Chapter 3: The Dragon's Tear
The acquisition of the "Tear of Fire" from Magister Maegyr Xhokan in Pentos was an operation Torrhen Stark approached with the meticulous precision of a master assassin planning his most delicate strike, combined with the long-view strategy of an alchemist embarking upon his Great Work. He spent a full moon cycle in his solar, not in idleness, but in deep contemplation and planning, surrounded by maps of Pentos, ledgers detailing Bryen Flowers' initial reconnaissance, and Flamel's transcribed notes on human psychology, persuasion, and subtle coercion. This was not a task for brute force; it required finesse, exploiting weaknesses rather than battering down doors. Discovery would be disastrous, linking the theft of a Valyrian-connected artifact directly to the King in the North. Unacceptable.
He summoned Bryen Flowers once more, along with another man, one rarely seen within Winterfell's main halls: Silas, known as "Silas the Shadow." Silas was a Northerner, born in the bleakest parts of the Stony Shore, a man whose past was as grey and indistinct as the fogs that often clung to that coastline. Torrhen had found him languishing in Winterfell's dungeons years ago, imprisoned for poaching, but had recognized a rare talent for silence, observation, and an almost preternatural ability to move unseen. Instead of the Wall, Torrhen had offered him a different path, cultivating his skills, binding him with oaths of loyalty and the quiet, consistent reward of a life with purpose, far removed from the desperation that had led him to crime. Silas was not a scholar like Bryen, nor a warrior like Duncan. He was a whisper, a ghost, invaluable for tasks requiring absolute discretion.
"Magister Maegyr Xhokan," Torrhen began, his voice low as the three of them huddled around the map of Pentos, illuminated by the flickering candlelight. "Bryen, your intelligence suggests he is a man of appetites – gambling, expensive companions, a taste for rare wines. He is also deeply in debt, his ancestral manse crumbling, his reputation reliant on past glories and this single, famed ruby."
Bryen nodded. "That is the sum of it, Your Grace. He frequents the Azure Grotto, a high-stakes gambling den known for its exclusivity and the… discretion of its patrons. He also entertains lavishly, far beyond his current means, likely using credit extended against the theoretical value of the Tear."
"And the Tear itself?" Torrhen looked at Bryen. "Its security?"
"Kept in a hidden vault within his manse, according to rumor. Protected by locks of Myrish design, and possibly… older, Valyrian-era wards, though their efficacy after centuries is debatable. He shows it off occasionally, to wealthy potential creditors or those he wishes to impress, always under heavy guard."
Torrhen considered this. A direct theft from a warded vault, however old, was a high risk. "Silas," he turned to the quiet man. "Your assessment of infiltrating such a manse in a city like Pentos?"
Silas, who had been studying the crude layout Bryen had sketched of Xhokan's district, finally spoke, his voice raspy from disuse. "Pentos is a city of eyes, Your Grace. Servants, spies, rival magisters. A direct approach to the vault is… loud, even if silent. Too many variables."
"My thoughts precisely," Torrhen agreed. "We will not attempt to steal the Tear from his vault. We will arrange for Magister Xhokan to willingly, even eagerly, part with it." He then outlined his plan, a multi-stage operation built upon Xhokan's known vices.
Bryen would return to Pentos, not as a Northern scholar this time, but as 'Master Kael', a supposed envoy of a newly wealthy timber merchant from the Braavosian coastlands, a man looking to invest his fortune and establish connections in Pentos. He would be ostentatiously wealthy, generous with his coin, and eager to experience the "famed hospitality and diversions" of Pentos. Silas would accompany him, as Kael's silent, imposing bodyguard, his presence adding to the mystique and perceived security of the "merchant envoy."
"Your objective, Bryen," Torrhen instructed, "is to indebt Magister Xhokan to Master Kael. Not through loans directly, but through the gambling tables of the Azure Grotto. Flamel was… not unfamiliar with games of chance and the mathematics that govern them. You will be equipped with certain… aids." He gestured to a small, velvet-lined box containing subtly weighted dice, decks of cards with almost imperceptible markings only visible at certain angles or to eyes trained to see them, and a series of coded signals to be used with Silas, who would act as an observer, subtly tracking Xhokan's tells and the flow of the game.
"Xhokan will initially win," Torrhen continued. "Small amounts, enough to fuel his arrogance and greed. Then, the tide will turn. Master Kael will begin to win, consistently but not unbelievably. We want Xhokan desperate, chasing his losses, willing to stake anything to recoup them. Eventually, he will be forced to offer the Tear of Fire as collateral for one final, massive wager."
"And if he refuses to wager the Tear?" Bryen asked, his brow furrowed.
