PART 1: DAWN AT WINTERFELL
The sun was already peeking through the curtains of the royal suite's bedroom window, but the immortal king and queen hadn't stopped their activities since last night. The sound of clapping echoed off the stone walls of the room for hours, continuously, along with the moans of the queen of the kingdom. But here there were no kings and queens, only men and women, husband and wife. Theon was behind Gael, kneeling on the bed. He kept her on her knees as well, but with his upper body, pressed hard against his chest. His right hand was around her throat, while his left alternated between her breasts and clitoris. He wasn't thrusting into her quickly, but with strength and control. Here Gael was once again closer to the princess who was once the great queen of the north, dragon rider. Feared, but rather the submissive princess Theon molded into a queen, but in bed, he preferred the princess. After one last strong and powerful penetration, Theon releases his seed into his wife's womb in an obscene amount that quickly fills her and the cum leaks through her slit even though she is filled with his member. He releases her and she collapses on the bed where now, with nothing to interfere, the rest of his creamy and expressed load comes out between her legs.
The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the royal suite, illuminating the chambers where the royal couple completed their morning preparations. Theon adjusted the silver clasp on his cloak while watching Gael finish combing her silver hair. One last look of mutual understanding was exchanged before they opened the doors to the new day.
In the corridor, Lily waited with her characteristic posture. The years had been exceptionally kind to the steward - her red hair shone with almost supernatural intensity, framing a face of perfect features and green eyes that seemed to see through souls. Her body maintained curves that defied the passage of time, dressed with discreet elegance under her steward's dress.
"Your Graces," she greeted with a perfect nod of her head. "Breakfast is served in the Great Hall. Cregan and his mother already await."
Upon entering the hall, they found Cregan Stark now eighteen years old - a man grown by the North's standards. His posture recalled Theon's determination in his youth, though his eyes carried the shadow of recent turmoil. Beside him, Cregan's mother now showed graying hair and a face marked by time, silently witnessing the weight of years.
During the meal, conversation turned to the recent tragedy involving Bernard Stark.
"The Wildlings showed little mercy," Cregan commented between sips of mead. "Uncle Bernard was foolish to try negotiating with them without adequate protection."
His mother added in a soft voice: "And more foolish still to seek the Umbers' support against our king. Some lessons are learned with blood."
Theon observed the two in silence, his eyes analyzing every nuance of the conversation. "Bernard chose his path. The North does not tolerate treason, even when it comes from Stark blood."
After breakfast, Lily accompanied Theon to the godswood. Under the ancestral weirwood, two men waited - Lords Ryswell and Dustin, their faces marked by apprehension.
"Your Grace," Lord Ryswell began, his voice slightly trembling. "We come to explain about... our kin's participation in the unfortunate incident with Bernard."
The cold wind stirred the red branches of the weirwood as the men prepared for the accounting that could determine their houses' fates.
PART 2: THE WEDDING AND THE CANAL
The year 126 AC saw the North flourishing under the reign of Theon Stark, while winds from the south brought news of a royal court on the brink of collapse. King Viserys I's health was visibly deteriorating, and anyone with minimal political perception felt that a civil war was inevitable, awaiting only the monarch's last breath.
In contrast to the instability in the south, the North was preparing to celebrate. On the eighteenth nameday, Winterfell was dressed in the colors of winter and hope. Cregan Stark, now a man of eighteen years, was about to marry his childhood friend, Arra Norrey. The choice of a Norrey, one of the most important mountain clans, strengthened the bonds between the Starks of Winterfell and the clans of the North.
The ceremony took place in the godswood, under the bony branches of the weirwood. King Theon Stark himself officiated the ritual, his hands intertwining those of Cregan and Arra as he invoked the blessings of the Old Gods for the union. The king's presence at the wedding was not only an honor but a powerful affirmation that Cregan, now a man grown, was under the sovereign's direct protection.
The following morning, under a gray and icy sky, Cregan departed for the Moat Cailin. Despite the years, the fortress remained in perfect condition, a testament to continuous maintenance and the applied preservation runes. Now, Cregan would assume his post as Lord of the fortress, the guardian of the Neck.
Theon watched his departure from the high walls of Winterfell. As he saw the retinue disappear into the swamp mist, his mind, which carried memories of his century and a half of existence, began to ponder the future of those lands. The Moat Cailin was already a crucial food source for the North, with its rice cultivated in the vast flooded areas – a special variety that Captain Jack had brought from Yi Ti on his travels and which had adapted perfectly to the swamps of the Neck. But Theon saw beyond. The fortress could be much more than a food producer and a static defense.
