NOTES: This is a story based on the Game of Thrones books and TV series, but be warned, it's a very AU (Alternate Universe) story. If you're someone who doesn't enjoy a story that deviates a lot from canon, where certain characters may act out of character, or if you're not a fan of romance with a good amount of fluff, and a story that ultimately has a happy ending, then this may not be the right story for you.
DRAGONSTONE
Stannis settled heavily into his chair by the hearth, the firelight casting his face in sharp relief, accentuating the lines of weariness etched deep by sleepless nights and a grim determination that Davos had rarely witnessed. Renly, ever flamboyant even amidst the somber atmosphere, sank into a nearby chair with a dramatic sigh, the rich green velvet of his tunic a stark contrast to Stannis's plain grey wool. Brienne remained standing, a silent, watchful sentinel by the door. Davos, chose a seat slightly removed from Stannis and Renly, his gaze flitting between the two brothers and Melisandre, who remained a silent, crimson-clad enigma by the brazier, her gaze lost in the dancing flames.
Renly, unable to contain his impatience any longer, broke the silence. "Brother," he began, his tone respectful yet edged with a hint of urgency, "it has been days since our meeting with Salladhor Saan . Days since you close yourself in your chambers, leaving us all in suspense."
He paused, his gaze flickering towards the maps spread out on a nearby table, marked with strategic points along the coast and the route to King's Landing. "Our banners, summoned from across the Stormlands, await your command, their numbers growing with each passing day, eager to avenge Robert's death and reclaim the Iron Throne for our House," Renly's voice resonated with confidence , yet beneath the surface, Davos detected a note of unease, a hint of the same disquiet that had settled over Dragonstone. He continued, his voice now more measured, "The men grow restless, brother. They whisper amongst themselves, questioning your silence, wondering when we will strike. Even Lord Alester grows impatient. The time for action is upon us. The Lannisters are vulnerable. King's Landing is ripe for the taking."
A tense silence filled the chamber, broken only by the crackling of the flames and the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs below. Stannis poured himself a goblet of wine, the dark liquid swirling like a captured storm within the pewter cup. He took a long draught, then set the goblet down with a decisive clink, the sound sharp in the quiet. He looked at Renly, his gaze unwavering, his voice low and rough.
"You've been eager to discuss strategy, Renly," Stannis began, his words laced with a weariness that seemed to reach beyond the physical. "King's Landing, the Lannisters, the Iron Throne..." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Tell me, brother," he continued, a hint of steel now touching his tone, "what do you believe is the greatest threat to our aspirations for the Iron Throne?"
Renly let out a short, sharp laugh. "The Lannisters, of course," he replied, his voice tinged with impatience. "Cersei, that viper, and her bastard son. They hold the throne unlawfully, a blight upon our House and a mockery of Robert's memory." He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with the fire of ambition. "Once we remove them, once we claim what is rightfully yours..."
Stannis's gaze didn't waver, his eyes like chips of flint. "You believe it is the Lannisters, Renly?" he asked, his voice low and rough, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. He took another draught of wine, the silence deepening as he savored the taste, then set the goblet down with a decisive clink that seemed to punctuate his unspoken thoughts.
"Even if we overthrow the bastard king and display his head alongside Cersei's on the walls of the Red Keep, what good is a Crown Renly , what true power does it hold, when a dragon's shadow falls upon King's Landing? When Valyria, with its hundreds of dragons and its potent magic, could turn its gaze upon us at any moment?
He paused, his jaw tightening as his teeth clenched in barely contained frustration. "You all know it—Seven Hells, all of Westeros knows it. Aerys's youngest son, Viserys, was never found, and Rhaella… she was with child."
Stannis rose from his chair and began pacing back and forth, his movements tense and deliberate. Finally, he came to an abrupt stop before the hearth, the firelight casting his restless shadow against the cold stone walls. He stared into the flames for a moment, then turned to face Renly, Davos, and Brienne. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, and charged with a rare intensity. "To claim the throne now, for anyone not of Targaryen blood, would be a fool's errand—a death sentence signed with dragonfire."
He let the weight of his words hang in the air before continuing, his voice ringing with a newfound solemnity. "I called you here today," he declared, "not to discuss strategy for King's Landing, but for something else."
An oppressive stillness filled the room, the weight of Stannis's words pressing heavily upon those present. The only sound was the faint crackling of the brazier's flames. Renly's carefully crafted facade faltered, a look of genuine unease replacing his earlier bravado. Even Brienne, whose stoic demeanor rarely wavered, shifted slightly.
"Brother," Renly said at last, his voice stripped of the mockery and irritation it carried before. There was caution now, curiosity thinly veiled beneath measured words. "Why have you summoned us? If this is not about King's Landing, then what is the purpose of this meeting?"
Stannis's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles bone-white. He shot a quick, almost imperceptible glance at Melisandre, who stood impassively by the brazier, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames as if she saw the answers within them.
"Darkness," Stannis said at last, his voice low and chilling. "Darkness and death, from beyond the Wall."
"Darkness?" Renly echoed, skepticism returning to his voice. "Brother, you speak in riddles. What darkness? Is this another one of Melisandre's—"
"Do not mock what you do not understand," Stannis snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. "This is no game, Renly. No war of crowns
Before he could continue, Melisandre's voice cut through the air like a blade, calm yet commanding. "The Others," she said, her words heavy with meaning. "The White Walkers. They stir beyond the Wall. They are the heralds of the Great Other, and they bring darkness and death with them. Winter marches south."
"The Others?" Renly repeated, his voice faltering before he forced a smirk to his lips. "Lady Melisandre, you speak of legends from the far north. Children's tales meant to scare them into obedience."
Melisandre's unblinking gaze locked onto him. "The tales you dismiss as children's stories," she began, her voice soft but laced with an unsettling conviction, "are the chilling truths of a forgotten age, my lord." Her words, barely above a whisper, carried across the room with an eerie clarity. "They are real— as real as the fire that burns before you. And they are coming."
"Show them," Stannis interjected, his tone as sharp and commanding as a blade.
"As you wish, my lord," Melisandre replied smoothly, inclining her head.
In that moment, despite the suffocating tension in the chamber, Ser Davos couldn't suppress a troubling thought: Melisandre no longer referred to Stannis as "Your Grace." To her, it seemed, he was now simply a lord.
KING 'S LANDING
Tyrion Lannister drummed a restless finger against the worn wood of the council table, his mismatched eyes sweeping across the faces assembled before him. Grand Maester Pycelle dozed lightly, his chin sagging toward his chest, a thin strand of drool clinging precariously to his beard. Janos Slynt, the ever-watchful sycophant, sat rigid and upright, his eyes fixed on Tyrion with unsettling intensity.
Littlefinger's seat, however, remained conspicuously empty.
"The rats are abandoning a sinking ship," Tyrion mused, a wry smile curling the corner of his lips. He had learned of Baelish's quiet departure from Chataya just the night before at her establishment. The woman, ever discreet yet perceptive, had hinted at Littlefinger's growing unease—his belief that the Lannister grip on the capital was slipping.
"And where has Varys slithered off to?" Tyrion wondered, his gaze flicking once more around the chamber. The Spider's absence, though less surprising, was no less troubling. The eunuch had a talent for vanishing when power shifted, his silences heavier than his riddles. Both their absences—like tremors before an earthquake—hinted at cracks forming in his nephew's fragile reign. A pity the boy was too blind to notice. Or care.
