Chapter 15: The Dragon Heir, and the Stirring of Western Ambitions
Another two decades bled into the tapestry of time, each year a thread woven by the hidden hand of Jon Stark, the Shadow Lord of the Frostfangs. Sixty years had now passed since Valyria's fiery demise, sixty years of a world struggling to find its footing amidst the ashes and the unending conflicts of the Century of Blood. The skies had largely cleared of volcanic soot, though the climate remained cooler, the seasons less predictable. In the North, under the public stewardship of the seemingly indefatigable King Beron I Stark – now a man nearing his ninety-fifth year but, thanks to the True Elixir, bearing the appearance of a seasoned ruler in his vigorous forties – an unprecedented era of quiet strength and carefully concealed prosperity had taken firm root.
The true focus of Jon and Beron's efforts, however, was the continuation of their secret lineage. Edric Stark, Beron's heir, now a man of forty-five himself but sharing his father's Elixir-blessed ageless appearance, had spent the intervening decades immersed in the deepest secrets of House Stark. His magical training under both his father and his hidden grandfather had been rigorous, his intellect sharp, his loyalty absolute. He had mastered complex enchantments, delved into the arcane theories within the duplicated grimoires, and proven himself worthy of the immense burden he was destined to share.
The day Edric partook of the True Elixir of Life, in a solemn ritual conducted by Jon and Beron deep within Wyvern's Eyrie, marked his formal induction into the hidden council. He became the third immortal Stark, bound to the long vigil, his life now stretching into the unknown future alongside his father and grandfather. The experience was transformative, a settling of immense power and clarity within him, the echoes of mortal limitations fading into a profound understanding of their eternal duty.
His bonding with a dragon was the next crucial step. Of the younger Valyrian dragons, the fierce black male, Erebus, had shown a particular, if challenging, affinity for Edric. Erebus was a creature of shadow and fury, his scales like polished obsidian, his fire a concentrated jet of black flame. It took nearly a year of patient, often perilous, interaction, guided by Jon's unparalleled understanding of dragon mystique and Beron's hard-won experience with Veridian, before Edric could finally approach Erebus without the dragon attempting to incinerate him. The eventual bond, when it formed, was not one of gentle partnership like Beron and Veridian's, but a pact of mutual respect between two formidable, somewhat volatile, spirits. Edric Stark, astride the shadow-black Erebus, became the third dragonrider of the hidden Stark dynasty.
Lyanna Stark, Edric's younger sister, now a woman of forty-three who, like her Aunt Arya, seemed to draw vitality and slowed aging from her profound connection to the North's ancient magic, had carved her own unique niche. She had no desire to ride the great Valyrian war-beasts, nor did she delve into the structured spellcraft her brother excelled at. Her domain was the wild heart of the North. Under Arya's mentorship – Arya herself now a timeless figure, her age close to a century yet appearing as a woman in her vibrant prime – Lyanna had become a powerful Greenspeaker, her consciousness intertwined with the vast weirwood network, her senses extending through the roots of the mountains and the currents of the wind. She could soothe the territorial rages of the snow bears, call eagles from the sky, and even coax the stubborn Northern soil to yield in lean times. Her particular affinity was with Adamas, the colossal bronze dragon. While she never rode him, Adamas would often allow her near, the two seemingly content in silent companionship, the woman of earth and the wyrm of metal finding a strange resonance. Lyanna became an early warning system for unnatural blights, for disturbances in the ancient magical flows of the land, and her quiet counsel was often sought by Beron, and even by Jon through their hidden channels.
The Valyrian steel project at Wyvern's Eyrie had, after decades of relentless effort, achieved mastery. The three original Valyrian smiths had long since passed away, but not before imparting their fragmented knowledge to a new generation of Northern smiths, handpicked for their skill, loyalty, and discretion, who were now an integral, if isolated, part of the Eyrie's hidden community. With the Stone's power to purify metals and control the intense dragonfire of Adamas and the younger Erebus, Jon and his secret artisans could now reliably forge Valyrian steel – or rather, Starksteel, as Jon inwardly termed it, for it was their own unique blend of Valyrian technique, Flamel's alchemy, and Northern magic. Longswords, daggers, arrowheads, and even light, incredibly resilient breastplates began to accumulate in the hidden arsenals beneath Winterfell and Wyvern's Eyrie, destined for the Stark dragonriders and their future elite guards. The North was not just re-discovering a lost art; it was perfecting it, making it their own.
This secret strength was becoming increasingly vital, for the world beyond the Neck was stirring with new, reptilian ambitions. The Century of Blood, while still raging across much of Essos, had seen the gradual consolidation of power by the last scions of Valyria: the Targaryens of Dragonstone. Aegon Targaryen, now a charismatic and ruthless young man, along with his two sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, had emerged as the undisputed leaders of their house. Their three great dragons – the black Balerion (no relation to Jon's own deceased beast of the same name, but a new terror hatched on Dragonstone), the bronze Vhagar, and the silver Meraxes – were the most formidable aerial weapons west of the Bone Mountains.
Finn's network, now led by Finn's equally capable grandson, Finnan, sent regular, alarming reports. The Targaryens had ceased their minor skirmishes in the Stepstones and were looking west, towards the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, a land fractured by the squabbling of Andal kings. Whispers of Aegon's ambition to unite all of Westeros under his rule, to forge a single Targaryen empire, grew louder. He was reportedly crafting a great table map of Westeros in Dragonstone, planning his conquest.
