ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 21: The Dark Seeds of Winter
POV: King Arawyn Stark (294 A.C.)
A white world was all I could see before me.
From the monumental peak of the Wall, seven hundred feet in the air, the arctic wind howled like a starved specter, lashing the ancient ice that shimmered with a ghostly blue hue beneath an opaque sky. Before me stretched the vastness of ice and unexplored lands—an ocean of dark forests, jagged mountains that looked like the fangs of titans, and valleys buried by eternal winter. I knew every inch of that mystical expanse through my eyes and projections, but I also knew, with the cold precision of a scientist and the certainty of a ruler, that from there the Long Night would come.
Personally, looking too far into the future had never appealed to me. Even with the ability to unravel timelines, tearing the veil of tomorrow is a tedious task; destiny tends to be a tangle of shifting branches, and watching human folly before it unfolds takes the savor out of the present. But as king and protector of the North, I must always be prepared. Thus, I do what needs to be done, even if I dislike it. And it was precisely during one of those mental incursions into the currents of time that I noticed an irritating anomaly: someone is blocking my vision.
There is a thick fog, mystical and foreign in nature, deliberately obscuring certain future events. The primary focus of this blockage lies in a specific event that will unfold when my uncle Eddard Stark goes to King's Landing. My visions show fragments of that decaying court, the exact moment when the Hand of the King—old Jon Arryn—will finally realize that a king cannot spend so much on wine, tournaments, and whores without bleeding the realm's coffers dry. And the poor Hand will be killed precisely for discovering this. Well, the truth behind his death is even more sordid: Your most trusted man is fucking your own wife and working against your own Iron Throne.
The culprit behind this blockage in my line of sight, this magical static attempting to blind the King of the North, is the beautiful lady in red who accompanies Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone. Not her in herself, obviously, for her parlor tricks and chemical powders are rudimentary, but rather her idiotic God—that entity that calls itself the Lord of the Light. R'hllor, or whatever the easterners call that bonfire with delusions of grandeur. But what can I do if my simple presence in this world irritates them so much?
Deep down, I don't blame them for trying to sabotage me. After all, my presence changed the balance of everything. If the Long Night were an ordinary event—well, ordinary wouldn't be the right term, but if it were just the natural cycle of the Others' return—they wouldn't have so many problems with me. My industries, my runic defenses, and the standing army I forged would be more than enough to contain the dead without the South even needing to wake from its lethargy.
The real problem is what is tied to this event. There is one specific thing, an ancient prophecy that crawls like a curse over dynastic lineages. In particular, what this prophecy dictates ensures that what lies ahead will not be a simple harsh winter or a skirmish against ice creatures; it will be a definitive battle for all life and existence. It will be the checkmate between the forces that govern the world's balance.
And with my presence, which transcends any limit the gods deemed safe for mortals, the original Long Night would be nothing. I would crush the White Walkers with my bare runic hands before they could even cross the Heart Tree furthest to the north. This forces the world's very magic to seek equilibrium. If the defender is infinitely more powerful than anticipated, the darkness rising against him is forced to mutate, becoming infinitely more ravenous, dense, and destructive. In other words, an apocalypse of inexplicable horrors will be unleashed upon us. Nature itself will bleed to try and contain me.
But that is a matter for another time. Time is a river, and I have discovered that this blockage imposed by the gods is not absolute. It suffers from the fragility of distance. Being far in the future, around 301 A.C., the barrier seems solid now in 294 A.C. However, the closer I get to this inevitable future, the less effective the blockage becomes. The fog will dissipate as the years pass, and when the gears of King's Landing begin to turn, the eastern gods will realize, too late, that you cannot blind a wolf in his own territory.
I return to looking at the lands beyond the Wall from my position, sitting directly on the edge of the ice, where the abyss opens beneath my boots. Behind me, maintaining a respectful distance, I see my companions.