His mind traveled to memories from another life, of a different time and place, where a brilliant idea repeatedly emerged in fanfiction stories he had read: a canal. A navigable canal that would cut through the Neck, connecting the Sunset Sea to the White Knife River of the North. The vision was powerful. Such a monumental work would transform the Moat Cailin from just a fortress into the commercial heart of the North, a trade center that would divert trade routes from King's Landing and the Free Cities, bringing unprecedented wealth and influence to his kingdom.
With the southern borders closed again after the spy fiasco, he cared little about the pretensions of the lords south of the Neck. The North's autonomy was his priority. Let the south destroy itself in its civil war; the North would build its own future.
"The decision is made," Theon murmured to himself, the words freezing in the cold air.
He turned and, with determined steps, headed to his rune-forgers. It was time to put the North's greatest artisans to work. The dream of a canal that challenged geography itself was about to become a real project, and runic magic would be the driving force for such a feat.
PART 3: THE CANAL OF THE NECK
The construction of the canal began with an efficiency that only the rune-forgers of the North, under King Theon's leadership, could achieve. Years of experience working with the king's runes had perfected their art, and they quickly understood the complex sequence of runes needed to make the ambitious project a reality.
Theon traveled personally to Moat Cailin, where he gathered his best engineers. In just a few days, they mapped the ideal route for the canal, a line that would cut through the Neck at its narrowest and most efficient point. Following this plan, Theon and his rune-forgers set to work.
They inscribed powerful runes onto large stone slabs, burying them at precise intervals along the demarcated route. Each stone was a point in a chain of power, prepared to function in unison. News of the enterprise spread, and on the day marked for activation, all the Lords of the North gathered on the walls of Moat Cailin, just a few hundred meters from where the canal would emerge.
King Theon Stark stood before them, his imposing figure against the swampy landscape.
"My lords," his voice echoed, clear and firm. "For too long, the Neck has been our only defense against Southern ambition. A barrier that protected us, but also isolated us. Today, we shall transform it! This canal will not merely be a feat of engineering; it will be the lifeblood of a new era for the North. It will ensure our complete autonomy, allowing our trade to flow between the seas without asking anyone's permission. The wealth it generates will strengthen our houses, our people, and our future. The North will no longer be defined by its limits, but by its ambition!"
Without further ceremony, Theon activated the master rune.
A deep, titanic roar erupted from the earth, a sound that seemed to come from the very bowels of the world. Where the ground had been marked, the earth simply disappeared. There was no collapse or excavation—a vast canyon forty meters wide and one hundred deep was instantly revealed, as if the earth had been erased by the king's will.
Sequentially, from within Moat Cailin towards the eastern and western ends, the buried runes glowed with a shimmering, bluish light. As each segment activated, the canal extended in a spectacle of impossible magical engineering. At the eastern end, where the canal met the White Knife River, special water-generation runes began to glow. From them, a powerful current of crystalline water gushed forth, filling the canal bed without lowering the level of the vital river at all.
The reaction among the Northern lords was one of pure awe. Some fell to their knees, others exclaimed in disbelief, their eyes reflecting the magnitude of what they were witnessing.
News of the "Miracle of the Neck" echoed far beyond the North's borders.
In King's Landing, King Viserys and the court heard the reports with disbelief. What the Winter King had done was inconceivable, defying all known laws. Anxiety about the North's growing power reached a new peak.
In the Reach and the Westerlands, Lords Tyrell and Lannister exchanged worried looks. The canal was not just a marvel; it was a declaration of power and economic independence. The world's trade routes were about to change, and their influence was set to diminish.
In Essos, the merchants and Magisters of Pentos, Myr, and Braavos were astounded. The initial anger over the naval humiliation in Myr quickly gave way to cold calculation. They immediately visualized the immense possibilities of a new trade route that would bypass the dangerous and slow voyages around Dorne. The lucrative possibilities outweighed wounded pride. The North, under the Winter King, was not just a land of fierce warriors, but a nascent economic and magical power, and they wanted a part of its prosperity.
PART 4: THE PRINCE'S MISSION (POV JACAERYS VELARYON - 129 AC)
The cold was a living entity in the North, a presence that sought to freeze even the fire in a dragon's heart. Jacaerys Velaryon felt its deadly embrace even through his heavy furs and the heat emanating from Vermax beneath him. His mission had taken him through the Vale, where Lady Jeyne Arryn had granted her support, and through Sisterton, where Lords Borrell and Sunderland had heard his pleas. But it was while flying over the Neck that he witnessed the true magnitude of the power he was facing: the Northern Canal, a gleaming, impossible scar of water cutting through the landscape, a monument to engineering and magic that defied the very world. It was tangible proof that the King he was coming to meet was no ordinary feudal lord, but a sovereign of near-divine capabilities.
