I – THE KING-WIZARD'S MORNING (POV THEON)
The first light of dawn was a timid victory over the eternal night of the North. It filtered through the slits of the heavy velvet curtains of Winterfell, weaving threads of liquid gold into the stagnant air of the royal chamber. Each mote of dust danced in those weak rays like a miniature diamond, silent witnesses to the daily miracle that was warmth within those stone walls. Outside, the world still hummed its frigid song—a chorus of biting wind and the crunch of frost beneath the boots of the guards. But within the royal chamber, winter was an unwanted guest, barred by runes of heat carved with infinite precision in every door and window frame. The air was warm, almost tropical, heavy with a symphony of aromas: the pinewood burning in the hearth, the dry earthy scent of protective herbs hung from the beams, and, dominating all, the sweet and musky perfume of Lyra's skin—an aroma that, to Theon Stark, was the scent of peace itself.
Theon did not awaken like ordinary men. For him, there was no turbulent plunge from sleep to wakefulness, no moment of confusion where nightmares mingled with reality. His consciousness was like a lake of deep and clear waters; the surface might lie still in darkness, but the depths remained ever alert, connected to the kingdom's magical pulse. In that moment, the surface simply became mirror again, reflecting the world around in harsh, vivid detail. His senses, tuned by the symbiosis with the Ice Crown resting upon a pedestal of obsidian nearby, were already in full operation before his steel-gray eyes—storm-colored like the Trembling Sea—opened. He felt the silken weight of polar bear pelts, the rough and honest texture of linen under his fingers, and above all, the warm, soft, vital pressure at his side.
Lyra was sleeping deeply, nestled against his flank like a contented cat. Her long red hair—of a hue that rivaled the fire of the Gorge mountains at dusk—spread like a living, tangled cloak over the velvet pillow and across Theon's muscular arm. Each lock seemed a fine strand of molten copper, catching the weak morning light and returning it in soft fire tones. The thin silk coverlet, imported from overseas, had slipped down to her waist, revealing the graceful, strong curve of her back, the gentle and inviting depression of her spine leading to a generous, rounded hip. Her skin—pale as the first snow upon Winterfell—was sprinkled with a constellation of subtle freckles that, to Theon's hyper-perceptive eyes, were like a secret map of an enchanted land, a territory that only he had the privilege to explore.
He moved with deliberate slowness, a fluid motion that did not disturb her serene breathing. He propped himself on one elbow, his body cloaked only by golden shadow, to better observe her. The sight was, as always, a balm for the oldest and loneliest part of his soul. Her full, firm breasts—crowned by pink-pale nipples—rose and fell with the deep, rhythmic breathing of slumber. The curve of her hip under the sheet was a tacit promise of softness, warmth, and shelter. He extended his hand, not with the urgency of a lover, but with the reverence of a devout worshipper, and began tracing with the tips of his fingers the outline of her shoulder, descending along her arm. Her skin was unbelievably soft—like rose petals warmed by the sun—a visceral, deeply erotic contrast with his own, which even at the height of intimacy retained a slight chill, an echo of the primordial ice that ran in his veins.
His mind—a beacon capable of navigating the turbulent seas of other minds—dove into hers effortlessly. The noisy and chaotic swirl of cares, ambitions, and fears characteristic of most human psyches was completely absent. In its place was a serene pool of pure contentment. Fragments of dreams danced at the periphery of her consciousness: the sensation of their fingers intertwined, the deep echo of his laughter resounding in an empty hall, a warm and overwhelming feeling of belonging so profound it bordered on pain. There was no trace of fear, no political calculation, no subtle whisper of ambition or desire for power. Only Lyra. Pure, simple, and devastatingly genuine. It was a mind at rest, a heart in peace. It was the only realm in which he could simply be—without needing to be king, sorcerer, or god.
He remembered, with the clarity of an event that happened yesterday, the day he first saw her. It was not in a bustling fair, but on a muddy, lonely road near the Riverlands, where she, a young widow of a lesser knight killed in a trivial skirmish, defended the small, precious belongings left in her cart from a band of drunken raiders. Theon, traveling disguised as a common merchant, watched from the shadow of an ancient oak. He did not even need to touch the hilt of his dagger. A whisper—a single rune of Confusion murmured to the wind—caused the men to turn on one another, seeing unspeakable horrors in the faces of their companions. While they fled in panic, screaming, Lyra held firm, fists clenched around a heavy staff, breathing ragged, her green eyes burning with silent fury. She did not glance to the sides in search of an invisible savior. Her gaze—sharp from survival—locked directly on the shadow where Theon stood, as if she sensed the origin of that supernatural intervention.