Across the table, Cersei lounged with her usual air of cool disdain, a faint, knowing smirk playing at her lips as Ser Addam Marbrand finished his report. The candlelight caught in her golden hair, making her look every bit the queen she believed herself to be—but Tyrion knew better. The smugness in her eyes was not strength, but desperation draped in silk.
"My Queen," Ser Addam was saying, his voice measured, professional. "The reports from Dragonstone remain unchanged. Stannis Baratheon's fleet has yet to set sail. Our informants stationed near the castle have seen no unusual activity. His ships remain anchored there."
Cersei's smirk deepened, the jewels on her fingers flashing as she raised a delicate hand to gesture dismissively.
"He's afraid," she declared, voice dripping with contempt. "Afraid of my son, the King."
Tyrion stifled the urge to laugh aloud, instead allowing only the faintest smirk to touch his lips. "Afraid of Joffrey?" he thought, a wave of sarcastic amusement washing over him. . "The boy barely knows how to wield a sword, let alone command a fleet or an army. The sheer stupidity of it…"
He suspected Stannis's hesitation had little to do with the Lannisters and everything to do with the flames that had danced over Pentos and the three dragons that had flown over King's Landing not days past—a spectacle that no doubt had reached Dragonstone by now.
"My dear sister, blinded by her love for that sadistic, incompetent child. She can't see the forest for the trees... or the dragons circling overhead."
A sharp knock echoed from the chamber doors, splintering the moment.
"Enter," Cersei snapped, irritation seeping into her voice.
The heavy oak doors creaked open, revealing a young page, pale and wide-eyed, clutching a scroll as if it might burn his hands. He bowed, voice trembling.
"Your Grace… my lords… a raven has arrived. From Lord Tywin."
The brazier's flames crackled loudly in the sudden silence. Cersei's smirk froze, her features tightening—not in fear, but confusion. Across the table, Tyrion felt no such confusion. Only the icy bloom of certainty. He exchanged a glance with Ser Addam, who shifted uneasily in his chair.
"My father. He knows." The knot in his stomach tightened. "He's seen the dragons. Or perhaps he's received my message."
Cersei extended a hand, pale fingers adorned with gold and emerald rings that glittered in the candlelight. "Give it to me," she ordered, though there was a rare tremor beneath her command.
The page hurried forward, offering the scroll with both hands. Cersei snatched it, breaking the wax seal—a lion rampant—with a swift, practiced motion.
Silence deepened as she unfolded the parchment, her eyes scanning the lines. Gradually, the color drained from her face, leaving her pale as bone.
Tyrion studied her intently, every shift in her expression, every shallow breath. "What could rattle her so deeply? News from the Riverlands? A Lannister defeat?"
When she finally spoke, her voice was thin, strained. Disbelieving.
"He… he orders us to leave King's Landing. To return to Casterly Rock. With Joffrey."
A flicker of pure, unadulterated rage twisted Cersei's face, so fleeting it might have been a trick of the flickering candlelight. But Tyrion saw it – the raw, animalistic fury that flared in her green eyes before being quickly masked by a veil of cold calculation. He knew that look, the desperate scrambling for control, the suppression of an outburst that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed facade of Lannister composure. He knew, with chilling certainty, that Cersei, for all her pride and ambition, there was one person she could never defy, one voice she could never disobey: Tywin Lannister.
Wordlessly, she extended the scroll towards Tyrion, her hand trembling slightly. He took it, the parchment cool against his skin, and unfolded it slowly. His mismatched eyes scanned the lines, each word a hammer blow against the fragile illusion of control he'd clung to since becoming Hand. The silence in the room deepened, pressing down like a physical weight, punctuated only by the crackling of the flames and Pycelle's now-rhythmic snores.
When he finally looked up, the carefully constructed mask of sardonic amusement he usually wore had crumbled. His eyes, stripped bare of their usual mockery, reflected a chilling mix of fear and resignation. "He wants me dead", Tyrion thought, the words a cold knot in his stomach. "My father wants me dead".
Ser Addam Marbrand, sensing the shift in the room, cleared his throat. "My lord Hand," he began, his voice hesitant, "what are Lord Tywin's instructions?"
Tyrion drew a deep, shaky breath, forcing his voice to steady, to project an authority he no longer felt. "Ser Addam," he said, his tone carefully measured, "you will depart for Casterly Rock with the majority of the Lannister forces currently under your command. You will escort King Joffrey and the Queen Regent, ensuring their safe passage." He paused, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I will remain in King's Landing, continuing in my role as Hand of the King." A flicker of his usual sardonic amusement returned, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of control in a game he knew he was losing. "A lamb led to slaughter", he thought bitterly. But a Lannister nonetheless.
RIVERRUN
Catelyn Stark awoke to the sound of rain drumming softly against the windows of her chamber. The room was still dim, the morning light struggling to pierce through the heavy clouds. She blinked, her mind still foggy with sleep, and reached out for Eddard. Her hand met only the cold, empty sheets. A frown creased her brow. Where was he? He hadn't left her side since their arrival at Riverrun, not with the weight of war and the uncertainty of their alliances hanging over them.
A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. She rose, pulling a robe around her, and crossed to the window. The rain-soaked courtyard below was deserted, save for a lone guard pacing the battlements. The grey sky mirrored the disquiet in her heart. Where was Ned? And why hadn't he woken her? Something felt… amiss.
Just as she turned from the window, a soft knock echoed at the door.
"Cat?" Brynden's voice, muffled by the thick oak, reached her. "Are you awake?"
Relief washed over her at the familiar sound. She quickly crossed the room and opened the door. "Uncle," she began, her voice tinged with anxiety, "Where is Ned? I awoke and..."
Brynden's calm gaze met hers, a hint of reassurance in his eyes. "He's quite alright, Cat. No need to worry." He paused, his expression turning serious. "But I need you to get dressed and come with me. Quickly."
Confusion clouded Catelyn's features. "What is it, Uncle? What's happened?"
Brynden held her gaze for a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. "Get dressed first, Cat. There's much to discuss... and little time to spare."
30 MINUTES LATER
The crisp morning air, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, filled the corridors of Riverrun as Catelyn Stark made her way towards the Great Hall. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, strolled alongside her, a knowing glint in his eye.
"You seem well-rested, Cat," Brynden remarked, his tone warm and laced with a touch of amusement. "I trust you slept soundly?"
Catelyn smiled, though a hint of weariness lingered in her eyes. "As soundly as one can with the weight of war hanging over us, Uncle," she replied, her voice carrying a quiet strength. "Though I confess, I was surprised to find Ned missing this morning. He wasn't beside me when I awoke." A touch of confusion colored her tone. "Has something happened? Where is my husband?"
Brynden nodded, his expression turning serious. "A Lannister delegation arrived late last night. Closer to dawn, actually." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "Eddard thought it best not to disturb you. He said you looked exhausted after the journey and needed your rest. He's already in the Great Hall with your father, discussing the situation."
Catelyn's frown deepened further, her thoughts turning over the strange timing of the Lannister delegation's arrival. A sudden chill ran down her spine, a premonition whispering in her ear. "Bran's visions," she recalled, a knot tightening in her stomach. "He saw something… a gathering… here, in Riverrun. And Jojen too, with that unsettling certainty in his voice." She remembered how both had insisted that Aegon must be present.