His first stop in the North proper was at Moat Cailin. The fortress, far from being a ruin, stood imposing and well-kept, its towers a testament to constant maintenance and the preservation runes that sustained it. Yet, his reception was icy. Cregan Stark, now a man grown with the seriousness of the North carved into his face, received him with a chill that could extinguish flames.
"Moat Cailin is a fortress of the North, Prince Jacaerys," Cregan had said, dispensing with any Southern greetings or courtesies. "I am merely its lord. Any business you have with the North must be treated with the King, not with me. I do not speak for Winterfell."
The curt dismissal irritated Jacaerys. He was the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, and he was not used to being treated like an inconvenient messenger. The ironclad loyalty of the Northmen to their Immortal King was an obstacle his mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had underestimated. With no other choice, he left the Moat behind, flying towards the heart of the kingdom that, alone in Westeros, had never bowed to the power of King's Landing.
The farther north he flew, the more intense and personal the winter became. The cutting air seemed to try to steal the warmth from his body, and even Vermax's presence was cold comfort. When the twin towers of Winterfell finally appeared on the horizon, a vast fortress of stone and ancestral power, a shiver that had nothing to do with the weather ran down his spine. He was about to face the living legend, the man used as a bogeyman to scare misbehaving children in the South - the Immortal King of the North.
It was then that a colossal shadow loomed over him, blocking the pale winter sun. His first, terrifying thought was Vhagar, but the light reflected off scales of a luminous silver. Silverwing. The ancient mount of the Good Queen Alysanne. But the beast he saw was colossal, larger than any record he had ever studied; in his troubled mind, it rivaled Vhagar herself in size and presence. The she-dragon turned her majestic head, and one intelligent, ancient eye fixed upon Jacaerys and Vermax with an indifference more insulting than any aggression. Then, with a beat of her wings that echoed like mountain thunder, she turned away, diving towards the Wolfswood.
"I don't recall granting you permission to fly over my lands, Little Prince."
The voice came from behind him, calm, clear, and as cold as the heart of winter. Jacaerys turned so sharply in his saddle that Vermax growled, disturbed. There, hovering in the empty air as if standing on an invisible crystal platform, was the Winter King. Theon Stark wore simple clothes of gray wool and furs of a direwolf blacker than midnight. On his head, the Crown of Ice shone with an inner light, glittering cruelly. His eyes, however, were the most disturbing part: slivers of the deepest winter, fixed on Jacaerys with an intensity that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. The Crown Prince was completely speechless, his mind refusing to process the vision.
"Since you insist on invading my peace," Theon continued, his voice not changing in volume or tone, "I will receive you. Land in the main courtyard. Don't make your dragon snarl." Before Jacaerys could formulate a response, the king's figure seemed to dissolve, not like smoke, but like mist under the morning sun, disappearing completely from sight.
His heart pounding, Jacaerys guided Vermax into Winterfell's vast courtyard. As he dismounted, his legs trembling, a woman awaited him. Her beauty was so striking that, for a moment, it overshadowed even his residual fear. Hair red like living fire framed a face of perfect features, and her green eyes, the color of ancient summer forests, seemed to see every doubt and fear in his soul.
"I am Lily," she introduced herself, her voice a soft melody, but her posture one of absolute efficiency. "The King and Queen will receive you in the Great Hall. Please, follow me."
Entering the Great Hall was like stepping into another world. The air was even colder, laden with the weight of centuries. The first detail his eyes caught was not the thrones, but the wolf. The beast was black as a starless night and larger than the largest warhorse he had ever seen. Lying at the foot of the ice throne, it lifted its head, and its green, intelligent, predatory eyes assessed Jacaerys with a deeply unsettling understanding. This is not an animal, Jace thought, it is a lord of the court.
Then, and only then, did he raise his eyes to the thrones. On the carved ice one, Theon Stark. And beside him, on an elegantly carved weirwood throne, was a vision he knew only from family stories and portraits: his great-aunt, the Princess Gael Targaryen, now Queen in the North. Time seemed to have touched her gently, but transformed her profoundly. Her silver hair and violet eyes were the same, but they now emanated a serene and unshakable authority, a coldness in the depths of her gaze that echoed her husband's.
Regaining his breath and the posture of a prince, Jacaerys bowed respectfully. "Your Grace," he began, addressing Theon, but including Gael in his gaze. "I bring greetings from my mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, legitimate heir of King Viserys I, my grandfather." He explained the usurpation, the coronation of Aegon II, the betrayal of the Hightowers. "In this hour of injustice, we seek allies who honor the law and the word of a king."
