Chapter 15: The Kraken's Folly, The Flayed Man's Shadow
The news of Theon Greyjoy's audacious capture of Winterfell struck Torrhen like a physical blow, a betrayal so profound it echoed the ancient treachery that had ended his first life as Silas. He had sensed the Ironborn ships lurking off the Stony Shore, a familiar, unwelcome tang of salt and ambition in the air, but Theon's target had been utterly unexpected. The boy he had seen grow up in Winterfell's yard, a ward, almost a son to Eddard, now a turncloak, a kinslayer in spirit if not yet in deed. Torrhen's hidden sanctum, deep beneath the castle, vibrated with a sudden, icy surge of controlled fury.
He could not openly confront Theon. His glamoured form was that of a frail ancient, and to unleash his true power now, with Ironborn infesting his halls, would be to reveal his greatest secret, the North's ultimate weapon, to unworthy, untrustworthy eyes. His immediate, overriding priority was the absolute security of the Philosopher's Stone and his hidden library. He focused his will, pouring energy into the already formidable wards surrounding these sanctums, layering them with new complexities of misdirection, oblivion, and pure, unadulterated dread for any who might stumble too close. Winterfell might fall, but its deepest secrets would remain inviolate.
Theon, puffed up with pathetic arrogance, strutted through the castle, oblivious to the ancient, silent power that watched him from the very stones beneath his feet. Torrhen, a ghost in his own home, began his subtle resistance. He couldn't save every loyal Stark man, nor could he prevent Theon's initial, brutal consolidation of power. But he could sow chaos. Strange whispers echoed in empty corridors, fueling the Ironborns' superstitions. Tools would break at inconvenient moments, food stores would spoil slightly faster than they should, and an unnatural chill, deeper than the Northern autumn, seemed to cling to Theon's stolen chambers, making his sleep uneasy.
He focused on protecting what mattered most: the Stark children. Bran and Rickon. He sensed Osha's fierce, protective loyalty to the boys, and Maester Luwin's desperate attempts to guide Theon away from utter ruin. Torrhen subtly amplified Osha's cunning, sharpened Luwin's persuasiveness, and planted seeds of doubt and paranoia in Theon's already conflicted mind. When Ser Rodrik Cassel's relief force was defeated outside the walls – a tragedy Torrhen felt keenly, having respected the old warrior – he knew Theon's position was untenable, his desperation growing.
The "deaths" of Bran and Rickon, the gruesome presentation of two small, tarred heads, sent a wave of genuine, heart-wrenching grief through the North that Torrhen felt like a physical ache. But through his subtle connection to Winterfell's ancient magic, and a faint, persistent empathic link he maintained with Bran's burgeoning abilities, he knew the boys were alive. He had felt Osha's desperate flight with them into the crypts, a place whose deepest, oldest sections were intimately familiar to Torrhen. He had subtly guided her path, ensuring she found the most hidden routes, her presence masked by layers of his own ancient enchantments that made the crypts a labyrinth to any but those with Stark blood or his blessing. He allowed Theon his pyrrhic, horrific deception; the survival of the true Stark heirs was paramount.
While Winterfell suffered under the Kraken's banner, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, continued his dazzling campaign in the Westerlands. Torrhen, his scrying mirror now focused with a desperate intensity, watched Robb's victories – Oxcross, the Crag, Ashemark. Each triumph was a testament to Robb's tactical genius, to the valor of the Northern soldiers, and, in small part, to Torrhen's unseen support. But with each victory, Torrhen's concern grew. Robb was winning battles but losing the war of politics and perception. His honor, so like Eddard's, was becoming a gilded chain.
The news of Robb's marriage to Jeyne Westerling (or Talisa, as some tales would later name her, a Volantene healer whose presence near Robb's camp Torrhen had noted with a flicker of unease, sensing an outside influence, a distraction) reached him like a death knell. The Freys. An alliance bought with a sacred vow, now shattered for a pretty face and a moment of misplaced comfort. Torrhen sent his most urgent, heavily coded raven to Robb: "A king's vow is the bedrock of his kingdom. A broken vow to an old, proud, and treacherous house like the Freys is an invitation to a feast of wolves. Appease Walder Frey, nephew. No victory is worth the loss of an irreplaceable ally and the stain of a dishonored oath. Remember the price of love when duty calls."
But Robb, young, in love, and flushed with victory, did not heed the full weight of the ancient wisdom. He believed his martial prowess could overcome any political misstep. Torrhen felt the cold hand of Silas's pragmatism grip his heart; this boy, for all his brilliance, was leading himself and the North into a trap.
Beyond the Wall, the true enemy continued its silent, inexorable advance. Jon Snow's letters, when they came, were increasingly dire. Qhorin Halfhand's doomed ranging, Jon's feigned desertion to the Wildlings, his encounter with Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and the sheer, terrifying scale of the Free Folk army gathering in the Frostfangs – Torrhen absorbed it all. He used his subtle connection to Ghost, Jon's direwolf, a conduit of primal magic, to gain fleeting, visceral impressions of the vast, frozen wilderness and the desperate, savage energy of the Wildling host. He also sensed, with growing alarm, the palpable aura of the Others pressing south, a wave of unnatural cold and ancient dread that even Mance Rayder, in his own way, was fleeing.