The pieces of the puzzle swirled in her mind, hinting at a purpose she could not yet grasp. As though the threads of fate, woven by unseen hands, were converging on Riverrun, drawing them all toward a destiny she could only glimpse in the shadows of Bran's visions. What if this encounter, this seemingly random arrival of the Lannister delegation, was not random at all?
At that moment, Catelyn returned to the present. "Did they… did they see the dragons…?" Her voice trailed off, not with apprehension, but with quiet curiosity, wondering how the Lannisters might have reacted had they glimpsed the dragons. Would it have been awe? Fear? Or something colder, more calculating?
Brynden shook his head, his expression calm but watchful. "No, Cat. The dragons were already gone. Took flight just before their arrival, as if veiled by mist." He paused, meeting her gaze with measured certainty.
A thoughtful silence stretched between them. The dragons' departure may have sidestepped immediate questions, but the presence of a Lannister delegation within Riverrun's walls still left her wondering.
"And Father?" she asked at last, her voice softer now, contemplative. "What does he say? What do the Lannisters want?"
"Hoster has summoned all the lords and ladies for a gathering in the Great Hall within the hour. To hear what Tywin Lannister's emissaries have to offer. He wants all of us present, Northmen, Valemen, and Riverlanders." Brynden paused, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
The heavy oak doors of Riverrun's Great Hall swung open with a low groan, revealing a scene that stole Catelyn's breath. Torchlight flickered along the stone walls, casting shifting patterns across the gathered lords and ladies seated in solemn array.
At the head table, raised slightly above the rest, sat Lord Hoster Tully, pale yet keen-eyed despite his declining health. To his left, Eddard Stark's stern features softened the moment his eyes met Catelyn's, his face lighting with quiet happiness before he returned his attention to Jasper Arryn, seated on Hoster's right. The young lord, his face still shadowed with grief, spoke in hushed tones with Aegon Targaryen, who wore a finely woven coif of dark blue silk. His attire, understated yet elegant, made him look more a lord of the Vale than a targaryen prince.
Beside Aegon sat Lady Margaery Tyrell, her beauty a gentle counterpoint to the hall's somber mood. Though outwardly serene, her keen eyes remained fixed on the conversation, absorbing every word.
To Eddard's left sat Torrhen Stark, Vaella Balaerys, and Bran. Catelyn's gaze lingered on Bran, noting the faraway look in his eyes, as though his mind wandered somewhere beyond the hall—perhaps beyond the walls of Riverrun itself.
Vaella, by contrast, seemed fully present. Her silver hair was veiled beneath a deep violet snood, and her striking Valyrian features were softened by a high-necked gown of crimson velvet. Catelyn watched as she leaned close to Torrhen, whispering something that made the young Stark smile—genuine, unguarded.
What caught Catelyn's attention more, however, was Vaella's next move. Rising gracefully, she exchanged seats with Eddard, positioning herself beside Hoster. They exchanged whispered words, their gazes flicking meaningfully toward Torrhen. A silent understanding seemed to pass between them, though its nature remained unclear.
Torrhen, for his part, appeared different—more at ease, his quiet demeanor warmed by a rare glow of contentment.
Catelyn's brow furrowed slightly as she noted the subtle changes in both Vaella and Aegon's appearances. The concealed silver hair, the Westerosi attire… deliberate choices, carefully calculated. Not deception, but strategy.
"Uncle, Vaella and Aegon—their clothes, their appearance?" Catelyn asked, curiosity edging her voice.
"It was Lord Yohn Royce's suggestion," Brynden replied, his gaze following hers toward the pair. "He thought it wise to keep their true identities somewhat veiled, at least for now."
At that moment, they saw Eddard approaching, a warm smile on his face. He leaned down toward Catelyn and Brynden, pressing a tender kiss to Catelyn's lips.
"I didn't want to wake you, Cat," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "I knew you were tired."
Catelyn leaned into his embrace, her hand rising to caress his cheek.
"Thank you, my love," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with affection. "I really did need the rest." She glanced around the hall, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. "I don't see any Lannister banners. Where is Tywin's delegation?"
Eddard's expression grew serious.
"They'll be here any moment," he replied in a low voice. "Come, let's join the others."
He offered Catelyn his arm, and together they walked back to the head table. A servant quickly brought another chair, allowing Catelyn to sit beside Eddard.
As Eddard and Catelyn settled at the head table, Hoster Tully's gaze softened, the lines of worry etched on his face easing slightly. He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing lightly against Catelyn's. "Cat, my dear," he murmured, his voice raspy but warm, "it eases my heart to see you safe at Riverrun".
Catelyn smiled warmly, squeezing her father's hand. "Father," she replied, her voice soft yet steady, "it is good to be here.
Hoster's eyes twinkled, a hint of pride and wonder coloring his tone. "You've chosen well for Robb, Cat," he said, inclining his head toward Margaery, who sat beside Aegon, attentively listening to the hushed conversation between the young Targaryen and Jasper Arryn. "The Tyrell rose blooms brightly beside the direwolf, it seems." Then, his gaze shifted to Vaella, who sat beside Torrhen, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "And this Vaella Balaerys…", he continued, his voice laced with admiration, "a most impressive young woman. To think, a member of my own blood marrying into a dragonlord family of Old Valyria… it's something I never would have imagined." He smiled at Catelyn, his eyes shining with genuine affection. "A formidable match for Torrhen. He, and indeed all the Starks and Tullys, have gained a powerful ally."
Before she could respond, a servant hurried into the hall, bowing deeply before Lord Hoster. "My lord," he announced, his voice carrying a note of strained formality, "the Lannister delegation has arrived. They await your permission to enter."
A hush fell over the Great Hall, the air thickening with anticipation. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls as every gaze turned towards the entrance. Hoster Tully, his face hardening into a mask of wary authority, nodded curtly. "Let them enter," he commanded, his voice echoing through the sudden silence.
BEYOND THE WALL ( CRASTER'S KEEP )
Daenerys Targaryen, while listening to Marillion's narration, found herself captivated by the Children of the Forest. Their otherworldly presence and the quiet power they exuded stirred a deep sense of wonder within her, further fueling her curiosity about this mysterious land beyond the Wall.
Leaning closer to Ser Jorah, she spoke in a hushed voice. "Ser Jorah, in all your years on Bear Island, have you ever witnessed anything like them?"
Jorah followed her gaze, his expression thoughtful as he slowly shook his head. "No, my lady," he admitted. "On Bear Island and across the North, there are countless stories about them, whispered tales of ancient times. But in all my years exploring the deep woods of Bear Island, my home, I never saw anything even remotely like this."
Jaenara, who had been listening to their exchange, sighed softly and wrapped her arms around Ser Jorah. "They are… fascinating," she murmured, her voice filled with quiet awe. "Like something out of a dream."
She too felt an undeniable pull toward the Children, their connection to the ancient magic of Westeros so palpable it seemed to hum in the air around them.
An hour had passed, and Marillion's voice filled the air, his usual bardic flair softened by an unmistakable sincerity. As he recounted the events of the past days—the harrowing battle against the wights and White Walkers, the crucial discovery of dragonglass weaponry, the enigmatic arrival of Bran the Builder and the Children of the Forest, and the fateful confrontation with the general of the Great Other—his words carried the weight of history in the making.