To the left is my beautiful Ros. She no longer bears any trace of the frightened whore's apprentice I rescued from a filthy brothel two years ago, when she was only fifteen. Today, at seventeen, she is the king's high personal assistant, a woman of impeccable posture, silent elegance, and an authority that makes many lords of the North swallow their pride. The runes on her body remain allocated in contained locations, hidden beneath her garments of fine wool and fur, but they are greater in number than before. After all, Ros's mystical talent is formidable; she possesses a level-three proficiency in greensight and skinchanging—the absolute pinnacle for any ordinary human who does not carry the royal blood of the Starks.
Because of this talent, her physical and mental resistance to this power is immense. The greatest proof of this is the giant rune I drew that covers almost her entire back, extending from her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. It was a unique runic matrix that I created specifically for her, a feat of mystical engineering that allows Ros to use her greensight talent far beyond the norm, enabling her to walk through the earth's memories and the eyes of animals without needing to be near a heart tree.
On the other side, observing the frozen vastness with an enigmatic posture, stands the "mysterious woman." She is the uncontested leader of my rune-smiths, the inner circle of brilliant minds whom I personally taught the conceptual art of inscriptions and who now apply the brands to our population and soldiers. She appeared on the eastern coast of the North shortly after I returned from the War of the Rebellion, still a eight-year-old child, hailing from distant and decaying Qarth. She had crossed the narrow sea in pursuit of true magical power, rejecting the cheap illusions of the Spice Merchants and the frauds of the Warlock of the Sorrowful. She found what she sought in Winterfell. Now, she hides her face behind a rigid mask of red lacquer and gold, acting as my shadow in the runic steel foundries. I knew her true identity, the lineages that converged within her, and the names she had used in the past, but her silence served me perfectly.
The silence at the top of the Wall was broken by the heavy sound of footsteps crunching the packed snow.
"King of the North, if you could tell us what you are waiting for in these cursed lands, we could go down and alert the garrison," the voice echoed, firm and weathered by the cold.
I turned my face slightly, looking over my shoulder.
"What is this 'King of the North' business, Uncle Benjen? We are not at court," I said, displaying a pragmatic half-smile.
Benjen Stark, now a grown man wearing the black cloak of the Night's Watch, let out a sigh, his breath freezing instantly in the air. Beside him, old Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander, let out a rustic laugh that echoed among the ice battlements.
"He is just that stubborn, King Arawyn," the Old Bear said, adjusting his heavy leather gloves. "But this time I have to agree with your uncle. We've been freezing our arses off on this ledge for two hours waiting for something you insist on not naming."
I laughed, standing up in a single fluid motion. Even at twenty years old, my physique had already reached monumental proportions—a colossal structure of muscle and bone reinforced by runic resonance that made large men look like children next to me.
"Do not worry, Lord Commander. What I am waiting for is already arriving. Let's head down."
I looked at Benjen and then at Mormont. A sudden and amusing idea crossed my mind, a perfect opportunity to test the hearts of the two veteran warriors and break the monotony of that gray day.
"And to save time... I'll go through the front."
Without giving any warning, I took a step backward and threw myself off the Wall.
The wind roared in my ears like thunder as the ground approached at a terrifying speed.
Looking up for a brief second, I could see the faces of absolute panic on Benjen and Jeor Mormont peering over the upper edge of the Wall, their mouths wide open in pure shock at seeing their king commit what seemed like an insane suicide. That sight made my day.
The free fall lasted seconds that felt like an eternity of pure adrenaline. A few meters from the soft snow on the ground, I concentrated mystical energy into the runic matrices engraved on my legs and the soles of my feet. The kinetic dispersion and gravitational deceleration matrix was activated with an invisible green pulse. The air beneath me thickened like an invisible cushion; I felt the impact of the resistance drastically slow my monumental body down until my feet touched the ground lightly, kicking up only a fine dust of snow around my boots. Not a single bone shook.
I stood at the base of the massive ice structure for nearly twenty minutes, brushing the frost off my shoulders, until Benjen, Mormont, Ros, and the masked woman descended the conventional way, utilizing the slow, creaking wooden cage elevator and iron chains of the Watch. When the cage doors opened, my uncle rushed toward me, his face still pale from fright.
