ARC I: THE AGE OF ASCENSION AND ROBERT'S REBELLION
Chapter 5: Pacts of Blood and Ice
**POV:** Arawyn Stark (282 AC)
Through the translucent eyes of the white owl soaring over the pinnacles of Maegor's Holdfast, I witnessed the aftermath. I saw Willam Dustin and the Great Jon Umber break into the royal apartments. I saw the exact millisecond Gregor Clegane's monumental blade rose against little Aegon. To ensure my men wouldn't arrive too late, I didn't hesitate: I extended my consciousness through the air, slipping through an ethereal rift, and lightly warged into the minds of those crimson monsters.
The command over the Mountain's brain was subtle yet surgical. I blocked his motor impulses for crucial heartbeats, flooding his cortex with a haze of torpor. The creature, confused by the magical block, lowered his arm mechanically, almost gently, depositing the baby back into the crib before shifting his enraged focus toward Princess Elia. I knew the violence that followed would still leave deep traumas on the Dornish princess, but destiny had been altered. The innocent blood of the children would not stain the sacred ground of the Holdfast. Willam and Jon finished the job, beheading the Lannister executioners.
I broke the connection with the bird, blinking my own eyes and bringing my mind back to my physical body. My boots echoed heavily as I strode with firm steps toward the Throne Room. The smell of smoke, blood, and the sweet, terrible odor of wildfire hung in the air like a suffocating mist.
As I pushed open the immense oak and bronze doors of the hall, I confronted the scene I had foreseen long before. Fallen near the entrance, the bodies of the pyromancers of the Alchemists' Guild lay in pools of dark blood, alongside the corpse of Lord Rossart, the King's Hand who had tried to burn the city. And there, atop that abomination of iron known as the Iron Throne, sat the young Ser Jaime Lannister. He held his golden sword extended, dripping with the royal blood of Aerys II, whose deformed and slit corpse rested pathetically at the base of the structure.
My uncle, Eddard Stark, entered right behind me, flanked by the lords of the North. Upon seeing the young knight of the Kingsguard sitting calmly on the throne of the king he had just murdered, Ned's face hardened into a mask of absolute contempt.
— Kingslayer — the word left my uncle's mouth like a whip of ice, echoing off the stone walls of the hall.
Jaime Lannister raised his chin, maintaining an arrogant, scornful smirk that belied the storm in his eyes. But I possessed the sight that went beyond appearances. Beneath the golden armor and petulant posture, I caught a glimpse of the profound hurt that struck the boy. He was barely over fifteen years old. He had sacrificed his honor to save half a million souls from total burning, and the first thing he received in return was the implacable judgment of the North.
I advanced calmly to the foot of the throne, ignoring the tension building in the room, and stood before the corpse of Aerys Targaryen. I looked at the man who had ordered the deaths of my grandfather Rickard and my father Brandon. The man who had unleashed this entire war.
— Do you know what your greatest sin is, Ser Jaime? — I asked, my childish voice echoing with a disturbing calmness as I looked up at the young lion.
Jaime frowned, lowering the tip of his sword slightly.
— My sin, little king? I have just rid the realm of the greatest monster to ever sit in this chair.
— Your sin was stealing my vengeance — I replied, locking my eyes onto his. — And now, how will I avenge myself when Aerys is nothing but a cold corpse? You should have cut off only his legs, Ser Jaime. Don't you think that would have been a much better idea? He would still be alive to pay what he owed to the North, and you would still be an honorable knight in the eyes of fools.
Before Jaime could process my words, the sound of many boots announced the arrival of the rest of the rebel leaders. Tywin Lannister entered the hall with an imposing escort of his trusted men, followed closely by Robert Baratheon—who was breathing heavily due to his wounds from the Trident—and Jon Arryn, whose expression bore the sobriety of a man carrying the weight of a new dynasty.
They looked at the body of the Mad King, at Jaime's blood-stained sword, and immediately understood that the youth had broken his most sacred vows. Jaime's false smile vanished. He hurried down the steps of the Iron Throne and stood beside his father, Tywin, in an almost subconscious manner. I had to suppress the urge to laugh; for a brief moment, the feared warrior of the Kingsguard looked like a child who had misbehaved and was now seeking the protection of a father figure.
Jon Arryn took a firm stance at the foot of the throne, while Robert, ignoring etiquette and the pain of his bandages, climbed the steps with heavy, brutal weight and sat upon the seat of swords.
— Where is the Dornishwoman and Rhaegar's pups? — Jon Arryn asked, turning his eyes directly to me.
— They have been successfully rescued — I replied simply.
