Chapter 6: Wyverns Ascendant and the Heir's Awakening
Several years slid by, marked by the relentless turning of Northern seasons and the steady, almost imperceptible creep of Jon Stark's grand designs. The Doom of Valyria, a fiery punctuation mark in his Greendreams, was now approximately two decades away. In the hidden caldera of the Frostfangs, Veridian, Balerion, and Ghostfyre had grown from adolescent powerhouses into young adult dragons, their sizes rivaling the legendary beasts of Valyrian tales, though thankfully, none yet approached the colossal scale of the Black Dread of old. Their scales were like hardened, jeweled armor, their roars could trigger avalanches on the surrounding peaks, and their flames – Veridian's a searing green, Balerion's a torrent of black-tinged crimson, and Ghostfyre's an ethereal, frost-laced white-gold – could melt granite.
The caldera, now known in Jon's most secret thoughts as 'Wyvern's Eyrie,' had been transformed. Using his own magic and directing his sworn, isolated teams of workers during the brief summer thaws, he had carved out vast interconnected caverns, ensuring comfortable nesting areas, ample space for movement, and even a subterranean, geothermally heated lake where the dragons sometimes bathed, sending up plumes of steam that mingled with the mountain mists. He'd established discreet, heavily warded flight paths within the caldera itself, allowing them to stretch their wings. But the call of the open sky was strong.
Jon, his own vitality undiminished by the lesser Elixir he'd taken years prior – a fact he meticulously concealed with subtle glamours when in public, allowing for the appearance of normal aging expected of a King in his middle years – knew the time had come for their first true flights beyond the caldera's rim. It was a risk of monumental proportions. Even in the desolate Frostfangs, a dragon in flight was an unnatural spectacle.
He chose a series of moonless nights during the deepest part of winter, when violent blizzards, enhanced and directed by his own will, would provide maximum cover. His preparations were exhaustive. For weeks, he'd laid down layered enchantments over a vast, uninhabited stretch of the northernmost mountains – wards of aversion to deter any stray wildling hunters, illusions to make the landscape appear even more treacherous and impassable, and atmospheric disturbances to ground any curious birds that might witness too much.
He traveled to Wyvern's Eyrie alone, as he always did for these extended stays, using a combination of hardy Northern horses for the initial journey and then, for the final ascent, a perilous, magically shielded path he himself had discovered. The dragons greeted him with thunderous roars of recognition, their massive heads nudging him with surprising gentleness, their multifaceted eyes glowing with intelligence and a fierce, primal affection.
"Tonight, my brave ones," he murmured, his hand on Balerion's warm, black-scaled snout, his mind projecting images of soaring through storm-wracked skies, "you will taste the true freedom of the North."
He decided to take them out one at a time for their maiden voyages beyond the rim, starting with Veridian, the most controlled and attuned to his mental commands. As the blizzard raged outside, a maelstrom of Jon's own making, he led Veridian to the caldera's highest egress, a vast, crumbling archway that opened onto a sheer drop. The dragon sensed the open space, its wings, each easily spanning the width of Winterfell's Great Hall, flexing restlessly.
"Fly, Veridian!" Jon commanded, both verbally and mentally, pouring his will and a sense of exhilarating freedom into the bond. "The sky is yours!"
With a roar that momentarily overcame the howl of the storm, Veridian launched itself into the abyss. For a heart-stopping moment, it plunged, then its powerful wings caught the unnatural updrafts Jon was subtly manipulating. With a surge of astonishing power, it climbed, a vast green shadow against the swirling snow, disappearing into the tempest. Jon, his senses linked with the dragon, experienced the sheer exhilaration of flight, the bite of the icy wind, the panoramic view of the storm-lashed, moonless mountains. He guided Veridian on a wide, circular path, miles out from the caldera, then back, ensuring it remained within the shielded zone. The landing back in the caldera was clumsy, a controlled crash that sent snow and rock cascading, but the dragon was ecstatic, its silver eyes blazing.
Balerion's first flight was more terrifying and chaotic, the crimson-black beast exulting in its power, unleashing torrents of flame into the uncaring storm, requiring all of Jon's mental fortitude to keep it from straying too far. Ghostfyre, in contrast, slipped into the blizzard like a phantom, its pale form almost invisible against the snow, its flight eerily silent, a cold wind in its wake.
By the end of that week, all three dragons had tasted true flight. Jon established strict protocols: they would fly only under cover of severe, magically augmented weather, only at night, and always within the vast, warded perimeter he had established, which stretched for nearly a hundred leagues over the most desolate parts of the Frostfangs. It was a precarious secrecy, but necessary. The North now had airborne apex predators, a hidden deterrent of unimaginable power.
His heir, Beron, was now twelve, a tall, quiet youth with his father's grey eyes and a thoughtful demeanor that belied the potent magic stirring within him. His control over basic charms was excellent, and he was beginning to grasp the theoretical underpinnings of more complex transfigurations and enchantments from the texts Jon (claiming they were rare translations of ancient First Men lore) provided. Jon knew it was time to bring him into the deeper secret. The future Lord of Winterfell, the future leader of the hidden dragon council, needed to know the true extent of his inheritance.
