I - THE THEATER OF KNOWLEDGE
The evening light bathed the royal solar of Winterfell in golden hues when the door opened silently. Theon Stark didn't need to turn to know who entered – the energetic signature was as familiar as his own breath. Alys slid into the room, her high-heeled shoes making a peculiarly modern sound against the castle's ancient stones.
She wore a dark gray tailored suit that looked absurdly out of place in Westeros, but which Theon instantly recognized as 21st-century corporate attire. To Alys, it was simply "comfortable work clothes," just another of the many eccentricities her king accepted without question.
Before she could speak, Theon was already spinning in his chair, a smile on his lips. "Twenty barrels of the Reach's most expensive wine, thirty wheels of cheese that melt in your mouth, and enough silk to dress all the maidens of Winterfell," he enumerated, counting on his fingers. "Lord Tyrell truly thinks we can be bought with treats?"
Alys stopped, her lips slightly parted. "How did you...?"
He always does this... knows everything before I open my mouth... why do I even bother preparing reports? Her thought echoed in Theon's mind with crystalline clarity.
"Because you love the ritual, my dear," Theon answered aloud, making her blush. "And I love watching you perform your part." His fingers touched the silk tie she wore. "And today you are especially... executive. I almost feel like I'm in a board meeting."
Alys's mind was an open book to him – a complex tapestry where Lyra's memories intertwined with her own more pragmatic personality. Theon felt the flow of thoughts accelerate: a mixture of affectionate exasperation, genuine concern for the kingdom's affairs, and that constant attraction they both pretended to ignore most of the time.
"Captain Velaryon is hydrophobic, you know?" Theon continued, walking towards her. "Trembles like a leaf whenever the sea gets rough. And Lord Tyrell spends more on jewels for his mistress in Oldtown than on this entire pretentious embassy."
Alys blushed more intensely. "It's... relevant commercial information, Your Grace."
"Of course it is," he laughed, pulling her gently closer. "Just as I am 'merely' admiring how precisely this outfit accentuates your curves." His hands slid over the synthetic jacket, feeling the familiar body beneath. "But let's talk about truly important things... like my birthday party. I must be what now? Two hundred years? Three hundred?"
Alys rolled her eyes, but an ironic smile played on her lips. "Sixty-two, Theon. Sixty-two years old, and you still act with the immaturity of a twenty-year-old."
"Mere details!" he laughed, guiding her towards the large oak table. "But what man of sixty-two possesses such vigor?" His hands found the zipper of the tailored suit, an invention he had explained countless times as "practical magic" from his previous world.
As the modern clothing opened, revealing the familiar skin beneath, Theon felt Lyra's memories blossoming in Alys's mind like flowers blooming. It was always like this when they touched – the mother's memories emerged more vividly, as if physical contact activated the spiritual legacy Lyra had left her.
I remember the first day I saw him, Alys's thought echoed, mingled with Lyra's memory. On the dusty road, defending the cart alone... he emerged from the shadows like a wolf...
Theon kissed her neck, whispering against her skin: "And you didn't flinch. Not even when I froze the blood in the raiders' veins."
Alys gasped, surprised. "How did you...?"
"Your mind is especially open today," he murmured, his hands tracing her back. "Lyra always said love was the key to true connection."
What followed was an intimate dance that transcended the physical – Theon was not just making love to Alys, but to the complete spectrum of her existence: the practical, efficient woman she was, and the essence of Lyra that dwelled within her. He responded to unverbalized thoughts, anticipated unexpressed desires, and at one point, stopped to look deeply into her eyes.
"She didn't want me to be alone," Theon whispered, referring to Lyra. "But she insisted that you be unique, not a copy."
Alys touched his face, her green eyes serious. "And I am. But I carry what she considered most important: the truth about who you are behind the crown."
Later, as they lay entwined among the bear pelts, Alys asked what she always asked in these moments: "Where do these clothes I wear really come from? Why do I sometimes feel I must wear things I don't even understand?"
Theon stroked her auburn hair, darker than Lyra's, but with the same fiery highlights. "From a place where people believe they've mastered the world, but can't even control their own weather," he replied enigmatically. "I consider it a small irony that the King of Ice's steward wears uniforms from a world that would die in the first true winter."
II - THE DRAGON AND THE DEAD SNAKE
While Theon and Alys shared moments of intimacy in Winterfell, the air in King's Landing was heavy with the smell of death and the smoky odor of religious conflict. In Queen Visenya Targaryen's chambers, the sweet scent of wilted flowers mixed with the acrid stench of infection and despair.
Maegor Targaryen, a mountain of muscle and scars, watched his dying mother with poorly disguised impatience. His fists, capable of crushing skulls with ease, clenched and unclenched rhythmically as he listened to the hoarse whisper of the woman who bore him.
