Chapter 5: A Pact of Winter, A Lair of Shadow
The first year of the dragons' lives passed in a whirlwind of clandestine activity, escalating challenges, and carefully managed secrecy. Skane, Morghul, and Issylra were no longer the size of large hounds; they were rapidly approaching the bulk of Northern wolves, their scaled bodies lean and powerful, their appetites becoming truly formidable. The hidden chambers beneath Winterfell, once a spacious sanctuary, were beginning to feel cramped. Their screeches, though Torrhen could often soothe them with a thought through their blood-bond, were deepening into resonant calls that vibrated through the ancient stone, threatening to betray their existence.
Feeding them had become a logistical nightmare. The small game Torrhen initially provided was woefully insufficient. He resorted to organizing large, seemingly legitimate hunts far into the Wolfswood, attributing the unusually large kills (often entire deer or elk) to the skill of his handpicked hunters – men whose loyalty was absolute, their minds subtly fortified by his arts. The choicest portions, magically preserved and discreetly transported, went to the growing dragons. Even so, it was a constant drain on local wildlife, a fact that Torrhen knew would eventually draw unwanted attention if not managed. He began alchemically supplementing their food, creating nutrient-dense compounds that Flamel's notes suggested for rapid growth in magical creatures, but this too was resource-intensive.
Their attempts at flight were another concern. Skane, ever the boldest, would launch himself from the highest ledge in their subterranean lair, wings beating furiously, only to glide clumsily for a few moments before thudding back to the stone floor. Issylra was more cautious, observing, her sapphire eyes calculating, while Morghul practiced short, powerful bursts of wing beats, his movements economical and precise. They needed space, open sky, something Winterfell's depths could not provide.
The threat of discovery was a constant, gnawing pressure. Once, a young kitchen boy, sent to the old cellars for forgotten stores of wine, swore he heard "the growls of a thousand angry bears" emanating from the very walls. Torrhen, alerted by the subtle wards around his sanctum, had swiftly intercepted the boy, using a mild confusion charm and a stern warning about the dangers of an overactive imagination and the castle's rats. Another time, Maester Walys, his curiosity piqued by faint, unusual heat signatures he'd noted during a particularly cold snap (a result of Torrhen's geothermal enchantments for the dragons' lair), had begun to ask pointed questions. Torrhen had deflected these with carefully constructed half-truths about ancient, forgotten hot springs beneath Winterfell, a geological quirk he was "investigating." Each near-miss was a chilling reminder of the razor's edge upon which he walked.
Elaena Vaelaros had, surprisingly, become less of a captive and more of an indispensable, if still wary, accomplice. Her initial terror had slowly given way to a grudging fascination, not just with the dragons, but with Torrhen himself. She saw the immense burden he carried, the meticulous planning, the sheer force of will required to maintain his secrets and pursue his ambitions. Her Valyrian pride still chafed at her subservient role, but the dragons were a powerful anchor. She was the only other person in the world who knew of their existence, and her knowledge of dragon husbandry, however incomplete, was crucial. She taught them Valyrian commands, which they responded to with surprising alacrity, their minds seemingly attuned to the ancient language of their kind. She helped Torrhen design reinforced leather muzzles and claw-sheaths for when they grew larger, to prevent accidental damage or injury.
"They will need a true lair soon, Lord Stark," she stated one evening, watching Morghul meticulously shred a side of venison with his rapidly growing claws. "A place of fire and sky, not stone and shadow."
Torrhen knew she was right. His greensight had already shown him glimpses of remote mountain valleys, hidden caves warmed by volcanic vents, places where dragons could soar unseen. He had begun to use his warged wolves and eagles to scout the vast, sparsely populated mountain ranges that formed the North's western and northern spines. The Frostfangs, the northern arm of the Wolfswood reaching towards the Bay of Ice – these were possibilities.
Amidst this draconic drama, the mundane, yet equally critical, issue of his marriage loomed ever larger. King Theon, his health beginning to show the first signs of decline from a life lived hard, was relentless.
"A King needs a Queen, Torrhen. A Stark needs heirs," his father had boomed during a council meeting, his voice weaker than it once was but still carrying the weight of command. "I have indulged your scholarly pursuits, your long hunts. It is time you did your duty to your House and to the North. Lady Lyra Ryswell is a fine match. Strong, from an old Northern house, and her dowry will strengthen our western flank."
Torrhen, who had just spent the previous night coaxing a nervous Issylra through her first sustained, albeit smoky, gout of flame, felt a weariness that went beyond his twenty-seven years. A wife. Another person within the walls of Winterfell, another potential threat to his secrets, another mind to shield. Yet, it was unavoidable. His lineage needed to continue, outwardly at least. And a strategically chosen wife could bring alliances, resources, and perhaps, if he were exceedingly careful, even a measure of companionship that did not compromise his true work.
