A/N: Yeah, I made a mistake. I made the ages of Cregan, Jon, and Rhaeny younger in this fanfic, so I'm going to change that from now on:
Cregan 15, Rhaenys 17, Jon 13.5, Sansa 13, Arya 12, Rickard 11, Alaric 9 and Brandon 9(Benjen's Son), and Serena 3(Benjen's Daughter).
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The Sunset Sea was a vast, rolling expanse of dark grey water. The wind whipped across the deck of the Northern Carrack, carrying the bitter, biting cold that signaled they were finally nearing home.
Standing at the starboard rail, their cloaks pulled tight against the sea spray, were three figures on the verge of adulthood.
Cregan Stark, nearing his fifteenth name day, leaned heavily against the thick oak timber of the rail. He had grown broad and tall, his shoulders filling out his boiled leather tunic, possessing the undeniable, heavy build of his Northern ancestors. Beside him stood Jon, slightly shorter but possessing a lean, coiled strength, his dark grey eyes fixed on the distant, unseen horizon. To Jon's left stood Rhaenys, wrapped in a heavy cloak of dark violet wool, her dark curls whipping wildly in the wind. At seventeen, she possessed a striking, fierce beauty, a perfect blend of Dornish grace and the hardened resilience she had learned in the snows of Winterfell.
They were silent, lulled by the rhythmic crashing of the hull against the waves, but their minds were entirely occupied by the memories of the past two moons.
"I still smell the sulfur," Cregan muttered, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. "Even with the freezing wind, I swear the ash is stuck in the back of my throat."
"It is the memory of it," Jon said quietly, not turning his gaze from the sea. "The air there was not meant for the living. It was heavy. Like breathing dirt and fire."
Rhaenys shuddered slightly, pulling her cloak tighter. "When we first sailed into the Smoking Sea, I thought Uncle Benjen had finally lost his wits. The water was literally boiling. The steam was so thick you couldn't see the prow of the ship. I kept waiting for the hull to melt beneath our boots."
"But the oasis," Cregan said, turning his head to look at the other two. The awe in his voice was palpable, replacing his usual boisterous confidence. "The moment we crossed that boundary... it was like stepping into another world. One heartbeat we were choking on yellow fog, and the next, the air was sweet. The trees were silver and green. It defied all reason."
"It defied nature," Jon agreed softly. "The currents of the earth there were bound tightly. Sealed away by an ancient will. A sacrifice."
Before Rhaenys could add her own thoughts on the magnificent, unburnt black marble of the Temple of the Fourteen they had explored, a heavy, measured footstep sounded on the deck behind them.
"And that is exactly why you will speak of it to no one," a deep voice commanded.
The three teenagers turned instantly, dropping their relaxed postures and standing straight.
Lord Benjen Stark stepped out from the shadows of the mainmast. He wore a heavy sea-cloak over his dark armor, his face weathered by the salt and the responsibilities of commanding the Western Fleet. He possessed the stern, unyielding authority of a seasoned lord, his grey eyes locking onto the three youths.
"You have seen the graveyard of the Dragonlords," Benjen said, his voice low enough that it could not carry over the wind to the sailors working the rigging above. "You have walked upon the ashes of the greatest empire in history, and you have stood within the sanctuary that survived the Doom. It is a privilege. Your father deemed you old enough, and disciplined enough, to comprehend the truth of where our steel comes from."
"We understand, Uncle," Cregan said firmly, nodding his head.
"See that you do," Benjen warned, stepping up to the rail beside them. "The world believes Valyria is a cursed, boiling wasteland that offers nothing but agonizing death to any ship foolish enough to approach it. That belief is our greatest shield. If the merchants of Essos, or the lords of the South, learned that a pristine sanctuary exists within those ruins—a vault holding the lost wealth of the Freehold—they would not fear the curse. They would swarm the peninsula like locusts."
"Greed makes men blind to danger," Jon noted quietly.
"Exactly," Benjen agreed. "They would sail thousands of ships into the Smoking Sea. Most would die, but enough would survive to shatter the sanctuary. They would disturb the delicate balance of the magic that preserves that valley, and the molten rock beneath would consume it all. You are not to speak of the silver trees, the clear stream, or the black temple to anyone outside of the pack. The story remains as it always has: we traded for the steel in the deep ports of Asshai, or scavenged it from forgotten wrecks. Is that entirely clear?"
"Yes, Uncle," the three of them answered in unison, recognizing the absolute gravity of the command.
