Torrhen Stark stared straight ahead at nothing, tired and solemn, as his sons and lords formed a half-circle in front of him, his back to the heart tree of a godswood just south of the Neck. He'd bent the knee to the dragonlord last week, and this was the first opportunity they had to… express their opinions.
Their furious shouts and demands as to
what the hell he was thinking blurred together into an unintelligible cacophony, but he let it wash over him without reacting, as much as he wanted to yell back that bending the knee and forfeiting his crown was the hardest thing he had ever done. True, the dragonlords might not be able to hold the North even if they got enough men past Moat Cailin, but that wouldn't stop them from burning every keep and town in the North to the ground.
Being King in the North was more than a pretty title and bunch of privileges, he was responsible for the well-being of the North. And seeing the North devastated to the point that it would take centuries to recover, if it ever did, would be a dereliction of that duty.
Bending the knee was the right thing to do.
Even if all future Starks damned him for it.
The noise abruptly cut out with shocking suddenness, causing Torrhen to blink in surprise. But as he opened his mouth to begin his rebuttal, he realized that everyone was staring at something behind him.
He spun on his heel and beheld an enormous white direwolf stepping out from behind the heart tree, large enough that he had to look up slightly to meet its golden eyes, with red markings the exact shade as the sap that bled from the faces carved into the weirwoods decorating its face and flanks in intricate patterns.
Oh.
Maybe bending the knee hadn't been the right decision after all.
He stared at his house's sigil and avatar of the Old Gods, and it stared back with an imperious gaze.
With a defeated sigh he dropped to his knees and lowered his head to his chest, baring his neck. His only thought,
please let it be quick.
He didn't open his eyes as he listened to the direwolf pad closer and sniff him, the wind generated ruffling the hair on the crown of his head. It stopped sniffing him, then there was the rustle of leaves and the thump of something heavy landing on the ground, and something was placed on his head.
He raised his hand to feel it. Leaves, intertwined branches. It didn't cross his forehead. A wreath?
He blinked his eyes open in confusion in time for the wolf to nose his chin upward. Looking up he met the wolf's golden gaze for a moment before it nosed his chin upwards again. What did it – oh.
Torrhen stood, and after another pointed poke from the nose, turned to face his lords. They were looking understandably poleaxed. A flicker of movement caused him to look to the side in time to see the direwolf sit by his right hand. It – no, she, he could see her teats poking through the fur of her pregnant belly – looked back at him.
And then she licked him from chin to hairline, completely ruining the solemnity of the moment and causing several to chuckle semi-hysterically. As he wiped his face and corrected the fit of the wreath – he'd have to see what it was made of at some point but he suspected weirwood – a small smile graced his face. The Old Gods wouldn't reward him such if bending the knee had been the wrong decision, and with renewed confidence he faced his lords again.
"Lord Stark, wake up."
Torrhen stirred himself from sleep, blinking up at the underside of his tent.
"Lord Stark."
There was someone in his tent, and he didn't recognize the female voice. He reached for Ice but the direwolf dropped her head on his chest, stopping him.
"Peace, Lord Stark. I am no foe of yours."
A faint red light lit the tent and he saw a figure right out of the old legends. Colors were all washed out, but the small woman had a four fingered hand, large almost bear-like ears, slitted cat eyes, and clothing that seemed to be made from leaves. Torrhen knew his legends.
"A Child of the Forest?"
"We were here long before the First Men came," came the quiet retort, the light fading, "You are the children, not us."
He slowly nodded at that.
"Why are you in my tent…?"
"Our names do not translate well into the Common Tongue, but you can call me Vine. And I am here to give you the other half of the God's gift."
He gently pushed the direwolf's head off him so he could sit up.
"Which is?"
"Idgra has vital information from the Gods that you need to know, but your natural warg abilities will take years to awaken and bond with her, and that's assuming you spent every moment you could on that. Realistically, it would take decades, and we cannot wait that long." A vial sealed with a thick wax cap was pushed into his hand. "That is an elixir that will forcibly open your bond to her so that you can communicate freely."
"Idgra?" The direwolf twisted to look at him. "That's your name?" She nodded.