He chose a crisp autumn day, taking Beron on an extended "hunting trip" deep into the Wolfswood, then further north than any Stark heir had ventured in generations. Their guards were left miles behind at a fortified hunting lodge. Alone with his son, amidst the ancient silence of the deep wilderness, Jon began to speak, not of lords and lands, but of the old magic, of the legacy Flamel had unknowingly bequeathed, and of the creatures that now slept in the hidden mountains.
Beron listened, his initial disbelief giving way to wide-eyed awe as Jon revealed the truth of their bloodline, the true nature of the "Stark secrets" he had been learning. When Jon spoke of dragons, Beron's breath caught in his throat.
"Dragons, Father?" he whispered, his eyes shining. "Like in the old tales? Here? In the North?"
"More real than any tale, Beron," Jon said, his voice low. "And they are ours. Our House's strength, our shield against the storms to come."
The final leg of their journey was arduous, culminating in the ascent to Wyvern's Eyrie. When Jon led his son through the concealed entrance into the vast, steaming caldera, Beron froze. Before them, Veridian, Balerion, and Ghostfyre lay curled like colossal, scaled mountains, their breathing like the slow bellows of a giant forge.
Balerion, ever the most alert, lifted its massive black head, crimson eyes focusing on the newcomers. It let out a low rumble, a questioning sound. Jon stepped forward, placing a hand on Beron's shoulder. "Easy, Balerion. This is my son. Beron Stark. He is of our blood." He projected calm, acceptance, and a sense of familial connection towards the dragon.
Slowly, cautiously, Jon encouraged Beron to approach Veridian, the most even-tempered of the three. The boy was terrified but also utterly mesmerized. As he drew closer, Veridian extended its great green head, sniffing at him, its silver eyes curious. Beron, following his father's gentle mental guidance, reached out a trembling hand and touched the dragon's snout.
A spark, almost invisible, seemed to pass between them. Veridian let out a soft, crooning rumble, a sound Jon had rarely heard. Beron gasped, his eyes wide with wonder. "I… I can feel it, Father. Its… thoughts? Its warmth?"
"They know you, Beron," Jon said, a profound satisfaction settling within him. "They sense the magic in your blood, the same magic that binds them to me, and will one day bind one of them to you."
Beron spent hours in the caldera that day, his fear replaced by an almost reverent fascination. He wouldn't ride them yet – he was too young, they were too powerful. But the first bond, the first understanding between the heir of House Stark and the wyrms of winter, had been forged. This was the true beginning of the hidden council.
Arya, now a fiercely independent girl of seven, presented a different challenge. Her accidental magic was becoming more potent and alarmingly public. During a feast for a visiting minor lord, a goblet of wine had flown from the lord's hand and drenched him when he'd made a slighting comment about Northern "savagery." On another occasion, a pack of hounds that had cornered her favorite cat in the kennels had suddenly found themselves unable to move their paws, frozen in place until her anger subsided. Lyra was increasingly worried, attributing it to a "fey" temperament.
Jon knew he couldn't use the same structured, intellectual approach with Arya as he did with Beron. Her magic was wilder, more instinctual, more attuned to emotions and the natural world, much like the Warging ability he himself possessed. He began spending more time with her in the Godswood, not teaching spells, but teaching her to feel the pulse of the earth, the whispers of the wind through the weirwood leaves, the consciousness of the animals. He taught her to ground her emotions, to find a calm center, subtly guiding her to control her outbursts by understanding their triggers and channeling the energy differently. He suspected her path would be less that of a classical wizard and more akin to a skinchanger or a nature warden, a different but equally vital pillar of their House's future strength.
The question of Lyra and the Elixir resurfaced with growing urgency. Years had passed since Jon had partaken. While he maintained the illusion of aging through glamours when in court or with his family, in the privacy of their chambers, the subtle differences were becoming harder to ignore. He still possessed the vigor of a man in his prime, while Lyra was gracefully entering her middle years, fine lines appearing around her eyes, her dark hair now streaked with distinguished silver. She was still beautiful, her quiet strength a constant comfort to him, but he saw the faint, unspoken questions in her eyes when she looked at him, the slight puzzlement when his stamina never waned, his reflexes remained unnaturally sharp.
One evening, as they sat by the fire in their solar, Lyra finally voiced her thoughts, albeit hesitantly. "Jon," she said softly, her gaze on his face, "you do not… seem to age as other men do. Even your father, at your years, showed the marks of time more clearly."
Jon met her gaze, his carefully constructed composure unwavering. The moment he had both anticipated and dreaded was here. "The North keeps a man hardy, Lyra," he said, his voice even. "And Maester Arryk's tonics are surprisingly effective."