Benjen's stern expression softened a fraction, a proud smile touching the corners of his mouth. "You did well on the expedition. I watched you when we first set foot on the black glass docks. You were thrilled, but you kept your heads. You did not panic when the ash storms blew, and you respected the silence of the ruins."
"It was difficult not to be thrilled, Uncle," Rhaenys admitted, her eyes shining with the memory. "To walk where the ancient dragonlords walked. And Aunt Anna... she looked like she wanted to conquer the ruins herself."
Benjen chuckled, shaking his head. "Anna has always possessed a spirit too large for a castle. Putting her in the middle of a shattered, ancient landscape only fueled her fire. And Arthur..." Benjen glanced toward the stern of the ship. "Arthur looked as though he was waiting for a stone gargoyle to challenge him to a duel. They are a formidable pair to travel with."
As if summoned by the mention of their names, Arthur Dayne and the woman known as Anna emerged from the lower cabins. Arthur wore his simple grey leathers, Dawn wrapped securely and strapped to his back. Anna wore practical trousers and a heavy wool tunic, her auburn hair braided tight against the wind.
Anna walked over to the rail, inhaling the freezing sea air with a deep, satisfied breath. "I can smell the pines," she announced, a fierce grin on her face. "We are close."
"A few more hours, Lady Anna," Arthur confirmed, looking toward the dark line of the horizon. "The watchtowers of Sea Dragon Point will be visible soon."
"Good," Anna said, rubbing her hands together to ward off the chill. "The heat of the Summer Sea was making me lethargic. I need the frost to wake my blood again." She looked at the three teenagers. "I hope you three have not forgotten your footwork while we were aboard this floating log. I intend to test your speed the moment we find solid ground."
Cregan groaned good-naturedly. "Aunt Anna, we spent two moons hauling crates of raw steel ingots from a temple to a ship. My arms are longer than my legs at this point. Can we not rest for a single day?"
"Rest is for the dead, Cregan," Anna retorted with a wink. "And you are far too loud to be dead."
True to Anna's word, as the afternoon wore on, the jagged, imposing cliffs of the western coast broke through the ocean mist. Rising from the dark basalt rock, looking like a natural extension of the stone itself, was the massive fortress of Sea Dragon Hold.
The ship navigated the deep-water harbor smoothly, the sailors working the great lateen sails with practiced precision. The heavy harbor chains were lowered, and the vessel glided toward the immense wooden docks that jutted out into the sea.
The moment the gangplank hit the stone pier, a horn sounded from the battlements, announcing the return of the Lord of Sea Dragon Point.
A welcoming party was already making its way down the switchback road from the upper keep. Leading them was Lady Dacey Stark, a formidable sight in her heavy furs, an iron mace resting comfortably at her hip. At her side stood a sturdy, dark-haired 9-year-old boy named Brandon, clutching a wooden practice sword. Balanced effortlessly on Dacey's hip was three-year-old Serena, scowling at the sea spray with the same fierce expression as her mother.
When Benjen stepped off the gangplank, he reached into his pouch. Before returning his wife's greeting, he pulled out a delicate, priceless chain of pure Valyrian gold, a shimmering trinket scavenged from the ancient vault. He held it out to little Serena.
"For my beautiful girl," Benjen smiled, dangling the gold.
Serena looked at the glittering chain. She grabbed it with a chubby fist, examined it for a fraction of a second, and promptly threw it onto the stone pier with a loud, unbothered clack.
Benjen let out a long, heavy sigh, watching the priceless artifact hit the dirt. "She is already turning into a Bear Island woman," he muttered.
Dacey threw her head back and let out a booming laugh, uncaring of the sailors or the guards watching them. "She knows you can't hit anyone with a necklace, wolf!" Dacey declared, stepping forward and pulling her husband into a fierce, breathless embrace.
She turned her attention to the rest of the party. She offered a respectful nod to Arthur and Anna, then looked at the three teenagers descending the plank.
"Look at you three," Dacey grinned, placing her free hand on her hip. "You leave as pups, and you return smelling of sulfur and looking like you've wrestled a kraken. The sea agrees with you."
"The sea was fine," Cregan said, stepping onto the solid stone with a sigh of immense relief. "It was the terrifying, ruined continent that took some getting used to."
"Well, you can tell me all about the horrors over a hot meal," Dacey commanded, gesturing toward the steep road leading to the fortress. "The baths are drawn, and the cooks have been roasting a stag since the watchtowers spotted your sails. Welcome to the Point."
