Chapter 2: The Kraken's Due
The salt spray kissed Torrhen's face, cold and invigorating, a stark contrast to the dry, ancient dust of the crypts he'd left only hours before. He stood on the cliffs overlooking a narrow, treacherous inlet along the western coast of the North, a place known locally as the 'Widow's Teeth' for its jagged, ship-shattering rocks that lay mostly hidden beneath the churning grey waves. His direwolf, Nymeros, stood beside him, a silent, grey shadow, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon, ears twitching.
The greensight vision of the Ironborn raid had been specific enough: a splintering fleet, the kraken banner sinking. The Widow's Teeth was the perfect graveyard for overconfident reavers, especially if guided by a little… persuasion. For the past three weeks, the North had been quietly preparing. Torrhen had ridden out from Winterfell under the guise of inspecting coastal defenses, a plausible reason that masked his true intent. His most trusted men, a cadre of hardened hunters and warriors sworn to secrecy, were already positioned, hidden amongst the crags and within the dense, salt-stunted pines that clung to the cliff edges. Maester Arryk believed his king was merely being proactive; none knew of the prophetic certainty driving these actions.
Torrhen had used the intervening time judiciously. Flamel's knowledge of subtle weather manipulation, while not potent enough to summon maelstroms at will without immense ritual and risk, allowed for nudges. For days, he'd performed quiet, almost meditative enchantments, coaxing the local currents, encouraging the formation of dense fog banks that would roll in at his command, and subtly weakening the air pressure further out to sea to draw the approaching storm inward, hastening its arrival to coincide with the Ironborn. It was delicate work, akin to nudging a boulder already teetering on a precipice rather than trying to lift it outright. He was no Valyrian storm-singer, but Flamel had known a thing or two about coaxing nature.
Through Nymeros's keen senses, amplified by his own warging connection, he'd tracked the Ironborn longships for the last two days. Ten of them, bold and arrogant, sailing under the banner of House Drumm of Old Wyk. They were making for what they perceived to be a poorly defended stretch of coastline, rich with small fishing villages ripe for plunder. They couldn't know they were sailing into a meticulously prepared trap.
"They come, Your Grace," muttered Duncan, one of his captains, his face a mask of grim anticipation. He was a stout man, his beard braided in the Northern fashion, his eyes reflecting the grey of the sea.
Torrhen nodded, not taking his eyes from the hazy line where sea met sky. "Patience, Duncan. Let them commit fully to the channel. The sea will claim its due before we claim ours."
His orders had been precise. No overt displays of force until the Ironborn were well within the inlet. Hidden archers, reserves ready to descend to the small, rocky beach if any managed to make landfall, and small, sturdy Northern fishing vessels, reinforced and crewed by fighters, ready to block any retreat once the trap was sprung. The true genius, however, lay in the terrain and the magically encouraged weather.
As the first longship, its prow carved into a snarling kraken, tentatively nosed past the outer guardians of the Widow's Teeth, Torrhen raised a hand. A silent signal. From hidden positions, men began to work small, hand-cranked winches, tightening thick, tarred ropes strung just beneath the surface of the water, invisible in the choppy grey waves – ropes anchored to underwater spars, designed not to halt the ships entirely, but to foul their rudders and oars at the most inconvenient moment.
The fog, which had been lurking offshore like a patient predator, began to roll inwards, thick and cloying. Torrhen felt the subtle shift in the air, the magic taking hold, amplifying the natural conditions. Visibility dropped rapidly. Confused shouts echoed from the Ironborn ships as they found themselves suddenly blind in unfamiliar, treacherous waters.
One longship, then another, struck the hidden rocks, the sickening crunch of timber loud even over the rising wind. Panic erupted. Oars splintered, rudders snapped. The carefully laid ropes did their work, further entangling the struggling vessels. Then the storm, which Torrhen had been nursing along, hit with calculated fury. Rain lashed down, waves crested and smashed against the beleaguered ships, and the wind howled like a banshee.
"Now," Torrhen said, his voice calm but carrying clearly to Duncan.
