already polishing his sword, hoping for a fight."
"Ironborn are always a nuisance," Torrhen said, his mind already calculating. The western coast was a perennial weak point. He'd been working on a conceptual design for a chain boom defense for key harbors, based on some of Flamel's engineering knowledge, but implementing it would be costly and require Manderly cooperation.
Lyanna perched on the edge of his desk, her gaze falling on a half-carved piece of weirwood he'd been practicing runes on. "What's this? More of your strange carvings?" Unlike others, Lyanna didn't dismiss his "hobbies." She possessed an open curiosity, sometimes unnervingly perceptive.
"Just an old Northern tradition," Torrhen said smoothly. "Trying to understand the craftsmanship of our ancestors."
"They feel… warm," Lyanna said, her fingers brushing lightly over a deeply etched symbol of the intertwined roots of a weirwood. "Almost alive. Maester Arryk says the old gods are in the trees. Do you believe that, Torrhen?"
He looked at his sister, her expression open and searching. He couldn't tell her the truth, not fully. But he could offer a sliver. "I believe there is power in the North, Lya. An ancient power. And that Winterfell, the Godswood… they are at its heart."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Sometimes… sometimes in the Godswood, when the wind blows just right, I hear things. Whispers. Like the trees are trying to speak."
Torrhen felt a jolt. She hears them too? He had thought his own connection was unique, a result of Flamel's attunement. But perhaps some Starks, some of the old blood, were naturally more sensitive. It was both a revelation and a potential complication. If Lyanna was susceptible, she might stumble upon his activities, or worse, draw unwanted attention.
"Many Starks have felt a connection to the Godswood," he said carefully. "It is our heritage." He decided to gently steer her. "The whispers are likely just the wind, sister. But the sense of peace, of history… that is real."
She didn't look entirely convinced, but she let it drop. "Well, whatever power is in those trees, I hope it keeps the ironborn away. Or at least gives Brandon a good fight so he stops moping about the lack of real tourneys up here." She grinned again, then her expression turned more serious. "Torrhen… these tales from the East. About the dragonlords. Are they true?"
"It seems so," he admitted. "They have power, Lya. Power Westeros hasn't seen in a long time."
"Will they come here? To the North?" Her voice was small.
He met her gaze, and for a moment, the cautious scholar, the ruthless assassin, and the ancient alchemist were all eclipsed by the protective older brother. "The North is strong, Lyanna. We have endured worse than southern kings with overgrown lizards." It was a braver sentiment than he truly felt when contemplating Balerion's shadow, but he needed to project confidence. "And we Starks… we endure."
Her visit, however, solidified a resolve in him. He needed to accelerate his understanding of the weirwood network. If others could sense its whispers, perhaps it could be used as more than just a passive power source. Flamel's memories spoke of ancient vegetative networks in other lands, vast fungal intelligences, forests that acted as one. Could the weirwoods be something similar? A collective consciousness of the old gods?
He intensified his meditations in the Godswood, no longer just drawing power, but actively listening, reaching out with his mind, using Flamel's techniques for telepathic projection, albeit aimed at something far stranger than a human mind. He would spend hours seated before the heart tree, its bleeding eyes seeming to watch him with ancient, sorrowful wisdom. He offered it drops of his own blood, a risky gambit from Flamel's darker grimoires, hoping to forge a more direct connection.
Slowly, painstakingly, he began to perceive more than just vague whispers. He started to get flashes of imagery, not always coherent, but undeniably there. The flight of a raven hundreds of miles away. The rustle of leaves in a distant weirwood grove near the Wall. A glimpse of a shadowy wolf padding through a moonlit forest. It was like trying to tune into a thousand faint broadcasts simultaneously, but it was a start. The weirwood network was real, a living, breathing web of ancient magic spanning the North. If he could learn to tap into it, to see through its myriad eyes, it would be an unparalleled intelligence network. Perhaps even a conduit for projecting his will, for defense.
One particularly frigid night, deep in his trance before the heart tree, he pushed further than ever before. He focused all his will, all of Flamel's discipline, all his Stark tenacity, into a single point of contact with the ancient consciousness. The world around him dissolved. He felt a terrifying, exhilarating rush as his awareness expanded, not just through Winterfell's Godswood, but outwards, along invisible threads of power. He saw, for a fleeting, disorienting moment, the entirety of the North spread out beneath him like a living map, the lights of its scattered holdfasts, the dark expanse of its forests, the icy rampart of the Wall. He felt the cold, ancient thoughts of the trees, a slow, ponderous intelligence that had witnessed millennia.
And then, he felt something else. A probe. A mind, ancient and alien, not of the trees, but beyond them. It was unimaginably cold, filled with a patient, terrifying hunger. It brushed against his consciousness, and for a horrifying instant, he saw a glimpse of an army of the dead, of eyes like blue stars, of a winter that would swallow the world.
The Others.
The contact was broken as quickly as it came, the shock flinging him back into his own body with such force that he gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was trembling, a cold sweat drenching his tunic despite the freezing air.
They are aware. They are listening. They are waiting.
The Long Night was not just a future threat. It was a present, sentient danger, lurking just beyond the veil of the world, perhaps even subtly influencing events. This changed everything. His preparations couldn't just be for dragons. They had to be for an enemy far older, far more insidious.