For three days, the travelers remained at Sea Dragon Point. The sheer physical exhaustion of a two-moon voyage to the most dangerous, hostile environment in the known world finally caught up with the youth. They slept for twelve hours at a time in the warm, draft-free guest chambers of the hold, waking only to devour massive portions of roasted meat and heavy stews before returning to their beds.
The fortress was a marvel of the new Northern architecture, filled with the bustling energy of the Western Fleet's headquarters, but the teenagers barely left the inner keep, their bodies demanding the recovery that the constant motion of the ship had denied them.
On the morning of the fourth day, the true journey home began.
The courtyard of Sea Dragon Hold was filled with the sounds of snorting horses and the clanking of mail. A detachment of fifty Wolfguard had been prepared for the overland journey, their grey cloaks heavy and warm.
Arthur Dayne sat atop a massive white destrier, checking the straps of his saddle. Anna mounted a spirited roan mare, her eyes bright with the prospect of the ride.
Cregan, Jon, and Rhaenys mounted their own horses, their strength fully returned, the fatigue of the sea entirely washed away by the restorative sleep.
Benjen and Dacey stood by the main gates to see them off, young Brandon waving his wooden sword at the departing guards.
"Ride swift, and keep your eyes open," Benjen advised Arthur. "The Wolfswood is quiet, but the autumn storms can be unpredictable."
"We will keep a steady pace, Benjen," Arthur assured him.
Ned Stark had not come on this journey. The Warden of the North had remained in Winterfell to manage the vast, expanding duties of the kingdom, trusting his brother and his most elite guards to execute the retrieval of the steel.
The ride through the Wolfswood took a full week.
The forest was ablaze with the dying colors of autumn, the leaves of the oaks and the sentinels turning brilliant shades of gold, crimson, and brown before the heavy snows arrived to strip them bare. The air was crisp, clean, and biting, a stark contrast to the suffocating, toxic heat of the Valyrian peninsula.
For the teenagers, the ride was a joyous return to their element.
During the midday halts, they did not rest. Under the sprawling canopy of the ancient trees, they engaged in fierce, rapid sparring sessions.
Cregan wielded twin swords, an homage to the flowing style of his Uncle, Arthur Dayne. His dual strikes were heavy and powerful, a relentless storm of alternating blows that shook the frost from the branches when he missed and struck a trunk. He fought with an overwhelming, continuous pressure, learning to weave his considerable weight into a seamless offensive wall.
Rhaenys and Anna sparred fiercely, the princess having taken up a slender, blunted ash spear—a weapon gifted by her uncle Oberyn. She moved with a dizzying, fluid agility. Anna, wielding a single sword, was a relentless instructor, pushing Rhaenys to utilize the weapon's long reach, to strike and evade before the counter fell. They danced through the underbrush, the clack of wood echoing sharply, a blur of auburn and dark hair.
Jon wielded a standard longsword, but he rarely engaged in the loud, boisterous brawls of his brother
On the afternoon of the seventh day, the dense treeline of the Wolfswood finally began to thin. The rolling, frost-covered hills of the Winterfell lands stretched out before them, and rising magnificently against the pale grey sky were the towering, unbroken granite walls of their home.
The massive iron portcullis of the Hunter's Gate was already raised as the column approached, the sentries on the battlements having spotted the grey banners hours ago.
The moment the horses trotted into the vast, bustling main courtyard, the order and discipline of the arrival broke down completely.
Cregan was boasting loudly to one of the guards about his adventures, as he swung his leg over his saddle to dismount. He never finished his sentence.
A small, dark blur dropped from the low roof of the stables directly onto his back.
Cregan let out a startled grunt, collapsing forward into the cold mud under the sudden, unexpected weight. Before he could draw a breath or throw his attacker off, a wooden spoon was pressed firmly against his throat.
"Dead!" a high, triumphant voice shouted. "The great explorer is slain by the Ghost of Winterfell!"
Arya Stark, now an incredibly fast and fiercely energetic Twelve-year-old, sat perched victoriously on her older brother's back, her dark hair flying wildly. She wore practical wool trousers and a tunic stained with stable dirt.
Cregan, having survived firewyrms and the boiling seas of Valyria, let out a defeated groan into the mud. "I yield to the fearsome warrior," he mumbled, spitting out a mouthful of dirt.
Arya giggled maniacally, squirming off his back so he could stand up.
Before Arya could demand a second trial by combat, a more refined, but equally enthusiastic greeting occurred.
Sansa Stark, at thirteen years old, was the very picture of her mother's grace. She wore a beautiful, warm gown of deep blue wool, her black hair perfectly braided. She did not run, but she walked swiftly toward Rhaenys, offering a bright, genuine smile.