He stared. Wolves weren't supposed to smart enough to fucking
nod. He looked at the vial in his hand.
"What's the catch?" he asked.
"You will lose the ability to warg into any animal other than Idgra, as well as any possibility to develop into a greenseer, and you will be bonded so deeply that when one of you passes, the other will likely follow before too long."
He shot Vine a sharp look.
"Direwolves can live up to fifty years," she added, "likely longer with good food and care. I would bet that she outlives you, even if you die of old age, as she's only five."
He stared at her, then the vial, then his gaze drifted to the looming shadow and gleaming eyes of… Idgra. The unnaturally intelligent direwolf. Who had been sent by the Old Gods.
With a general sense of
fuck it, Torrhen broke the wax cap and downed the elixir in a single gulp.
Rather expectedly, it was utterly vile.
He grimaced as it sludged down the back of his throat, suppressing the reflex to hack it back up.
"It will take some time to take effect," Vine said as the former King in the North dove for the nearest wine skin, "A few hours most likely."
After several desperate gulps he asked
"What can I expect?"
"How does one describe color to a blind man who has had his eyes opened for the first time? I have heard wargs and skinchangers describe it through all allegories and idioms of sight or touch, and no two descriptions are the same. Though given your singular link… I suspect you might describe it as a corridor in your mind, or maybe a window? Neither the Common nor Old Tongues have the vocabulary to properly describe it."
Torrhen hummed as he closed his eyes, feeling around inside his head. There was a… fuzziness, that seemed to have something hidden in it. Or behind it? He began to reach for it.
"…Don't push yourself Lord Stark, the bond will form on its own over the next few – "
There was a discontinuity, and he saw
himself topple backwards on his cot, now able to see everything in decent detail despite the ambient light not getting any brighter, though all color was washed out. It was so jarring he very nearly lost his fragile grip on… this. Was he warged into Idgra? Like in the old stories?
Vine sighed loudly, exasperation wafting from her. His head turned without his input to look at the Child and found her giving him (them?) a particularly flat look.
"Do neither of you know the meaning of moderation or patience?" she asked, exasperated.
He (Idgra?) promptly stuck out his (her) tongue at her, drawing his attention to the large black nose at the end of the snout protruding from his (her) face. Vine's hand darted forward and snagged their tongue, prompting an indignant warble.
"None of that," Vine chided, lightly bopping them on the nose with her free hand, "I told you what would happen if you stuck your tongue out at me again Idgra."
They whined, giving Vine remorseful puppy eyes.
She responded by slapping something on the tip of their tongue that tasted so foul Torrhen was snapped back to his body. As he sat up and glowered at Vine Idgra whined and whimpered, frantically licking things in an attempt to clean her tongue.
Noticing Torrhen's look she quietly said
"I've raised Idgra since she was a newborn pup, when the Old Gods brought a soul from beyond and fused it to her." His eyebrows shot up at that. "There were some… complications from that, but that is for her to tell." A beam of torchlight from a passing guard slipped through the opening in his tent, illuminated a sad smile on her face and glinted off a tear on her cheek. "Take care of her for me, will you?"
"…Aye. With my life."
"Thank you."
Vine rose and slipped out the entrance to his tent. He was unsurprised to hear no shouts of alarm, given that she had also reached his tent undetected, but that wouldn't stop him from lambasting his men in the morning.
Castle Black, 3AC
Torrhen Stark sat in a spare room in Castle Black, quietly scribbling in a leather-bound book, Idgra curled around his feet, keeping his toes and shins warm as he waited for the person he was meeting to arrive. It was a fairly domestic scene, so long as no one saw what the Lord of the North was drawing. A cut-away diagram of a triple-expansion steam engine was taking shape on the page, Idgra watching through his eyes and sending pointers through their link, other pages holding cut-aways of various sub-components.
It was without a doubt a revolutionary technology that would usher in an age of prosperity for the North, and the world.
It was also something that he would never see constructed in his lifetime. Nor, he suspected, would his sons or grandsons live to see it either.