Elaena and Benjen observed the Valyrians—Aelora, Jaenara, and Daeraxys—with quiet intent. Their reactions spoke volumes, their serious, contemplative expressions shifting subtly between astonishment and dawning understanding as they absorbed the tale. Aelora's violet eyes, typically sharp and unflinching, betrayed a flicker of unease. More than once, she turned her gaze toward Elaena or Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, her unspoken question seeking affirmation. Both Elaena and Mormont responded with subtle, measured nods, confirming the bard's account without interruption.
Daeraxys, his brows drawn tightly together in thought, leaned closer to Jaenara on occasion, murmuring low observations or questions. Jaenara, her demeanor unusually restrained, listened intently, her gaze unwavering as it remained fixed on Marillion, her expression as inscrutable as it was intrigued.
However, their attention was not fully captured by the bard. While Marillion's words painted vivid images of the past months, their eyes often drifted towards Bran the Builder. The presence of the legendary figure seemed to command a different kind of awe. Bran's modest stillness, the quiet strength in his bearing, seemed to deepen the Valyrians' intrigue.
Leaf and her kin, with their luminous eyes and the faint hum of ancient magic that surrounded them, drew glances as well—glances that lingered, as if seeking to unravel the secrets held within their otherworldly forms.
The Free Folk—Tormund, Val, Ygritte, Craster, and the women who lived with him, who had also emerged from the keep to listen to Marillion's tale—added yet another layer to the scene. Hardened by the wild and shaped by a life beyond the Wall, their presence stood in stark contrast to the disciplined bearing of the men of the Night's Watch. The Valyrians regarded them with a mix of curiosity and cautious respect, as though observing a people shaped by a way of life entirely unfamiliar to their own.
Through it all, Marillion's voice wove the threads of the narrative, binding the disparate figures and factions gathered in this frozen corner of the world into a single, unforgettable tapestry.
"...and so, my lords and ladies from Valyria, that is how we came to be here, at Craster's Keep, north of the Wall. A battle fought, a victory won, but at a heavy cost. The enemy is real, as are the tales of old. The rest… well, the rest remains to be seen." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before adding, with a slight bow, "And so concludes my tale."
An expectant silence followed Marillion's final words. The bard, with a slight bow, retreated a step, allowing the weight of his tale to settle upon the listeners. The snow, which had begun to fall during the narration, dusted the assembled company, creating a delicate layer of white across furs, cloaks, and armor.
Jaenara Vaelorn leaned closer to Ser Jorah, her voice a soft murmur against his ear. "Now I understand the true role of bards in Westeros," she whispered, a hint of amusement in her tone. "More than mere entertainers… they are witnesses. Chroniclers. Keepers of memory."
Jorah chuckled softly, his breath warm against her cheek. "Indeed," he replied, squeezing her hand gently.
Elaena, overhearing the exchange, allowed herself a small, knowing smile. "It seems Marillion's boast a few months ago—that he had journeyed to Valyria and recited his tales before every dragonlord—will soon come to pass," she mused to herself.
At that momento, the Children, who were now whispering among themselves, their gazes fixed intently on the dragons. A subtle understanding seemed to pass between them, a silent communication that transcended language. Leaf, turning towards Aelora, offered a gentle smile. "My lady," she said, her voice like the rustling of leaves, "may we ask your permission? My kin and I would be honored to… greet the dragons. We mean them no harm."
Aelora, momentarily taken aback by the request, exchanged quick glances with Daeraxys, Jaenara, and Elaena. A flicker of concern crossed her features. "They are… powerful creatures," she cautioned, her tone measured but firm. "They can be unpredictable."
Leaf's smile widened. "We understand, my lady. But we have walked this earth far longer than your dragons have flown the skies. We know the language of fire."
After a brief pause, Aelora, intrigued yet cautious, nodded slowly. "Very well," she said after a moment's hesitation. "But please, be careful."
The Valyrians watched in contemplative silence as Leaf and the Children of the Forest approached the dragons. The majestic creatures observed the diminutive figures with an unnerving stillness, their eyes gleaming with an ancient, almost otherworldly intelligence. To everyone's surprise, the dragons allowed the Children to come closer, their massive heads lowering slightly as if in acknowledgment.
With gentle, reverent movements, the Children reached out and caressed the dragons' snouts, their small hands tracing the intricate, shimmering patterns of their scales. A low rumble, deep and resonant like the purr of a colossal cat, emanated from the dragons, mingling with the quiet hum of ancient magic that seemed to envelop the scene.
"Incredible," Daenerys murmured, her voice filled with awe as she watched the interaction unfold.
Aelora, still stunned, turned toward Elaena. "Dear Elaena," she said, her voice low and steady, "is it true? All that the bard has recounted… is it the truth?"
Elaena nodded solemnly, her gaze unwavering. "Every word, Aelora. We have witnessed the horror with our own eyes. The Others are real. The god of darkness… the Great Other… he is real. And he is more powerful than we ever imagined."
Qhorin Halfhand, his scarred face grim, stepped forward. "Aye, it's true enough," he rasped, his voice rough as granite. "I've seen things beyond the Wall that would curdle a southron's blood, but these Others... they're different. A chill deeper than any winter."
Tormund grunted, his thick beard bristling. "The crow speaks true. We Free Folk know the cold, but this... this is death itself, crawlin' out of the ice."
Daeraxys Valitheos, his brow furrowed, stepped forward. "With all due respect, Elaena," he said, skepticism lacing his tone—though all present noted a flicker of fear in his voice—"while I appreciate the bard's… colorful account, I need to see proof. Where are this White Walker and wight you've captured? And where is… Jon Targaryen? I would also like to see the ancient key said to belong to the Casterlys."
Bran the Builder, who had remained silent throughout Marillion's narration, stepped forward with an almost otherworldly calm. "The prisoners are secured in the camp, under the watchful eyes of the Night's Watch," he said. "As for Jon Targaryen…" he paused, his gaze meeting Daenerys's, "…he is recovering. He channeled a power he does not yet control, and he needs time to rest."
Aelora Balaerys, her eyes now wide with a mix of apprehension and determination, turned to Bran the Builder. "May we see them?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "The White Walker... the wight...?"
Bran nodded. "They are heavily guarded, but yes. Seeing them is... necessary." His gaze swept over Aelora, Daeraxys, Jaenara, Daenerys and ser Jorah, lingering on each of their faces. "For all of you." He turned and gestured towards the edge of the forest. "Come," he said, his voice soft yet carrying an ancient authority. "There are truths that words cannot convey. Some things... must be witnessed to be believed."
Tormund, shifting his weight impatiently, grunted. "Aye, best see 'em with yer own eyes. Words don't do justice to the stink of death on them things."
As the group began to move toward the treeline, Lord Commander Mormont, noticing that Daenerys Targaryen appeared distressed, approached her and addressed her with a tone that was gentle yet laced with concern. "My lady," he began, "I saw you speaking with your aunt, Lady Elaena, and I know you are worried about Jon Targaryen. He is within the Keep, resting. But be warned—the power he wielded... it has taken a toll."
Daenerys nodded, her violet eyes reflecting a mix of worry and determination. "I must see him," she said, her voice firm. She glanced at Jojen Reed, who stood silently beside her, his gaze distant, as though peering beyond the veil of the present. He offered her a small, reassuring nod.
