292 AC
Winterfell
Third Person POV
The air in King's Landing remained thick with tension even after King Maekar's decisive commands. Yet, amidst the fear, a flicker of purpose had ignited within the Red Keep. By midday, Prince Rhaegar and Prince Baelor, adorned in their riding leathers, had ascended to the Dragonpit. The ground trembled as their great beasts, Meraxes and Vhagar, unfolded their immense wings, their roars echoing across the city. With a powerful thrust of their legs, the dragons launched into the sky, their forms quickly diminishing to distant specks as they streaked north, leaving the worries of the capital behind.
Their journey was swift, a testament to the dragons' speed. They rode the winds, covering vast distances in a fraction of the time any ship or rider on horseback could. By the afternoon of the following day, the familiar, ancient silhouette of Winterfell, stark and imposing against the Northern sky, loomed into view. Smoke curled from its numerous chimneys, a welcoming sight in the crisp air.
As Meraxes and Vhagar descended, their shadows momentarily engulfing the castle, the guards on the battlements raised their heads to see the beasts. The dragons landed gracefully in the courtyard, their scales shimmering, steam rising from their great nostrils in the cool Northern air.
Prince Brandon Stark, King Rickard's eldest son, was there to receive them. His face, showed no emotions. He greeted his Targaryen Princes with a nod and a firm handshake, his dark eyes conveying a shared burden.
"Welcome to Winterfell," Brandon said, his voice calm. "Your journey was swift, I trust. You received my father's message. The news... it is grave, indeed."
Rhaegar dismounted Meraxes, his expression grim. "It was, Prince Brandon. The news from your father was more so. Have there been any further sightings?"
"Not yet," Brandon replied, "but we are watching. Come, you must be weary from your flight. Your chambers await. You can refresh yourselves, and we shall convene after the midday meal."
The Targaryen princes were led to their guest chambers, well-appointed rooms that offered comfort and privacy. After shedding their riding leathers and refreshing themselves with cool water and fresh Northern clothes, they gathered for the midday meal in the Great Hall, a silent affair punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and the occasional rumble of a dragon outside. The air was thick with unspoken questions.
After the meal, as the afternoon light slanted through the high windows of Winterfell, King Rickard Stark, accompanied by his sons, Prince Brandon, Prince Eddard, and Prince Benjen, gathered in the King's solar. Prince Rhaegar and Prince Baelor joined them, their expressions grave. The room, with its maps and ancient texts, felt like the heart of the North, prepared for counsel in times of crisis.
King Rickard wasted no time. "Princes," he began, his voice deep and steady, "We received a new message from Skagos. The dragons are heading further north. By now, they should be well beyond the Wall. Perhaps even far into the true North."
A heavy silence fell upon the room. The implications were clear. Twenty wild dragons, creatures of fire and ancient magic, were willingly venturing into the frozen wasteland that lay beyond the known world, a place whispered to be home to ancient evils.
"The question," Eddard said, breaking the quiet, "is who would knowingly venture into such a place? Who is so mad, or so reckless, to seek out or guide dragons into the literal unknown? And with a golden kraken sigil?"
"Indeed," Rhaegar added, his brow furrowed in thought. "My father believes it must be a renegade element, perhaps even a Greyjoy faction, given the kraken. But the very idea of controlling such beasts, let alone leading them beyond the Wall, defies all logic and magic known to man."
"Madness," Benjen muttered, shaking his head. "To willingly go where no man dares, for no sane reason."
They talked for some time, each man offering theories, none of them satisfactory. The air grew heavy with the weight of the impossible.
It was Prince Brandon Stark who finally spoke, his voice quiet, cutting through the swirling confusion. He had been silent for much of the discussion, his eyes distant, as if observing a scene far removed from the solar. When he spoke, his words carried a chilling certainty.
"I know a certain madman," Brandon said, his gaze fixed on nothing, his voice low and cold, "who could do such a thing. A man who has always laughed in the face of death and craved power beyond the wildest dreams of kings."
All eyes turned to him, the Targaryens and his own family hanging on his words. "Who?" Prince Baelor demanded, his voice sharp with urgency.
Brandon's eyes met Rhaegar's, then Rickard's. "He calls himself the Lord Reaper of Pyke, though he has long been exiled. Euron Greyjoy."
He then recounted the chilling tales of Euron Greyjoy: his exile, his travels to distant, forbidden lands, his rumored sorceries, his acquisition of dark knowledge and strange artifacts. He spoke of Euron's ambition, his absolute ruthlessness, and his unsettling fascination with ancient powers.