"Princess," Sansa greeted, throwing her arms around the older girl. "We missed you terribly. The castle has been too quiet."
"I am glad to be back, Sansa," Rhaenys smiled, returning the hug warmly. "I have tales that will make your hair stand on end, though I doubt half of them are fit for a lady's ears."
"I wish to hear every one of them," Sansa insisted, her violet eyes shining with curiosity.
Jon dismounted quietly, handing his reins to a waiting stableboy. He turned to find a sturdy, boisterous Eleven-year-old boy barreling toward him. Rickard Stark hit Jon with a solid thud, wrapping his arms around Jon's waist.
"Jon! Did you fight pirates?" Rickard demanded, looking up with wide, hero-worshipping eyes. "Uncle Benjen sent a raven saying there were pirates!"
"We avoided the pirates, Rickard," Jon said, a soft, rare smile touching his lips as he patted his younger brother's shoulder. "We were on a secret mission. Pirates are too noisy."
Standing on the steps of the Great Keep, watching the chaotic, joyful reunion of the pack, were the mothers of Winterfell.
Lady Ashara stood tall, along with nine-year-old Alaric, the youngest of the Stark brood. Alaric was a quiet, observant child who preferred watching from a safe distance before joining the fray. Beside Ashara stood Princess Elia, her dark eyes scanning the courtyard until they found Rhaenys.
Elia descended the steps gracefully, reaching her daughter and framing Rhaenys's face with her hands, inspecting her for any sign of harm. "You are too thin," Elia murmured, though relief flooded her voice. "The sea has taken your flesh."
"The sea took my patience for hardtack, Mother," Rhaenys laughed, kissing Elia's cheek. "I am perfectly healthy."
Ashara walked forward, letting go of Alaric's hand to embrace a muddy Cregan tightly, then turned and pulled Jon into a warm, fiercely protective hug that made no distinction between her trueborn son and her husband's supposed bastard.
"You are both freezing," Ashara declared, stepping back and looking at the three teenagers. "And you are covered in a week's worth of road dust. The baths have been drawn in your quarters. Go. Wash the dirt from your skin, change into clean clothes, and present yourselves in the private solar for supper. Your father expects a full recounting of your journey."
At the mention of their father, the three youths looked up toward the high balcony overlooking the courtyard.
Eddard Stark stood there, his heavy grey cloak draped over his broad shoulders, his hands resting on the stone balustrade. He did not shout a greeting, nor did he rush down the stairs. He simply watched his children return safely to the den, a look of profound, quiet pride settling in his iron-grey eyes. He offered them a single, slow nod of acknowledgment.
The message was clear. They had completed the trial.
"Go on, then," Anna urged them, stepping up beside Ashara, resting a hand affectionately on Jon's shoulder. "The hot springs are waiting, and if you take too long, the Greatjon will eat your portion of the roast."
The teenagers did not need to be told twice. The promise of boiling hot water and a soft bed sent them hurrying toward their respective chambers in the Great Keep.
Hours later, the private family solar was an oasis of warmth and comfort. A massive fire roared in the hearth, casting a rich, golden light across the room. The long oak table was laden with the heavy, rich bounty of the Northern harvest—roasted venison glazed with honey, thick stews of root vegetables, fresh bread, and pitchers of hot, spiced cider.
The younger children had been fed and sent to their rooms leaving the solar to the older members of the pack.
Ned sat at the head of the table, Ashara to his right, and Elia to his left. Arthur and Anna occupied the seats nearest the fire. Cregan, Jon, and Rhaenys sat across from them, their hair damp from the baths, wearing clean, comfortable tunics of soft wool. The sheer relief of sitting in a warm, unmoving room was evident in their relaxed postures.
"Eat," Ned commanded gently, gesturing to the feast. "You look as though you survived on salt and wind for two moons."
They attacked the food with the ravenous hunger of growing wolves, the silence broken only by the clinking of silverware against wooden trenchers.
When the worst of their hunger was finally sated, Ned pushed his plate away and folded his hands on the table. He looked down the length of the board, his gaze settling on the three youths.
"You survived the crossing of the Sunset Sea, the oppressive heat of Volantis, and the toxic fogs of the Smoking Sea," Ned began, his voice calm but commanding absolute attention. "You have seen the ruins of the Freehold. Tell me of the journey."
Cregan swallowed a mouthful of cider, his eyes lighting up with the eagerness to share the impossible tale.