Turning to Elaena, Daenerys's expression grew questioning. "He is… will he recover?"
Doreah, who had been hovering anxiously near Elaena, stepped forward. Her voice was soft but resolute. "He is being cared for, My Lady Daenerys. I am tending to his wounds." She touched the small chest she carried, filled with precious balms and remedies. "He is strong. He will recover."
Ygritte, standing protectively beside Doreah, nodded in agreement.
Elaena placed a comforting hand on Daenerys's arm. "Doreah has applied medicines and balms, and Bran has given him a special potion," she explained gently. "It allows him to sleep deeply, giving his subconscious the time it needs to heal and restore the balance of his powers. He will recover. But, Dany, I want you to join us first—to see the enemy with your own eyes."
Daenerys sighed, her gaze briefly drifting toward the Keep where Jon rested. Turning back to Elaena, she nodded. "Very well, Aunt Elaena."
The group followed Bran towards the area where the prisoners were held. The air grew heavy with a palpable tension as they approached the clearing. The Night's Watch men stood guard, their faces grim, their weapons held at the ready. The White Walker, bound tightly with Valyrian steel chains, stood motionless in the center of the clearing, its icy blue eyes fixed on the newcomers. The wight, equally restrained, slumped against a nearby tree, its decaying flesh a grotesque parody of life.
A hush fell over the group as they took in the sight before them. Daeraxys and Jaenara exchanged a look, their expressions shifting from skepticism to dawning horror. Jorah's hand tightened around Jaenara's, his face a mask of grim determination.
Aelora Balaerys stepped closer to the White Walker, her eyes narrowing as she studied it intently, her breath hitching in her throat. The air around the creature crackled with an unnatural chill, a cold so profound it seemed to drain the warmth from her very bones. She had seen death before—witnessed the carnage of battle and the brutal aftermath of dragonfire. But this… this was something else. The White Walker exuded an aura of emptiness, a chilling void that seemed to consume the very essence of life around it.
Her hand trembled as if drawn by an unseen force, hovering inches from the creature. "This…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, her gaze locked on the White Walker's icy blue eyes. They seemed to pierce through her, stripping away all pretense and baring her soul. "...This is no mere beast. There is an emptiness within it… a void… that chills me to the core."
Her eyes shifted to the wight slumped against the tree, its grotesque form a perversion of life itself. It was a mockery of existence, a visceral reminder of the White Walkers' power to corrupt and desecrate . The stench of rotting flesh clung to the air, thick and cloying, forcing her stomach to churn. A wave of nausea surged through her, and she covered her mouth, bile rising in her throat.
Turning to Qhorin and Ser Jarman, her voice trembled with barely suppressed revulsion. "How… how do you endure this? How do you stand so close to… to them?"
Qhorin Halfhand shifted his weight, his eyes cold and unyielding. He spat on the ground near the White Walker and scowled. "I've seen a lot in my years beyond the Wall, m'lady," he said, his tone rough and unpolished, like the edge of a whetstone. "Enough to know what true darkness looks like. And this," he gestured with his chin toward the White Walker, "this is the coldest, foulest son of a bitch I've ever laid eyes on. It chills a man to the bone, aye, and the darkness of it... it clings to ye like a bloody demon's shadow."
He paused, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. "But ye learn to endure, m'lady. The years harden ye, and in the Night's Watch, we don't have the luxury of turnin' away from such things. It's our duty—no matter how much it twists your guts or makes your blood run cold. We face the darkness so others don't have to."
Ser Jarman, his face pale but composed, inclined his head respectfully toward Aelora. "Indeed, my lady," he said, his voice calm but edged with tension. "Their presence is... unsettling, to say the least. But it is the duty of the Night's Watch to stand against such horrors, to protect the realms of men, whatever the cost. We endure because we must."
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on the White Walker's unnerving form. Then, with a steadying breath, he continued, "Though I will confess, my lady, even for seasoned rangers like us, standing this close to one of these creatures… it tests one's resolve. They are a blight upon the world, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lies beyond the edges of civilization."
Daeraxys, who had been silently listening to the grim words of Qhorin Halfhand and Ser Jarman Buckwell, felt his earlier skepticism melt away like frost before dragonfire. His gaze lingered on the White Walker, its icy aura almost tangible, and then drifted to the wight slumped nearby. A shiver coursed through him—not from the cold, but from the weight of realization.
Turning to Aelora and Jaenara, Daeraxys's expression grew grave, his eyes heavy with a newfound respect for the Night's Watch and the enormity of their burden. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke, his voice hushed with awe. "Elaena Targaryen's warnings… they were not exaggerations," he admitted, the words laced with reluctant acceptance. "We must prepare Valyria for this threat." His tone was resolute, each word carrying the weight of a man finally confronting a truth too dire to ignore.
Jaenara, her face pale, turned to Jorah and reached for his hand, her fingers intertwining with his as if seeking comfort. Her violet eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and wonder, locked onto his. "The North..." she murmured, her voice trembling, barely above a whisper. "The stories, the legends—everything you told me. They were true. This place holds secrets darker than I ever imagined."
Jorah nodded grimly, his gaze meeting Jaenara's with a silent understanding. The world, it seemed, was far more complex and perilous than either of them had ever believed. He glanced at his father, Lord Commander Mormont, then back at Jaenara, a new resolve hardening his features. He would prove himself worthy of this second chance—worthy of her, of his father, and of the North.
Jaenara then turned her gaze to Jojen Reed, her expression softening. "Forgive my earlier skepticism, young greenseer," she said, her voice heavy with remorse. "Before I came to this land… I doubted the existence of your kind, of the power you wield. My family and I… we were wrong."
She paused, drawing a shaky breath before shifting her gaze to Elaena, shame and regret etched on her features. "Elaena," she began, her voice soft and tinged with sorrow, "I owe you and your family a deeper apology. My father mocked your brother, Aenar, for heeding Daenys's prophecies, for abandoning Valyria. He called him a fool. We were blinded by arrogance, and we paid the price. Now, it seems, we've repeated our mistake. We dismissed your warnings about the threat beyond the Wall, just as my father dismissed your niece's visions. We were wrong. We should have listened." Her voice broke, thick with emotion. "I pray… I pray it's not too late."
Elaena placed a comforting hand on Jaenara's arm. "There's no need for apologies, Jaenara," she said gently. "We all have our doubts. But now… now we see the truth. And we will face it together."
Despite the tension of the moment, Elaena allowed herself a small sigh of relief. "The first objective has been achieved," she thought, noting the worried expressions of Daeraxys, Valitheoss, and Jaenara Vaelorn.
Suddenly, a sharp, echoing crack split the air. The White Walker, once motionless, stiffened, its icy gaze snapping to Daenerys with terrifying precision. Its blue eyes burned like frozen fire, unrelenting and alien, and a low growl, guttural and brimming with ancient malice, rumbled deep within its chest. The sound was unnatural, like the creaking of a glacier on the verge of collapse.
Daenerys froze, her breath catching in her throat as a cold dread washed over her. She turned sharply to Lord Commander Mormont, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. "In the battle… was the White Walker's weapon destroyed?" she asked, the words spilling out faster than she intended, betraying her unease.
Mormont's expression darkened, and he shook his head. He gestured toward the edge of the clearing, where the White Walker's crystalline blade rested against a frost-covered tree, its surface glinting faintly in the pale light.