"Euron Greyjoy has always been a man apart," Brandon explained, his voice unwavering. "He has sailed where no maps exist, seen things men were not meant to see. There are whispers of blood magic, of dark rituals, of voices from the deepest trenches of the world. A man who returned from exile not as a broken reaver, but as someone touched by something... else. If anyone has the audacity, the utter lack of sanity, or the dark knowledge to influence dragons and lead them into the deep North, it is Euron Crow's Eye."
A cold dread settled over the Targaryens. The name, Euron Greyjoy, was vaguely known, a renegade, but these new details painted a far more terrifying picture.
Brandon paused, then continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his words echoing the ancient prophecy that had bound their houses for generations. "If the Night King truly has twenty undead dragons under his control, guided by this madman Euron Greyjoy, then the realm of men should be ready for a darkness even larger than the previous Long Night. This is not a raid; it is a full-scale invasion. The Others are returning."
King Rickard Stark, his face grim but determined, looked at Prince Rhaegar. The ancient pact, the shared knowledge, the chilling prophecy – it all converged in this moment.
"Prince Rhaegar," Rickard said, his voice devoid of doubt, "send a message to your father. Tell him the time for speculation is over. The ancient enemy is back. Tell him to mobilize every single soldier in the realm. Every able-bodied man and woman. Tell him to bring every able dragonrider you have to the Wall. Every single one."
"The Wall," Rickard continued, his gaze unwavering, "is the only thing stopping him. And it is stronger than ever before. But it will need the realm united, with fire and steel. I will send a message to Moat Cailin immediately, instructing them to allow the army to enter the North without delay. No tolls, no questions. They are to prepare to provision and shelter an entire army as it marches North."
Prince Rhaegar's face was pale, but his eyes held a steely resolve. The terror of the prophecy was now a tangible threat, and the path forward was clear. He nodded, accepting the immense weight of the command.
"It shall be done, King Rickard," Prince Rhaegar replied, his voice firm despite the gravity of the situation. He rose and exited the solar, his steps urgent, ready to dispatch the most critical message of his lifetime. The dragons of the Targaryens had found their purpose once more, called to face the ultimate darkness alongside the men of the North.
The heavy oak door of King Rickard's solar swung shut with a soft, resonant thud, severing the room from the outside world. The hurried footsteps of Prince Rhaegar and Prince Baelor, rushing to prepare their dragons, faded quickly into the distant sounds of the castle. Inside, the chamber, still permeated with the scent of old parchment and crackling pine from the hearth, became utterly silent, save for the soft hiss of the fire.
Rickard's eyes, dark as the deepest winter lake, settled first on Brandon. He saw the cold understanding, the preternatural calm that often accompanied his son's brilliance. Brandon had always possessed an uncanny connection to the ancient whispers of their house, a wisdom that surpassed his years.
Then, his gaze moved to Eddard. He saw the grim resolve, the steadfast loyalty that defined his second son. Eddard was the rock, the unwavering embodiment of Stark duty. He would do what was asked, no matter the cost, no matter the terror.
Finally, Rickard's eyes lingered on Benjen. The boy, who just moments ago had spoken of joining the Night's Watch for a quiet vigil, now faced a reality that would test the very limits of his courage. Rickard saw no fear in Benjen's eyes, only a dawning understanding, a readiness that both saddened and fiercely proud him. Benjen's choice, made in quiet contemplation, was suddenly endowed with a terrifying, vital significance.
Rickard took a deep, fortifying breath, the sound barely audible in the silence. His voice, when it came, was low, a steady rumble that vibrated with ancient power and unyielding command. It was the voice of a king, speaking to his blood, to the very heart of his house.
"My sons," King Rickard began, his voice gravelly, imbued with the weight of generations of Stark knowledge. "We have our own duties. Our own preparations to make. The time for whispers and prophecies is over. The Long Night is upon us."
He looked at each of them, his gaze piercing. "The Wall is strong. Stronger than it has ever been. Brandon's telegram network, the reinforced gates, the sheer scale of the stone... it is a testament to our vigilance, to our ancestors' wisdom." He paused, his voice hardening. "But it is only stone. Against what comes, we will need more than stone."
His instructions were clear, precise, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. The time for debate was over. Now was the time for action.
"Send messages," Rickard commanded, his voice gaining in intensity, "to every single one of our bannermen. To every lord, every sworn sword, every able-bodied man and woman in the North. From the Neck to the furthest shores of the Shivering Sea. Tell them to mobilize every soldier. Every man and woman capable of bearing arms. They are to make ready, and march for the Wall."
The implications of this command were staggering. The North, a land vast and sparsely populated, was about to empty itself, its entire military might converging on a single, ancient, frozen barrier. It was an order of unprecedented scale, a call to arms unlike any since the First Men marched against the Long Night of old. The quiet fields would become barren, the villages hushed as their populations answered the call. Families would be separated, lives put on hold, all for a threat that most Southerners still believed to be a myth. But the Starks knew. They had always known.