He had considered the eligible Northern ladies with the cold calculation of a general assessing troop deployments. The Ryswell girl was indeed a strong candidate, her family influential. But his greensight, when he focused on her, showed a woman of sharp, inquisitive intellect, perhaps too keen for his comfort. He needed someone grounded, sensible, loyal to the Stark name above all, and preferably with strong First Men blood, someone whose own latent connection to the old magic might make her more accepting, or at least less suspicious, of the strange undercurrents that now flowed through Winterfell.
His gaze eventually fell upon a less obvious choice: Lady Sara Glover of Deepwood Motte. The Glovers were an ancient and steadfastly loyal house, their lands bordering the Wolfswood. Sara was reputed to be quiet, possessed of a gentle strength, and deeply devout to the Old Gods. His visions of her were less defined by ambition or piercing intellect, and more by a quiet resilience, a connection to the earth. She was also, according to Maester Walys's diligent genealogies, descended from a line that had produced more than one rumored skinchanger generations ago. This, more than anything, tipped the scales.
"Father," Torrhen announced one evening, after a particularly grueling session training Morghul not to incinerate his entire meal, "I have considered the matter of my marriage with due diligence. I believe Lady Sara Glover would make a fitting Queen for the North and a mother to future Starks."
King Theon looked surprised, then a slow grin spread across his weathered face. "Glover! Aye, a fine choice, boy. Staunch and true, the Glovers. And their lands march with ours in the Wolfswood. Good. Good! I will send word to Lord Glover immediately."
The betrothal was arranged with surprising speed. Lord Ethan Glover, a bluff, hearty man, was overjoyed at the prospect of his daughter marrying the Stark heir. Sara herself, when Torrhen met her during the formal betrothal feast at Winterfell, was as reputed: quiet, with intelligent, observant grey eyes that held no artifice, only a steady calm. She was comely in a sturdy, Northern way, her dark hair braided simply. She spoke little, but when she did, her words were thoughtful. Torrhen found himself… not displeased. She seemed the sort who would respect boundaries, who would manage Winterfell's household with quiet competence, and who would not pry into matters that did not concern her. He would, of course, maintain impenetrable Occlumency shields around her, but he sensed she might be less of a threat to his secrets than many others.
With the marriage arrangements underway, Torrhen seized the opportunity for a prolonged absence from Winterfell. He announced a grand survey of the Neck and the lands bordering the Bite, ostensibly to assess defenses and solidify alliances with the crannogmen and the minor houses of the eastern coast. In reality, his primary objectives were twofold: to begin the foundational work on the magical wards for Moat Cailin, and to identify and prepare a new, remote lair for his growing dragons.
He assembled a larger party this time, including engineers, surveyors, and a strong contingent of guards, all under the command of Ser Marlon Mollen. Ygon the crannogman was an indispensable guide. Elaena Vaelaros, under the guise of a foreign scholar assisting with ancient texts and cartography, also accompanied them, her Valyrian knowledge proving useful in deciphering some of Flamel's more obscure warding theories which Torrhen had adapted. Her presence also allowed him to maintain some oversight of the dragons even from afar, as he taught her basic mental exercises to calm them, relayed through their shared bond if they grew agitated in his absence (though they were mostly dormant in a magically induced slumber in their hidden Winterfell lair for the duration of his trip).
Their journey first took them deep into the Neck. Here, under Ygon's tutelage, Torrhen learned the secrets of the swamps as no Stark had before. He waded through murky waters, his senses heightened by magic, identifying nexus points of natural energy, places where the ancient magic of the Children of the Forest still lingered. Moat Cailin, that ancient, crumbling fortress, was his primary focus. While his men worked on mundane repairs and clearing overgrown paths, Torrhen, often accompanied only by Ygon or Elaena, labored in secret.
He began by laying deep, foundational wards, not yet activating their full power, but weaving intricate patterns of dormant magic into the very stones of the existing towers and the treacherous earth of the causeway. He used Flamel's principles of resonant magic, tuning the wards to repel specific hostile intentions and to amplify fear and confusion in unwelcome intruders. He incorporated Ygon's knowledge of crannogmen defenses – illusions of shifting paths, phantom lights, and unnerving sounds that would disorient any invading army. He even subtly wove in elements of draconic magic, glyphs and power words learned from Elaena and Flamel's research, that would, one day, resonate with his own dragons, allowing them to amplify the defenses or pass through them unhindered. It was painstaking, exhausting work, requiring immense concentration and channeling of his own magical reserves, often leaving him drained by day's end, a fact he attributed to the rigors of swamp travel.