The revelation caused instantaneous and violent reactions in the Lannister father-and-son duo. Tywin narrowed his pale eyes, a rigid line forming on his lips as he realized his plan to present Robert with the bodies of the children had failed miserably. Jaime, on the other hand, visibly flinched. His eyes wandered around the hall as if he finally remembered the vow that truly mattered: the one to protect the royal family he had left behind in Maegor's.
Shortly after, the doors opened again. Willam Dustin and the Great Jon Umber entered, marching with three guards of the Black Guard. In the center of the retinue, wrapped in Willam's grey cloak, was Princess Elia Martell, holding Aegon with desperate strength, while little Rhaenys walked huddled at her side.
Upon reaching me, Willam and the other men of the North knelt in unison.
— My king — Willam announced, straightening his body. — We have brought the royal family safely, as ordered.
I acknowledged them with a calm nod. I took a step forward, approaching Elia, and looked into her eyes, which were filled with tears and exhaustion.
— Do not worry, princess. You are perfectly safe with us. The vengeance of the North was directed only against the Mad King and, in part, against Rhaegar's actions. The North does not wage war against women and infants.
High above, Robert Baratheon stood abruptly from the throne. A hoarse, violent laugh escaped his throat, echoing grotesquely through the pillars of the hall.
— A rescue? — Robert bellowed, his eyes bloodshot with hatred as he looked at the two Dornish children. — You have brought me a grand gift, Arawyn! My warhammer is eager to drink the blood of these dragon spawn! Nothing that comes from Rhaegar must remain alive!
Robert began to descend the throne steps with heavy strides. Ned Stark immediately stepped forward, interposing himself between his childhood friend and the royal family, starting a heated argument with the Lord of Storm's End.
Before the argument could escalate further, I released a fraction of my presence. The atmosphere of the hall plummeted to a freezing cold. I visually summoned the authority of my blood, the imposing majesty of the Kings of Winter, and faced Robert head-on, forcing him to halt in the middle of the staircase.
— Robert — my voice cut through the tumult like a blade of ice. — Elia Martell and her children are under the official and absolute protection of the North. Now, if you want their heads so badly, you are more than welcome to come and fetch them in the heart of the Winter Lands. But do not forget one thing: the soil of the North has not drunk southern blood in a very long time... and it is deeply thirsty. Come to the North, Robert. Come and seek your own death.
The hall fell into a sepulchral silence. No one dared to breathe. Then, breaking the quiet, the Great Jon Umber raised his greatsword and let out a roar of approval, immediately joined by Willam Dustin and all the Northern lords present. They banged their swords against their shields, shouting insults and inviting the southerners to march against the walls of ice if they had the courage.
Tywin Lannister, maintaining his usual calculating posture, stepped forward and intervened with his cold, polished voice:
— The survival of Rhaegar's lineage will bring eternal instability to the new Baratheon dynasty, King Arawyn. A political mistake that will claim its price in blood in the future.
I looked askance at the Lord of Casterly Rock.
— I don't give a damn about the stability of the Baratheon dynasty, Lord Tywin — I replied, without blinking. — The war of rebellion was started by my family to punish tyranny, and it will not have the death of an innocent woman and her children as its outcome. Furthermore, you should be thanking me.
Tywin raised an eyebrow, his golden eyes fixed on me.
— Thanking you for ruining my plans?
— Thanking me for sparing your house from the eternal hatred of Dorne — I countered with a sarcastic smile. — Having the fury of the Dornish hunt your lineage for generations is not good for the West's business, Lord Tywin. If my men hadn't intervened, you would carry the perpetual blame for their deaths in the eyes of Westeros, even if your official order had only been to capture them to ensure the transition of power, and not to slaughter them in their beds.
A tiny spark of surprise flashed through Tywin's eyes, a fraction of a second in which he realized I was offering him an honorable way out of his henchmen's fiasco. The expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his imperturbable mask.
— It is the absolute truth — Tywin said, nodding calmly to the surrounding lords. — My men let themselves be carried away by the heat of battle and disobeyed my express instructions for clemency. And where are these insubordinate soldiers now?
— They went to meet the Stranger of your Seven Gods — I replied with indifference.
I looked one last time at Robert, who was still fuming with rage in the middle of the steps, but Ned's steadfast gaze and the unified clamor of the lords of the North made him realize he wouldn't stand a chance if he tried to start a new conflict there. He retreated, sitting back down on the throne with an unsatisfied grunt.
I turned my back on the throne and left the hall with my retinue, escorting Elia Martell and her children away from that hive of snakes. As we walked through the quieter corridors of the fortress, I turned to the Dornish princess.
