Chapter 6: A Northern Vow, A Dragon's Ascent
The Great Hall of Winterfell, usually a place of somewhat grim functionality, was festooned with winter roses, pine boughs, and the banners of Stark and Glover. The air, thick with the scent of roasting meat, mulled wine, and the damp wool of countless Northern lords and their retainers, vibrated with a rare, boisterous energy. Torrhen Stark stood before the heart tree in the Godswood, the ancient weirwood's carved face weeping blood-red sap, a silent, solemn witness. Beside him, Sara Glover, soon to be Sara Stark, was a figure of quiet composure, her dark hair interwoven with sprigs of mistletoe, her grey eyes fixed on the ancient tree.
Torrhen felt the weight of centuries, of tradition, of expectation. Kaelen, the assassin, would have scoffed at the sentimentality. Flamel, the alchemist, would have observed it with detached curiosity. Torrhen, the Stark heir, the Lord of hidden dragons, understood its necessity, its binding power in this land of harsh realities and deep-rooted loyalties. His Occlumency shields were perfectly in place, a calm, icy surface masking the maelstrom of calculations and the ever-present thrum of his draconic bonds.
King Theon Stark, propped up by cushions on a specially constructed seat near the heart tree, his face gaunt but his eyes burning with fierce pride, managed to recite the ancient vows in a voice that, though roughened by illness, still carried authority. "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"
Lord Ethan Glover, his broad face beaming, stepped forward. "Sara of House Glover comes to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods and offer her loyalty to House Stark."
Torrhen felt Sara's hand, surprisingly firm, slip into his. Her skin was cool. He turned to face her, his expression carefully neutral, yet not unkind. He saw no fear in her eyes, only a steady resolve that he found… admirable.
"Who gives this woman?" King Theon's voice rasped.
"Ethan of House Glover, her father, her Lord," boomed Lord Glover.
The vows were exchanged, ancient words that bound them together under the sight of gods and men. Torrhen spoke them clearly, his voice resonating with a quiet power that silenced the rustling crowd. When it was done, he leaned down and, as tradition dictated, brushed his lips against Sara's. Her lips were soft, surprisingly warm. For a fleeting second, through the meticulous layers of his Occlumency, he felt a flicker of… something. Not passion, not yet, but a sense of shared stillness, a mutual understanding of the gravity of the moment.
The feast that followed was a raucous affair. Lords pledged fealty anew, ale flowed freely, and minstrels sang lustily of ancient Stark heroes. Torrhen played his part, the gracious host, the dutiful son, the new husband. He exchanged pleasantries, accepted congratulations, and deflected the ribald jests with a cool demeanor. Sara sat beside him, a quiet presence, her eyes observant, missing little of the Northern court's dynamics. She ate sparingly, spoke only when addressed, but her quiet dignity commanded a subtle respect.
The bedding ceremony, a boisterous, often crude Northern tradition, was something Torrhen had prepared for with particular care. He endured the playful manhandling and the increasingly drunken encouragement of his lords with stoic patience. When they were finally alone in the heavily warded Lord's chambers – chambers he had further fortified with Flamel's most potent privacy charms and subtle soporific enchantments woven into the very air for anyone not meant to be there – a different kind of tension settled.
Sara stood by the hearth, the firelight casting dancing shadows on her face. She did not seem nervous, merely watchful.
"The lords are… spirited," she commented, her voice low.
"They are Northern," Torrhen replied, unfastening the heavy ceremonial cloak. "Their spirits are warmed by ale and loyalty." He approached her, his movements deliberate. He had steeled himself for this. Kaelen had known many women, for pleasure, for information, for infiltration. Flamel, in his long life, had loved once, deeply, his Perenelle. Torrhen felt a strange amalgam of those experiences. He needed an heir. He needed this marriage to appear normal.
He took her hand. "Lady Sara… Sara. You are Lady of Winterfell now. This is your home, your castle to command."
She met his gaze, her grey eyes clear. "I will endeavor to be a worthy Lady Stark, my lord."
Their wedding night was… an exercise in control for Torrhen. He was gentle, considerate, performing the act of consummation with a detached efficiency that he hoped she would attribute to a reserved nature rather than profound emotional disconnect. He maintained his Occlumency throughout, a necessary precaution, yet he allowed himself a sliver of awareness, a careful observation of her reactions. She was unresisting, accepting, her breathing a little uneven but her composure largely intact. There was a strength in her he hadn't fully anticipated.
In the days and weeks that followed, Sara Stark settled into her role with quiet competence. She managed the household accounts with a keen eye, oversaw the servants with fairness, and quickly learned the names and allegiances of Winterfell's intricate network of retainers and courtiers. She never pried into Torrhen's long hours spent in his private solar (his public excuse for time spent in the hidden sanctum or communicating with his dragons), nor did she question his occasional, unexplained absences on "hunting trips" or "surveys." She was, in many ways, the perfect wife for a man like him: intelligent enough to be a capable partner in ruling, yet discreet and respectful of his privacy.