"Thank you," she said, her voice a trembling thread of sound, yet incredibly clear. "Whoever you are."
He stepped from the shadows, and she did not retreat an inch. He "read" her mind at that precise instant: there was caution, yes, an innate mistrust of a woman alone in the world, but above all there was a fierce, intelligent curiosity, and a relief so deep and genuine it nearly made her swoon. She did not see a king, a sorcerer, or a monster. She saw a man. And in a world full of second intentions and hidden blades, that innocent and courageous perception was the rarest of all treasures.
Now, in the warm and safe bed of Winterfell, a decade later, those same green eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep. Lyra yawned—a feline, carefree yawn—stretching her arms above her head in a motion that arched her body against the sheets, making her breasts lift and her spine curve in a graceful line. Her gaze, still blurred from dreams, found his, and instantly softened; a slow, intimate, promise-laden smile curved her full lips.
"You're watching me again, my king," she murmured, her voice a velvety and deeply sensual accent in the quiet of the chamber. "It's a somewhat frightening habit, you know?"
"It's my favorite pastime, my lady," Theon replied, his voice—usually heavy with a chilling authority that made lords tremble—now a raspy whisper meant only for her. "And you are the most fascinating landscape I've ever found. Far more interesting than maps of battle or trade treaties."
His hand, which had been tracing contours, slid from her waist to the firm, smooth curve of her hip, drawing her gently but insistently closer to him. Her body's warmth was a vital fire against his skin, which always held the faint coldness of a stone under the moon.
"The chamomile tea…" she began, feigning a feeble protest, her fingers already trailing along the contours of his defined chest muscles. "You said it was important to keep the frost from our bones."
"Tea can wait," he interrupted, his voice a soft growl as he lowered his head to capture her lips in a kiss. "My priorities have undergone a… strategic recalibration."
The kiss began gentle, a familiar exploration, but quickly deepened, becoming a conflagration of a decade's intimacy and repressed desire. Her flavor was familiar and intoxicating—a blend of dream and reality that was the only addiction Theon permitted himself. His fingers tangled in her fiery hair, pulling her head back with possessive gentleness, while his other hand explored her bare back, descending the spine until resting on the firm, rounded curve of her buttocks. A low, guttural moan escaped Lyra's throat, and she surrendered completely to the embrace, her hands exploring the hard contours of his back, the old pale scars that not even the deepest magic could erase—silent reminders of a life that existed before her.
The morning light, now stronger, bore witness to their union, bathing their entwined bodies moving in practiced, perfect synchronicity. It was more than a merely physical coupling; it was a silent reconfirmation, a ritual of reconnection. For Theon, it was the most powerful anchor in his existence that stretched terrifyingly toward eternity—a visceral reminder of the humanity he still possessed and feared losing. For Lyra, it was the total and courageous surrender to a man who, to the rest of the world, was a divine and fearsome figure—a king-sorcerer who commanded winter itself—but who, to her in the privacy of that bed, was simply Theon. The man whose impenetrable mind only she could quiet, not with spells or runes, but with the overwhelming and fearless simplicity of her love.
Long after, when the sun already shone fully in the leaden northerly sky, they remained lying there, limbs entwined and bodies covered by a thin sheen of sweat that glowed in the daylight. Lyra rested her head on his chest, her face against his cold skin, listening to the steady, metronomic heartbeat that never sped, even at the height of physical ecstasy—a constant, silent reminder of his different nature.
"You never change," she whispered, her voice raw from pleasure and fatigue, tracing slow circles on his torso with her fingertips. "It's as if time… slides past you. You still look the twenty years you appeared when we first met."
Theon looked at the old oak canopy above the bed, his expression serious, reflecting on the empty vastness of years yet to come. His eternal youth was fact, not blessing, and its weight was relieved only in moments like this.
"Everything changes, Lyra," he responded, his voice soft. "Even the oldest mountains, given enough time, are reduced to hills. Rivers change course. The sea consumes the shore. I am simply… a mountain very, very slow. The frost of winter does not touch me."
She raised her head, resting her chin on his chest, her green eyes serious and lucid, staring at his without a trace of reverential fear he saw in all others.