Having the plans was all well and good, but no one in Westeros, nor Essos, knew how to make the alloys needed for the engine, as even the best castle-forged steel would quickly rust away from steam exposure, and that was ignoring that no smith could forge parts large enough for the engine to actually be practical. An engine small enough to fit on one's desk, while an interesting demonstration piece, wasn't useful.
True, they might be able to manage to make a large enough engine with thicker parts made from bronze, and building a foundry capable of casting such parts was a solvable issue, but bronze was expensive, and most of Westeros' copper mines were located in the Vale.
Supposedly there were steels capable of handling this, but Idgra was unable to convey how to make them through the images and thought-impressions she communicated through the bond. They had both hoped that she would have been able to communicate with actual language, but it was not to be. Though their bond was still steadily, though slowly, deepening, so it might yet be possible in the future. They could hope. He could now understand more complex thought-concepts that would have been garbled into unintelligibility had Idgra tried to communicate them to him last year.
The deepening bond also made it clear that Idgra's knowledge was… incomplete. Which was disappointing… but not surprising. Enhanced by the Old Gods far beyond what her species was supposed to be capable of or not, there was only so much divinely-granted knowledge a mind could hold.
She had the broad strokes, the crucial and vital insights that proved that
it could be done. It was the details that were missing, details that could be filled in should enough learned and intelligent men invest the needed time and effort into them.
Which was a problem in of itself, for it would be a cold day in the hells before he let those southerners in the Citadel get their greedy claws on this god-given knowledge.
If everything went well he'd begin the process of solving that today. For Idgra hadn't just shown him insights into machines and concepts, but also things certain parties would, hopefully, give a lot to know.
A roar rattled the windows of the room, causing Torrhen to still. After a moment he replaced the quill in the inkpot and carefully blew to dry the ink. As he stowed the writing supplies Idgra stood, did a full body shake and stretch, then started to don her harness, Ice and a pair of panniers still strapped to it. She couldn't tighten the belts, but she could thread herself through the head and foreleg holes.
They exited the room, Torrhen donning a heavy woolen cloak, in time to see a Black Brother jogging towards them.
"I heard him arrive," Torrhen said, pre-empting the watchman, "lead the way."
Balerion the Black Dread had landed outside Castle Black as the courtyard was too small for him, King Aegon in quiet conversation with the Lord Commander as he surveyed the castle and the Wall. Torrhen politely waited a distance away, taking the opportunity to center himself. A lot was riding on this. Idgra sat next to him, brushing her shoulder against his and sending encouragement through their bond. The crunch of snow drew his attention to the King approaching him. He knelt.
"Your Grace."
"Rise, Lord Stark. What is this threat you have found?"
Torrhen rose, then gave a pointed look at the curious Black Brothers who had gathered to watch them.
"Might we have that conversation atop the Wall, your Grace? It is your prerogative to inform who you wish, but I assume you would approve of removing the possibility of any tongues wagging. The Wall is large enough to support Balerion."
The king gave him a long look, but nodded and turned back to the Black Dread. Torrhen and Idgra likewise hurried to the nearest iron cage and began their ascent. After the Watchmen manning the wall were sent back down King Aegon approached, the Black Dread looming behind him.
"Well?"
"I bring news of multiple threats your Grace, but while none are imminent action will need to be taken soonish to prevent them from developing into crises. Would you like me to start with the greatest threat, which will also take the longest to manifest, or would you like me to start with the lessor, but more immediate one?"
The king considered.
"The latter first."
"The maesters are going to be a problem."
"Explain."
"The Citadel believes that magic no longer exists and the world can be explained purely though scientific observation."
King Aegeon Targaryen, dragonrider, wordlessly gestured to Balerion, The Black Dread, the largest dragon alive.
"Aye," Torrhen said wryly, "You and your dynasty proves them wrong completely and utterly. But they have been insisting on that for generations. They're not going to accept that."
"You think they're going to revolt."
"Nothing so obvious. The maesters are collection of the smartest, most learned men in Westeros. They also know that no one will raise a sword in their defense, so they are going to be cautious and enact very long term low risk plans, intending to whittle away at your dynasty until it topples."
"Such as?" The King asked, scowling.