Her presence, however, added another layer of complexity to his life. He could no longer slip away to the sanctum with the same ease. Every movement was potentially observed, every prolonged absence noted. His dragons, Skane, Morghul, and Issylra, were growing restless. The hidden chambers, even expanded, felt like a cage to their burgeoning power. The time had come to move them to Skyfang Hold.
The teleportation circle in his Winterfell sanctum needed its final activation, a ritual that Flamel's texts described as both potent and perilous, requiring a precise alignment of magical energies and a significant personal sacrifice of vital force. He chose another moonless night, a week after his wedding, when the castle was quiet, Sara asleep in their chambers (her wine subtly laced with a harmless soporific Flamel himself had perfected for ensuring undisturbed study).
Elaena Vaelaros stood by, her face pale in the ethereal glow of the runic circle Torrhen had meticulously inscribed on the stone floor. It pulsed with a faint, expectant light.
"The risks, Lord Stark?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Flamel's texts spoke of… dislocations. Of minds lost between places."
"The calculations are precise," Torrhen stated, though a cold knot of apprehension tightened in his own stomach. Kaelen's audacity was tempered by Flamel's caution. This was a magical feat of immense scale. "The Stark blood, attuned to the magic of this land, will provide an anchor. And your Valyrian incantations will stabilize the matrix."
He began the ritual, drawing upon the earth magic beneath Winterfell, channeling it into the circle. The runes flared, their light intensifying, the air crackling with raw power. He incanted the complex Valyrian formulae that would bridge space, his voice a low, resonant hum. Elaena joined in, her Valyrian pure and strong, weaving a protective counter-chant. The very stones of the sanctum seemed to vibrate. Torrhen felt his life force draining, siphoned into the hungry maw of the nascent portal. It was a far greater cost than activating simple wards.
With a final, guttural cry that was torn from his depths, the circle blazed with an almost unbearable white light. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light coalesced, forming a shimmering, translucent gateway within the runic circle. On its shimmering surface, an image swirled – the vast, shadowy interior of Skyfang Hold's main cavern, the sister portal already active there, waiting. It had worked.
Now came the even more difficult part: moving the dragons. They were now easily the size of small ponies, their scales hardening, their claws and teeth formidable. Skane, with his fiery temper, was particularly agitated by the sudden surge of magical energy.
"Easy, Skane," Torrhen projected, his mental voice a soothing balm, reinforced by the blood-bond. He approached them, his heart pounding despite his outward calm. "A new home awaits. A place of sky and mountains."
He had prepared heavily enchanted collars and leashes of dragonhide (taken from an ancient, shed skin Flamel had preserved), inscribed with runes of calming and obedience. Getting them on the dragons was a struggle, even with Elaena's help. Skane snapped and hissed, letting loose a plume of uncontrolled fire that singed Torrhen's sleeve. Morghul remained stubbornly still, his coal-black eyes fixed on the shimmering portal with unnerving intensity. Only Issylra, ever attuned to Torrhen's emotions, allowed the collar with minimal fuss, nudging his hand reassuringly.
One by one, through a combination of soothing mental commands, physical coaxing, and sheer willpower, Torrhen led them towards the portal. Skane was first, his aggression giving way to a nervous curiosity as he approached the shimmering gateway. With a final, powerful tug from Torrhen and a surge of Valyrian encouragement from Elaena, the golden-crimson dragon reluctantly stepped through. He vanished from sight.
Morghul followed, more readily, his dark form swallowed by the light. Issylra was last, pressing against Torrhen for a moment before bravely stepping into the unknown.
"I will follow," Torrhen said to Elaena, his voice strained. "Maintain the Winterfell circle. Do not let it falter. I will return within the hour, or you will know the ritual has failed, and you must seal it from this side, permanently." It was a grim contingency, but a necessary one.
Elaena nodded, her face set. "Go, Lord Stark. May your dragons find their sky."
Taking a deep breath, Torrhen Stark stepped into the teleportation portal. The sensation was indescribable – a violent wrenching, a sense of his very atoms being disassembled and reassembled, a deafening roar that was not sound but pure energy. For a terrifying moment, he felt utterly lost, a disembodied consciousness adrift in an infinite, chaotic void. Then, the Stark blood in his veins, the ancient magic of the North he had woven into the ritual, asserted itself. He felt an anchor, a pull, and with a nauseating lurch, he stumbled out onto cold stone, the air fresh and biting with the scent of pine and ozone.
He was in Skyfang Hold. The vast central cavern soared above him, its ceiling lost in shadows. And there, blinking in the dim light filtering from unseen vents high above, were his three dragons. Skane was already exploring, hissing at strange echoes. Morghul was perched on a high ledge, surveying his new domain with regal solemnity. Issylra rushed to Torrhen, nudging him with her head, her sapphire eyes filled with a mixture of excitement and reassurance.