"I do not care," she declared, with a simplicity that cut his heart deeper than any blade. "I will be here, growing a little older each day, until my red hair turns white like snow and my skin wrinkles like an ancient parchment. And you will still be you. And I will love every version of you, and you will love every version of me, until the end of my version."
He drew her into another kiss, sweeter and more melancholic this time, but charged with a passion that was also a kind of pain. He knew she spoke the truth. The inability to have children was a small price, almost irrelevant, compared to the power he possessed. The Stark bloodline would continue through Brandon, his brother, and his descendants. Theon was destined to be an eternal king, watching generations be born and die. Yet that did not imply a life of emotional solitude. The idea of a formal marriage—a queen by his side to share eternity—was not repellent. It was merely… postponed. Eternity was too long to bind oneself to a single commitment too early. He was a man, at heart, with desires and appetites of a man, imprisoned in the perennial body of a god. And the world was full of fascinating beauties, of women of strong and singular spirit who might cross his path over the centuries. To take one for himself, when whim or heart dictated, seemed to him an inevitable and pleasurable chapter in the infinite book of his life. For now, Lyra and her overwhelming simplicity were sufficient. The future would bring other seasons, and other flowers for a gardener who had all the time in the world to gather them.
"The council awaits," said Lyra, finally rising with a theatrical sigh. "And I'm almost certain you promised to inspect those new ships today."
"Let the council stew in their own anxieties for another hour," Theon retorted, lying back in bed with his hands behind his head, a mischievous grin on his face. "A little worry is good for their discipline. As for the ships… well, they won't go anywhere without my runes, will they?"
"You are insufferable," she laughed, donning her robe. "A king who treats his realm like a toy."
"It's the only way not to go mad, my dear," he replied, following her movements with his gaze. "Take life too seriously, and it will consume you. Now, about that tea…"
II – THE WEIGHT OF YEARS AND THE UNCHANGING KING (POV GENERAL)
Nearly thirty years have passed since the Treaty of the Neck, since the roar of dragons was silenced by the absolute ice of Theon Stark. Three decades that, to the North, were a rebirth—and to the South, a long and slow autumn after the failed summer of the Conquest.
In King's Landing, Aegon Targaryen, once "the Conqueror," now bore the burden of his reign not as a crown but as an iron yoke. His hair, once a silvery metal, was now pure white as the snow of the North he never could subdue. His face, once marked by indomitable ambition, was now furrowed with deep wrinkles telling of a bitter defeat and an empire-dream that perished beneath a storm of ice. The epithet "the Tamed" was never spoken in his presence, but it was whispered in the courtyards of the Red Keep, in the brothels of King's Landing, and the dark taverns of Oldtown. His eldest son, Aenys—a gentle soul with frail body who had inherited his mother's constitution—now saw his own children, small and restless, running through the castle halls. Maegor, the second son, was now a grown man—a warrior of fierce constitution and even darker temperament—whose mere presence instilled a different kind of fear: not the reverential fear of a king, but the instinctive dread of a caged beast. The great dragon Balerion, the Black Terror, still lived, but his appearances in the skies were ever rarer, like an ancient god that had forsaken its people. The Conquest was frozen at the Neck's borders, and the Iron Throne, weighed under an aging king and problematic heirs, creaked with growing instability.
In the North, time's passage was equally visible, but of a radically different nature. It was not the wear of defeat, but the solemn passing of generations—a relay passed with hope and purpose. Thoren Stark, the Old Wolf, had passed ten years ago, his bones resting in the dark, cold crypts beneath Winterfell beside the kings of old. Succession, however, did not fall to Theon. The role of Lord of Winterfell—administering the lands, dispensing day to day justice, hearing the grievances of vassals—fell instead to Brandon Stark, his younger brother (he governs the lands around Winterfell and the castle itself while the MC cares for more important things than spending his day resolving a dispute over a chicken). Brandon had once been the presumptive heir in a normal timeline; now he served as Hand of the King—the mortal right arm of an immortal monarch. He was a man in his fifties, his dark hair generously streaked with silver, his face marked not by famine or war—thanks to his brother—but by fine lines of responsibility and constant worry. His son, another Edderion, was already grown, learning the ways of governance under his father's and uncle's watchful eyes.