"Then Master Kael expresses deep disappointment, suggesting Xhokan's reputation for daring and wealth is perhaps… inflated. He prepares to take his 'business' elsewhere, to a Magister with more substance. Xhokan's pride, coupled with his debt, should compel him. If not," Torrhen's eyes grew colder, "then Silas will observe the routines around the Tear when Xhokan inevitably attempts to secure a loan against it from another source. A theft becomes our contingency, but a far less desirable one."
He provided Bryen with a significant sum of gold – real gold, not transfigured, drawn from Winterfell's legitimate treasury to avoid any magical trace on the currency used in Pentos – for establishing Master Kael's credibility and for the gambling itself. He also gave Bryen several small, intricately carved jade tokens. "Should you find yourself in unforeseen trouble, these are recognition tokens for certain… individuals in Pentos who owe me past favors. Use them only as a last resort. They will extract a price for their aid later." These were contacts from his assassin life, debts called in across the veil of death and rebirth.
The preparations took another fortnight. Bryen and Silas departed on a fast trading cog from White Harbor, melting into the flow of merchants and travelers heading south and east. Then, the waiting began. Torrhen immersed himself in the governance of the North. The roads he had commissioned were nearing completion in several key sectors, easing the passage of goods and messengers. New watchtowers, built with stone quarried under exacting standards and subtly reinforced with strengthening charms Flamel had used for his laboratories, now studded the coastlines at strategic intervals. The Northern Fleet, still modest but growing, patrolled with greater confidence.
He spent time in the Godswood, not always in communion with the heart tree, but sometimes simply sitting, feeling the ancient pulse of the place. He experimented further with the Weirwood network, attempting to extend his senses through the carved eyes of distant trees. It was a slow, painstaking process, like learning to flex a muscle that had atrophied for millennia. He could now receive fleeting, distorted images from weirwoods within a fifty-mile radius of Winterfell, a significant improvement. His ultimate goal – a continent-spanning network of silent, wooden sentinels – was still a distant dream, but progress was tangible.
He also began subtle agricultural experiments on a secluded plot of land deep within the Wolfswood, near the future dragon nursery. Using Flamel's knowledge of alchemical fertilizers and growth-stimulating potions, he treated sections of barley and hardy vegetables. The results were promising: plants grew faster, larger, and seemed more resistant to the early frosts that often plagued Northern crops. Scaling this up would require immense resources and careful dissemination of techniques without revealing the magic behind them. He envisioned a North not just secure, but bountiful.
The dragon nursery itself was now complete. The workers had been well-rewarded and sent back to their new homes, their memories of the exact location and its specific features subtly blurred by carefully woven enchantments of forgetfulness – not erasing memory, but rather clouding it, making details hazy and unreliable should anyone ever question them too closely. Torrhen had personally overseen the final warding, layering protections from Flamel's grimoires with ancient Stark blood rituals drawn from the darkest corners of Winterfell's crypt library. The place was a fortress of secrecy, shielded from scrying, impervious to mundane intrusion, and suffused with the geothermal heat of the volcanic vent. It awaited its precious occupants.
Nearly four months passed. Torrhen felt the subtle temporal markers of his greensight aligning; the Doom was now approximately twenty-nine and a half years away. He was in his solar, reviewing Maester Arryk's reports on grain storage levels – impressively high, thanks to good harvests and his careful management – when a raven arrived. Not a Winterfell raven, but one bearing the seal of a trusted contact in White Harbor: a small, stylized kraken, pierced by a wolf's fang. It was the agreed-upon signal. Bryen and Silas were returning.
A week later, Bryen Flowers stood before him once more, looking weary but triumphant. Silas, a spectre at his side, offered a barely perceptible nod. On the table between them, placed reverently on a cushion of black velvet, lay the Tear of Fire.
It was magnificent. Larger than a pigeon's egg, the ruby was a deep, throbbing crimson, cut into a thousand facets that seemed to drink the light of the room. And from its heart, an inner luminescence pulsed, a captive flame dancing within the stone. It was warm to the touch, radiating a palpable energy that resonated with Torrhen's own magical senses.
"Report," Torrhen said, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes were fixed on the gem.
Bryen recounted their efforts in Pentos. Magister Xhokan had proven to be every bit as foolish and arrogant as anticipated. "Master Kael" had been welcomed into Pentoshi high society, his apparent wealth opening many doors. The gambling at the Azure Grotto had proceeded much as Torrhen had planned. Xhokan, initially winning, had become increasingly reckless as the tides turned against him.
"He lost heavily, Your Grace," Bryen said. "His manse, his servants' contracts, his remaining ships… all staked and lost to Master Kael. Finally, as you predicted, he offered the Tear of Fire in a single, desperate wager on a turn of the cards." Bryen permitted himself a small, grim smile. "The deck was… favorable to our cause. He lost. He was ruined, but Master Kael, in a show of 'magnanimity,' allowed him to keep his ancestral home and a small pension, on the condition he trouble him no further."
