Chapter 7: Starfire and Bronze Wings, Echoes of the Coming Fall
The biting winds of another Northern winter swept across Winterfell, but deep within its ancient stones, and far to the north in the frozen caldera of Wyvern's Eyrie, King Jon Stark's unconventional preparations continued their relentless advance. The Doom of Valyria, a cataclysm that would reshape the known world, now lay approximately fifteen years in the future, a timeframe that felt both vast and alarmingly brief to the ageless king.
The two new dragon eggs, acquired at great cost and risk from the edge of the Jade Sea, had finally arrived. Their journey had been even more perilous than the first clutch, a testament to Finn's ingenuity and the loyalty of the agents Jon had cultivated across Essos. They arrived encased in a specially constructed chest filled with volcanic sand and inert YiTish fire-stones that radiated a low, constant heat, their surfaces – one like a piece of midnight sky spangled with distant stars, the other a gleaming, burnished bronze – cool to the touch yet thrumming with a faint, alien life.
Jon, ever cautious, decided against using the exact same blood-and-fire ritual he'd employed for his Valyrian clutch. These eggs were of a different lineage, from a land with its own ancient magical traditions. The Asshai'i scrolls Finn had acquired, while maddeningly cryptic, hinted at elemental affinities and celestial alignments in the magic of the far East. He also drew upon the fragmented YiTish legends Finn had gathered, which spoke of "Star Dragons born of fallen heavens" and "Bronze Wyrms that slept in the earth's heart."
In the deepest, most heavily warded chamber of Wyvern's Eyrie – a new cavern he had carved out specifically for this purpose, its ceiling open to the sky but shielded by powerful illusions that made it appear as solid rock from above – Jon prepared. He incorporated powdered meteorite, a rare find from a remote Northern impact crater, into the ritual for the star-flecked egg, and ingots of copper and tin, the components of bronze, for the metallic one. The ritual was timed to coincide with a specific planetary alignment mentioned in one of Flamel's more esoteric astrological charts, one that supposedly amplified receptive energies. His own blood was still a key component, the binding agent, the assertion of Stark dominion.
The hatching was less explosive than that of his Valyrian dragons, more a gradual unfolding. The sapphire egg cracked not with violence, but with a soft, chiming sound, as if fine crystal were shattering. From it emerged a dragonet of breathtaking beauty, its scales the deepest indigo, almost black, with constellations of tiny, silver-blue flecks that seemed to shimmer and shift like actual starlight. Its eyes were like amethysts, wise and ancient even in their infancy. Jon, feeling its calm, inquisitive presence, named it Noctua, for the night owl that sees in darkness, and for the celestial sphere it seemed to embody.
The bronze egg yielded its treasure with a low, grinding sound, as if the earth itself were giving birth. The hatchling was powerfully built even at its small size, its scales a true, gleaming bronze that shone with an inner fire. Its eyes were the color of molten gold. It was a creature of stone and metal, exuding an aura of unshakeable resilience. Jon named him Adamas, from an old Flamel text referring to the unbreakable nature of true diamond, and reflecting its earthy, metallic strength.
The introduction of Noctua and Adamas to Veridian, Balerion, and Ghostfyre was a tense affair. The older dragons, now formidable young adults, regarded the cat-sized newcomers with suspicion and territorial aggression. Balerion, in particular, let out a series of deafening roars and blasts of smoke. Jon, however, exerted his will, his mental commands a soothing balm over their primal instincts, projecting an aura of absolute authority and familial unity. He spent days facilitating their integration, ensuring the hatchlings were safe, slowly allowing the older dragons to become accustomed to their presence. Noctua, with its calm intelligence, seemed to navigate the complex dragon politics with surprising ease, while Adamas, stolid and fearless, simply refused to be intimidated. Soon, five dragons, two distinct lineages, graced Wyvern's Eyrie, a testament to Jon's audacious ambition.
Beron Stark, now a strapping youth of sixteen, had become a regular, if still highly secret, visitor to Wyvern's Eyrie. He'd inherited his father's height and Stark grey eyes, but his demeanor was quieter, more scholarly, though Jon was carefully cultivating the iron will necessary for a future King of Winter. His magical aptitude had blossomed under Jon's patient, unconventional tutelage. He could now cast complex illusions, transfigure objects with considerable skill, and was even beginning to grasp the fundamentals of warding.
The day Jon decided Beron was ready to attempt a true bond with one of the dragons was a momentous occasion. He hadn't forced a choice; instead, he'd allowed Beron to spend time with all three of the older Valyrian-line dragons, observing their interactions. While Balerion was too volatile and Ghostfyre too enigmatic, a clear affinity had developed between Beron and Veridian, the intelligent green dragon that had been the first to hatch under Jon's care.