Brandon, with the typical pragmatic Stark coldness, understood his place perfectly. He did not covet his brother's ice crown; he feared it and respected the power it represented. And in a display of trust and brilliant strategy, Theon had granted Brandon command of the Neck. The ancient fortress-ruin was rebuilt not with ordinary wood and stone, but with chiseled runic stone, becoming an imposing and nearly indestructible sentinel at the Neck—the "Sword of the North" permanently pointed at the throat of any invader daring to challenge the sealed borders. Brandon Stark was thus both Hand of the King and Lord of the Neck—a guardian of the southern border, a man whose authority was derived, but immense.
Lord Wyman Manderly—the first of his name to have witnessed the miracle of runes—rested now at the bottom of the sea he had always loved, succeeded by a son who inherited not only the domain and the growing fleet, but also an unshakable and almost religious loyalty to the King who Transformed Winter. The old bears, wolves, and giants who once marched with Theon in the campaigns against Aegon—men like the aged Lord Umber—were now graying and respected figures in their own strongholds, telling tales of epic battles and times of famine to grandchildren who could hardly believe winter had ever been a terror to fear. For this new generation, winter was a season of gentle snow and full granaries, thanks to the King of Ice's runes.
And at the center of it all, motionless like the bedrock of the world, stood Theon Stark. He had not aged a single day since the Ice Crown touched his brow thirty years before. He remained the appearance of a man in his twenties at the height of vigor—hair black as a starless winter night, skin without a trace of wrinkle, body retaining the vitality and form of a young warrior. His clear eyes, however, bore the weight of every one of those thirty years and more—a wisdom ancient and an icy humor that never dissipated. The contrast was shocking to all, but especially to Brandon. Seeing his younger brother age naturally at his side—hair whitening, steps becoming more measured—only reinforced the supernatural and terrifying nature of Theon.
The awe he inspired had become something deep, ingrained, nearly religious. The Northerners loved him with fanatic devotion for the unprecedented prosperity and security he provided. Yet a whisper of reverential fear always followed: "The Ice King is not a man. He is Winter made flesh. He made a pact with the stones themselves." Time's passage—the great equalizer that renders all men equal before death—did not touch him. And that immutability, more than any army, dragon, or miraculous rune, solidified his power and isolated his soul. He was a living statue at the heart of a kingdom that changed and aged around him—a king who would rule forever, witnessing the future unfurl like an infinite scroll before his eternally young eyes.
III – THE PORT OF WONDERS AND THE BLACK GUARD (POV THEON)
Activity at the Winter Port—the new colossal fortified harbor of White Harbor—was a frenzy of ordered creation, a giant ant farm where every insect knew its role. Theon observed from an elevated observation dock, a solitary figure immobile against the low, gray sky of the North. From his vantage, he had a panoramic view of the fleet slowly taking shape—a fleet that defied logic and nature. Special shipyards, shielded from curious eyes by high walls adorned with runes of Obfuscation that confused the mind, sheltered the skeletal hulls of the vessels. These were not made of mere oak reinforced with iron. They were interwoven with filaments of chiseled runic stone—a black magmatic rock found only in the depths of the Moon Mountains—which, when fused with high-quality steel and energized by runes of Fortification carved with laser precision, made the hull harder and more resilient than diamond. The sails, woven on a gigantic loom under the direct supervision of Theon's finest artisans, were not of ordinary linen. They were made of a fiber white as snow, extracted from a species of ice flower that bloomed only under direct rune-light, and upon them were embroidered Runes of Favoring Wind with pure silver threads, capable of capturing even the gentlest whisper of breeze and transforming it into a powerful and constant thrust.
Around him, working with a concentration so silent it was almost religious, were his Rune-Formers. Numberin a hundred men and women recruited from the remotest valleys and highest mountains of the North, Theon had sensed the faintest glimmer of magical sensitivity in them—a spark so weak it would have extinguished elsewhere, relegating them to lives as farmers, fishermen, or soldiers. He awakened them, nourished their talent with knowledge, and instructed them in the dangerous, complex paths of High Rune Art. They were not sorcerers in the traditional sense of casting fireballs; they were elite artisans, channeling the power Theon bestowed through intricate and absolute magical contracts. The contracts were sealed not by ink and parchment, but with a drop of his blood and a drop of the apprentice's—an spiritual bond that transcended flesh and bone. Betrayal was both a physical and metaphysical impossibility. A break of faith—or the thought of conspiracy—would not only kill instantly but dissolve the soul itself in the magical fabric that sustained the North, an eternal and absolute annihilation. Yet their loyalty was not primarily born of fear, but of something almost religious. They were the priests and architects of the new dawn, builders of a miracle their grandparents never dared dream.