Theon leaned forward slightly, his fingers interlaced. "And what does the North, which never knelt before the Iron Throne, have to do with the domestic squabble of the Targaryens?"
"My mother seeks to establish an alliance, just as your great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, sought in his time with the independent North," Jacaerys argued, feeling the cold of the hall like a blade against his skin.
"It was your grandfather, Viserys, who spat upon that possibility," Theon retorted, his voice like the grinding of ice under immense weight. "He allowed his court to fill with ambitious worms who thought they could steal my secrets. The North prospers alone, as it always has. Why would we drag ourselves into the mess you created in the South?"
Jacaerys, feeling the negotiation slipping into the abyss, made his final move. He raised the parchment with his mother's royal seal. "Therefore, by the authority granted to me, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, legitimate sovereign of the Six Kingdoms, summons her great-aunt, the Princess Gael Targaryen, Dragonrider, to fulfill her duty to her family and her Queen, and fight by our side!"
The change in the atmosphere was instantaneous and violent. A wave of deadly cold descended upon the hall, so intense that Jacaerys's breath froze into an icy blockage on his lips. The black direwolf at the foot of the throne rose in a single fluid movement, a low, deep, murderous growl reverberating from its chest and echoing off the stone walls like a harbinger of death. Theon Stark stood, and though he was not a tall man, his presence seemed to grow until it overshadowed the very hall.
"By what authority," the King's voice was now a whisper that cut Jacaerys's soul more deeply than any shout, "do you summon my wife? Who do you think you are to come to my home and give orders to the Queen in the North as if she were a common servant?"
Terror enveloped Jace. He was about to die. He could feel it.
It was then that Gael spoke. She rose with a quiet grace and placed a soft, but firm, hand on her husband's arm. "Theon, my love. Wait."
She turned to her great-nephew, and in her violet eyes he saw not weakness, but a profound sadness. "Jacaerys. You are young and see the world divided into blacks and greens, heirs and usurpers. But this war is a Targaryen folly, a fire you lit that now threatens to consume all Seven Kingdoms. The North has no place in it." She then looked at Theon, her expression a silent plea. "That said... I will not let everything my father, the Conciliator, built to bring peace to this realm be burned to ashes by Otto Hightower's greed and my nephew's stubbornness. This will be the last time. The last time the North will extend a hand to rescue the Targaryens from themselves."
Theon watched her for a long moment, his face an impenetrable mask of ice. The silence was so heavy that Jacaerys could hear the beating of his own heart. Finally, the Winter King nodded, a single, brief inclination of his head. "Very well." His deadly eyes returned to Jacaerys. "Your great-aunt will go. She will take Silverwing. And to ensure she is not bothered by... armies of tens of thousands... she will be accompanied by one hundred of my Black Guard and ten Giant warriors."
The mention of such a small number made Jacaerys temporarily forget his fear. "One hundred men? Your Grace, with all due respect, the Greens have the houses Hightower, Lannister, and Baratheon! Their armies number in the tens of thousands! We need armies, not an honor guard!"
For the first time, something resembling a cruel smile touched Theon's lips. "You misunderstand me, Little Prince. I said I am exaggerating out of caution. Twenty of my Black Guard would be enough to handle an army of tens of thousands. One hundred is to ensure my queen is not delayed by minor setbacks and can return home quickly."
As if in a perfectly rehearsed play, the great hall door opened and a man entered. He was the tallest and broadest man Jacaerys had ever seen, a colossus clad in enameled black armor, carrying an axe so large it seemed capable of knocking down a castle gate. He knelt with a creak of steel.
"Your Grace. The Black Guard awaits your orders." His voice was the sound of rocks grinding against each other.
Jacaerys stared at the man, his eyes wide. "This... this is one of your Giant warriors?"
Theon looked at him, and this time the amusement in his eyes was genuine and terrifying. "No, Prince Jacaerys. This is merely the captain of my Black Guard. The Giants are... much larger. They wouldn't fit through the door."
Understanding began to dawn in the young prince's mind, a cold and overwhelming truth. He looked at the direwolf, at the captain who was almost a giant, at the Immortal King whose power was measured not by the size of his armies, but by feats that defied reality itself. Perhaps, he thought with sudden, crushing humility, one hundred of those men was, indeed, an exaggeration. And for the first time, he began to understand not just the power, but the complete and absolute otherness of the North, and why no conqueror, not even Aegon the Dragon, with all his fire, had ever managed to master it.