"It was horrific, Father," Cregan started, leaning forward. "The air before we reached the coast burned the throat. The water hissed against the hull. We saw... we saw shadows moving beneath the surface. Massive things. Wyrms, Uncle Benjen called them. They radiated heat like a furnace."
"And how did you avoid them?" Ned asked, testing their awareness.
"We didn't row faster," Jon answered quietly, his grey eyes meeting his father's. "We stopped projecting fear. We pulled our presence inward. The ship became a dead log on the water. The beasts sought the chaotic heat of panic; when they found none, they lost interest."
Ned offered a slow, approving nod. "A crucial lesson. The fiercest monsters are drawn to the loudest minds."
"But the ruins, Uncle Ned," Rhaenys interjected, her voice filled with a lingering, profound shock. "The ash is piled as high as a castle wall in places. The stone is melted like wax. It is a monument to absolute destruction. We walked through the dead city for two days, using the breathing cloths to survive the dust."
"And then we found the valley," Cregan said, his voice dropping to a hushed, reverent whisper. "We crossed a ridge, and the ash simply... stopped. There was an invisible wall. Inside, the air was clean. The trees were alive. It was an oasis of absolute perfection in the middle of a nightmare."
"There was a temple," Jon added, his analytical mind recounting the details perfectly. "Constructed entirely of flawless black marble, veined with pure gold. Fourteen statues of dragons guarded the inner hall. And at the back, hidden behind a sealed door that required... specific leverage to open... was the vault."
Rhaenys shuddered slightly, though not from cold. "The wealth inside was staggering. Mountains of ancient gold coins. It took the Wolfguard three days of constant marching back and forth through the ash to carry the crates to the ship."
"And the pillars?" Ned asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The black stones?"
"The glass candles," Jon confirmed. "Six of them. They were cold to the touch, but they hummed. A latent energy. We packed them in thick wool and loaded them into the deepest hold."
Ned listened intently as they detailed the exhausting labor of the retrieval, the eerie silence of the unburnt oasis, and the heavy, lingering sense of ancient sorrow that permeated the temple. They spoke with the hushed awe of initiates who had witnessed a profound, terrible truth.
When their recounting finally finished, the solar fell quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth fire.
Ned looked at his son, his nephew, and his ward. They were no longer children who solely believed the tales spun by Maesters. They had seen the impossible reality of the world with their own eyes.
Ned leaned forward, his face hardening into a mask of absolute, unforgiving granite. The warmth of the father vanished, replaced entirely by the cold authority of the Warden of the North.
"You have witnessed a miracle of preservation," Ned said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that commanded total obedience. "And you have seen the source of the weapons that will one day save this realm from the true dark."
He locked eyes with each of them in turn, ensuring the weight of his words settled deep into their bones.
"But you must understand the terrible danger of that knowledge," Ned warned solemnly. "The world believes Valyria is a tomb of fire and poison. That belief keeps the greedy, the ambitious, and the foolish away from those shores. If the merchants of Pentos, or the Lords of the Reach, or the King himself ever learned that a pristine sanctuary exists within that hell—a vault filled with thousands of pounds of Valyrian steel and mountains of ancient gold—they would not fear the Doom. They would sail armadas into the Smoking Sea."
Ned's gaze was unyielding.
"They would die by the thousands in the boiling waters, but enough would survive to reach the oasis. Their greed would lead them to tear down the black marble, to dig into the earth, and in their ignorance, they would shatter the delicate, ancient magic that preserves that valley. The sanctuary would fall, the magma would consume it."
He paused, letting the catastrophic consequences hang heavily in the warm air of the solar.
"What you saw in the ash is a burden, not a tale for a feast," Ned concluded, his voice an iron vow. "You will never speak of the unburnt trees. You will never speak of the black temple. You will never mention them to anyone other than pack memebers."
Cregan swallowed hard, the boyish excitement entirely erased from his face, replaced by the solemn understanding of a future lord. He nodded firmly. "I swear it, Father. The secret is buried."
"It remains with the pack," Jon agreed quietly, his dark eyes reflecting the firelight.
"Silent as the grave, Uncle Ned," Rhaenys promised, her posture rigid with newfound duty.
Ned held their gazes for a long moment, feeling the absolute truth of their vows through the subtle currents of the Force. They understood. The foundation of their future was secure.
The tension in his broad shoulders finally relaxed. The cold Lord faded, and the father returned.
"Good," Ned said softly, offering them a small, proud smile. He picked up his cup of hot cider. "You have done the North a service that history will never record, but one that will save it all the same. Welcome home."