"He intends to land within the next five years, Father," Beron's image stated grimly in the obsidian mirror, his youthful face belying the seventy years of kingship he now carried. "His scouts have been sighted off the Blackwater Rush. He means to make his seat there, where the river meets the bay."
Jon, in his Frostfangs sanctum, listened impassively, though his mind raced with calculations. Aegon's Conquest. It was a pivotal moment in Westerosi history, one he had long anticipated. "His dragons are a formidable force, Beron, but they are few. Three mature beasts, perhaps a handful of younger ones. Against a united Westeros, it would be a struggle, even for them."
"But Westeros is not united, Father," Beron countered. "The Storm King is arrogant, the Lannisters rich but untested in true war against such a foe, the Gardeners complacent. Harren the Black in the Riverlands is a tyrant hated by his own people. Only the Arryns in the Vale, perhaps, possess a truly defensible position."
"And the North?" Jon asked, though he knew the answer.
"The North stands apart. We have our winters, our mountains, Moat Cailin. And… we have secrets they cannot imagine." Beron's eyes held a grim light. "If Aegon Targaryen turns his gaze north, what is our counsel?"
This was the question Jon had pondered for decades. Overtly challenging Aegon with their own dragons was unthinkable; it would expose their greatest secret, invite unwanted scrutiny from the entire world, and potentially draw them into the very conflicts they sought to avoid. Yet, allowing a Targaryen High King to claim dominion over the North, even nominally, was a bitter pill.
"For now, we watch," Jon decreed. "We strengthen our overt defenses. Moat Cailin must be seen as utterly impregnable to any southern army, with or without dragons. Our Northern lords must be united behind you, their loyalty absolute. We ensure our food stores are overflowing, our people secure. If Aegon demands fealty, you will consider it, as Torrhen Stark once did. But our true strength, our dragons, our magic, our steel – these remain hidden, our ultimate deterrent, our final argument."
He knew the Targaryens, with their Valyrian heritage, might possess some innate magical senses. They could not be allowed to suspect the true depth of power residing in the North. Any interaction would have to be managed with extreme care.
The North's quiet, almost eerie prosperity, however, was beginning to draw subtle, unwelcome attention. Traders from the south spoke in hushed tones of Winterfell's well-maintained roads, its unusually full granaries despite the cooler climate, the almost preternatural discipline of its soldiers, and the strange longevity and vigor of its Stark kings. No overt accusations were made, but a sense of Northern exceptionalism, of something 'other' about the Stark kingdom, was beginning to percolate through the courts of the southern kings.
A minor incident tested their secrecy. A Reach merchant ship, blown far off course by a freak storm (a storm Jon suspected Noctua might have subtly influenced from afar, sensing a probing curiosity in the ship's captain), stumbled upon a remote, heavily camouflaged Stark fishing outpost on the western coast, an outpost that served as a clandestine supply point for Wyvern's Eyrie. The crew saw more than they should have – strange, dark birds of immense size circling high in the mountain mists (dragons on a high-altitude training flight), and a quality of steel in the local guards' blades that seemed… unnatural.
The ship was allowed to depart, but Jon and Beron acted swiftly. Finnan's agents intercepted the merchant in White Harbor, his cargo bought at an exorbitant price, his memory of the specific details of the outpost subtly altered by a powerful Confundus Charm delivered by a disguised Stark agent. The incident was contained, but it was a reminder of the constant vigilance required.
Jon, in his deep sanctums, redoubled his research into the true nature of the Others. The Children's tablets, combined with his own Greensight and Flamel's understanding of dimensional magic, hinted that the Others were not mere monsters, but beings of immense, cold intelligence, from a realm beyond the known world, their coming heralded by shifts in the deepest magical currents. The Wall, he knew, was more than just ice and stone; it was a colossal magical ward, perhaps the greatest feat of defensive magic ever wrought in Westeros. But it was ancient, its power possibly waning. He began to experiment with the Grand Stone, trying to channel its energies to subtly reinforce the Wall's foundational enchantments from hundreds of leagues away, a task of immense complexity and delicacy. He also sought to understand if dragonfire, particularly the unique flames of his diverse flock, could harm these icy entities.
The hidden council, now comprising Jon, Beron, and Edric (who, now in his late forties but appearing as a man in his prime, was proving to be a skilled rider of the fierce Erebus and a capable sorcerer), established more formal protocols. They met regularly via the obsidian mirrors, their discussions ranging from the mundane governance of the North to the deepest secrets of their magical heritage and the long-term strategies for confronting the Long Night. They reviewed the progress of Lyanna's training, the development of the younger dragons, the output of the Starksteel forges, and the intelligence gathered on the Targaryens.
The weight of their shared immortality, their secret rule, was a constant presence. They were shaping the destiny of a kingdom, perhaps the world, from the shadows, their actions unseen, their sacrifices unacknowledged. Jon often looked at his son and grandson, their faces unlined by the true passage of decades, and felt a profound sense of continuity, but also an echo of the loneliness that had become his constant companion since Lyra's passing. They were a family bound by blood, magic, and an unimaginable secret, set apart from the stream of mortal life.
As Aegon Targaryen's ships finally set sail from Dragonstone, his black dragon leading the charge towards the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, Jon Stark watched from his remote Northern vantage point. The Conquest of Westeros had begun. The next chapter in the world's bloody history was about to be written in fire and blood. The North, however, stood ready, its own dragons hidden in their icy eyrie, its own magic a silent, growing shield. The game of thrones in the south would be a spectacle of sound and fury. The true game, the long game for survival against the eternal winter, continued in the patient, watchful silence of the Starks.