Chapter 4: Echoes in the Blood, Shadows in the Peaks
The geothermal chamber beneath Winterfell, once a marvel of secret ingenuity, was rapidly becoming a gilded cage. Veridian, Balerion, and Ghostfyre were no longer the cat-sized hatchlings that had chipped their way into the world. Months had bled into a year, then nearly two, since their fiery birth. They were now the size of large hunting hounds, their initial clumsiness replaced by a sinuous, predatory grace. Their scales, once soft, had hardened into formidable armour, shimmering with their respective hues – Veridian's deep forest green shot through with silver, Balerion's terrifying blood-red and midnight black, Ghostfyre's ethereal cream and flickering gold.
Their appetites were prodigious. Jon had to arrange for discreet "culls" of livestock from remote Stark holdings, the carcasses vanishing into the depths of Winterfell without comment, attributed to harsh weather or particularly bold predators. Smoke now curled from Balerion's nostrils almost constantly, and he had twice set his bedding of volcanic rock smouldering with frustrated snorts of actual flame. Veridian, the most observant, had learned to mimic the shrill cries of bats fluttering in the higher reaches of the cavern, a disconcerting sound that sometimes echoed faintly in the lower crypts, causing superstitious guards to hurry their patrols. Ghostfyre remained an enigma, its heat often accompanied by a strange, localized chill, and its movements unnervingly silent.
The primary challenge was their burgeoning instinct for flight. The chamber, though vast by human standards, was confining for creatures born to rule the skies. Jon had magically expanded sections of it, pushing back tons of earth and rock with carefully controlled transfigurations and structural charms – dangerous work that left him drained but was utterly necessary. In these expanded grottos, the young dragons practiced short, wing-assisted leaps, their powerful hind legs propelling them across the cavern floor, their wings, now with a span of several feet, beating awkwardly but with growing strength.
Jon spent hours with them, reinforcing the bond forged in blood and magic. He spoke to them in the Old Tongue, in Valyrian, and sometimes in the sibilant Parseltongue that Voldemort had known, a language the dragons seemed to respond to with unnerving attentiveness. He was not their master in the Valyrian sense of breaking and dominating. He was their alpha, their progenitor, the fixed point of their nascent loyalty. He could soothe their irritations with a projected calm, direct their attention with a focused thought, and they, in turn, mirrored his moods – a dangerous prospect if his Voldemort aspect ever truly slipped its leash.
The need for a new, larger, and utterly remote lair was now paramount. His Greendreams occasionally showed him flashes of high, snow-capped peaks in the farthest northern mountain ranges of the North, places where even the hardiest wildlings rarely trod. He began dispatching his most trusted agents, men like Finn – now a man of quiet wealth and even greater loyalty – not just on foot, but using his own Warging abilities through eagles and mountain hawks to scout these desolate regions. He sought a caldera, a vast cave system, something naturally defensible and isolated, a place where dragons could eventually fly free, at least within a heavily warded perimeter.
While the dragons presented a magnificent, terrifying secret, Beron was the focus of his dynastic ambition. The boy, now approaching his seventh year, was progressing remarkably under Jon's clandestine tutelage. The tower room sessions continued, Beron mastering simple levitation charms, Lumos and Nox, and even a rudimentary Shield Charm, all framed as "Stark family secrets" and "focusing exercises." His control was still that of a child, prone to emotional outbursts that could make objects rattle or lights flicker unexpectedly, but the raw power was undeniable.
One afternoon, Lyra had been supervising Beron and a now toddling Arya (a fierce, determined child of two) in the Godswood. Arya, frustrated at not being able to reach a bright red leaf just out of her grasp on a low-hanging weirwood branch, let out a wail of indignation. As she did, the leaf detached itself and floated directly into her outstretched hand. Lyra, astounded, had attributed it to a sudden gust of wind, but Beron, who had been watching, exchanged a quick, knowing glance with his father when Jon arrived moments later. Jon had merely smiled faintly, but inwardly, his satisfaction grew. Arya, too. The magic was breeding strong. He would need to be even more careful, guiding two magically gifted children.
Jon started subtly including Beron in discussions of Northern governance, far beyond his years, cloaking it as teaching him his duties as heir. He wanted Beron to understand the land he would one day protect, to develop not just magical power, but a king's mind – a Stark king's mind, tempered with the unique knowledge Jon possessed. "Power without purpose is a wildfire, Beron," he told the boy one evening, while ostensibly reviewing grain reports. "Magic, our magic, is a tool, a shield for the North and our House. It must be wielded with wisdom, with foresight, and above all, in secret, until the world is ready for it, or forced to accept it."
The vial of shimmering silver Elixir remained in Jon's vault, a constant temptation and a source of profound ethical consideration, a process Flamel would have appreciated and Voldemort would have scorned as weakness. He dismissed animal trials; their life-spans were too short, their physiologies too different to provide meaningful data on longevity. He needed a human subject, one whose potential extended life would be beneficial, observable, and whose discretion was assured.