The experience, terrifying as it was, also brought a crucial insight. The weirwood network was not just a passive observer. It was a battleground. And the Others were already on it.
His work with the obsidian discs took on a new urgency. Obsidian, dragonglass, was known to be anathema to the Others. If he could infuse his wards with its properties, amplify them through the weirwood network…
He also redoubled his efforts to understand the 'Codex of the Wolf's Blood'. Skinchanging, the ability to enter the minds of animals, was a powerful tool of the First Men. If he could master it, if he could see through the eyes of the wolves and ravens of the North, it would give him unparalleled reconnaissance. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was a power that could fight back against the insidious mental influence of the Others. Flamel had no direct experience with such a uniquely Westerosi magic, but his understanding of consciousness, of astral projection and mental fortitude, provided a solid foundation for Torrhen's experiments. He started small, with the direwolf pups in the kennels, who still showed a strange affinity for him. He would sit with them for hours, trying to extend his senses, to feel what they felt, see what they saw. It was frustrating, often resulting in nothing but headaches, but he was patient.
Lord Beron, meanwhile, had decided it was time Torrhen took on more formal responsibilities. He was named as a secondary castellan for Winterfell, tasked with overseeing certain logistical aspects of the castle's administration – supplies, maintenance, the training of new recruits for the guard. It was a practical education, and Torrhen threw himself into it with his usual quiet diligence. It also gave him legitimate reasons to access almost every part of Winterfell, to understand its flows of people and resources, and, crucially, to identify the ideal locations for his warding discs without arousing suspicion.
He made "improvements." He redesigned the quartermaster's ledgers for greater efficiency using a system Flamel had once employed for a Renaissance prince's treasury. He suggested minor modifications to the guard patrol routes that covered blind spots he'd identified with his assassin's eye. He even organized a competition among the castle blacksmiths to produce stronger, lighter shield designs, subtly guiding them with sketches based on Flamel's metallurgical knowledge, resulting in shields that were marginally better than before, a small but tangible improvement. Every small success built his reputation for quiet competence.
The news from the East grew more ominous. Aegon Targaryen, having consolidated his Essosi holdings, had sent ravens to the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. The message was simple: yield, and retain your lands and titles as Lords Paramount under his rule. Defy, and be destroyed.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was somber when Lord Beron read the proclamation, his voice grim. The Northern lords present were outraged. Lord Karstark slammed his fist on the table. "Does this Essosi peacock think we Northerners will bend to a man who has never seen a true winter? Let him come! He'll find a cold welcome here!"
Lord Umber bellowed his agreement. Even the usually reserved Lord Bolton allowed a thin, cruel smile to touch his lips, though what lay behind it, Torrhen couldn't guess.
Torrhen watched them, his expression unreadable. Their pride was admirable, their courage undeniable. But it was the courage of lions facing a storm of fire. He knew, with chilling certainty, that Northern steel and valor alone would not be enough against Balerion the Black Dread.
His father looked at him. "Torrhen? You are quiet. What say you to this… Aegon's demand?"
Torrhen chose his words carefully. "He is bold, Father. And he has the means to enforce that boldness, if the tales of his dragons are even half true. To dismiss him outright would be… unwise. To yield without testing his resolve, or our own strength, would be shameful." He paused, letting his words sink in. "We must gather more information. Understand the true extent of his power, the nature of his beasts. We must look to our own defenses, strengthen our alliances within the North, and prepare for the worst, while hoping for a path that preserves our people."
It was a non-committal answer, yet it carried weight. It acknowledged the threat without succumbing to panic or bravado. Lord Beron nodded slowly. "Wisely spoken. Preparation. That is the Stark way."
Later, alone with his father, Beron asked, "Those 'defenses' you speak of, son. Beyond more spears and higher walls, what do you envision?"
Torrhen hesitated. This was an opening, but he had to tread carefully. "The old ways, Father. The scrolls speak of how our ancestors endured. The magic of the First Men, the strength of the land itself. Perhaps… perhaps there are forgotten strengths we can reclaim."
Beron Stark looked at his son, a long, searching gaze. There was something in Torrhen's eyes, a depth of knowledge, a quiet certainty that was far beyond his years. "The old gods are stirring, some say," Beron murmured, more to himself than to Torrhen. "The winters are growing longer. Perhaps it is time we looked to more than just steel." He clasped Torrhen's shoulder. "Continue your studies, son. If there is wisdom in those old scrolls that can protect our home, find it."
It was as close to an endorsement as Torrhen could have hoped for.
As his eighteenth year drew to a close, Torrhen stood once more in the Godswood, the obsidian discs for his warding network nearly complete. He had succeeded, after many failures, in establishing a rudimentary link with a young direwolf, Ghost – a runt from a new litter, white-furred and silent, who had taken to following him like a shadow. Through Ghost's eyes, he could briefly see the world in shades of grey and scent, a dizzying but exhilarating experience.
The shadows from the East were lengthening. Aegon's ships were rumored to be gathering. Soon, they would sail for Westeros.
Torrhen touched the cold bark of the heart tree. He was no King Who Knelt. Not yet. He was a Stark, an assassin, an alchemist. He was the North's hidden shield. And when the dragons came, he would be ready to meet fire with fire, ice with cunning, and a magic born of two worlds, tempered in the ancient heart of winter. The game was about to begin in earnest.