Horns blared from the clifftops. A hail of arrows, fletched with grey goose feathers, rained down upon the decks of the Ironborn ships. The reavers, already disoriented and struggling against the elements, were caught completely by surprise. Some tried to fight back, loosing arrows wildly into the fog, but most were too busy trying to keep their ships from being smashed to pieces or swept away.
Torrhen watched with a cold, detached satisfaction. This was not the thrill of an assassin striking from the shadows, nor the intellectual pleasure of a successful alchemical transmutation. This was the grim necessity of a king protecting his lands. Every dying reaver was one less threat to his people, one less mouth to feed from Northern stores.
He allowed himself a flicker of warging, not fully entering Nymeros, but borrowing the wolf's superior senses. Through the direwolf's eyes, he saw the chaos on the decks, the fear in the Ironborn eyes, the crimson blooms spreading on the churning water. He felt the wolf's primal satisfaction at the hunt, the scent of blood and fear. He pulled back, centering himself. Such primal urges needed to be controlled, channeled.
The battle, if it could be called that, was short and brutal. Only three ships managed to avoid the worst of the rocks and ropes, attempting a desperate retreat, only to find their path blocked by the suddenly appearing Northern boats, whose crews, more familiar with these waters, harried them mercilessly. Most of the Ironborn drowned, were crushed by their own foundering vessels, or fell to Northern arrows. A few dozen, perhaps, managed to scramble onto the small, inhospitable beach at the inlet's end, only to be met by Torrhen's waiting warriors.
When the storm finally abated hours later, leaving behind a bruised sky and a calmer, yet still littered sea, the Widow's Teeth had earned its name anew. Wreckage was strewn everywhere. Bodies washed ashore with the tide.
Torrhen descended to the beach, Nymeros at his heels, his boots crunching on the shingle and seaweed. His men were already at work, dragging survivors – those few deemed worth questioning – away from the waterline. He approached a group of captured Ironborn, their faces a mixture of defiance and despair. Their leader, a burly man with a tangled black beard and a bloody gash on his forehead, spat at Torrhen's feet.
"Curse you, Stark! You fight like a shadow, not a true warrior!"
Torrhen looked down at the man, his grey eyes like chips of ice. "I fight to win, reaver. To protect what is mine. You came to steal and despoil. You found only death." He gestured to Duncan. "Take him and any other officers. Question them. Learn of their strengths, their ports, their allies. The rest…" He paused, his gaze sweeping over the remaining captives, their eyes wide with fear. "The Drowned God can have them back. A message to their kin."
Ruthless, yes. But necessary. Mercy to Ironborn reavers was an invitation for them to return. Fear, however, was a lesson that might stick. His assassin's past had taught him the value of decisive, unambiguous messages.
Later that week, back in Winterfell, Maester Arryk listened with rapt attention as Torrhen recounted a carefully edited version of the "Battle of Widow's Teeth." He spoke of timely scouting, good positioning, and the fortune of a sudden storm that had aided the Northern cause. He made no mention of magically influenced weather or greensight.
"A stunning victory, Your Grace!" Arryk exclaimed, his old eyes shining. "This will send a clear message to the Iron Islands. And it justifies the resources you've been pouring into coastal patrols and fortifications."
"Indeed, Maester," Torrhen replied, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps now Lord Commander Umber will be less… vocal in his complaints about the expenditure on the western fleet." He was already using the victory to push his agenda. More ships for White Harbor, stronger watchtowers along the coast, better equipment for the levies. Each step was calculated, strengthening the North brick by brick, man by man. The gold, still produced in discreet quantities, flowed where it was needed most, appearing as "unexpected revenues from newly profitable trade routes" or "ancient Stark treasures rediscovered."
His thirst for knowledge remained unabated. The books from Volantis and Lys, while indeed containing some "unsavory" rituals, also held keys. One Volantene text, bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin, described intricate blood magic practices used by Valyrian dragonlords of old to ensure the loyalty of lesser slave soldiers, practices that involved oaths sworn over dragon glass and sealed with blood under specific celestial alignments. Flamel's memories contained similar, though less barbaric, binding rituals. Cross-referencing them, Torrhen began to piece together the most potent and reliable methods for binding a dragon not just to an individual, but to a bloodline, ensuring the creatures would serve his descendants. This was crucial. He wasn't building power just for himself. He was building a legacy of security.