— Princess Elia, where do you wish to go? I can arrange an escort to Dorne, or you may come with us.
Elia looked at her children, her logical reasoning overriding the fear in her dark eyes.
— To the North — she answered, her voice firm despite her weakness. — Robert and Tywin will stretch their hands all the way to Dorne if given the chance. Only in the North, under the protection of your swords and your magic, will my children truly be safe.
— Very well — I nodded. I turned to the Lord of Barrowton. — Willam, take a portion of our most trusted men and depart immediately for Barrow Town, where you will keep Elia and the children in total safety and secrecy. When I return from our final business in the south, you will go to Winterfell, and there we will decide the next steps for their future.
Willam Dustin struck his chest, accepting the mission with the honor of a true Northener. That night, I retired to one of the least damaged rooms in the Red Keep. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, allowing myself to enjoy real, deep rest for the first time in many months of campaign.
At dawn the following day, the weak sun of King's Landing barely entered through the cracks of the window when I joined Ned Stark for breakfast. We were savoring stale bread with cheese and dried meat when firm knocks echoed on the wooden door. The guard of the Black Guard posted outside announced that Lord Tywin Lannister requested an urgent audience.
I was already expecting it. He had sent a messenger the previous night, and I had deliberately set the meeting for the early hours of the morning.
— Authorize his entry — I ordered.
The doors opened and Tywin marched into the room. To my surprise, he did not come alone. He was accompanied by his brother Kevan, his son Jaime—who now wore civilian robes of crimson silk—and his daughter, Cersei Lannister. I knew perfectly well why he had brought the girl. Tywin had spies scattered in every corner of the court; he knew that the original plan to marry Cersei to Robert had collapsed the moment Jon Arryn forged the agreement with the Stormlands and the Vale, officially announcing Robert's betrothal to Catelyn Tully to consolidate the southern rebel bloc. Tywin needed a strong alliance, and the North was now the supreme power of the continent.
Tywin sat in the designated chair, maintaining his aristocratic posture, while Kevan and the youths remained standing behind him. Ned stared at me sideways, his brow furrowed, trying to understand the purpose of this unusual meeting.
— How is the morning, Lord Tywin? — I asked, pouring myself some watered wine.
— Terrible, King Arawyn — Tywin replied, direct and blunt. — I lost the goodwill of part of my army due to yesterday's incidents, and Jon Arryn has just informed me of Robert's marriage to Hoster Tully's daughter. A predictable move, but one that leaves the West isolated in the new court.
I gave a short laugh, leaning back in my chair.
— Well, and now you are here in my presence. And from what I can see, you brought a beautiful lioness to try and sell to the Northern market. So, save our time, Lord Tywin... make your offer.
Contrary to what I expected from a proud negotiator like the Lion of Casterly Rock, Tywin leaned slightly forward and interlaced his fingers, looking at me with an almost mystical seriousness.
— I will make no verbal offer, Greenseer. I will let the results speak for themselves. I believe you can use your magic to see the future... to see how a union between my daughter Cersei and your uncle, Eddard Stark, will turn out for both our houses. If the future is bleak, I will gather my family and we will depart. If it is prosperous, we will seal the deal here and now.
I let out a genuine laugh, amused by the man's audacity.
— To see something so specific in the future, Lord Tywin, isolating a single branch of 'what if' amidst millions of possibilities, is not something an ordinary greenseer can do. Timelines are like spiderwebs in the wind.
Tywin's face faltered for a moment, displaying a slight disappointment. But I wasn't finished yet.
— Fortunately for you... I am no ordinary greenseer.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting my consciousness plummet into the depths of the ancient magic that ran through my veins. My mind expanded, crossing the barriers of the present time. The walls of the room seemed to dissolve into a vortex of red weirwood leaves and freezing drafts of air.
I sought the timeline where Eddard Stark and Cersei Lannister united under the Old Gods. I saw images pass like flashes of lightning: I saw Winterfell adorned with crimson and grey banners; I saw Ned ruling with his unyielding honor, but now backed by the inexhaustible gold and implacable astuteness of the West; I saw Cersei, free from the decay and rejection she would suffer in the arms of a drunken Robert, channeling her pride into becoming a fierce she-wolf and protector of the North. And most striking of all: I saw children running through the courtyards of ice, heirs who blended the vigorous blood of the First Men with the gold of the West, manifesting latent magical gifts that would make the North prosper for a thousand years. It was a surprisingly perfect union, where one's weakness was the other's strength.
I opened my eyes abruptly, bringing my mind back to the room. An involuntary laugh escaped my lips.