She shook her head slightly. "It is more than that. I have seen it for years. There is a… stillness about your aging. As if time touches you more lightly." She paused, her eyes searching his. "Is there something you are not telling me, my love? A secret you bear for the sake of the crown, or for us?"
He saw not suspicion in her eyes, but a deep, abiding concern, and perhaps a touch of fear. The Voldemort aspect urged him to deflect, to lie more convincingly. The Flamel aspect counseled honesty, at least a measure of it, for a partnership to endure. Jon Stark, the King, the husband, made his choice.
"There are… old Stark secrets, Lyra," he admitted, his voice dropping. "Knowledge passed down, of ways to preserve vitality, to draw upon the deep strengths of the earth and our bloodline. It is not dark magic, but a deeper understanding of life itself." He paused, choosing his words with infinite care. "It offers… a longer path. A way to watch over our family, over the North, for many more years than most are granted."
He didn't mention the Elixir by name, nor its precise origins or full implications of near-immortality. He offered a carefully edited truth.
Lyra was silent for a long moment, absorbing his words. "A longer path," she repeated softly. "To live while others… fade?" A shadow crossed her face. "Is this a path you walk alone?"
Here was the crux of it. He saw the faint tremor in her hand. "It need not be," he said gently. "The knowledge… it could be shared. With you. If you so desired it."
Her reaction surprised him. She didn't recoil in fear, nor did she grasp at the promise of extended life. Instead, a profound sadness entered her eyes. "To live beyond my time, Jon? To see Beron and Arya grow old, and their children, while I remain? To become a relic, out of step with the world? That is not a gift, my love. That sounds like a lonely vigil." She reached for his hand. "Your path is yours, as King and as the man you are. I would not change you. But my path is to live my seasons as they come, to cherish the time we have, naturally. I will not fear the Stranger when he calls for me. That is the way of our people."
Her refusal, so gentle yet so firm, struck Jon more deeply than he expected. It was a quiet assertion of her own strength, her own wisdom. He felt a strange mix of disappointment, respect, and a renewed sense of his own isolation on this extended journey. He would not press her. Her choice was made. His vigil would indeed be a lonely one in that regard.
Meanwhile, Finn's network in Essos finally bore significant fruit. After years of patient infiltration and exorbitant bribes, his agents in the shadow port of Asshai had acquired a collection of scrolls, supposedly copied from the personal library of a long-dead shadowbinder. They were written in a dialect of High Valyrian so archaic it was nearly indecipherable, but Jon, with Flamel's linguistic knowledge and his own potent intellect, began the painstaking process of translation. They hinted at rituals of shadow-weaving, of communion with ancient, powerful entities, and, most intriguingly, of Valyrian attempts to create or bind elemental spirits to their will – magic far darker and more primal than the refined sorcery of the Dragonlords. This was knowledge to be handled with extreme caution, but potentially invaluable.
More immediately exciting was a message from Finn himself, delivered by a trusted sea captain. The Jade Sea expedition, which Jon had authorized years ago based on the fragmented map, had finally yielded something. After incredible hardship, battling pirates, disease, and treacherous waters near the coasts of Yi Ti, Finn's team had located the wreckage of the ancient Valyrian survey ship. Most of its cargo was lost to time and the deep, but they had recovered a single, lead-lined chest. Inside, nestled amongst rotted silks, were two dragon eggs.
They were different from his Valyrian clutch. One was a deep, sapphire blue, almost black, with flecks like distant stars. The other was a startling, metallic bronze, with a texture like burnished metal. According to Finn's accompanying notes, local YiTish legends spoke of "Star Dragons" from the uttermost east, and "Bronze Wyrms" that nested in volcanic mountains. If these hatched, they would introduce entirely new bloodlines to his growing menagerie. Jon immediately sent instructions for their transport, using the same extreme secrecy and care as with the first clutch. The prospect of five dragons, of diverse lineage, sent a thrill of anticipation through him. His hidden power was growing exponentially.
As the years continued to spool out, Jon Stark worked tirelessly, a hidden master weaver pulling threads that stretched across decades, across continents. He strengthened the North's mundane defenses, improved its agriculture with his advanced knowledge, and fostered a fierce loyalty among his people, who saw only a wise, strong, and sometimes unnervingly prescient King. He filled his grimoires with translated lore, with his own magical discoveries, with detailed plans for the training of future Stark mages and dragon riders. The foundations for the "Great Deception" were subtly laid, remote properties acquired under aliases, trusted non-magical retainer families cultivated for their absolute discretion.
He knew the Doom was drawing closer. His Greendreams were more frequent now, filled with fire, ash, and the screams of a dying empire. But there was no fear in him, only a cold, calculating readiness. He was King Jon Stark, the undying Lord of Winterfell in waiting, the father of dragons, the architect of a secret dynasty. And when Valyria fell, he would be ready to sift through its ashes for power, for knowledge, and for the souls that would forge his ultimate weapon against the true enemy still slumbering in the far, icy North. The game of thrones played by southern fools was a trivial distraction. His game was for the ages.