"Have you lost your mind, Arawyn?!" Benjen bellowed, though there was a clear look of relief in his eyes. "By all the old gods, a jump like that would break a giant's neck!"
"But not mine, uncle," I replied with calm indifference, walking toward the iron gate that gave access to the Haunted Forest. "Come. They have arrived."
We gathered in front of the entrance gate, where the barrier of wooden spikes delimited the end of Castle Black and the beginning of the wild immensity. Silence reigned once more, broken only by the distant rustling of the trees.
After a few minutes of tense expectation, movement began at the tree line. From the gray gloom of the forest, the massive silhouettes I was waiting for emerged: direwolves. And atop the adult male, sitting with a supernatural lightness, was a Child of the Forest. Her features were feline, her eyes large and golden like those of a nocturnal predator, and her skin looked like a mixture of tree bark and dry leaves. She looked directly at me, tilting her head in a silent, ancient greeting. I responded with a firm nod. Without saying a single word, the creature leapt from the wolf's back and vanished back into the density of the woods, disappearing like a winter ghost.
Around me, the reaction was unanimous. I see my companions are all open-mouthed, their eyes wide with astonishment. It had been centuries, perhaps millennia, since a Child of the Forest had been seen by men of the Night's Watch; their very existence had been relegated to old Old Nan's tales. Even the masked woman beside me, always so contained and indifferent to the world's trivialities, let out a faint sound of surprise behind her red lacquer.
The direwolves advanced toward us with firm, silent steps, their immense paws sinking into the snow without haste. I looked at the Lord Commander and Benjen, answering the question I knew was screaming in both of their minds.
"I made a deal with the Children of the Forest in exchange for the wolves," I explained directly.
What I do not tell them, and what I keep only to my own intellect, is that it wasn't exactly a deal between equals. The Children of the Forest knew perfectly well who I was, the level of transcendental power I carried, and what the North was becoming under my command. They knew the Winter Throne would not negotiate based on ancient superstitions. It was a veiled diplomatic imposition, tempered with mutual respect for what is to come; but in the end, everyone won. The North would have its legendary guardians back, and they would have the guarantee that the heart trees would be protected with blood and runic steel.
The two wolves in front are the adults of the pack: a gray male with dense fur and combat scars, and a female with shrewd eyes. Both possessed an absurd size, easily approaching the stature of a southern warhorse. Beside them walked a young wolf with completely black fur, which had already left the puppy stage and displayed the size of an ordinary wolf from the southern forests. And behind them, almost hidden by the deep snow, came many cubs of vastly different colors, rolling over one another. Among them, a completely white cub stood out, keeping quiet and focused, observing everything with eyes that looked like small embers.
After receiving them and ensuring the pack accepted the transition of leadership under my runic aura, we began the long journey back to Winterfell. The journey was swift, propelled by carriages and mounts that utilized the speed and endurance runes my foundries had scattered along the royal roads of the North.
When we crossed the granite gates of Winterfell, the whole family was already waiting for us in the main courtyard, beneath a light mist rising from the hot springs. Along with me came the wolves—well, except for one. The young black wolf remained with Uncle Benjen at Castle Black; the creature had chosen the ranger as its hunting companion, and I did not interfere with the animal's choice.
We gathered in the Godswood. The warmth emanating from the underground waters created a sanctuary of steam and life in the middle of winter, where the red leaves of the Heart Tree seemed to bleed against the gray sky. There, the mystical clearing was packed.
I see my cousins all gathered—the new Stark generation growing up beneath the shadow of my runic revolution. Along with them is also Princess Elia Martell, bearing an expression of serenity that Sunhouse had brought her, and her children. Rhaenys Targaryen, now fourteen years old, was positioned a bit further back, leaning against one of the ancient trunks. Upon seeing me enter, she did not hesitate to send me very suggestive glances, her dark eyes flashing with a Dornish boldness that defied the very solemnity of the place.