— Who would have thought... — I murmured, shaking my head. — Who would have thought it would turn out so well? A union of pure power and balance.
The statement surprised everyone in the room. Tywin Lannister blinked his eyes, an expression of restrained triumph lighting up his features; he clearly had not imagined that the answer would be so incredibly positive. Kevan let out a sigh of relief, and even Jaime seemed to approve of the idea of seeing his sister far from the dangers of King's Landing.
After aligning the basic terms of the betrothal agreement, Tywin and his retinue withdrew from the room to prepare the travel arrangements. When the door closed, I looked at Ned. My uncle remained motionless in his chair, his eyes fixed on the wooden table, completely immersed in his thoughts.
— What do you think of this, uncle? — I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ned cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head with a typically Northern embarrassment.
— I will follow your command, my king... as always. But... — he hesitated, his cheeks flushing slightly. — As a second son, I never expected much from my destiny. I thought I would live in some minor holdfast in the Watch or serving Brandon in Winterfell. And now... I am to marry the woman many consider the most beautiful and coveted in the Seven Kingdoms. It is a difficult adjustment for my mind.
I only laughed at my uncle's modesty, patting his shoulder to comfort him.
Later that same day, as I walked discreetly along the castle balconies, I spotted Tywin talking to Cersei in one of the lower courtyards. I used my enhanced hearing to catch the murmurs. Contrary to what history suggested about the lioness's difficult temper, Cersei did not seem at all angry or outraged by the arrangement. Her green eyes gleamed with a renewed ambition. The prospect of giving birth to children who would inherit ancient magical gifts and becoming the sovereign lady of the new power dominating the continent was far more appealing to her than being the neglected wife of a decadent southern king. Cersei Lannister had understood that the future belonged to the ice.
## The Tower of Joy and the Healing of the Wolf
The war in King's Landing was over, the political treaties were signed, and the bulk of the Northern army had already begun the long march back home, crossing the Riverlands. However, our campaign was not yet complete. There remained one last she-wolf to rescue from the clutches of the south, and, more importantly, we had to find the child promised by the prophecies—the prince who would be born of the blood of ice and fire to lead us against the darkness in the approaching Long Night.
We mounted our horses with a chosen contingent of warriors and marched toward the Stormlands. We passed Storm's End, where the troops of the Reach held Stannis Baratheon's castle under a famished siege. We wasted no time with formalities or unnecessary battles; I used my authority to force Lord Mace Tyrell to lift the siege immediately and surrender his forces to the new terms of peace. With the castle liberated, we pressed on without rest toward the mountainous borders of Dorne.
After days of riding under the scorching sun, the solitary silhouette of the Tower of Joy rose against the blue sky of the Dornish passes. Upon spotting the stone structure, I couldn't help but let out an ironic laugh. "Tower of Joy"... such a poetic name for a place that had harbored so much secret tragedy.
Approaching the base of the tower, three figures in immaculate white armor blocked our path. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; Ser Oswell Whent; and the Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower. Their white cloaks billowed in the dry desert wind, and their swords were drawn, ready to defend the secret they guarded with their very lives.
Ned Stark pulled the reins of his horse, preparing to dismount and begin the traditional and deadly dialogue of honor between knights. But I had no patience for that southern nonsense of pride and blind duty.
— Stand aside — I commanded, riding my horse past Ned's line.
— We cannot, boy — Ser Arthur Dayne replied, the legendary sword Dawn gleaming under the Dornish sun. — We swore a vow to Prince Rhaegar. Our duty is here.
— Your duty is to the living, not the dead — I retorted.
Before any of them could take a step to attack, I raised my right hand. I did not summon swords or runes; I merely channeled a pure, overwhelming wave of ancestral magical energy. With a simple, violent flick of my fingers, an invisible, thunderous shockwave struck the three knights of the Kingsguard. The impact was so monumental that it lifted them off the ground, throwing them meters away against the sandy rocks. They hit the ground with a metallic crash and blacked out instantly, knocked unconscious by the raw force of magic, without a single drop of blood needing to be spilled.
— Stay here and tend to them — I ordered my guards.
I dismounted and entered the tower, with Ned running right behind me. We climbed the spiral steps in a hurry, following the sound of faint groans and the characteristic smell of blood and high fever. As we pushed open the door to the upper room, we found my aunt, Lyanna Stark.
She lay on a bed of white sheets completely drenched in Dornish blood, her eyes rolled back and her breath failing, clearly entering her final moments of life due to childbirth complications. Beside her, a wet nurse wept as she held a newborn baby wrapped in tattered blankets.