"No, My Lady," he said gravely. "From what we observed in the battle, the weapon cannot be destroyed so long as the White Walker remains alive. And Bran the Builder insisted we keep it. He said it might prove useful."
Daenerys's gaze flicked to the weapon, her heart pounding in her chest. The sword seemed to hum faintly, as though it were alive, its presence oppressive and unnatural. She could feel the creature's burning eyes still locked on her, its growl vibrating through her very bones. For the first time in a long while, Daenerys Targaryen felt truly vulnerable.
Pushing down the lingering fear, Daenerys straightened her shoulders and strode towards the sword. Her steps were firm, her gaze resolute. "I want to see how resistant it truly is," she announced, her voice ringing with a newfound determination. "I'd like to test it against Valyrian steel."
Before Daenerys could reach the crystalline sword, Bran the Builder moved with surprising agility, positioning himself between her and the weapon. He raised a hand, palm outward, a gesture that held both warning and authority. "A moment, my lady," he said, his voice calm but firm. "This is not a weapon for any hand. Only those with an affinity for ice magic can wield it safely." He picked up the sword. An unnatural chill emanated from the blade, but Bran appeared unaffected.
Daenerys, her curiosity piqued, drew her Valyrian steel sword. The polished metal gleamed in the dawn light, a testament to the legendary craftsmanship of her ancestors. "Let us test that, then," she proposed, a spark of challenge in her eyes.
Bran nodded and, with a fluid motion that belied his age, crossed the crystal sword against Daenerys's Valyrian steel. The sound of their impact resonated through the clearing—a sharp, crystalline ring that echoed off the surrounding trees. To Daenerys's astonishment, and that of the other Valyrians present, the crystal sword did not shatter. It held firm, resisting the force of the Valyrian steel without a scratch. A wave of unease rippled through the Valyrians. Their faces, moments before alight with fascination, now hardened with concern.
"By the gods..." Daeraxys, who had been watching the scene, murmured, his voice tinged with newfound respect for the Other's weapon. "It's... stronger than I anticipated." He turned to Aelora, his violet eyes dark with worry. "Perhaps we should consider equipping all our dragons with dragon steel armor, Aelora—not just those belonging to the Triarchy, but the dragons of the other forty families as well. This weapon... it's dangerous. It could seriously wound, perhaps even kill, a dragon."
Aelora nodded slowly, her expression mirroring his concern. The implications of the crystal sword's resilience were deeply unsettling. Despite the tension of the moment, Elaena breathed a sigh of relief. "The first objective has been achieved", she thought, observing the worried expressions of Daeraxys, Valitheoss, and Jaenara Vaelorn.
Aelora turned to Daeraxys, her voice low and urgent. "That order you gave… about forging more Dragon steel and crafting weapons from frozen fire… it must be enforced, Daeraxys. Every single dragonlord must comply. This is no longer a suggestion; it's a command." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the assembled Valyrians, her voice hardening. "And that includes the blood magic rituals. Marillion mentioned the spirits Elaena summoned, the shadows Lysara commanded. Those rituals… they are vital. We must prepare. Every mage in Valyria must begin crafting powerful blood magic spells. We will need every advantage we can get."
Daeraxys, his gaze locked on the ice sword, nodded grimly. "It will be done, Aelora. The message will be sent as soon as we return." He paused, shaking his head slowly, a shiver running down his spine despite the heavy layers of fur and armor. "This is unlike anything we've encountered since... since Old Ghis. We believed dragons were the ultimate weapon, the pinnacle of power. But these creatures... these Others… they pose a threat to Valyria unlike any we have faced in millennia."
His voice grew firmer, tempered with both resolve and apprehension. "We can defeat them, but only if we are prepared. Every weapon at our disposal must be brought to bear." He gestured towards the White Walker and the wight, his tone dropping to a near-whisper, laced with awe. "This... this is a force we cannot afford to underestimate. A power we must acknowledge... and fear."
Aelora, her voice resonating with the strength of conviction, declared, "Valyria will not stand idly by. We will forge the weapons, train our dragons, and prepare for the war that is to come. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past. We will not underestimate the enemy as we once did during the Rhoynish Wars."
She turned to Bran the Builder, her violet eyes gleaming with newfound respect. "We have much to learn from you, Lord Bran," she said, her tone carrying a note of humility. "Your wisdom and experience will be invaluable in the battles ahead."
Bran nodded, his gaze steady and filled with quiet determination. "We will face this darkness together," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "And we will prevail".
Then, Bran the Builder, turning to Daenerys and Jojen, gestured toward the Keep. "Daenerys, Jojen," he said softly, his voice carrying a blend of concern and anticipation. "It is time. We must return to the Keep, and only the three of us shall enter to see Jon."
Daenerys nodded eagerly, her expression betraying both urgency and worry. "Yes, let us go see Jon," she urged, her voice resolute despite the apprehension in her eyes.
Elaena and Benjen exchanged a quick glance before nodding in agreement. Benjen turned to address the group.
"We'll return shortly," he announced. Then, turning his gaze to Lord Commander Mormont, he added, "Perhaps it would be wise to bring the prisoners closer to the keep. Within the walls, they'll be more secure."
The Lord Commander exchanged a brief look with his officers, Qhorin Halfhand and Ser Jarman Buckwell, silently agreeing. He gestured to the Night's Watch men guarding the White Walker and the wight. With practiced efficiency, the guards began moving the prisoners, the heavy chains clinking ominously as they led them toward the keep. The group followed, their boots crunching through the snow, the anticipation hanging in the air as thick as the morning mist.
As the procession approached the imposing wooden doors of Craster's Keep, Jojen paused, his gaze lifting towards a large eagle circling high above them. A faint smile touched his lips, and a knowing glint flickered in his green eyes. He turned to Bran and Daenerys, a subtle shift in his demeanor that spoke of a sudden understanding. "There is… a different path I must follow," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, as if sharing a secret with the wind. "Go. Jon needs you. I will join you later."
Daenerys's brow furrowed with concern, but she nodded, trusting Jojen's intuition. She exchanged a quick, worried glance with Bran, who offered a reassuring smile. Elaena reached out and took Daenerys's hands. "Go to him, Dany. He needs you."
Daenerys returned the grip, her touch firm. "Aunt Elaena… I…"
"We'll be waiting outside, Dany," Elaena said with a smile. "Now go to him."
With a deep breath, Daenerys turned toward the keep, Bran by her side. The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit interior. The air within was thick with the cloying scent of woodsmoke and something else—something ancient and unsettling, a primal aroma that sent a shiver down Daenerys's spine.
As they stepped inside, they found Samwell Tarly hunched over a makeshift bed in a corner of the room. His usually jovial face was pale and drawn, etched with worry lines that seemed far too deep for someone his age. He clutched a bloodstained rag in his trembling hands, his gaze fixed on the figure lying motionless beneath a pile of furs. His face was bruised, a testament to the recent battle.
Daenerys's heart ached at the sight. She remembered Samwell from Winterfell, Jon's loyal friend. A wave of warmth and compassion washed over her, and without hesitation, she rushed forward and embraced him. "Sam," she murmured, her voice filled with genuine concern.
Samwell stiffened in surprise, his eyes widening as he looked up at her. "Daenerys?" he stammered, his voice thick with confusion. "What... what are you doing here? Beyond the Wall?"