The sister portal shimmered behind him, a beacon back to Winterfell.
"It is done," Torrhen breathed, a wave of profound relief and triumph washing over him, quickly followed by an bone-deep exhaustion.
The dragons reveled in their new freedom. The main cavern was vast enough for them to stretch their wings, to leap and glide from ledge to ledge. Skane, discovering a wide fissure leading to the open sky – a secondary, natural entrance Torrhen had noted but not yet fully secured – let out a joyous roar and, with a powerful beat of his wings, launched himself upwards. Morghul and Issylra swiftly followed.
Torrhen, despite his weariness, climbed to a high vantage point overlooking the cavern's main opening to the outside world. He watched as his three dragons, his creations, his secret weapons, took to the true sky for the first time. They were clumsy at first, their wingbeats uneven, but instinct quickly took over. They soared against the backdrop of the jagged, snow-capped peaks, their forms dark silhouettes against the pale Northern sky. Skane let out a torrent of flame, not in aggression, but in sheer, unadulterated exultation. The sight stirred something primal within Torrhen, a sense of power and destiny that overshadowed even Flamel's ancient wisdom.
He spent several days at Skyfang Hold, helping the dragons acclimate, reinforcing the wards, and establishing feeding routines using the preserved game he had stockpiled and teleported through. He began their rudimentary training in earnest – simple commands in Valyrian and the Old Tongue, recall signals, and, most importantly, control over their burgeoning fire. The blood-bond was his greatest tool, allowing him to communicate his intentions directly, to praise and discipline with a thought.
Returning to Winterfell through the portal, he found Elaena pale but the circle stable. He immediately closed the Skyfang end, then instructed her on how to seal the Winterfell portal until he next needed it, a process less draining than its creation.
Life settled into a new rhythm. Torrhen continued his public duties, now sharing some of the burdens of rule with his increasingly frail father. His marriage to Sara was… a quiet companionship. She was proving to be an astute Lady of Winterfell, her calm demeanor a soothing counterpoint to the often-harsh realities of Northern life. She asked few questions about his long hours or his solitary pursuits, seeming content with the public face he presented. She was with child within the year, a fact that brought a flicker of genuine warmth to King Theon's eyes and a sense of duty fulfilled in Torrhen. An heir. The Stark line would continue.
His nights, however, were often spent at Skyfang Hold. A brief activation of the portal, a few hours with his growing dragons, reinforcing their training, strengthening their bond, then a swift return before dawn. Skane, Morghul, and Issylra were thriving in their mountain lair, growing larger, stronger, their individual personalities becoming more defined. Skane was the warrior, fierce and protective. Morghul was the shadow, observant and cunning. Issylra was the empath, deeply attuned to Torrhen, her intelligence shining in her sapphire eyes.
Elaena Vaelaros remained a complex figure. She spent increasing amounts of time at Skyfang Hold, ostensibly to assist with the dragons, but Torrhen knew she was also drawn to their power, a last vestige of her lost Valyrian heritage. He allowed it, under strict magical compulsion and constant monitoring. Her knowledge was still valuable, and her presence kept the dragons from becoming entirely feral. He sometimes wondered if she dreamed of stealing them, of rebuilding her lost House. But the blood-bond he shared with the dragons was absolute, a leash of magic and soul that no Valyrian chant could break. They were his, unequivocally.
The warding of Moat Cailin continued in stages, Torrhen using his visits to Skyfang Hold as cover for brief trips to the Neck, reinforcing the dormant defenses, weaving in new layers of illusion and misdirection. His greensight continued to offer glimpses of the future: the fiery devastation of Aegon's Conquest remained a fixed point, as did his own kneeling. But the context around that kneeling was subtly shifting in his visions. It was less an act of submission, more a strategic maneuver, a king preserving his people, his true power hidden, waiting. And sometimes, in those green dreams, he saw three great shadows soaring above the kneeling Stark king, unseen by the Valyrian conquerors below.
King Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf, passed peacefully in his sleep two years after Torrhen's wedding, shortly after the birth of Torrhen's first son, Rickon – a healthy babe with the dark Stark hair and his mother's calm grey eyes. Torrhen was now King in the North, not just in secret power, but in name and deed. The weight of the crown was familiar, yet different. He was no longer just the heir preparing in shadows; he was the monarch, his every decision scrutinized.
Standing on the battlements of Winterfell, King Torrhen Stark looked out over his vast, snow-dusted domain. To the south lay a world of squabbling kings and Andal ambitions. Far across the sea, Valyria pulsed with its dying fire. And hidden in the northern mountains, three young dragons, the true strength of his kingdom, stretched their wings, their roars echoing in the lonely peaks, a secret song of ice and fire that only their king could truly hear. The game was long, and his pieces were now decisively in play.