"These fanatics... need to be crushed..." Maegor growled, more to himself than to his mother. His eyes kept turning to the window, where columns of smoke rose from different parts of the city. "While I waste time here, the High Septon fills the people's heads with poison."
Visenya opened her eyes, gasping. Each word seemed to require a superhuman effort. "The Faith... is a present problem... but the North..." Her skeletal hand tried to grasp his arm. "Theon Stark... is the real danger..."
Maegor made a brusque gesture of irritation. "Theon Stark has been locked in his icy kingdom for decades, Mother. These fanatics are at the very gates of the Red Keep!" He approached the window, watching a particularly dense column of smoke rise from the district of the Dragonpit. "I need to deal with the serpents in my own garden before worrying about distant wolves."
"You... don't understand..." Visenya coughed, the effort leaving her face even paler. "The Faith can be... controlled... negotiated... but the King of Ice..."
Maegor turned sharply, his red cloak swirling with the movement. "Controlled? They call Aenys a heretic! They say our dragons are demons! Meanwhile, the North lives in peace and prosperity that make our efforts look like child's play." His eyes narrowed. "But you are right about one thing – I cannot march North with this fanatical plague at my back."
At that moment, a captain entered the chamber, covered in soot and blood. "Your Grace! The Faithful have attacked the wildfire caches near the Spider's Port again! We lost twenty men."
Maegor cursed, striking a nearby table with such force that the wood cracked. "You see, Mother? While I worry about Northern ghosts, these vermin threaten to burn my capital." He turned to the captain. "Triple the guard on the wildfire stores. And tell my captains I want the High Septon alive – I want him to see what happens to those who challenge dragons."
Visenya tried to sit up in bed, her face contorted with effort. "Maegor... listen to me... when I am gone... do not be... hasty..." Her eyes, still as sharp as the blades she had forged, fixed on her son with supernatural intensity. "Your father... faced him... it was not a battle... it was a lesson in humility..."
But Maegor was already at the door, his mind clearly occupied with immediate problems. "Rest, Mother. I have a rebellion to crush."
In the days that followed, as Visenya wasted away in her bed, Maegor dedicated himself with singular fury to the destruction of the Faith Militant. His troops swept through the city districts like a hurricane of steel and fire, dragging militant septons from their hiding places. Sept of Remembrance was besieged, and the sound of fighting echoed day and night through the streets of King's Landing.
When Visenya finally passed away on her deathbed, Maegor was on the battlefield, personally leading the assault on the last stronghold of the Faithful. The news of the Queen Mother's death reached him covered in blood and grime.
"She is gone," the messenger announced, trembling before the bloodied figure of the prince.
Maegor rose over the body of a Knight of the Faith he had just killed, his black armor spattered with blood that looked almost ornamental against the dark metal. "Then the path is clear," he murmured, more to himself. His mind already leaped from the current conflict to the future – with the Faith Militant almost defeated, nothing else prevented him from turning his attention to the real prize.
"Finish this," he ordered his captains, pointing to the last defenders of the sept. "I want this city pacified within a week. There is a northern kingdom that needs to be reminded of dragon power."
As his men ran to carry out his orders, Maegor looked north, his eyes burning with new determination. The Red Keep was almost complete – its imposing towers rose like bony fingers pointing to the sky, a symbol of Targaryen power that now dominated King's Landing uncontested.
The Faith Rebellion had been an irritating, but temporary, obstacle. Now, with the throne secure and his authority unchallenged, he could finally do what his father had never had the courage to do.
Winter may have waited, but fire was about to call it to dance.
III - EMISSARIES IN A LAND OF WONDERS
The news of the two southern parties reached Theon almost simultaneously, as he had expected. Through the vision runes scattered along the borders, he watched Lord Tyrell approaching through the Neck and Lord Velaryon anchoring at White Harbor. The "coincidence" was so obvious it was almost insulting.
"Seems the southerners have finally discovered that the North exists," Theon commented to Alys, watching the runic images showing the two groups approaching. "Two rats sniffing the same piece of cheese, each thinking they're smarter than the other."
When Lord Tyrell was led into Winterfell after days of journey through the Neck, his retinue was visibly shaken by the surreal landscape they encountered. The southerners had expected an impoverished, backward kingdom, but found fields fertile in winter, roads as smooth as the halls of Highgarden, and common folk who seemed more prosperous than many minor lords of the South.
"Your Grace," Tyrell greeted, bowing deeply when finally brought before Theon in the Great Hall. "I bring gifts and trade proposals from the Reach. Our granaries overflow, but we lack certain... exclusive Northern products."