Daenerys pulled back slightly, her hand gently touching the bruise on Sam's face. "And you're hurt..."
"It's nothing," he said softly, his voice reassuring.
Daenerys's gaze shifted to Jon, lying motionless on the bed. "It's Jon… tell me, is he—?"
"He's alright," Sam interrupted, relief flooding his voice. He gestured toward the bed. "Exhausted... and different. But he's alive." He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the bloodstained rag in his hands. "He's been unconscious for hours. I… I didn't know what to do."
Daenerys smiled gently, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You did everything you could, Sam. He's lucky to have you by his side." She turned toward the bed, her heart pounding with a mix of relief and apprehension.
Bran, who had been silently observing the exchange, nodded in agreement. He stepped closer to the bed, his gaze fixed on Jon. "He needs rest," he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. "And when he wakes..." He paused, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight, his expression unreadable. "There is much to tell him."
Daenerys nodded, her violet eyes filled with a mix of worry and anticipation. She reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Jon's forehead, her touch light as a feather. Samwell, still clutching the bloodstained rag, hovered nearby, his face etched with concern.
A soft sigh escaped Jon's lips, and his brow furrowed slightly, as if troubled by a dream. Daenerys's breath hitched, her hand instinctively tightening around Jon's. Samwell leaned closer, his eyes wide with hope.
Jon's eyelids fluttered, then slowly, tentatively, began to open. At first, his gaze was unfocused, clouded with the remnants of sleep, but as it settled on Daenerys, a spark of recognition flickered within the deep blue depths. A soft smile, weak but genuine, touched his lips.
"Dany...?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely a breath of sound in the quiet room.
A wave of relief washed over Daenerys. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision for a moment, but a radiant smile quickly followed, transforming her face. "Jon!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with uncontainable joy. "You're awake!"
Samwell, unable to contain himself any longer, let out a whoop of delight. He rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness. "Jon!" he cried, clapping his friend on the shoulder, perhaps a bit too hard, given Jon's weakened state. "You gave us a right scare there, mate!" His own eyes glistened, a testament to the depth of his relief.
Jon's gaze shifted to Sam, a flicker of warmth easing the confusion in his eyes. He offered a weak smile in return. "Sam…?" he murmured, his voice still raspy. He looked around the small room, his brow furrowing slightly as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. "What… what happened? Where am I?"
"You're in Craster's Keep," Bran replied, his voice calm and reassuring. He placed a gentle hand on Jon's arm. "You collapsed after the battle. You've been unconscious for hours."
Jon's brow furrowed, his gaze shifting between Daenerys, Bran and Samwell , deep confusion clouding his features. "Battle?" he murmured, his voice raspy, struggling to grasp the fragmented memories.
"I... I remember..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to force the disjointed images and sensations into a coherent whole.
A flicker of pain crossed his face. Then, suddenly, his eyes snapped open.
Daenerys and Sam gasped. A light blazed in Jon's eyes, a light that spoke of something ancient and powerful awakened within him. It was as though a veil had been lifted, revealing a strength they had never seen before.
"The White Walkers..." he breathed, the words no longer a question, but a statement, heavy with the weight of realization.
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, now not with confusion, but with a newfound understanding of the power that surged within him. The faint tremor of energy, the residual hum of magic, resonated through his very being.
He looked up at Daenerys, his eyes shining with an intensity that made her heart quicken. "The fire… the ice…" he murmured, his voice resonant with an echo of something ancient and profound.
He touched the key at his neck, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
"This key…" he paused, his gaze distant, as if peering through the veil of memory.
"This key… and so much more." A strange calm settled over him, a serenity that belied the tumultuous events he now fully recalled.
"Before I faced that… general…," he began, his voice low and thoughtful, "while I was… between worlds… I spoke with gods. Ancient gods. They spoke of… of a destiny."
He looked at Bran, a question burning in his eyes. "Bran," he said, his voice gaining strength, "do you know… do you know what they meant?"
Bran's expression softened, a knowing glint in his eyes. He nodded slowly. "Tell us of your dream, Jon," he said gently. "Tell us everything."
OUTSIDE CRASTER'S KEEP (THIS OCCURS SIMULTANEOUSLY)
"Elaena, can we talk?" Aelora's voice drew Elaena's attention. Elaena, leaning against Benjen, turned to face Aelora, a questioning look in her violet eyes. Aelora approached, her expression reflecting gratitude and a sense of finality.
"Do you remember the meeting we had sixteen long years ago, back in Valyria?" Aelora asked, her gaze distant, as if revisiting that pivotal moment. "That humble cabin, with Baesenarr Valitheos—Daeraxys's grandfather—and Balemond Aekylosh?"
Elaena nodded slowly, the weight of that day resurfacing—the mission she willingly accepted: to discover if magic existed in the North of Westeros, if a threat beyond the Wall could endanger Valyria, and to learn the fate of Aenar's descendants. Her vision, the one whispering of a Targaryen on the Iron Throne to face the coming darkness, added a layer of urgency to her quest. She glanced at Benjen, his presence a comforting anchor in this world she had come to call home.
"I do," Elaena replied, her voice steady.
"I want to thank you, Elaena," Aelora said, her voice filled with heartfelt gratitude. "For everything. For undertaking this mission, for seeking the truths that could save us all."
A warm smile graced Elaena's lips. She embraced Benjen, her touch reflecting the unexpected love she had found amidst the cold and shadows.
"It was… a path I chose," she reiterated, her gaze shifting towards Craster's Keep. "And if not for this journey," she continued, her smile widening, a radiant light in her eyes, "I would never have found my home here, with Benjen, with Alyssane… with my family."
Aelora nodded, understanding and respect shining in her violet eyes. She drew a rolled parchment from a leather pouch on her armor and offered it to Elaena.
Elaena's eyes widened as she recognized the blood contract.
"Aelora… this is…?" she breathed, a mix of disbelief and anticipation in her voice.
"It's over, Elaena," Aelora said softly. "Your official mission is complete. The North holds magic, the threat is real, Aenar's line endures, and not one, but three Targaryens—one of whom, Aegon, is poised to take the Iron Throne—are preparing to face the darkness. You have fulfilled your official duty to Valyria."
Elaena glanced at the contract, then at Aelora, and finally at Benjen, her eyes brimming with a love that transcended words. With a resolute motion, she tore the parchment in half. A faint shimmer of energy rippled through the air as the blood magic unraveled, dissipating into nothingness—a decisive act that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
"My official duty to Valyria may be fulfilled," Elaena declared, her voice ringing with newfound resolve, "but my mission… my personal mission to Valyria and Westeros continues."
She met Benjen's gaze, her love for him shining like a beacon in the encroaching twilight. Slowly, she leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. When she pulled back, her voice was husky with emotion.
"Westeros has changed me, Benjen Stark," she whispered, her words carrying the weight of her choice. A fleeting image surfaced in her mind: the Wolfswood, bathed in moonlight, Benjen's lips on hers, a spark igniting between them, a silent promise carried on the rustling leaves. It had been a choice even then, a turning point she hadn't fully understood at the time. "And even if Arrax had not forbidden me from leaving, I would still choose to stay. I chose this path willingly, long ago."
Benjen, his heart swelling with love for Elaena, returned her kiss, his hand gently cupping her cheek. He knew the weight of the decision she had made, the sacrifices she had endured. "And I choose you, Elaena," he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. "Always."