Torrhen redoubled his clandestine support for the Night's Watch. More "ancient caches" of dragonglass were "unearthed" by ranging parties. Detailed maps of forgotten Wildling paths and weaknesses, seemingly compiled from "lost lore," found their way to Lord Commander Mormont. He even subtly influenced the dreams of some of the Watch's more perceptive brothers, planting images of wights, of blue eyes, of the need for fire and vigilance, strengthening their resolve against the coming darkness. The Wall, he knew, was the shield of the realms, and it was cracking.
His attention, however, was increasingly drawn back to the North's internal rot. Roose Bolton. Torrhen had never trusted the Leech Lord, his quiet, unsettling demeanor a mask for a chilling ambition that Silas recognized instantly. For centuries, Torrhen had kept a careful watch on House Bolton, their ancient rivalry with the Starks a recurring threat. Now, with Robb distracted in the south and Winterfell in disarray, Roose was a venomous serpent coiled in the heart of the Northern army. Torrhen's agents within Robb's camp sent whispers of Bolton's strange battlefield decisions, his unsettling calm amidst chaos, his private, coded correspondence with unknown parties.
Torrhen tried to warn Robb directly, his messages becoming blunter, more desperate: "The Leech Lord bleeds his allies as surely as his enemies. His loyalty is to himself alone. Beware the flayed man's smile, nephew. It hides fangs." But Robb, who valued Bolton's military experience and saw his quiet demeanor as steadfastness, was reluctant to believe such dire warnings without concrete proof, especially against a lord who had publicly sworn fealty. Torrhen knew that providing such proof without revealing his own centuries of covert observation and magical intelligence gathering was impossible. He was caught in a terrible bind: watch the betrayal unfold or risk exposing secrets that could unravel everything.
The execution of Lord Rickard Karstark for treason, though understandable from Robb's perspective of maintaining discipline, was another nail in the coffin of Northern unity. Torrhen had foreseen Karstark's grief-driven rage and tried to counsel Robb towards a less permanent punishment, perhaps exile or imprisonment, to avoid alienating a powerful house. But Robb, ever his father's son in matters of stark justice, had been unyielding. The Karstark forces abandoned him, a grievous loss.
As Robb, his army diminished, his alliances crumbling, accepted Walder Frey's offer of reconciliation and marriage between Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey, Torrhen felt a cold dread solidify in his ancient heart. The Twins. A trap. Every instinct honed over centuries, every lesson learned from Silas's life of betrayal and Flamel's understanding of human depravity, screamed a warning. He sent one final, desperate message to Robb, carried by his swiftest, most magically-guided raven, a message not of strategy, but of pure, primal warning: "THE WATERS OF THE GREEN FORK RUN RED WITH FALSE OATHS. THE GUEST RIGHT IS A LIE IN THE HALL OF THE WEASEL. FLEE THE FEAST OF CROWS, MY KING. FLEE!"
He knew it was likely too late. He knew the forces of treachery – Frey resentment, Lannister gold, and Bolton ambition – were converging with an unstoppable momentum.
His focus began to shift, a grim, heartbreaking triage. Robb's cause, he suspected, was lost. His new priority became the preservation of the North itself, the survival of the remaining Stark heirs. He subtly facilitated Ramsay Snow's brutal retaking of Winterfell from Theon Greyjoy. Ramsay was a monster, a depraved creature Torrhen loathed, but he was a Bolton, and Roose would need Winterfell cleared of Ironborn to solidify his own planned usurpation. It was a bitter pill, using one evil to combat another, but Silas's pragmatism dictated the most efficient, if unsavory, path. Once Theon was gone, Torrhen could ensure Winterfell's deepest magical defenses remained unknown and undisturbed by the Boltons, who were dangerous but lacked true understanding of the Old Magic.
He reached out with his senses, trying to locate Arya, who his agents reported had escaped King's Landing. He felt her wild, resilient spirit, a flickering flame in the storm-tossed darkness of the Riverlands, but she was elusive, constantly moving. Sansa, a captive songbird in King's Landing, was beyond his direct reach, though he held a desperate hope that Littlefinger, in his own twisted way, might keep her alive for her claim. Bran and Rickon, hidden by Osha, were his most immediate concern. He strengthened the ancient wards around the crypts and the passages leading away from Winterfell, guiding Osha's instincts, ensuring their trail remained cold.
The chapter of Robb's glorious, tragic rebellion was closing. Winterfell, its physical stones scarred by Theon's folly and soon to be stained by Bolton's cruelty, still held its ancient secrets. Torrhen, a hidden king in a fallen castle, felt the threads of fate drawing taut around the Young Wolf and his mother at the Twins. He had done all he could from afar. The game of thrones was reaching another bloody crescendo, orchestrated by ambitious, short-sighted men.
He stood in his hidden sanctum, the Philosopher's Stone pulsing with a somber, ruby light, a silent testament to endurance. He felt a profound, ancient sorrow, yet beneath it, an unyielding resolve. The South could have its feasts of crows. The North, his North, would endure. He would ensure it. He was its eternal winter, its unyielding stone, its oldest, deepest magic. And when this latest storm of human folly passed, he would still be there, ready to pick up the pieces, ready to face the true, inexorable enemy that gathered its strength beyond the Wall, an enemy for whom all the wars of men were but a fleeting, insignificant squabble. His vigil was absolute.