Theon, sitting casually on the Winter Throne without his royal insignia, sipped his wine slowly. Meanwhile, he read the man's mind like an open book.
He looks so young... but must be a grandson or great-grandson... perhaps a well-preserved bastard... thought Tyrell, while saying aloud: "We have the finest wines in Westeros, Your Grace!"
"Northern products?" Theon repeated, feigning interest. "And what products would those be? Snow? Ice? Shivers down the spine?" His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Or would it happen to be... runes?"
Tyrell forced a smile. How did he guess? Does he have powers? Absurd! "They say your runes produce wonders, Your Grace. And that your people know no famine even in the harshest winters."
"Ah, yes, the runes," Theon said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "They are quite useful. Especially for knowing when someone is lying." He leaned forward. "For example, I know you're thinking I'm too young to be the real Theon Stark. And that you brought these gifts not for trade, but to assess our defenses."
Tyrell visibly paled. "Your Grace, I never..."
Gods, he reads minds! He's a demon! the man's thought echoed in Theon's mind with crystalline clarity.
"Demon? How rude," Theon laughed. "I prefer 'sorcerer', if you don't mind. Sounds more... professional." He raised his glass in an ironic toast. "And as for your trade offer, I must decline. I have cellars that can preserve wines for centuries, and as for fabrics..." He touched his own simple tunic. "I prefer comfort to ostentation."
Days later, when Lord Velaryon arrived at Winterfell by a different route, his eyes were still wide from the impressive fleet he had seen at White Harbor. Velaryon's mind was more subtle than Tyrell's, but equally transparent to Theon.
"Your Grace," Velaryon greeted, his curiosity temporarily overcoming fear. "Your navy... is like nothing I have ever seen. Ships that defy the fiercest storms. We would like to discuss a commercial partnership."
Theon observed the man, amused by the thoughts bubbling in his mind. Ships that seem made of stone... sails that glow... but the king must be dead... this must be a regent...
"Commercial partnership?" Theon repeated, walking towards Velaryon. "You mean: 'Let's discover your naval secrets and then destroy your fleet'?"
Seven Gods, he knows exactly what I'm thinking! Velaryon's thought shot out like an alarm.
"Something like that," Theon confirmed, stopping before the two southern lords. "You both came here with the same mission: to discover if the Old King of Ice has finally died." He looked from one to the other. "And now you find yourselves in an embarrassing situation, because not only am I alive, but I can hear every poisonous thought crossing your minds."
It was then that the transformation occurred. Theon stood and the air above his head began to shimmer. Water from the atmosphere froze instantly, forming the Crown of Ice – intricate crystals interlaced with shards of obsidian that shone like black stars. The crown descended slowly, as if guided by invisible hands, and settled upon his head.
The temperature in the room dropped sharply. The two lords recoiled, their faces pale with genuine terror.
"You know," Theon said conversationally, as if they were at a dinner party, "it's funny. You came here looking for a decrepit old king, someone who should have died decades ago." He walked towards them, each step causing frost to form on the stone floor. "And now you find... this."
Tyrell stammered: "We merely... wished to honor the great King in the North..."
"Of course you did," Theon interrupted softly. "Just as I am 'merely' honoring your visit by showing how my runes can freeze the blood in a man's veins in ten paces." His eyes fixed on them, and for a moment, both lords felt a mortal cold run through their bodies. "Return to the South. Tell your king that the North is not interested in his games. And if he insists on visiting..." Theon smiled, and it was the most frightening expression either of them had ever seen. "...tell him to bring a coat. It gets cold when I'm annoyed."
IV - THE DRAGON ON THE IRON THRONE
As the southern emissaries fled the North with tales of terror, in King's Landing Maegor finally sat upon the Iron Throne without the shadow of the Faith Militant rebellion. The Red Keep was complete – its imposing towers rose like a challenge to the world, its magnificent halls echoed with the footsteps of courtiers, its dungeons were full of septons who had dared to challenge Targaryen power.
The sound of hammers still echoed in some wings, but the throne was finally secure. Maegor walked through the empty halls, his black armor reflecting the torch flames as if he himself were on fire. He stopped before the great map of Westeros painted on the floor of the main hall – a work of art showing the Seven Kingdoms in meticulous detail.
His eyes fixed on the North – that stubborn white blotch that had resisted his father, that had resisted him during all these years of internal conflict. While he fought religious fanatics and consolidated his power, the North prospered in isolationist peace.
"Everyone says he must be dead," Maegor whispered to the shadows dancing on the walls. "A man cannot defy time for so long. Must be a grandson or an impostor."
But something in his instinct said otherwise. The stories the spies brought – of a prosperous North, of impossible technologies, of a people who feared no winter – all smelled of magic, not decline. And magic, Maegor knew, was the only thing that could truly challenge dragon power.