He also found references to Asshai'i shadowbinding, detailing how sorcerers could draw power from darkness and manipulate shadows. While he had no intention of walking that particular path himself – Flamel had warned of its corrupting influence – understanding its principles was vital for defense. He also found mentions of firemages in Qarth and their ability to conjure illusions and pyrotechnics, something Flamel's own elemental magic already encompassed but with a different theoretical underpinning. Every piece of information, every spell, every ritual, was a weapon or a shield.
The hidden dragon nursery deep within the Wolfswood was progressing steadily. Under the guise of establishing a secure, deep-winter hunting lodge for the Stark family, a small, exceptionally loyal team of stonemasons and laborers, all of whom had benefited greatly from Torrhen's "generosity" and whose families were now comfortably settled on new lands, worked diligently. They knew only that they were constructing a series of interconnected, geothermally heated chambers deep underground, accessible via a cleverly hidden tunnel. They asked no questions. Their loyalty was absolute, reinforced by Torrhen's subtle mental enchantments that encouraged discretion and contentment.
Torrhen himself oversaw the most critical aspect: the wards. He spent several nights a month at the site, ostensibly supervising construction. In reality, once the workers were asleep, he would weave intricate patterns of Flamel's protective enchantments into the very fabric of the stone and earth. Wards against scrying, against magical detection, against physical intrusion by those not of Stark blood who knew the specific passphrase (a constantly changing word in Old Valyrian that only he and his designated heir would know). He even incorporated elements of the Old Gods' magic, drawing on the ambient power of the ancient forest, sinking roots of protective energy deep into the earth, hoping to harmonize Flamel's structured magic with the wilder, more instinctual defenses of the North.
The largest chamber was dome-shaped, its floor covered in smooth, dark river stones. In its center, a natural volcanic vent sighed a constant plume of hot, sulfurous steam. This would be the hatching chamber. The ambient temperature was already significantly higher here than anywhere else in the North, save perhaps for the heart of Winterfell's own hot springs. He estimated that with some alchemical enhancements to the vent's output and carefully focused pyromantic rituals, he could create the intense, sustained heat necessary to awaken the life within his precious eggs.
He still needed one more thing, a catalyst Flamel's notes insisted was highly beneficial, if not strictly essential, for hatching truly powerful dragons: a living flame from an existing dragon, or, failing that, a source of intensely concentrated fire magic. He had neither, yet. This was a problem he was actively working to solve. His agents in Essos were always on the lookout, not just for eggs, but for any artifacts related to dragonfire or pyromancy of an exceedingly potent nature.
One evening, as a chill autumn wind rattled the shutters of his solar, Torrhen was examining a new map, this one detailing the known Valyrian outposts and trade routes in the northern Jade Sea, a region Flamel's notes had hinted might hold forgotten magical lore. A soft scratch at the door announced his most trusted agent, the quiet, unassuming Bryen Flowers, the bastard-born scholar who had secured the Volantene egg.
Bryen entered, cloaked and travel-stained, but his eyes bright with news. He bowed low. "Your Grace. I have returned from my inquiries in Pentos and Myr."
"Speak, Bryen. What have you learned?" Torrhen gestured for him to rise, his own expression carefully neutral, though a thread of anticipation tightened within him. Bryen was not one for dramatics; if he sought an immediate audience, it was important.
"The usual whispers of Valyrian arrogance, Your Grace. But more. There are tales, dismissed by most as sailors' fancy, of an island far to the east, past Asshai, an island perpetually shrouded in mist and legend, where firewyrms are said to still dwell in volcanic caves. Not true dragons, perhaps, but creatures of significant fire."
Torrhen's mind raced. Firewyrms. Flamel had mentioned them – lesser cousins to dragons, certainly, but possessing a potent internal fire. Their heartflames, if they could be harvested, might serve as the catalyst he needed. "An island past Asshai? That is a perilous journey."
