Chapter 5: The Blood of the Dragon, The Will of the Wolf
The wind howled a mournful dirge around the jagged peaks of Dragon's Maw, but within the sheltered caldera, a different kind of power stirred. Thirteen-year-old Brandon Stark, his frame still boyish but his grey eyes holding a newfound gravity, watched as Nocturne, now easily the size of two draft horses, launched himself from a high precipice. The dragon's obsidian scales, kissed by the pale northern sun that occasionally breached the mountain shield, shimmered with captured light. His roar, a symphony of primal fury and untamed freedom, echoed off the stone walls, a sound that vibrated deep in Brandon's chest, part fear, part exhilarating awe.
It had been nearly a year since his father, King Kaelen Stark, had revealed this impossible truth, this secret heart of Northern power. The initial shock had given way to a dawning understanding of the immense responsibility that now rested on his young shoulders. His father was not just a King; he was a sorcerer of formidable power, a dragonlord. And he, Brandon, was his heir, not just to Winterfell and the North,
but to this hidden legacy of magic.
His training had begun almost immediately, conducted in the secrecy of Dragon's Maw or within specially warded chambers deep beneath Winterfell, far from even the most trusted servants. Kaelen was a demanding, though patient, tutor. The lessons started with the mind. "Before you can command the world, Brandon, you must command yourself," Kaelen had stated, his voice devoid of warmth but not of conviction. Occlumency was the first art: endless mental exercises, visualizations, the building of intricate mental fortresses to shield his thoughts and discipline his burgeoning, untrained legilimency that had once prodded innocently at others' minds. It was arduous, frustrating work, but Brandon persevered, driven by a desire to prove himself worthy of the trust his father had placed in him.
Slowly, he gained control. The chaotic flood of others' emotions and thoughts that had sometimes overwhelmed him as a younger child began to recede, replaced by a calm clarity. He learned to recognize the subtle intrusions of his own nascent abilities and to rein them in. Kaelen then introduced him to the basics of Flamel's structured magic – simple charms for light and heat, the principles of telekinesis, the meticulous art of potion brewing (focusing on innocuous but useful concoctions like dreamless sleep potions or minor healing salves).
"Flamel's path is one of knowledge and precision," Kaelen explained, his hands deftly demonstrating a complex wand movement that made a series of runes glow faintly in the air. "But do not forget the magic of our own blood, the legacy of the First Men. The Old Gods speak through the wind and the weirwoods, their power raw and untamed."
Kaelen guided Brandon in reaching out with his senses, teaching him to listen to the whispers of the ancient weirwood in Winterfell's godswood, to feel the pulse of the earth. The boy showed a natural aptitude for warging. His first successful attempt, under Kaelen's watchful eye, had been into a snow hare during a visit to Dragon's Maw. The exhilarating rush of speed, the heightened senses, the primal fear and instinct – it had been overwhelming, but Kaelen had been there, a mental anchor, guiding him back.
"The bond is a sacred trust," Kaelen had said, his hand resting briefly on Brandon's shoulder, a rare gesture of paternal contact. "Respect the creature's spirit, even as you guide it. It is a partnership, not a conquest."
The relationship between father and son was transforming. The stern, often distant King was now a mentor, sharing secrets that bound them together in a way few fathers and sons could comprehend. Brandon saw the immense burden his father carried, the centuries of knowledge that lay behind his grey eyes, the ruthless determination that drove him. He began to understand the long game Kaelen was playing, a game for the very survival and enduring strength of the North. The principles of the future hidden council were subtly woven into every lesson: absolute secrecy, unwavering loyalty to House Stark and the North, the understanding that their power was a shield, not a sword for conquest, and the acceptance that their watch might be eternal.
Nocturne, meanwhile, thrived in his new, expansive domain. He was a creature of breathtaking majesty and terrifying power. His fiery breath could turn rock to molten slag, his roar could trigger avalanches on the outer slopes of the caldera, and his speed and agility in the air were becoming legendary, at least to the two humans who were his sole audience. Kaelen flew with him often, usually under the cloak of deep night or within the magically reinforced eye of a manufactured storm, venturing further and further from Dragon's Maw. These flights were more than just practice; they were a communion. Their minds, linked by blood and magic, moved as one. Kaelen felt the dragon's fierce joy in the freedom of the skies, his possessive love for his rider, his growing awareness of his own incredible strength. The King in the North was truly becoming a dragonlord, a power unseen in Westeros for millennia, hidden in the icy heart of his kingdom.