"Did you know that lead is a slow acting poison that addles the mind and can cause insanity, your Grace?"
"…I did not."
"It's not well known. Lead can leach into food and drink through several ways, but the most common is through pewter tableware and pipes that carry water. Some sweeteners and paints also contain lead, though I don't know how to test for that. No taste tester would catch this, as the lead concentrations would be too low to taste. But the damage lead causes is cumulative, building up over time. By the time symptoms start to appear in five to ten years, it is already much too late. Children are especially vulnerable."
His Grace nodded.
"Are there other materials that might be used?"
"Arsenic and asbestos are the other two that would be over-looked. Quicksilver is extremely toxic as well, and is occasionally used in tonics by hacks and fraudsters."
"What about copper or iron?"
"Those are actually needed for proper health, surprisingly. It is possible to poison someone with excesses of them but the amount needed would be easily noticed."
King Aegon thought for a long moment.
"…The maesters have near total control over ravens…" he mused.
"And many lesser lords don't know their letters," Torrhen added, "Change or misread a word or two here, lose a message there…"
The king nodded.
"…Do you have any names?" The king asked.
"I wish I did," Torrhen replied honestly, "but they're too good at covering their tracks. Worse, their antipathy against magic is institutionalized, a purge would only solve the problem for a generation or two. And given how spread out they are there's no way to get them all before some flee."
"And completely destroying the order would cripple the kingdom."
"Aye. We have to break their monopoly first before we can deal with them. The realm is still recovering from your conquest, and the lords don't yet have your measure. In the past the Citadel has stifled any competition through legal and less-than-legal means as maesters have the ears of the lords of the realms. We won't get another opportunity like this for centuries."
"…You have a plan?"
"Parts of one. I don't know enough about the intricacies of the southern houses to give you a full one."
Keeping his hands away from Ice Torrhen reached into Idgra's left pannier and retrieved two leather-bound journals that he offered to the king.
"Options and ideas, your Grace."
King Aegon took them and briefly flipped through them before stowing them in Balerion's saddlebags.
"And what of the other threat?" He asked as he returned.
"That requires a bit of history to provide the needed context I'm afraid, though considering your ancestors were involved you might find it interesting."
The King raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to continue.
"One thing that has been forgotten about the War for the Dawn was that dragonriders were present, forming the hammer to the First Men's anvil."
"Why were they forgotten?"
"My best guess is that after they left to found Valyria the First Men downplayed their accomplishments, and after centuries or millennia they were eventually left out altogether. But they were crucial in turning the tide against the Others, especially when the White Walkers got creative in response to the war turning against them."
"They can't have lasted long beneath the might of dragons."
"Many thought the same when the dragons inflicted the first major defeats on the Walkers," Torrhen replied gravely, "they quickly discovered that the enchanted ice the Walkers use as weapons can pierce dragon scales as easily as bronze plate or flesh, and the Walkers could throw ice javelins high enough to down dragons in flight. They also discovered that Walkers could reanimate dead dragons. But despite that the arrival of dragons under Azor Ahai did permanently turn the tide. Eventually the Night King fell to the combined might of Azor Ahai and Bran Stark the First, also known as Bran the Builder."
"How is this relevant?"
Torrhen gestured to the Wall.
"Would my ancestors have gone to the trouble to build the Wall if the only threat was Wildlings armed with stone and bronze?"
"…no. But that does not mean the threat it was built to guard against still exists. Our ancestors would never allow such a threat to persist."
"They tried, your Grace. After the death of their leader and greatest general the surviving Walkers fled north to their citadel of Hopemourne, far into the Lands of Always Winter, pursued by the Army of the Dawn. Unfortunately, the Others had enough magical strength, so close to their birthplace, that they conjured a blizzard so cold that even dragonriders were freezing to death on the backs of their dragons. I saw dragons so desperate to keep their dying riders alive in the sheer cold that they set them on fire with their breath."
"You saw."
Torrhen cursed in his head.
"Yes. After I bent the knee to you the Old Gods sent Idgra," he gestured towards the direwolf "as a reward for having the courage to do the right thing, and through her I see visions of the past and of possible futures."