"This is not a suggestion," Rickard continued, his voice leaving no doubt of the urgency. "This is a direct command from the King of Asgard. No delays. No excuses. The railways will be put to full military use. The steam carriages will be used for rapid transport within our own roads. They are to use every available means to move their forces with unprecedented speed." The speed Brandon's inventions offered was no longer a matter of luxury or commerce; it was a matter of survival.
Then, Rickard's gaze hardened further, his voice dropping to a chillingly serious tone. "And send word to our own dragon riders. Every single one of them. They are to ride immediately to the Wall. To the Shadow Tower, to Castle Black, to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. They are to establish a constant aerial vigil along its entire length. No breaks. No rest."
He was speaking of their own unique dragons, the formidable ice dragons of the far North. Beasts of immense power, their scales shimmering with the cold, their breath a chilling frost. They were the true guardians of Asgard, ancient beings bound to the Starks by blood and magic. To summon them all, to bring them to the forefront of a looming war, was a measure of absolute desperation.
"Should the Targaryen's wild dragons," Rickard continued, his voice grim, "make an attack on the Wall... they are to be intercepted. With extreme prejudice. We will do everything in our power to divert them, to turn them back. But if they cannot be turned, if they attempt to breach the Wall, they must be stopped. Even if it means... confronting them."
A grim silence followed this command. The irony was not lost on any of them. The dragons of their allies, powerful beasts of fire, might now be instruments of their destruction. The thought of their ice dragons engaging the Targaryen's fire dragons, especially under such dire circumstances, was a bitter one. But the Wall. The Wall must not fall. That was the paramount truth.
"The Wall," Rickard stated, his voice resonating with a power that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the solar, "is our last line. It is humanity's shield. It is the ancient magic that holds back the darkness. It should not fall at any costs. Not a single inch. Not a single stone. Our lives, the lives of everyone south of it, depend on it. This is our duty. This is our purpose. This is what we were born for."
He looked at his sons, his gaze unwavering, challenging them, instilling in them the full, terrifying weight of their lineage.
Brandon's eyes, dark and knowing, met his father's. He understood. The technological wonders he had brought, the railways and the telegrams, would now serve a single, terrifying purpose: to prepare for a war unlike any the living had ever known. His inventions, designed for peace and progress, were now tools of survival. He merely nodded, a silent, grim acceptance.
Eddard's face was pale, but his jaw was set with a quiet resolve. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. He would carry out his father's commands with unwavering loyalty and efficiency. Duty. It was the core of his being.
Benjen's initial shock had transformed into a fierce determination. His eyes gleamed with a newfound purpose. His choice to join the Night's Watch, once a personal calling, now felt like a premonition, a destiny fulfilled. He would be at the Wall, where he belonged, where he was needed most.
"Aye, Father!" Their voice rang out, clear and sharp.
Without another word, the three sons rose from the table. The quiet domesticity of their morning conversation was shattered. The future of the realm, the very survival of mankind, now rested on their shoulders. They moved with a silent, urgent purpose, each man heading to his designated task, the commands already burning in their minds.
The heavy oak door of the solar swung shut once more, leaving King Rickard Stark alone in the room.
He walked slowly to the ancient hearth, staring into the dancing flames, his hands clasped behind his back. The warmth of the fire offered little comfort against the chilling truth that now settled in his soul.
He was the King of Asgard, the Lord of Winterfell, the guardian of the North. He had lived his life in an era of unprecedented peace and prosperity, a golden age built on the foundations of his ancestors and the ingenuity of his son
But the whispers had always been there. The tales told by the oldest crones in the farthest villages. The grim warnings passed down from Stark king to Stark king. The ancient knowledge, dismissed by the complacent South, had always been real.
Rickard closed his eyes, picturing the vast, silent, terrifying expanse beyond the Wall. The land where light died, where life froze, where the ancient enemy stirred. The Others. The Night King. And now, perhaps, even the wild dragons, drawn by some dark, irresistible call, becoming instruments of destruction.
He had sent his sons, his flesh and blood, to face this darkness. He had mobilized his entire kingdom. He had called upon the ancient, hidden power of his own ice dragons. It was all he could do.
The solar, usually a place of quiet contemplation, now felt vast and empty around him, filled only with the echoes of his commands and the chilling silence of the coming storm. The fire in the hearth crackled, a small, defiant warmth against the cold that was coming.
Winter was coming. And this time, it would bring an enemy unlike any seen in a thousand generations. King Rickard Stark, alone in his solar, waited.