Maester Arryk was the logical, if ruthless, choice. The old maester was failing. His hands trembled as he wrote, his memory, once a repository of Northern lore, was becoming unreliable. He was loyal, a creature of habit, unlikely to question a "restorative tonic" from his King, especially one presented with such gravitas.
Jon prepared a carefully diluted dose, mixed with spiced wine to mask any unusual taste or alchemical scent. He summoned Arryk to his solar, citing a need to review ancient treaties. The Maester arrived, frail and wheezing slightly.
"You look tired, Maester," Jon said, his voice tinged with a carefully feigned concern. "The governance of the North relies heavily on your wisdom. I have had my apothecaries prepare a restorative. A family recipe, improved with some… new learning. It has benefited me greatly. I would have you try it."
Arryk, flattered by the King's personal attention, and genuinely weary, accepted the goblet with a grateful nod. "Your Grace is too kind. The years weigh heavily." He drank it down, noting only that the King's wine was particularly well-spiced tonight.
Jon watched him, his expression unreadable. He felt no guilt, only a clinical interest. Over the following weeks, the changes in Maester Arryk were subtle, yet undeniable. The tremor in his hands lessened. His memory sharpened. His wheezing cough faded. A new vigor seemed to infuse his aging frame. He attributed it to the King's "remarkable cordial" and the lessening of his duties as Jon took on more direct oversight. Jon noted that Arryk's hair did not regain its color, nor did his wrinkles vanish entirely; the Elixir was not a true youth restorative in this diluted form, but a powerful life-extender and vitality booster. It was working. The knowledge was a cold comfort.
The question of Lyra remained. He loved her, in his own way. The Voldemort part of him saw her as the mother of his heirs, a necessary component. The Flamel part, which had known centuries of companionship with Perenelle, understood the potential loneliness of an unnaturally long life lived without one's chosen partner. And Jon Stark, the King, valued her quiet strength and loyalty.
He found her one evening in their chambers, humming softly as she mended one of Arya's small dresses. The domesticity of the scene was a world away from the fire-breathing secrets in his cellar or the arcane calculations in his mind.
"Lyra," he began, his voice softer than usual. "Have you ever wondered about the old tales? Of men and women who lived far beyond normal years? Those touched by the magic of the Old Gods?"
She looked up, a slight frown on her face. "They are just tales, Jon. Comfort for those who fear the Stranger."
"Perhaps," he said, sitting beside her. "But what if they were not? What if there was a way to… extend one's time? To see our children's children grow, and their children after them?"
Lyra put down her sewing, her gaze searching his. "Why do you speak of such things? You are strong, in the prime of your life." A flicker of unease crossed her face. "Are you unwell?"
"Never better," he assured her. "It is merely… a philosophical musing. This world is harsh. Life is fleeting. Sometimes, I wish for more time. For us. For the North."
She reached out, taking his hand. Her touch was warm, grounding. "We have the time the Gods grant us, my love. Let us make it count. To wish for more is to invite sorrow, for all things end."
Her simple wisdom, her acceptance of the natural order, gave him pause. To offer her the Elixir would be to shatter her world, to introduce a fear and a burden she did not seek. Voldemort would have forced it, or administered it secretly. Flamel would have had an open, honest discussion, trusting in his partner. Jon Stark, this new amalgamation, hesitated. He saw the strength in her acceptance, a different kind of power than his own. He decided to wait. The Elixir would keep. Perhaps one day, when the world was even more dangerous, when the need was undeniable, he would offer it. But not yet. He would not steal her peace.
His network of spies, meanwhile, continued its silent work. Finn, having proven his exceptional worth, was now Jon's chief intelligencer for Essos. Jon tasked him with a new, long-term mission: to not only listen for whispers of other lost or accessible dragon eggs – perhaps from lesser Valyrian houses, remote colonies, or even legends of wild dragons in Sothoryos or the Shadow Lands – but also to acquire any and all texts related to Valyrian magic, dragonlore, and blood magic. He provided Finn with substantial gold, transfigured in the deepest secrecy, and letters of introduction to shadowy contacts in the Free Cities, scholars, book collectors, and even certain disreputable dealers in forbidden knowledge.
"Valyria will not last forever," Jon had told Finn in a coded message. "When it falls, its knowledge will scatter like ash. We must gather the embers before they cool." He had seen the Doom in his Greendreams. He knew the cataclysm was inevitable. The destruction would be immense, the loss of life horrific, but for him, it was also an opportunity – not just for the souls to power his greater Philosopher's Stone, but for the reclamation of magical lore that the arrogant Valyrians hoarded.