"Master Theon!" The voice was youthful and full of contained energy. Kaela, one of the most promising Formers, her slender fingers stained with charcoal and stone dust, held a heavy slate plate with a pulsating, complex rune diagram. "The Negative Sinking Rune for the keel… has finally stabilized! We tested it at small scale. The ship cannot be sunk by conventional means. The water seems to… reject it. It's as if the sea fears the hull."
Theon studied the precise traces of the symbol for a long moment, his face impassive. Then, to the young woman's surprise, he not only nodded. His eyes flickered with a spark of irreverence that time and responsibility had failed to extinguish. He reached out and, with a surprisingly paternal gesture, stroked Kaela's rebellious hair like one would with a child who had presented a proud drawing.
"My little spark," he said, his voice laden with a playful affection rarely shown in public. "I remember the day you arrived here, trembling like a green twig, barely able to make a heating stone glow. And now look at you. You are taming the deepest currents of the sea, making water dance at your command. Excellent work. Keep at this, and your name will not only be remembered—it will be carved in the very pillars of chiseled stone in this new world we are building."
Kaela blushed deeply, a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and overflowing pride in her young eyes. The unexpected gesture from the king-wizard—so distant from his usual solemnity and aura of intimidating power—was a reward greater than any title or wealth. It was human recognition.
"It was you who showed me the path, Your Grace," she stammered, averting her gaze.
"I showed the path, but it was you who dared to walk it," he gently corrected, the smile still at his lips. "One day, when these hands of mine are… well, probably still exactly as they are, but anyway… it will be your students who build the wonders of the North." His smile became a bit more ironic. "Now, we mustn't let that power go to your head, eh? The last Former who tried that attempted to make a ship fly. We're still collecting the planks scattered across the hills."
Kaela laughed, the nervousness dissipating. "No, Your Grace. I promise to keep both my feet—and my ships—on the ground. Or in the water."
Pleased, Theon then turned, his expression returning to the focused seriousness of a general inspecting his troops. His gaze found that of the chief master builder, a robust man with a sun-scorched face and calloused hands named Harral.
"And you, old friend?" Theon asked, walking toward one of the nearly completed hulls. "Are the runic sails behaving? Or are they still of their own will?"
Harral spat onto the wet stone floor—a gesture that would make any other lord shrink with indignation, but which Theon merely observed with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. The man was an irascible genius, and Theon valued competence above etiquette.
"Those damned things are worse than a stubborn wife after a fight, Your Grace," the master builder grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. "One moment they catch a wind no dead cat would feel, propelling the ship like an arrow. The next, they stand stock still, even with a gale howling. I don't trust them."
"Perhaps you need to be gentler with them, Harral," Theon suggested, the corners of his mouth curving upward. "Words and flowers. Have you ever tried singing a lullaby? They say the wind adores melody."
"Singing?" Harral exploded, his face reddening. "Your Grace, with all due respect, I'd rather beat them with a hammer! Works better on warped wood and stubborn iron."
Theon laughed—a genuine sound that echoed across the dock and made some workers glance over in surprise.
"Always the subtle approach, my old friend. But that's why I trust you. You don't treat these wonders as magic. You treat them as work. And that's what we need." He tapped the hull of the ship with his knuckles, producing a metallic sound. "Solidity. Reliability. Magic is just seasoning."
After exchanging a few more words with the master artisans, Theon finally turned and strode toward an isolated pavilion in the farthest, most guarded corner of the port. It was a low, broad structure built of treated black leather and supported by dark steel frames—guarded by shadows that seemed to thicken and writhe against the walls—a visible side effect of the powerful runes of Protection and Illusion that circled it. The atmosphere changed instantly upon crossing the entrance. The cold sea air became static and icy, heavy with the scent of ozone and the dry metallic odor of contained magical power. The sounds of the port—hammers, voices, waves—faded completely, replaced by an absolute and oppressive silence.
Inside, ten figures awaited in perfect and absolute silence, arranged in two immaculate rows of five. They did not move a muscle when he entered, but their eyes—all a pale, luminous gray like the sky just before a snowstorm—followed him in unison. They were his most secret creation: the embryos of his Black Guard.