But even as this personal power grew, Kaelen's gaze was fixed firmly on the future. The intelligence from his agents in Essos, particularly those in Pentos and Myr who had dealings with Valyrian traders, became more urgent. Daenys the Dreamer's apocalyptic visions of Valyria's destruction were apparently no longer dismissed as mere nightmares within her own household. Aenar Targaryen was indeed making preparations, selling off ancestral lands, gathering his kin and his most precious possessions. Kaelen's greendreams mirrored this, showing him clearer images: Aenar, a grim-faced man with the silver-gold hair of Valyria, overseeing the loading of ships; Daenys, a young woman with haunted eyes, clutching ancient scrolls; and most importantly, five stone chests, heavily warded, each containing a dragon egg, pulsating with dormant life. His visions confirmed that while Aenar might have a few adult dragons – perhaps older, less vital specimens kept more for prestige than power – the true hope of his lineage, the future he was fleeing towards, lay within those eggs.
The time was drawing perilously close. Perhaps two years, Kaelen estimated, before Aenar would set sail for the desolate island of Dragonstone. The two specialized ships Kaelen had commissioned, the Wraith and the Shadow, were nearing completion in their hidden shipyard. They were marvels of Northern ingenuity and Flamel's subtle enchantments: hulls treated with alchemical solutions to resist fouling and increase speed, sails dyed with pigments that could shift hue like a chameleon's skin, and silent, magically augmented oars for maneuvering in close quarters. His handpicked crew, nearly fifty strong, were the elite of the North – seasoned sailors, deadly warriors, and a dozen men and women with nascent magical talents, now honed under Kaelen's secret tutelage. They practiced illusions, subtle compulsions, weather manipulation on a small scale, and offensive elemental magic. They were Kaelen's secret weapon, a force unlike any other in Westeros.
Throughout all this, the North itself continued to flourish under Kaelen's steady, if somewhat enigmatic, rule. The subtle applications of Flamel's alchemical knowledge had yielded tangible benefits. Crop yields in the more fertile southern regions of the North had improved due to soil enrichments disguised as ancient farming techniques rediscovered. Food preservation methods, using charmed cold cellars, reduced winter spoilage. The flow of gold from the Valyrian galley raid, and the careful transmutation of common metals into silver and occasionally gold (a painstaking process from Flamel's lesser alchemical works, not the grand transmutation of the Philosopher's Stone he envisioned from the Doom), had funded these projects and strengthened Winterfell's coffers without drawing undue attention. His public persona remained impeccable: a wise, stern King, deeply committed to the Old Gods, wary of southern entanglements, and utterly devoted to his people's welfare. The Northern lords, while sometimes puzzled by his reclusiveness and his long absences on "hunting expeditions," respected his judgment and the tangible prosperity his reign brought.
As the final year before Aenar Targaryen's anticipated departure commenced, a palpable tension settled over Kaelen and his inner circle. Greendreams now showed Kaelen specific Valyrian star charts Aenar's navigators would likely use, the approximate season of their departure – late autumn, to avoid the worst of the summer storms in the Summer Sea but before the winter gales in the Narrow Sea became too treacherous. He saw their intended route: south from Valyria, through the Stepstones, then north along the coast of Westeros towards Dragonstone.
The final briefings for the mission – codenamed "Operation Sea Dragon" – took place in the deepest, most secure levels of Dragon's Maw, the only place Kaelen felt truly safe discussing such matters. Nocturne lay coiled in a massive cavern nearby, his rhythmic breathing like the sound of a giant forge, a silent, imposing witness.
"Aenar Targaryen will flee Valyria with his household and five dragon eggs," Kaelen addressed his core team, his voice resonating with quiet authority. His son, Brandon, stood beside him, no longer a boy, but a young man carrying the weight of their shared secret. "These eggs are vital to our future, to the enduring strength of the North. We will acquire them. Our primary objective is the eggs. We avoid direct confrontation with any adult dragons Aenar may possess, if at all possible. Our strength lies in surprise, stealth, and precision."