At that moment, Elaena noticed out of the corner of her eye that Lord Commander Mormont had arrived, accompanied by Daeraxys. The two were speaking quietly with Aelora, their expressions serious.
Marillion, who had been observing the scene with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, hesitantly stepped forward.
"My Lady Elaena," he began softly, his tone careful. "If I may ask… what was on that parchment? What kind of contract demands such… ceremony?"
Elaena turned to the bard, offering him a gentle smile. "It is blood magic, Marillion," she explained calmly. "A magically binding agreement sealed with blood to ensure the fulfillment of a mission. I entered into it willingly, driven by a desire to uncover the truths buried in this land."
Before Marillion could respond, Aelora's voice cut through the air with composed authority. "Elaena, Benjen," she called, stepping closer. Her tone was measured, and she nodded respectfully toward Lord Commander Mormont as she spoke. "The Lord Commander has explained Benjen's plan: to divide into two groups—one to escort Jon south of the Wall with the White Walker and the wight as proof, and the other to remain here to engage Craster and negotiate with Mance Rayder. Is that correct?"
Elaena inclined her head. "That was our intention," she confirmed, catching a subtle smile from Daeraxys. Following his gaze toward the dragons, a glimmer of understanding dawned in her expression.
"Time is of the essence," Aelora continued, her voice resolute. "Vaella contacted me through a magic mirror, and while we were in Winterfell, Robb Stark shared the same information. Lord Eddard Stark is currently at Riverrun, accompanied by several lords and ladies from the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, coordinating their efforts against the illegitimate king and the Lannisters."
Her gaze sharpened, her posture firm with purpose. "I propose an adjustment to the plan," she said decisively. "We take Jon to Winterfell on one of the dragons. At the same time, we transport the White Walker and the wight directly to Riverrun. Once the lords and ladies see the threat with their own eyes, it will be impossible for them to dismiss the danger beyond the Wall as mere fantasy."
Daeraxys stepped forward, his expression turning serious. "There is another matter regarding Riverrun," he interjected. Turning to Benjen, he asked, "Benjen, do you have a magic mirror capable of reaching Lord Eddard Stark in Riverrun?"
"I do," Benjen replied without hesitation. "I spoke with my brother using it just a few days ago."
"Excellent," Daeraxys said, his tone urgent and deliberate. "Please Contact your brother immediately. Ask if Riverrun can accommodate a delegation of Valyrians—representatives from each dragonlord family and envoys from the Triarchy."
Elaena's eyes widened, the weight of his words evident. "You're suggesting that members of all 40 dragonlord families of Valyria plus the triarchy gather at Riverrun?"
"Precisely," Daeraxys affirmed, his tone firm and deliberate. "The timing is critical. Riverrun is the ideal location, with so many lords and ladies from three of the Seven Kingdoms already assembled. This is our best opportunity to reach a consensus and organize our forces. We cannot afford delays."
"Seeing the flicker of doubt in Elaena's eyes, Aelora placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "Elaena," she said, her voice gentle yet firm, "what better way to force a swift end to this war than with an overwhelming show of strength? My husband, Jon Connington, has told me much about Tywin Lannister. The man is a pragmatist. When he sees the dragons firsthand, he'll understand that further conflict is futile. He'll sue for peace. He'll have no other choice."
Benjen, at Elaena's side, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Aelora is right," he agreed, his voice steady. "Tywin Lannister is a man who understands power. This... this will change everything."
"While there's truth in your words, Lady Aelora," Lord Commander Mormont interjected, his deep voice carrying a note of quiet urgency. "There is another pressing matter we must address. The free folk." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled company, settling briefly on Tormund, Val, and Ygritte. "Before the… incident with the White Walkers," Mormont continued, his tone grave, "we were engaged in discussions with Craster, seeking his cooperation in establishing contact with Mance Rayder. The battle… it disrupted our plans. But now, more than ever, it is imperative that we reach an accord with the Free Folk. They cannot remain beyond the Wall, exposed to the Others. We must allow them passage to the south, offer them refuge within the Seven Kingdoms."
Elaena and Benjen exchanged a quick glance, noticing how Tormund, Ygritte, and Val had edged closer.
When Mormont finished speaking, Tormund stepped forward. He exchanged a few hushed words with Ygritte, who smiled and turned to Doreah. "Little bird," Ygritte asked, her voice rough around the edges, but with a hint of warmth, "Can we trust 'em?"
Doreah, her cheeks flushed slightly, nodded. "Yes," she whispered.
Tormund's gaze settled on Lord Commander Mormont, his expression hardened. "For thousands of years, you crows and us free folk have been enemies," he began, his voice a low growl. "Ain't no denyin' that. And I know a single day's fightin' side-by-side don't erase the blood spilled between us. There'll be distrust, aye, and bad blood for years to come, I reckon." He paused, his eyes briefly meeting those of Samwell's friends. "But one of you crows saved my bloody life last night," he continued. "And Mance… he sent me, Val, and Ygritte here as his eyes and ears. To see if this… parley… was worth a damn." He looked at Mormont, his gaze unwavering. "Mance ain't here, but I speak for him. And I say this: The Others are comin'. And if we don't stand together, crows and free folk alike, we'll all freeze in the dark."
A hush fell over the gathering, the weight of Tormund's words hanging heavy in the air. Lord Commander Mormont, his gaze fixed on the wildling, seemed to weigh his words carefully. Years of ingrained prejudice, of battles fought and lives lost, stood between them. Yet, in Mormont's eyes, Elaena saw a flicker of something else—a grudging respect, perhaps, for the raw honesty in Tormund's voice.
Suddenly, Elaena felt Benjen's hand grip her arm, a sudden and almost violent tightening. She turned to him, concern knitting her brow. His eyes were glazed over, unfocused, his face pale and drawn. A chill ran down her spine—she recognized that look. He was warging. Nightwing.
Moments later, Benjen's eyes snapped open, the vacant expression replaced by sheer terror. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it, Jojen Reed stepped forward with swift, purposeful movements. Gently but firmly, Jojen placed a calming hand over Benjen's and shook his head slightly, his expression a quiet plea for restraint.
"Everything is fine, Benjen Stark," Jojen said in his measured, prophetic tone. "This was meant to happen."
Before anyone could respond, hurried footsteps and raised voices broke the tense silence. Beric Dondarrion, Edric Dayne, Edd, Pyp, and Grenn came sprinting toward the group, urgency etched across their faces.
"Someone's coming!" Anguy called out, his breath forming mist in the frigid air. "Six of them—and… something big."
Every head turned toward the forest, eyes scanning the treeline. Moments later, figures began to emerge from the shadows of the towering pines—three men and three women, cloaked in thick furs to guard against the biting cold. Behind them, a giant lumbered into view, towering nearly twice the height of a man. The ground seemed to tremble slightly with each of its heavy steps, its presence commanding the attention of everyone present.
The newcomers halted abruptly, their eyes widening as they took in the surreal scene before them—the three dragons standing motionless, their eyes gleaming with an unnatural stillness. Even the giant hesitated, its massive frame shrinking slightly under the weight of those draconic gazes.
Tormund's voice broke the silence, a low growl laced with disbelief. "Mance?" He then shifted his gaze to another of the men, clad in bronze armor, incredulity coloring his tone. "Sigorn?"