"The bond between a rider and a dragon, Beron," Jon explained, as they stood before the magnificent green beast in a vast, sun-dappled ice cave within the Eyrie, "is more than mastery. It is a partnership of soul and sky. It requires trust, respect, and a shared will." He guided Beron through a modified version of the binding ritual he himself had used, focusing less on blood dominion and more on willing symbiotic connection, drawing upon Flamel's notes on magical familiars and the heretical Valyrian texts about ancient rider pacts.
As Beron, his face pale but resolute, placed his hand on Veridian's snout and spoke the ancient words of bonding Jon had taught him, pouring his own magical essence and heartfelt intent into the connection, a visible shimmer of green and silver light enveloped them both. Veridian let out a long, resonant croon, nudging Beron with a gentleness that belied its immense strength. Beron stumbled back, his eyes wide, not with fear, but with an overwhelming flood of sensation.
"Father… I can… I can feel him!" Beron gasped, his hand pressed to his chest. "His thoughts… his strength… it's like he's a part of me!"
Jon nodded, a rare, proud smile touching his lips. "He is, Beron. And you, a part of him. Veridian is your dragon now. Together, you will be the first of the new line of Stark dragonlords."
The first flight was a terrifying, exhilarating experience for Beron. With Jon flying alongside on a now highly trained and surprisingly agile Ghostfyre (whose cold aura seemed to cut through the wind, making for a smoother, if chillier, ride), Beron, strapped securely into a specially designed saddle, clung on for dear life as Veridian launched into the sky above the caldera. But as the flight progressed, his fear gave way to an exultant joy, his laughter echoing across the frozen peaks. The sight of his son, a future King, soaring on the back of a magnificent green dragon, was a powerful affirmation of Jon's long-term vision.
Arya, now a nimble eleven-year-old with a wild streak and eyes that missed nothing, remained a delightful enigma. Her magic was potent but untamed, often manifesting in startling ways. She could coax animals to do her bidding with an unnerving ease, once calming a rampaging snow bear that had wandered too close to a Stark lumber camp with nothing but a stern look and a series of low clicks and whistles. Plants in her vicinity thrived unnaturally, and she claimed to hear whispers from the Heart Tree in Winterfell's Godswood, whispers Jon suspected were the early stirrings of true Greensight, perhaps even more potent than his own.
Jon knew formal spellcasting would chafe against her spirit. Instead, he guided her towards the ancient Northern traditions, teaching her to listen to the land, to meld her consciousness with the beasts of the Wolfswood (her Warging was already remarkably strong, easily slipping into the minds of her pet direwolf pup, Nymeria, and even the birds in the sky), and to draw power from the natural world. He procured for her, through Finn, rare texts on the nature magic of the Children of the Forest, or what little survived in fragmented Essosi translations. Arya absorbed it all with a fierce joy, her connection to the primal magic of the North deepening with each passing year. She was to be a different kind of power for House Stark, a guardian of the old ways, a whisper on the wind.
The passage of years, however, brought with it the inevitable poignancy of Jon's agelessness. Lyra, his beloved wife, was now a woman in her late forties. Her dark hair was heavily threaded with silver, her face etched with the lines of a life well-lived, her movements slower, though her spirit remained strong and her eyes full of love and a quiet understanding. Jon, though he meticulously maintained the illusion of aging through subtle glamours when at court, knew she saw the truth in their private moments. She never spoke of it directly after their one conversation years ago, but a gentle melancholy sometimes shadowed her gaze as she looked upon him, her husband who remained unchanging, a fixed point in her flowing river of time.
Their intimacy had changed, evolving into a deep, tender companionship, but underscored by an unspoken chasm. Jon felt the ache of it, the lonely burden of his extended life. He had what Voldemort craved – endless time – but Flamel's long centuries with Perenelle had taught him the value of shared existence. He redoubled his efforts to ensure Lyra's comfort and happiness, showering her with quiet affection and ensuring her days were filled with purpose and peace. But the Elixir remained unoffered, her choice respected, their paths diverging towards different horizons.
Maester Arryk, sustained by carefully administered, minute doses of the diluted Elixir, remained a fixture in Winterfell, his mind sharper than men half his age. He had become, in a way, Jon's unknowing chronicler, meticulously documenting the "remarkable" reign of King Jon Stark, filled with agricultural innovations, infrastructural marvels, and an almost supernatural foresight in governance. Jon subtly guided Arryk's writings, ensuring the official histories reflected the narrative he wished to project – that of a wise, strong, but entirely mortal king. Arryk, in his rejuvenated state, also became an unwitting assistant in Jon's acquisition of knowledge, his Citadel contacts proving useful in obtaining rare maps or obscure historical treatises that Jon would then secretly spirit away to his private library.