"Indeed, Your Grace. And the Asshai'i do not welcome outsiders to their shadow-haunted shores, let alone those seeking to venture beyond. However," Bryen paused, producing a small, rolled-up piece of faded parchment tied with a silken cord. "I also acquired this, from a dealer in rare maps in Myr. He claimed it was a fragment of a pre-Valyrian mariner's chart. It speaks of the 'Smoking Isle' and gives… coordinates, of a sort, relative to landmarks in the Jade Sea."
Torrhen took the parchment, his fingers carefully unrolling the brittle material. The script was archaic, some of it unfamiliar even with Flamel's encyclopedic linguistic knowledge, but the map fragment was undeniably ancient, depicting a coastline and islands he didn't recognize from any contemporary charts. There were symbols that seemed to indicate volcanic activity.
"This is… promising," Torrhen admitted. A dangerous, long-shot expedition, but potentially a solution to his catalyst problem. He would need the right ship, the right crew – men loyal, discreet, and exceptionally skilled. And it would cost a fortune, a fortune he was slowly accumulating.
"One other matter, Your Grace," Bryen continued, his voice dropping lower. "While in Pentos, I heard a peculiar rumor. A Magister, one of the old blood but of declining fortunes, is said to possess a… a rather unique heirloom. A gift, it is whispered, from a Valyrian dragonlord to his ancestor centuries ago. A 'Tear of Fire,' they call it. A ruby of immense size, said to burn with an inner light and to have been warmed in dragonfire before being cut."
A ruby warmed in dragonfire? Flamel's notes on magical catalysts and resonators stirred in Torrhen's memory. Such an item, if the legends were true, could hold a significant charge of dragonfire essence. It might be enough.
"This Magister," Torrhen asked, his voice sharpening slightly. "What is his name? And how tightly does he cling to this heirloom?"
"His name is Maegyr Xhokan, Your Grace. And from what I gather, his house is deeply in debt. He clings to the Tear as his last symbol of past glory, but… it is said he has a weakness for the pleasures of the flesh and the dice."
Torrhen allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips. A debauched Magister with a priceless, magically charged ruby. This was a more immediate, and likely less perilous, opportunity than chasing firewyrms past Asshai. "Bryen, you have done well. Exceedingly well. Rest for a few days. Then, I will have new instructions for you. We may need to arrange for Magister Xhokan to receive a… generous offer he cannot refuse. Or, perhaps, an unfortunate loss he cannot prevent."
His mind was already working, formulating a plan. The acquisition of such an artifact would require subtlety, perhaps a touch of his old assassin's skills, or at least the planning of one. Stealing a renowned heirloom from a Pentoshi Magister was risky, but the potential reward…
His greensight chose that moment to flare, not with fire and screams of Valyria this time, but with a chilling vision of ice. Endless snowfields under a sky filled with malevolent, swirling auroras. Blue eyes, burning with cold fire. The Others. The vision was sharper now, more defined than it had been in years. It was still distant, centuries away if his interpretation of the accompanying temporal sensations was correct, linked to the fall of kings and the unraveling of kingdoms far to the south. But it was a stark reminder of the ultimate stakes. Dragons were not just for power or prestige; they might one day be essential for the very survival of the living.
He dismissed Bryen with a nod, the agent melting away as silently as he had arrived. Torrhen turned back to the window, looking out at the moonlit courtyard of Winterfell. The North was quiet, peaceful under his rule. But the world beyond was a tapestry of burgeoning chaos and ancient threats. He, Torrhen Stark, the Silent Wolf, would be ready. He would gather his strength, his knowledge, his hidden fire. He would forge his Philosopher's Stone from the ashes of Valyria, build an unbreakable North with its bounty, and when the Long Night finally came, his descendants would meet it with wolf's cunning and dragon's fire.
The game of thrones played in the south was a fleeting concern. The true game was one of survival, of magic, of enduring against the tides of fire and ice. And in that game, Torrhen Stark intended to be not just a player, but a master. He had died once from arrogance. This time, his quiet, patient, ruthless preparation would be his shield and his sword. The King in the North had a very long watch ahead of him.