"Your Grace," Brynden Rivers, the infamous Bloodraven, spoke in that low, rasping voice of his, eyes hooded beneath a cascade of white hair that spilled over his gaunt face. The hollowness of his cheeks, the shadow beneath his eyes, made him appear more specter than man, as though the weight of all the world's troubles had settled on his shoulders alone. Daeron Targaryen, seated in the royal chair, couldn't help but feel the familiar pulse of exasperation flicker within him at the sight. His half-brother had always been this way - forever grim, forever burdened by secrets that gnawed at him from the shadows.
Daeron's lips twitched into a small smile despite himself. He gestured, with the practiced ease of a king who knew his council well, for Brynden to step forward and speak.
"Very well, brother," he said, settling back against his chair, voice calm though he could already sense the storm coming. "Let us hear it then. What news has your web of informers spun for us today?"
The gathered lords of the small council shifted slightly, their collective gaze turning to Brynden Rivers. Lord Buckler cleared his throat, Lord Oakheart adjusted his seat, but none looked particularly troubled. They had become accustomed to Brynden's dark tidings, for it seemed that he could not help but see conspiracies in every corner of the realm, no matter how peaceful the days appeared.
Brynden, however, did not acknowledge the unspoken skepticism of the council. His eyes flickered for a moment to his brother, then back down, as if weighed down by some unseen force. "I bring grave tidings," he said, his voice laden with the gravity of one who had long since become accustomed to bearing ill news.
Daeron's sigh was barely audible but made a few of the council members glance his way. He waved a hand dismissively. "Grave tidings? Brynden, must all your reports begin so ominously? Is this about Daemon again? I swear, if I must hear about another phantom uprising—"
"It is not Daemon, Your Grace," Brynden cut in, his tone sharp. The brief flash of irritation passed through the Spymaster's usually composed demeanor, only to settle into the grim calm that had defined him for so many years.
"Your half-brother has no part in this particular matter, your grace. This is something else entirely." He hesitated, as though weighing his words carefully before continuing, "This concerns the North."
The words seemed to linger in the air, heavier than expected.
Daeron's brow furrowed slightly, a reaction mirrored by a few others at the table. The North? Of all the regions in the Seven Kingdoms, the North had always been the most distant, the most removed from the intrigues and petty rivalries that plagued the southern courts. Their loyalties, forged in the cold winds and endless winters, had always seemed unshakable. What reason could there be for trouble in that frozen land now?
Daeron leaned forward slightly, interest piqued despite himself.
"The North, you say?" His voice was measured, calm, though the surprise lingered beneath. "What of it? The Starks have always been loyal. Even in the face of civil strife, they've never shown any desire to break from the crown. And their retainer-lords are just as loyal."
Brynden nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth in the King's words.
"It is true, Your Grace, that House Stark has always honored its oaths. However..." He paused, the hesitation almost unnerving coming from a man who was rarely uncertain. "I have heard whispers that Lord Stark has bent the knee to another. Not to a rebel or a rival claimant to the Iron Throne, but to a man who calls himself Jason Lee. A sorcerer, they said, with power beyond imagining – power over life and death."
That, at last, stirred the council. A murmur swept through the room like the first gust of a winter storm. Lords exchanged uneasy glances, and Daeron felt the familiar tension creep up his spine.
Sorcery?
The notion seemed absurd at first, laughable even.
The age of magic had all but vanished from the world with the death of the last dragon. And yet, if anyone were to take such rumors seriously, it would be Brynden.
"Jason Lee?" Daeron repeated the name, his voice full of skepticism. "And what sort of sorcerer is this, that he should command the loyalty of House Stark? The North is not a land given to fanciful tales of magic and wonder. They are pragmatic folk, hardened by their lands and their winters. Why would they bend the knee to this man?"
Brynden's gaze darkened, and he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "From what I've gathered, this Jason Lee appeared suddenly, without warning. The tales of him vary – some say he commands beasts, others that he can raise the dead, and some whispers even say that he commands dragons. But all the accounts agree on one thing: his power is undeniable. And it seems that Lord Stark has come to see him not just as a man, but as something more. Something... divine."
The room fell silent at that word.
Dragons.
Divine.
Daeron leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing.
Dragons? The dragons were extinct; of that, there was no doubt. The last one died long before he was even born. And no dragon has hatched, since then. And, even then, only those of Valyrian blood may claim a dragon as their own. The name of Lee was not a House of Old Valyria. Jason was a foreign name.
No, there could not have been Dragons involved. After all, a man who supposedly commands dragons would not bother with the North. Instead, they would do as Aegon the Conqueror once did, starting with King's Landing. Seeing as fire did not currently rain from the sky, beneath the shadow of leathery wings, it was safe to say that the whispers regarding dragons were just that – whispers. And nothing more.
Divine? The North, steeped in its ancient traditions, did not lightly ascribe divinity to anyone. They held their gods in sacred reverence – the Old Gods, who watched from the heart trees, their eyes unblinking, their faces silent. For the North to worship a man, let alone bend the knee to him, was unthinkable.
And yet...