"A Dragon Dreamer," King Aegon murmured.
"They're known as Greenseers here in the North, your Grace."
"…You said
possible futures?"
"Aye. I see different ways the Walkers can assault the North. The most common are where the Bays freeze and the Walkers march their dead army around the Wall, though they do sometimes attempt to force their way through if the Night's Watch is on the verge of collapse or has fallen. The only constant is that we have three hundred years before they begin their campaign, give or take a few years."
"Why not attack sooner?"
"In the aftermath of the failed expedition Bran the Builder began the construction of the Wall, but in order to buy time for the Wall to be completed the dragonriders enacted a great warding to prevent new Walkers from being created. They believed that it would only be a few decades until the Great Other managed to break the warding or figured out a work around, but for once they overestimated the remaining strength of the Others. The warding held as decades turned to centuries, then to millennia. The catch was that to power the ward they had to link it to a powerful magical nexus, and as Westeros' was being used to build and maintain the Wall, they went to the most powerful nexus they knew of, the Fourteen Flames of Valyria."
"But the Fourteen Flames have been destroyed."
"And the warding with them. Even if no Walkers survived the millennia, the Great Other still dwells in Hopemourne, and can create new ones. It remembers its last defeat, and will be cautious. Which brings us to your dynasty, your Grace."
"Explain."
"Without dragons and a united Westeros, we lose the second War for the Dawn," Torrhen said bluntly, "And three hundred years is more than long enough for a devastating civil war to erupt over the Iron Throne between your descendants. Dragon will fight against Dragon, which will devastate their already endangered numbers, especially if the losers of the war decide to deny the victors as many unbonded dragons as they can as a last act of spite. This nearly always drops the population below the level that can be recovered from, especially with many actors doing their best to ensure no new dragons survive to adulthood, and the species dies out, followed by the Targaryen dynasty.
This cannot be allowed to happen."
King Aegon looked grim. It was clear he could easily picture the scenario all too clearly.
"And what do you suggest, Dreamer?"
"A new dragon colony needs to be established, away from and out of sight of the power struggles and intrigue of the capital," Torrhen answered, choosing to ignore what the king called him as he retrieved three more journals from Idgra's other pannier and offered them to his King, "I recommend either Bear Island or Skagos for the colony, the third is for an order to take care of the dragons and try to rediscover lost dragonlore."
"Both of which are beholden to the North," the king noted.
"They are also the furthest from King's Landing. Of the two I recommend Skagos. The island is difficult and treacherous to reach by ship, has good fishing nearby to provide food, and is sparsely populated. Given the rumors that regularly make their way from the island no one would think twice at rumors of dragons coming from there. The only catch is that the Skagosi only respect individual strength, not a person's family, though that could be a boon."
The King hummed to himself as briefly flipped though the journals before looking up.
"Anything else?"
Torrhen thought about raising concerns about the long-term stability of the Targaryen line if they continued to practice incest, but decided he had pushed his luck far enough. Idgra, feeling the direction of his thoughts, also sent him an image of his family tree, the locations for his yet unborn grandsons and great-grandsons highlighted. He sent back agreement, that would be their concern to raise. That said,
"Other than that I strongly recommend that you set up some mechanism to remove someone wholly unsuitable from the throne without having to resort to a civil war like I have done in the North, no, your Grace."
"The let's get back to Castle Black. It's freezing and I want to have another conversation with the Lord Commander."
Winterfell, 5AC
Idgra was in heat again. Torrhen could feel the need to fuck echoing though their bond, always there in the back of his mind and quite distracting as it kindled his own lust. It was annoying enough that he had given her his permission to fuck the larger hounds just to put an end to it, but she wanted a direwolf that wasn't one of her offspring, not a hound.
The great direwolf grumbled and shifted uncomfortably from her position by the hearth in the Lord's Solar as Torrhen managed the administration of the North. Torrhen sighed.
"Just go fuck one of the hounds, Idgra," he grumbled.
Refusal. Direwolf.
He sighed.
"There aren't any of those south of the Wall other than the wolves you birthed and bonded to my children," he reminded her.