"No complications? No suspicions?" Torrhen asked.
"None, Your Grace. The Pentoshi see it only as another fool Magister brought low by his own hubris. Master Kael is now spoken of with awe, as a man of incredible fortune and shrewdness. He settled Xhokan's most pressing debts – further cementing his reputation – and then departed Pentos quietly, citing urgent business in the northern Free Cities."
Torrhen picked up the Tear of Fire. It thrummed in his palm, a vibrant, fiery heartbeat. He focused his senses, Flamel's arcane diagnostic techniques coming to the fore. The gem was indeed ancient, its core suffused with a powerful residue of dragonfire. Not raw, living flame, but an potent magical echo, carefully preserved and amplified by the ruby's natural properties as a magical capacitor. It was perfect. More than perfect. This would significantly reduce the amount of raw pyromantic energy he'd need to generate for the hatching.
"You have both performed exceptionally," Torrhen said, a rare warmth in his voice. "Bryen, take this." He handed him a heavy purse of gold – far more than the initial stake. "And Silas," he produced a finely crafted Valyrian steel dagger, its pommel a snarling wolf's head of obsidian. "A tool worthy of your skills." Both men accepted their rewards with quiet gratitude, their loyalty to the Silent Wolf of Winterfell absolute.
With the catalyst secured, the final phase of his plan for the dragons could begin. The three eggs, still nestled in their hidden alcove in his solar, pulsed with a faint warmth of their own, as if sensing the proximity of the Tear.
"We will move the eggs to the nursery within the week," Torrhen announced. "Under the cover of the next new moon. You two, along with Duncan and a handful of his most trusted men, will be the only ones involved. The secrecy of this operation is paramount."
Just as these preparations were underway, another piece of unexpected news arrived. A Northern trading vessel, returning from a daring voyage to the Saffron Straits, much further east than most Northern ships dared to venture, reported being caught in a typhoon near the coast of an uncharted volcanic island chain east of the Bones. Their ship had been badly damaged, forced to take shelter in a cove. While there, making repairs, the sailors claimed to have seen evidence of recent, massive fires, and discovered, washed up on a black sand beach, a single, enormous egg, larger than any bird's, the color of smoke and shadow, still faintly warm. Fearing to keep it, yet unwilling to leave such a marvel, they had carefully packed it in volcanic ash and brought it back to White Harbor, presenting it to Torrhen's port master as a curiosity for the King.
Torrhen listened to this report, delivered by a breathless Maester Arryk who clearly thought it a tall tale, with an almost electric stillness. An uncharted volcanic island chain east of the Bones? A massive egg, smoke and shadow colored? It fit the general direction of the "Smoking Isle" on Bryen's map fragment, the supposed lair of firewyrms. Had these sailors stumbled upon something far greater?
"Have this egg brought to Winterfell immediately," Torrhen commanded, his mind reeling. "With utmost care. And the captain of that vessel is to report to me directly upon his arrival. No one else is to see or handle this… curiosity."
A fourth egg. Unexpected. Potentially from a wild, unknown line of dragons or related creatures. Flamel's notes had always stressed the value of diverse magical bloodlines. This could be an incredible boon.
His greensight, which had been relatively quiet since the vision of the Others, chose that moment to offer a fleeting, unsettling glimpse: not of Valyria, nor the ice plains, but of King's Landing, decades hence. A golden-haired king, Robert Baratheon, fat and drunk, laughing boisterously in his throne room, surrounded by schemers and flatterers. Then, a flash of a boar, a fatal hunt. The event that would trigger the War of the Five Kings, the event that would be his signal to finally reveal his own dragons. It was a distant anchor point in the flow of time, a reminder that his long game had specific, foreseen junctures.
The arrival of the Tear of Fire, the imminent move of the first three eggs, and now this astonishing news of a fourth, wild-found egg – the pieces were falling into place with a speed that was both exhilarating and slightly unnerving, even for him. The weight of his secrets, the magnitude of the power he was about to cultivate, settled upon him. This was no longer theoretical. This was the precipice of action.
He dismissed Maester Arryk, his mind already leaping ahead. The hatching ritual would need to be adjusted. The new egg, if viable, would require careful examination. He would take it to the nursery with the others. The new moon was only five days away.
The North slumbered under a blanket of early winter snow, unaware of the fiery secrets stirring in its heart, unaware of the silent, watchful King who was preparing to awaken a power not seen in Westeros beyond the Valyrians for millennia. Torrhen Stark stood by his window, the Tear of Fire in his hand, its captured flame a promise of the infernos to come. He was not merely protecting the North; he was reforging it, infusing it with a power that would ensure its survival, its sovereignty, for generations. The dragons would be his hidden army, his ultimate deterrent, his legacy. And soon, very soon, they would awaken.