He outlined the plan: the Wraith and the Shadow, using their speed and chameleon sails, would shadow the Targaryen convoy. They would wait for an opportunity – a storm (perhaps one Kaelen could subtly encourage), a separation of the fleet, or a moment of vulnerability when the ship carrying the eggs was isolated. Then, a swift boarding action, focused solely on securing the warded chests. The mages on his crew would counter Targaryen wards, create diversions, and ensure a swift, silent operation.
Kaelen knew the risks were astronomical. Valyrians, even minor houses, were not to be underestimated. They possessed their own ancient magic, their own pride. But the potential reward – five more dragons to bolster Nocturne's line, to ensure the Stark dragonlords would thrive – was worth any peril.
Before his departure, Kaelen spent many hours with Brandon, not just on magical training, but on the governance of the North, on the strategies for dealing with the other lords, on the long-term vision for their House. He was preparing his son for the possibility, however remote he deemed it, that he might not return, or that his return might be delayed.
"If I do not return as expected," Kaelen said one evening, as they stood on a precipice in Dragon's Maw, the wind whipping their cloaks, "you will be King, Brandon. You will guard Nocturne. You will continue the work. You will be the first of the hidden council to truly inherit the watch. The North's survival, our true legacy, will rest with you."
Brandon met his father's gaze, his young face set with a grim determination that mirrored Kaelen's own. "I understand, Father. I will not fail you. I will not fail the North."
Kaelen then sought out Lyarra. He told her he was undertaking a vital, secret mission for the security of the North, one that might keep him away for many months. He did not elaborate, and she, trusting her king and husband, did not press, though her eyes were filled with a quiet worry. He made arrangements for a council of regency, led by his most steadfast bannermen and Maester Arryk, to govern in his absence, with specific, sealed instructions for Brandon should the worst occur.
The day of departure arrived with a biting autumn wind. Kaelen, disguised as 'Korr' once more, but this time a Korr who commanded ships and men with an iron will, stood on the deck of the Wraith. The Shadow sailed beside them, both vessels like grey ghosts against the choppy, iron-grey sea as they slipped out of their hidden fjord. Nocturne had been left in Dragon's Maw, a painful but necessary decision. The dragon's presence would escalate any encounter beyond manageable limits and reveal too much, too soon. His safety, and the secrecy of Dragon's Maw, were paramount. Kaelen felt the ache of their separation through their bond, but also Nocturne's fierce, resolute understanding.
They sailed south, hugging the rugged coastline of the North, then further south, past the Vale, their chameleon sails shifting to match the grey sky and the tumultuous waters of the Narrow Sea. Kaelen rarely slept. He spent his nights poring over charts, Flamel's alchemical concoctions keeping his mind sharp and his body energized. By day, he warged into gulls and storm petrels, his consciousness soaring high above the waves, scanning the southern horizon for any sign of the Valyrian fleet. His mages practiced their arts, their combined will subtly calming the seas ahead of them or thickening the mists behind to conceal their passage.
Weeks passed. The tension on board the two Northern ships was a palpable entity. They were deep in hostile waters now, the Stepstones a haven for pirates and corsairs, and Valyrian patrols, though arrogant, were not unheard of. Every sail on the horizon was a potential threat, every landfall a risk.
Then, one windswept dawn, as Kaelen scanned the horizon through the eyes of a high-flying albatross, he saw them. A small convoy of perhaps a dozen ships, their dark sails bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, struggling against a choppy headwind. They were still distant, several days' sail south, near the westernmost edge of the Stepstones, but their course was unmistakably northwesterly, towards Dragonstone. His heart hammered. The hunt had truly begun.
He returned to his own body, the salt spray cold on his face. "Signal the Shadow," he commanded his captain, his voice low and steady. "Target sighted. We maintain observation distance. Prepare for engagement protocols on my command. May the Old Gods and the new tricks grant us success."
The crewmen exchanged grim, determined glances. Their King, their enigmatic leader, had led them to the precipice. Now, they would follow him into the storm. Kaelen stared south, his grey eyes like chips of winter ice. He could almost feel the presence of the dragon eggs, five points of dormant fire, five keys to the future of his House. The wolf was about to test his cunning and his strength against the dragons of Valyria. The game for the legacy of fire in the North was entering its most dangerous phase.