Closer to home, a minor crisis arose that tested Jon's growing influence and resources. A blight struck the rye crops in the western lands of the North, threatening a localised famine. Several minor lords, already restless from Jon's increased centralization of power and his somewhat aloof demeanor, began to grumble more loudly, some even hinting that the Old Gods were displeased with their King's "new ways."
Jon, forewarned by his own agricultural knowledge from Flamel's memories and a few subtle Greendream hints, had already prepared. He had established diversified crop trials in hidden Stark landholdings, including hardier strains of barley and oats, and even experimental plots of potatoes – a root vegetable unknown in Westeros, the tubers for which he'd had Finn acquire from a trader newly returned from a voyage to the uncharted Sunset Sea, based on fragmented legends Flamel recalled.
He released grain from his expanded Winterfell stores, quelling the immediate hunger. Then, he summoned the grumbling lords. In a display of kingly foresight that seemed almost preternatural to them, he presented his solutions: new seed stocks of blight-resistant grains, advanced crop rotation schedules, and even detailed plans for better irrigation in certain fertile valleys. He did not mention magic, only "ancient Stark farming wisdom, rediscovered." The lords, faced with practical solutions to a dire problem, and a King who seemed to possess an uncanny knack for provision, were silenced, their respect for Jon Stark grudgingly, but significantly, increased. The potatoes, introduced slowly and cautiously, proved a revelation, a hardy, nutritious crop that would, in generations to come, be a bulwark against Northern famine.
One evening, as a particularly harsh winter began to tighten its grip on the North, Jon received an urgent report from his watchers on the northernmost coast. A Valyrian exploration vessel, far off course and damaged by storms, had been sighted limping towards the Frozen Shore, deep into waters no Valyrian had dared chart in centuries. It was a trireme, smaller than a war galley, but still a symbol of the Freehold's reach.
A cold thrill went through Jon. An opportunity? Or a threat? If they landed, what might they discover? What if they had a dragon on board, even a small one? The risk of his own secrets being exposed, however remote, was unacceptable.
He acted swiftly. He didn't call his banners. Instead, he gathered a small, elite force of his household guard, men who had been with him on the Stony Shore. He also decided this was a chance for a… field test. He rode north, not as a king with an army, but as a silent hunter. With him, he brought not just weapons, but a small, heavily warded crate.
Under the cover of a magically summoned snowstorm that reduced visibility to near zero, Jon and his men approached the area where the Valyrian ship was reportedly seeking shelter in a small, ice-choked bay. Using his Warging ability through a snow owl, he confirmed the ship was there, its mast broken, its crew struggling to prevent it from being crushed by pack ice. There were no signs of a dragon.
This was not about plunder. It was about containment and sending a message.
He wouldn't engage them directly if he could avoid it. Instead, as his men created diversions – strange howls on the wind, distant, flickering lights that seemed like rescue but led only to treacherous ice floes – Jon, cloaked and unseen, approached the beleaguered ship under the shield of his own powerful disillusionment charms. From the warded crate, he released his weapon: a swarm of magically bred Northern snow-hornets, their sting not fatal, but inducing a paralyzing numbness and terrifying hallucinations. Flamel had notes on similar magically altered insects.
The Valyrians, already cold, exhausted, and terrified by the unnatural storm and strange occurrences, were quickly overwhelmed by the unseen, stinging pests. Panic ensued. Some fell into the icy water. Others simply collapsed on deck, paralyzed and screaming at unseen horrors.
By dawn, the storm had passed. The Valyrian ship was trapped hard in the ice, its crew dead or dying from exposure and their own terror. Jon and his men, leaving no trace of their presence, retreated south. No survivors would tell tales of strange Northern magic, only of a cursed voyage and a cruel, icy grave. The message to any other Valyrians who might one day read the ship's log, if it was ever found, would be clear: the deep North was a place of death, best avoided.
Jon felt no remorse. It was necessary. Voldemort's ruthlessness served him well when caution was not enough.
Back in Winterfell, he returned to his dragons. They were growing larger still. Soon, the caverns beneath Winterfell, even magically expanded, would not hold them. His scouts had finally located a promising site: a vast, dormant volcanic caldera hidden deep within the Frostfangs, a place of jagged peaks and eternal snows, accessible only by a treacherous, hidden pass or from the air. It would take years to prepare it, to ward it, to make it a true dragon sanctuary.
But Jon Stark had time. He had the nascent Elixir, he had his growing magic, and he had his heirs. He looked at his son Beron, now confidently levitating small stones in the tower room, and at little Arya, whose tantrums sometimes coincided with objects inexplicably falling from shelves in the next room. The future of House Stark, a future of magic and dragons, was taking shape in the shadows. The Doom of Valyria was still a distant storm cloud, but Jon was forging the North into a weapon, a shield, ready for that day and for the long, dark night he knew would eventually follow. The world was sleepwalking towards an abyss. He, however, was awake, watching, and preparing.