For now, I will set this aside, I thought, keeping my expression cold and unbothered. But later tonight, I will have to teach her a lesson. After all, one cannot keep provoking the king like this inside his own ancestral grove without expecting carnal consequences and the full weight of winter.
I shifted my gaze to the center of the grove. I see Uncle Ned sitting on a runic stone bench alongside Cersei and Ashara. The double marriage I structured to maintain the stability of the Neck and the alliance with the West worked with a harmony that defied southern conventions. Beside them was the new adult male wolf, which had accepted the call of Ned's Stark blood. Cersei, to the surprise of anyone who knew her in the court of King's Landing, from the time when his page was the king's Hand, was playing with the gray monster without a shred of fear, burying her ringed fingers into his thick fur as if he weren't a predator the size of a warhorse, but rather a fluffy parlor pup.
The adult female, naturally, joined Lyanna Stark, who was sitting on a prominent root of the weirwood, talking in a low voice with Elia and Rhaenys. The she-wolf of Winterfell seemed to have found her counterpart in the animal with icy eyes.
The other cousins had also received their cubs, and the commotion in the Godswood was almost chaotic. Everyone was playing with the small creatures in the snow, laughing out loud and trying to teach them hunting tricks and other nonsense children make up.
Robb, at eleven years old, displayed the Wolf Blood running strong in his veins, trying to make his gray cub run in circles. Sansa and Myrcella, both ten years old, maintained a more reserved posture. I paid attention to Myrcella's cub: the creature exhibited a blonde coat, of a shade almost golden that recalled her mother's Lannister heritage, contrasting with the gray eyes typical of the Starks. Arya, an eight-year-old girl with an indomitable spirit, was already rolling on the ground with her wolf, heedless of the mud or the protests of her older sisters.
Further back, Bran and Tommen, both seven years old, examined their new companions. Tommen's cub was a curious anomaly, displaying a coat of a cream tone that looked almost red under the weirwood light—a color of copper and amber that matched his mystical sensitivity for controlling small creatures. And little Rickon, at only five years old, already showed the most destructive temperament of all, pulling the ears of his dark wolf while the animal growled back in a violent game.
However, my main focus stopped on Aemon. He was twelve now, the same age as his brother Aegon, but his mystical presence was a question mark I watched closely. Looking at the cub that had crawled to Aemon's feet, I couldn't help but let out a mental sigh. The wolf's colors were a declaration from the gods. I think there is no way for the Old Gods to make that boy's destiny any more obvious: a completely white wolf with eyes red as the weirwood itself—the same quiet cub I saw at the Wall. Ghostly, silent, and bound to blood magic.
Well, obviously I have mine too.
At my feet, sitting with an aura of majesty that seemed ridiculous for its current size, was my own cub. It possessed dark fur, of a shade so deep and dense that it seemed to absorb the ambient light, as if night itself had been molded into flesh and bone. Its eyes gleamed with an intense green tone, an acidic and hypnotic shade that reminded me very much of the wildfire of the alchemists of King's Landing. It didn't play with the others; it merely observed the grove with the same analytical coldness as its master.
I stroked the head of the small predator, feeling the resonance of our skinchanging bond float effortlessly. I am merely the King of the North for now, a title many in the South still consider a regional rebellion led by an ambitious youth. They have no idea of the scale of what is being built here.
I cannot help but think about how fast time is passing. In a few years, my cousins will be grown men—warriors and leaders who will carry great burdens to fulfill in the Wars that my visions are already beginning to draw with greater clarity. The board is set, the lineages are protected, and the runes are activated.
But for today, let us leave conspiracies and idiotic gods aside. I looked at Rhaenys once more, seeing her bite her lower lip while diverting her gaze toward my monumental body. Yes, winter was coming, but the night in Winterfell promised to be long and hot.
Well, this saga is drawing to a close. Now, there's just one more major event before the next saga begins. After the final chapter of this saga (Chapter 26) is released, there will be a brief pause—perhaps a day or two at most—to fine-tune what comes next.