News from Essos, relayed by Finn's increasingly sophisticated network, painted a grim picture of Valyria. The Dragonlords, consumed by their rivalries and their insatiable appetite for slaves and resources, were pushing their empire to its limits. Tales of increasingly decadent and cruel magical experiments, of collapsing mines, of slave revolts brutally suppressed, and of growing geological instability in the Valyrian peninsula itself, were becoming more common. The Freehold was a magnificent edifice, but its foundations were cracking. Jon listened to these reports with a cold, detached focus. The Doom was drawing nearer, and his own dark preparations had to accelerate.
He began the theoretical design of what he termed the 'Anima Matrix' – a vast, magically attuned construct he intended to secretly establish at a location his Greendreams had shown him, a desolate stretch of coastline on the eastern shores of the Narrow Sea, a place that would be directly in the path of the psychic shockwave from Valyria's destruction. This Matrix, drawing on principles from Flamel's deepest alchemical writings on soul-energy transmutation and Voldemort's intuitive understanding of large-scale power harvesting (though far more sophisticated than crude Horcruxes), was intended to capture and condense the immense torrent of spiritual energy released by the Doom. Not to imprison souls, he rationalized, but to gather their fading vital essence, their 'quintessence,' and use it as the ultimate catalyst for his Grand Philosopher's Stone.
It was a chillingly ambitious plan, requiring arcane engineering and magical power on an unprecedented scale. He spent long nights in his vault, surrounded by glowing crystals and intricate diagrams, his mind wrestling with equations of spiritual thermodynamics and arcane resonance. The Voldemort aspect of his soul reveled in the audacity, the sheer scale of the power he aimed to harness. The Flamel aspect meticulously refined the complex theories, ensuring efficiency and, as much as possible, a perverse sort of alchemical elegance. The King Jon Stark aspect simply saw it as a grim necessity, the terrible price for the ultimate defense of his people against the coming Long Night.
He also began to establish a series of hidden caches and bolt-holes across the North, beyond even Wyvern's Eyrie. Ancient, forgotten holdfasts in the mountains, magically concealed grottos along the coast, even a small, fortified island in the Shivering Sea. These would serve as fallback positions, supply depots, and secret meeting places for the future hidden council. He used transfigured gold to fund these endeavors, ensuring no trace led back to Winterfell's coffers.
One blustery afternoon, while exploring a long-sealed section of Winterfell's crypts – a place his Greendreams had been nudging him towards – Jon made a discovery that resonated deeply with his own burgeoning understanding of the North's ancient magic. Behind a false wall, in a chamber undisturbed for millennia, he found a collection of stone tablets, inscribed not with runes of the First Men, but with the delicate, swirling pictograms of the Children of the Forest. Most were damaged, eroded by time, but one tablet was remarkably intact.
It depicted a great weirwood tree, its roots delving deep into the earth, its branches reaching for a sky filled with both a burning sun and a field of icy stars. Around the tree were figures of the Children, their hands raised, and from the tree itself flowed lines of energy connecting to shadowy depictions of wolves, bears, eagles… and what looked unmistakably like dragons, though these dragons were more serpentine, more elemental than even his Valyrian brood. The inscriptions, which he painstakingly began to decipher with the aid of Flamel's knowledge of ancient languages and his own growing connection to the weirwood network, spoke of a time when the "songs of earth and sky" were one, when the Children and the First Men (or perhaps beings even older) could call upon the primal spirits of the land, including the "fire wyrms that slept beneath the smoking mountains of the dawn."
It was a revelation. It suggested that dragons, or dragon-like beings, were not solely a Valyrian phenomenon, but perhaps a more ancient, elemental force that had once existed in Westeros itself, tied to the deep magic of the earth. It cast his own dragon project in a new light, not just as the theft of Valyrian power, but perhaps as the reawakening of something far older, something intrinsically connected to the North. The knowledge thrilled him, opening new avenues for magical research, new ways to potentially empower his Stark lineage and their draconic allies, drawing not just on Flamel's lore or Valyrian scraps, but on the deepest, most ancient magic of Westeros itself.
As the years wore on, the King in the North continued his silent, patient work. Five dragons now soared in the hidden skies above Wyvern's Eyrie. His son was on the cusp of becoming a true dragon rider. His daughter was a burgeoning nature warden, her power unique and wild. His own life, extended indefinitely, was dedicated to a single, all-consuming purpose. The pieces of his grand design were falling into place, even as the world beyond his borders teetered on the brink of a cataclysm that would change everything. Jon Stark watched, he waited, and he prepared. The fall of Valyria would be his overture. The Long Night would be his ultimate test. And House Stark, the hidden dragons of the North, would be ready.