"Divine?" Daeron's voice was softer now, more contemplative. "You are telling me that the Starks have turned from their gods to worship some... sorcerer? And that this man has done what? Promised them independence? Power? Food? Warmth?"
Brynden shook his head, a shadow passing over his face. "I do not know, Your Grace. The details are scarce, and my informants have yet to uncover the full truth. What I do know is that the Northern lords speak of this man with awe. As though he is more than just a lord – more than just a man. And if that belief spreads, it could mean trouble not just for the North, but for all the realm."
A low murmur rose among the council members again, but Daeron heard none of it. His mind was already turning, assessing the situation from every angle. If the North believed in this Jason Lee as something more than mortal, then they would follow him, even into rebellion. But why? What could this man offer them that the crown could not? And what power did he truly wield?
"Your Grace," Lord Baratheon, the Master of Coin, spoke up from his seat, his deep voice cutting through the tension. "The North is too vast to control if they rise in rebellion. It would be a long and costly war – for them, not for us."
Daeron nodded slowly. "A war that would see them starved out long before our forces crossed the Neck. The North cannot survive without southern trade. If they truly intend to break away, they are either fools or desperate for something we do not yet see."
Brynden inclined his head slightly. "Desperation or faith, it matters not, your grace. What matters is the growing influence of this Jason Lee. If he is allowed to solidify his hold, the North could be lost to us."
Daeron sat in silence for a long moment, considering the implications. The North, vast and cold, had never been easy to control, but they had always respected strength. If this sorcerer had shown them a strength beyond the reach of men, that could change everything. He needed more information. More certainty.
"Send more spies," he said at last, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a knife. "I want to know everything about this Jason Lee – his origins, his power, his intentions. And I want the full truth about where the Starks' loyalties truly lie."
His gaze flickered to Brynden. "We cannot move blindly in this. We must know the full extent of the threat before we act. I will not be led astray by mere whispers. The Starks have a long and proud history of loyalty and integrity. Even now, I trust them more than your report, brother."
Brynden bowed his head. "It will be done, Your Grace."
Daeron turned his gaze out the window, toward the distant North. And, in his heart, he hoped the whispers were little more than mere stories, falsehoods. He'd met Lord Brandon Stark once before and the man was as rigid and as unbending as steel. And yet, he bent the knee to the crown, regardless.
And then, Brynden cleared his throat. "There is, also, the matter of Daemon Blackfyre that needs to be discussed, your grace."
Daeron sighed and shook his head. "Right..."
Brandon Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, nearly shat himself at the sight of the black dragon, whose scales glimmered faintly like dragonglass and whose eyes burned like coals in a great forge. Ice and snow disappeared around it. And, even now, as he stood several meters from the majestic black beast, Brandon felt as though he were standing before a roaring blaze. Still, Sorcerer Supreme, Lord Jason Lee, offered him the opportunity to lay his hand upon the black dragon, whose name was Nightfury.
A truly befitting name for a creature so mighty and so powerful.
With every breath, plumes of smoke and tongues of fire billowed forth from its nostrils.
"Don't worry," Lord Jason Lee, Sorcerer Supreme, Lord of Life and Death, and the Father of Dragons, spoke. The man himself stood beside Brandon and his presence was almost overwhelming – suffocating. "Nightfury won't hurt you. He's just a good boy."
"As you say, Lord Lee." Brandon nodded and, with a cold and icy breath, made his way towards the black dragon. It was big – certainly big enough to loom over the outer walls of Winterfell without much effort. Lord Jason Lee demonstrated the power of his Dragon, for all the lords to see, by having it reduce an entire hill to molten slag. Brandon walked forward, gritting his teeth at the heat exuded by the black dragon. It made his skin tingle with discomfort. Still, he braved forward and reached out his hand and placed it on the black dragon's outstretched claw, because that was as far as he was willing to go. There was, after all, a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and approaching a dragon honestly learned more towards the latter.
The claw itself was smooth and oddly cold, almost exactly like dragonglass in texture.
Nightfury snorted at Brandon's touch, but otherwise did nothing. At that, the Warden of the North smiled and began walking backwards. If only his children were here to see this. Well, Meera was here, but she didn't count. Lord Jason Lee walked up to his side, smiling. "Nightfury is amazing, is he not? No other dragon in the history of this entire world boasts the same power as this good boy, right here."
Lord Jason Lee commanded yet another dragon, one he called White-Shadow, but Brandon had only very briefly seen its gargantuan silhouette as it surged beyond the clouds and disappeared. "As you say, Lord Lee. Nightfury is, indeed, beautiful."
The Sorcerer Supreme patted him on the back as though they were old friends. They were not. They met only a few days ago, in a meeting that began the avalanche that would upend all that he knew and all that he believed to be true. Finally, they turned away from the black dragon. One one side stood his bannermen, loyal and hardy, clad in armor and armed with spear and shields. On the other side stood Lord Lee's army of the living dead, skeletons that walked, wreathed in ghostly blue lights. Lord Lee chuckled. "Now, how about we finish discussing those terms, eh?"
AN: Chapter 46 is out on (Pat)reon!