Maegor sat on the Iron Throne, feeling the sharp blades lightly cut his clothes. The discomfort was a constant reminder of the power he now held unchallenged. From his elevated position, he could see through the high windows facing north.
"My father was afraid," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the empty hall. "My mother was afraid. But I..." His hand closed around the hilt of Blackfyre, the legendary sword that now belonged to him. "...I am only hungry."
He called his captains, who came running like well-trained dogs. "Prepare Balerion. And prepare the army. Every man capable of wielding a sword. Every archer who can draw a bow."
As the messengers ran to carry out his orders, Maegor looked north through the throne room windows. The Faith Rebellion was crushed. The Red Keep was complete. The kingdom was finally unified under his command.
Now, only one blotch on the map remained to be cleansed. A white, cold blotch that his father had never been able to erase.
"Let us finish what you started, Father," whispered Maegor, his eyes burning with fatal determination. "This time, fire will defeat winter."
V - A VERY BAD DAY FOR A WAR
Theon was just explaining the absurd origins of the "microwave" – a concept he was trying to describe as "a magic oven that heats food in seconds" – when the first runic alarm echoed in his mind. It wasn't an audible sound, but a vibration that ran through his being, an alert only he could feel.
Alys noticed the instant change in his expression. "Theon?"
More alarms sounded, each more urgent than the last. Theon moved away from her and went to the table where a runic map of the North glowed softly. Red dots pulsed along the Neck – many dots, forming a red stain approaching the northern border.
"Seems the dragon whelp has finally decided to visit," said Theon, his voice dangerously calm. "He's at the Neck – still far from the heart of the North, but with bad intentions."
Alys wrapped herself in a blanket, approaching to see the map. "Maegor? But the reports said he was still busy with the last pockets of the Faith Militant..."
"Must have finished the game earlier than expected," Theon replied, dressing with precise, economical movements. "And he brought the family pet lizard with him."
It was then that a distant roar echoed through the mountains in the neck and despite the distance it reached his ears even though only he heard it at that distance– a sound so deep it seemed to come from the earth itself. Balerion. The Black Dread. The sound was clearly coming from the south, still distant, but unmistakable to anyone who had heard it before.
Theon let out a dry laugh as he adjusted his runic armor. "I remember telling Aegon, on that cold morning at the Neck: 'Find me on a good day, and I might let you return alive to King's Landing'." His eyes narrowed, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. "Poor Maegor... chose the worst possible day."
Alys approached, concerned. "The Neck is weeks of march from here. We have time to prepare."
"Time?" Theon turned to her, and for the first time in decades, she saw genuine irritation in his eyes. Not fear, not worry – but the contained fury of a god whose amusement has been interrupted. "My fun has been interrupted. My moment with you was cut short by the foolish ambition of a Targaryen who doesn't learn from his father's mistakes."
He walked to the balcony and raised his hands. Immediately, runes throughout the North began to glow with an intense blue light. In White Harbor, the warships began to move by themselves, their runic sails capturing nonexistent winds. At Moat Cailin, the defenses activated, and runic stones began to pulse with accumulated energy. From Winterfell to the Last Hearth, lords Stark, Umber, Manderly, and Bolton felt a chill run down their spines – the call of the King of Ice.
Theon turned to Alys, his expression now serious and regal. "Send ravens to all the Northern lords. Summon the Black Guard to the Neck. Wake the Rune-Shapers in White Harbor." His eyes glowed with supernatural blue light. "And tell Brandon Stark at Moat Cailin to receive our 'guest' – but not too warmly."
As he left the chambers, the temperature in the corridor dropped abruptly. Frost formed on the south-facing windows, and the air became so cold that Alys's breath formed crystals before her face.
Outside, Balerion's roar echoed again, even more distant, clearly coming from the direction of the Neck. Theon stopped on the steps of the Great Hall, his Crown of Ice forming on his head with a sound of cracking ice.
"You wanted a kingdom, Maegor?" he whispered to the southern wind that now carried the distant smell of smoke and dragon. "Then come and claim it at the Neck. But bring a coat – it's always colder when I'm irritated."
And at Moat Cailin, Brandon Stark was already watching through runic spyglasses the columns of smoke rising to the south, while the largest army Westeros had ever seen began to snake through the mountains towards the North. The sound of Balerion roaring in the mountains echoed like a warning – and a promise that this time, the confrontation between fire and ice would be final.
Theon descended the steps with determined strides, his guards lining up behind him. A dangerous smile crossed his lips. Alys watched from above, and for a moment, she saw not only the man she loved, but the King of Ice who haunted Southern tales – a force of nature about to remind the world why winter must be feared.