Men and women chosen not for noble lineage or brute martial ability, but for their tested, absolute devotion to the North and House Stark. They had endured physical and mental trials that would break the strongest spirits, and undergone arcane rituals that fused runes of power directly into their flesh, bone, and spirit. Intricate blue-silver markings—alive in pattern like branches of an ancient frostvine—gleamed beneath the bare skin of their arms, torsos, and faces, pulsating with soft inner light. Alchemical potions distilled from impossible ingredients—blood of Forest Creatures, Giant tears, and the primal essence of Eternal Ice harvested at the heart of the longest winter—had sharpened their senses to superhuman extremes. They could hear a whisper at a mile's distance, see in the deepest darkness as if it were high noon, smell lies in a man's sweat. Their strength was monstrous—able to crack steel helms with a single blow—and their speed a blur capable of dodging an arrow volley before the archer released the string.
Theon had released basic, safe runes of fortification to the lords of the North—runes that made an ordinary soldier as strong and resilient as two good men. It was a gesture of generous power, yes, but also one of absolute control. Because the Eye-of-Ice Runes that watched the boundaries of the North monitored not only external threats. Every lord, every captain who possessed a rune gifted by Theon was unconsciously linked into that surveillance network. Theon could sense the intention behind each rune's use. Boundless ambition, betrayal in gestation—they would be felt long before acted upon. He had given powerful tools to his vassals, but reserved the true weapons of god for himself and these few chosen. The runes he etched into the very flesh of the Black Guard were of an entirely different order—so superior to those distributed as a dragon is superior to a hunting dog.
He walked slowly among the ranks, his presence shifting from the light, almost playful tone he had displayed at the port to the deep, icy solemnity that was the essence of the Ice King.
"They say an army marches on its stomach," his voice rang clear and cutting in the confined space—without echo, as if the sound were absorbed by the darkness itself. "But you are not an army. You are the will of the North given form. You are the final argument where words and convenient runes fail."
He halted before a warrior whose arms were a living mosaic of silver runes. Her face was impassive, yet her gray eyes burned with cold intensity.
"Soren. How is your night vision? Do the ghosts of darkness still try to confuse you?"
"I can count the hairs on a rat's tail two hundred paces away in the deepest blackness, Your Grace," came the immediate, emotionless reply. "The ghosts have dissipated. I see only the truth of that which is."
"Excellent," Theon nodded, a faint sign of approval. "Clarity is everything." He moved to the next, a man of immense stature whose runes seemed to pulse in sync with his heartbeat. "And you, Kaelen. Do you still hear the call of the sea? The sirens' song in your mind?"
The warrior pointed out maintained the same unflinching expression as granite.
"The sounds of the outside world do not perturb me, Your Grace. I hear them, but I do not listen. My mind is a silent fortress. The only song that matters is that of the North."
Theon made an almost imperceptible gesture of satisfaction.
"The world out there will try to distract you—with fear, doubt, empty promises of glory or wealth. But you are beyond that. You are certainty. The final and nonnegotiable answer." He stepped back, surveying the group as a whole, his gaze lingering on each impassive face. "Today begins the true work. Not of building, but of perfection. Of synchronization. You are the ten notes of one song. And that song will be the sound of the end to anyone who threatens the peace we have built."
Without an audible command, the ten warriors—as though they were a single entity with twenty legs and twenty arms—knelt. The movement was so perfect and silent it was terrifying. It was not the gesture of a soldier toward a commander, but the deep, silent, and absolute reverence of a devotee to a deity. There was no sound, only the subtle whisper of air against their dark, fitted garments.
Theon watched them for a long moment, deep, frosty satisfaction filling him. It was not the love of a father for his children, for he would never have them. It was the satisfaction of a master craftsman for his final masterpiece. The magical fleet would be the North's unsinkable shield against the seas. The Black Guard would be the indestructible sword in his hand, capable of cutting through any threat. And he, Theon Stark, the Ice King—immune to time's passage—would witness centuries and millennia unfold, weaving the destiny of the North with the infinite patience of frost itself. Winter might come for the rest of the world, bringing famine, despair, and darkness, but for his realm it would always—and only—be a season of absolute power, unending prosperity, and icy beauty. The song of Winter, a symphony of ice, steel, and unbreakable will, had only begun its first and eternal note.