Azriel stood before the Council of the Stark, ten shadows of power gathered in one chamber, each strong enough to raze cities if they wished. They had come to decide his fate—failure, exile, or worse. For most, the weight of such judgment would crush the heart.
But Azriel?
He was amused.
The corner of his lips curved ever so slightly as he raised his eyes. How ironic, he thought. In his past life, he had been hailed a prodigy, raised above all others, burdened by endless praise. Now, standing in the presence of calamities, he was branded a failure… yet for the first time in years, he felt anticipation.
'What will they do? How will they judge me? This might actually be entertaining.'
He let his crimson gaze wander across the council. Yes, all of them radiated deadly strength, each a walking disaster but three stood out from the rest.
The first was a woman whose presence chilled the chamber. Her hair was pure white, like frost under moonlight, and her eyes were an abyss of jet-black. She wore fitted garments that revealed her lithe, dangerous curves, her aura sharp with unspoken threat. She was the kind of woman whose mere existence said Do not approach. Even among calamities, she stood untouchable. Her name 'Sansa Stark'.
Then Azriel's eyes moved to the second. His stepmother. Catelyn Stark.
Her long blonde hair flowed gently, though the air was still. Black eyes, soft but calculating, gazed down on him with a mixture of scrutiny and distance. Unlike the cold, untouchable woman, Catelyn's aura carried royalty and restraint, the discipline of one raised in the heart of power. She was not merely Edward's wife she was the sister of the current King of the Human Continent, a link that bound the Stark household to the throne itself.
Finally, his gaze found the third. A man cloaked in mystery. Long black hair spilled past his shoulders, but his face was hidden behind a featureless mask. No expression, no clue of what he thought only silence. His power was a void, unknowable, unfathomable, yet undeniable. Even the other councilors cast wary glances his way. His name drifted through whispers like a curse: Robert Stark.
The brother who never smiled. The man whose enemies spoke his name in fear before their throats were cut.
Azriel's eyes lingered on him, curious. "Interesting," he thought.
The air inside the council chamber was frigid, the oppressive weight of so many powerful beings pressing down on him. And yet, Azriel stood there without bowing, without trembling, crimson eyes burning with quiet defiance—the forgotten villain staring straight at the heart of power.
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Whispers stirred through the chamber, as though the presence of the boy had loosened tongues that even fear could not bind.
One of the councilors, an old man draped in emerald robes, sneered openly.
"A failed awakening. To think the blood of the Frost Monarch could birth something so… ordinary. What a disgrace."
Another scoffed, his laughter sharp and ugly.
"Disgrace? I say it is dangerous. The orb did not shine, yet the readings were… distorted. Something unnatural taints the boy. Better to excise the rot now than let it fester."
Sansa stark tilted her head slightly, her black eyes cold, her voice calm but cutting.
"Rot… or potential? Some poisons, when refined, become the deadliest weapons."
Catelyn Stark's gaze flickered at her, then settled on Azriel. Her tone was even, respectful, almost dutiful.
"He is no ordinary child. His aura is unlike anything we've seen. But… he is my husband's son. And a Stark. The council should not be hasty. Caution is not weakness."
Her words silenced some of the mocking voices, though not the suspicion.
Then, from the masked figure at the far end of the table, came a voice like gravel rolling through a cavern. Low, unreadable, it cut through the noise with ease.
"Caution…" Robert Stark leaned forward slightly. "Or fear?"
The chamber fell into silence. None dared reply.
Amidst it all, Azriel stood as though it were nothing more than theatre for his amusement. The council argued over his fate like vultures circling prey, but his crimson eyes gleamed with faint amusement, as if he were the one studying them.
Finally, after long silence, Edward Stark moved.
The Frost Monarch leaned forward on his throne, resting his chin upon his knuckles. Frost curled at the edges of the black stone dais, creeping outward with each passing second. When he spoke, his words fell like shards of ice—calm, merciless, inescapable.
"Tell me, Azriel," Edward said, his voice resonant in the frozen chamber. "What happened during the ceremony?"
The question was simple. But in it lay the weight of judgment—not just of a father, but of a monarch who had frozen empires.
The councilors turned toward Azriel, hungry for his answer. Some expected denial, others fear.
Azriel's lips curved faintly, his amusement flickering like a dangerous flame.
"This…" he said softly, crimson eyes gleaming with the memory of crescents burning within. "This is the first time I've ever been entertained."
The silence that followed was heavier than any blade....
For a moment, silence reigned after Azriel's words.
Then, like cracks in ice, the chamber erupted.
"You insolent child!" one of the councilors thundered, slamming his fist against the table. "Is this how you speak before the blood of Stark? You dare mock this chamber?"
Another snarled, eyes flashing with restrained mana.
"Do you see? He has no respect for our laws. His arrogance is proof enough whatever taints him must be eradicated before it consumes us all!"
Catelyn's voice rose above the chaos, calm yet edged with urgency.
"Silence yourselves. He is but fourteen. Do not mistake composure for arrogance."
But her defense only drew more fire.
"Naïve woman," spat another. "He is not your son. Do not let your loyalty blind you!"
Sansa Stark , who until now had remained aloof, finally spoke, her voice like frost cracking stone.
"Blindness is yours. You see arrogance, but I see clarity. The boy knows exactly where he stands… and he does not tremble." Her black eyes narrowed slightly, studying Azriel with unsettling interest. "Perhaps that is what frightens you."
The chamber's energy surged, power pressing against the walls as voices clashed accusations, defenses, demands. Even the masked Robert tilted his head, silent, as though savoring the discord like a wolf watching prey tear itself apart.
And through it all, Azriel stood at the center, his faint smirk never fading.
Then
CRACK.
Frost raced across the marble floor in an instant, silencing the chamber. The air froze in their throats.
Edward Stark had moved.
The Frost Monarch's aura unfurled like a blizzard, suffocating, absolute. The arguing voices died as ice rimed their seats and the councilors lowered their gazes.
Edward's eyes, cold and merciless, locked on Azriel. His words cut sharper than any blade:
"Enough."
The chamber fell utterly silent.
Edward rose slowly from his throne, frost curling at his boots, each step echoing like a death toll. He descended the dais, his presence swallowing the chamber whole.
At last, he stood before Azriel, close enough that the cold burned his son's skin.
"Prodigy or failure," Edward said, voice low, dangerous, "the blood of Stark does not speak of entertainment when standing trial."
His gaze sharpened, frost whispering in the air.
"So tell me, Azriel… will you answer as a son of Stark? Or as a boy who thinks himself untouchable?"