This time she sent the image of North Wind and Astral Lights, her son and daughter, mating, followed by his newly born grandson looking despondent at a malformed pup, then the thought-concept of great-grandchild and absence-in-place-of-wolf.
He stilled.
"And what do you propose to fix that?"
Rider holding the Stark standard at head of a host. A map of the wall with an arrow being drawn northwards, then back south. The rider again, but this time accompanied by direwolves, giants, mammoths, and Children of the Forest, including Vine.
That took a moment to parse.
"An expedition North of the Wall? You think that would work?"
Determination, hint of desperation. Direwolf and man walking side by side, the direwolf with harness and lead, paired with the image of man walking away from the bones of a direwolf.
"Direwolves will die out if not domesticated?"
Agreement. Defiance paired with a setting sun. Wolf, the concept of many years passing, paired with the wolf slowly morphing into a dog. Done-before. Do-again.
"I see. You do know that if direwolves are successfully domesticated they won't remain direwolves?"
Sad acknowledgement. Torrhen rekindling a dying campfire. Herself leading a Stark bannerman towards Vine.
"…I suppose that would allow me to keep constant tabs on the expedition. It will take time to organize though."
Agreement. Do-right, first. Patience.
Winterfell, 8AC
Torrhen made his way down to the castle's courtyard, keeping his anticipation from showing. Idgra was being coy about some of the details, but his vassals had already sent ravens confirming that the expedition had been wildly successful.
His lords had been understandably skeptical when he had announced the expedition, but between the favor of the Old Gods and how Idgra's knowledge had already created a noticeable improvement to the North they had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
And by the reports it had paid off handsomely.
Three tribes of giants and their mammoths, dozens of rare wood and plant seeds and cuttings, nuggets of precious metals, three dozen Children, a wildling tribe that decided to bend the knee and would be inducted into the North under the same rules as the Mountain Clans – his lords had not been happy about that, but they had an unusually large number of wargs, skinchangers, and a greenseer and were being persecuted by their neighbors, as such Torrhen wanted them in the North – and the whole point of the expedition: a dozen direwolves.
Idgra had let him know when she had the castle in sight and he had told the servants when to expect her, which had utterly baffled them, especially since he hadn't left his Solar and it was another hour before the guards spotted them.
Torrhen was eagerly looking forward to the reunion, it had been a very long seven months without Idgra. Even with the link it was surprising how much he had missed the oversized wolf.
They timed it perfectly. The moment Torrhen reached his position as head of the castle Idgra lead the expedition through the gatehouse, tail wagging furiously and a familiar Child sitting side-saddle on her back. He managed to restrain his surprise to merely raised eyebrows, though his retinue weren't so restrained.
"Welcome to Winterfell," the Lord of the North proclaimed, "It is good to see you, Vine."
"It is good to see you too, Lord Stark," Vine replied, ignoring the muttering of everyone trying to figure out how he knew her name, "The Old Gods chose well. The confusion you caused your lords by sending a raven to arrive shortly before we did was most amusing."
Torrhen smirked at that, but quickly returned to a solemn expression.
"As the Lord of the North, it is my responsibility to ensure the prosperity of the North. I say that for too long we have allowed our legends to fade to myth, it is time we rekindled the magic of old. Will you help me, Forest Singer?"
Vine smiled.
AN: So I decided to begin my entry into ASOIAF, see if you can spot the SI, they won't be back.
In any case I am most familiar with classic Game of Thrones era, so the next chapter or two are going to be time skips under the guise of historical passages as I cover what changed and what did not. Yes, I will be using a butterfly net, but I hope it will be at least somewhat believable.
This was inspired by
That Fucking Bitch (Direwolf SI) and
The Many Sons of Winter, both of are now dead. The former went a bit too far into crack for my taste, and I felt the former had the North in too good of a position politically. So I decided to try my own hand at it.
As the title says, the North is going to undergo a renaissance, but as I hope was clear enough in the text this won't be a one-person renaissance but something that takes a long time to bear fruit. Hence why the POD being when Torrhen knelt.
As for whether or not Torrhen's story of the War for the Dawn is true or believable bullshit, I'm not going to say.