From the Neck, they journeyed east, then north, towards the desolate, windswept mountains that overlooked the Shivering Sea. This was the second, more covert, phase of his mission. While his main party mapped the coastline and parleyed with reclusive mountain clans, Torrhen, with only his most trusted inner circle (Mollen, Ygon, and a reluctant Elaena), ventured deep into the uncharted peaks.
His warged eagles had identified a promising location: a vast network of volcanic caves high on the flank of an ancient, dormant volcano, its peak perpetually wreathed in mist. The area was remote, treacherous, and shunned by the local clans who whispered of fell spirits and ancient beasts. Perfect.
Reaching it was an ordeal. They navigated sheer cliffs, crossed glaciers riddled with hidden crevasses, and battled bone-chilling winds. Torrhen's magic was essential, creating paths where none existed, shielding them from the worst of the elements, and guiding them through the disorienting mists.
The cave system was immense. A vast central chamber, large enough for adult dragons to fly within, opened into a labyrinth of smaller caverns and tunnels, some still warm from geothermal vents. A subterranean river flowed through the lower levels, providing a source of fresh water. It was naturally defensible, with only a few easily guarded entrances.
"This will serve," Torrhen declared, his voice echoing in the vastness. The air was thick with the smell of sulphur and ancient stone. Skane, Morghul, and Issylra would have room to grow, to fly, to truly become dragons.
Over several weeks, while his main party remained encamped further down the mountains, Torrhen and his small team worked to transform the caves into a habitable, secure lair. He used transfiguration to smooth floors, widen passages, and create nesting areas. He reinforced the entrances with magical wards, similar to those at Moat Cailin but attuned to repel animal and human intruders rather than armies. He established geothermal vents to ensure a constant, draconic warmth. Elaena, using her knowledge, helped design perches and identified mineral deposits within the caves that would be beneficial for the dragons' health – iron for their blood, sulphur for their fire.
The most crucial element was secrecy and access. Torrhen, drawing upon Flamel's most sophisticated concealment charms and illusionary magic, created a hidden entrance, a section of sheer cliff face that would appear solid and unremarkable to any observer, but would yield to his magical signature or a specific Valyrian power word. Within this, he began to scribe the runes for a permanent teleportation circle, a complex piece of Flamel's magic that would link this remote mountain lair directly to a sister circle within his hidden sanctum beneath Winterfell. It was an enormous undertaking, requiring immense precision and a vast expenditure of magical energy.
By the time they were ready to leave the mountains, the new lair – which Torrhen mentally dubbed 'Skyfang Hold' – was prepared. The teleportation circle was almost complete, needing only the final ritual of activation upon his return to Winterfell.
His impending marriage added another layer of complexity. Sara Glover would soon be mistress of Winterfell. While he trusted his Occlumency, the constant proximity of another person, especially one with whom he would be expected to share a bed and produce heirs, was a significant risk. He resolved that his personal chambers would become even more heavily warded, his hidden sanctum utterly impenetrable. His children… he hoped they would inherit the Stark resilience, perhaps even a touch of the Old Magic. The thought of them one day bonding with the descendants of Skane, Morghul, and Issylra was a distant, yet powerful, motivator.
As they journeyed back towards Winterfell, news reached them from the south. Traders spoke of increasing unrest in the Riverlands, petty kings squabbling, and whispers of Valyrian dragonlords growing bolder, their internal feuds sometimes spilling over into Essos. The world was a volatile place, the gears of larger conflicts slowly beginning to grind. Torrhen's foresight, his greensight, had always warned him of this. His preparations felt more urgent than ever.
Upon returning to Winterfell, haggard from his travels and magical exertions but inwardly satisfied, Torrhen found the castle abuzz with preparations for his wedding. King Theon, though visibly frailer, seemed to have gained a new lease on life from the impending celebration.
Torrhen's first act, after presenting a suitably edited report of his expedition to his father and the council, was to retreat to his sanctum. He needed to complete the teleportation circle and prepare for the arduous task of moving three young, boisterous dragons from beneath Winterfell to their new mountain home.
He found Elaena already there, tending to the dragons, who had grown noticeably even in his absence. They greeted him with joyous screeches and a flurry of wings, nearly knocking him over in their eagerness. Issylra nuzzled his hand, her sapphire eyes bright with intelligence. Morghul regarded him with his usual solemn intensity, while Skane impatiently nudged a haunch of meat towards him, demanding attention.
"They have missed you," Elaena said, a rare, faint smile touching her lips. "Skane has nearly set the chamber ablaze twice. Issylra has learned to mimic the howling of the wind. And Morghul… Morghul watches everything."
Torrhen felt the familiar surge of affection and fierce pride. These creatures were his life's greatest work, his most potent secret. Soon, they would have the sky. And soon, he would have a wife. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, the Lord of Winter Dragons, faced it with the cold resolve of a winter storm and the ancient wisdom of a sorcerer who had cheated death once already. The North would endure. He would see to it.