Ned rushed to the head of the bed, falling to his knees and holding his sister's trembling hand, tears already streaming down his face.
— Ned... promise me... — Lyanna whispered, her voice barely audible, life slipping through her fingers.
I approached the bed without a word. I gently moved Ned aside and placed both my hands flat over my aunt's bloody belly. I closed my eyes and invoked the purest essence of Northern healing magic—the kind that draws vitality from the earth itself and renews the blood of the sick. A soft, bluish light emanated from my palms, penetrating Lyanna's body. Within seconds, the terrible bleeding stopped, the high fever burning her skin subsided, and the ruptured tissues of her body began to miraculously regenerate before my uncle's astonished eyes.
Lyanna let out a deep breath, her eyes clearing instantly as color returned to her pale cheeks. She was saved.
I stepped away from the bed and walked over to the window, crossing my arms.
— The rest is up to you, Ned — I commented, having no inclination to participate in the family drama or all the romantic nonsense surrounding her elopement with Rhaegar. I had come for the blood and the future, not for the tears.
After ensuring Lyanna was strong enough to travel, we accommodated the young mother and the baby in a comfortable litter. We gathered the three Kingsguard knights—who now followed us in a silence mixed with submission and mystical awe—and marched toward the castle of Starfall, the ancestral seat of House Dayne, to rest before the return journey.
As we crossed the gates of the coastal fortress of the Daynes, I was caught by surprise by a vision that had not explicitly appeared in my greenseer memories. Waiting for us in the stone courtyards was Ashara Dayne.
The chronicles of the south used to praise her beauty, but reality surpassed any poem. She possessed long dark hair that fell in perfect waves and deep, haunting violet eyes, endowed with a melancholy that would hypnotize any ordinary man. However, what shocked me was not her appearance, but the revelation she brought as soon as we gathered in the private chambers of the castle.
With a choked voice and trembling hands, Ashara confessed to Ned and me that she had secretly married my father, Brandon Stark, at Harrenhal before all the madness erupted in the realm. Ned widened his eyes, confirming that Brandon had indeed confided something to him about a forbidden love in the Riverlands, but that his brutal death in King's Landing had buried the secret.
— I was pregnant — Ashara revealed, a solitary tear escaping her violet eyes. — But when the news of Brandon's execution reached Starfall... the pain was so unbearable that my body failed. I lost the baby. And according to my family's maester, the internal scarring was too deep. He told me I will never be able to carry a child in my womb again.
I approached Ashara in silence. I extended my hand and lightly touched her wrist, letting a spark of my magic run through her internal channels. After a brief analysis of her body's vital flow, I confirmed the diagnosis: the southern maester was correct in natural terms; Ashara's womb was barren due to the trauma of the loss.
— My own family no longer wants me here — Ashara continued, looking at her brother Arthur with sadness. — I am seen as a disgrace for having lain with a wolf of the North. King Arawyn... please, allow me to follow Arthur and depart with you to the North. Nothing is left for me in these arid lands.
I looked at Ashara and then at Ned, who observed her with a mixture of deep compassion and a respect that went beyond friendship. My mind traveled through future timelines, and a subtle smile formed on my lips as I realized destiny was weaving its own webs. The path of that Dornishwoman was destined to permanently cross with Eddard Stark's in the forests of Winterfell, acting as a balm for the pains of both their pasts.
— The North welcomes those who love the wolves, Lady Ashara — I replied, accepting her request. — You will come with us.
All I wanted at that moment was to turn my back on the south once and for all. Enough of deserts, enough of courtly intrigues, enough of King's Landing. My body and mind yearned for the pure, freezing air of the Winter Lands.
From Starfall, we boarded a fast merchant ship heading toward King's Landing. Upon docking in the capital, we were met with an imposing sight: a robust part of the House Manderly war fleet was already anchored in the harbor, their sails sporting the white merman on a blue-green background, awaiting our arrival. The bulk of our Northern land forces had already crossed the Neck, returning safely to their homes after the final encounter and formal surrender of the Reach army.
In the Red Keep, the retinue of House Lannister was already waiting for us with their baggage and guards ready for the journey. Tywin had kept his word: Cersei and Jaime would accompany us to the North. Obviously, a Stark of royal blood would not marry under the rituals of the southern Seven Gods in a stone sept; the marriage between Ned and Cersei would be performed where the weddings of our ancestors had always taken place—before the Heart Tree of Winterfell, under the watchful, eternal eyes of the Old Gods.
I climbed aboard the Manderly flagship, leaving the noise of the harbor behind as the anchors were hauled up. I walked toward my private cabin on the upper deck, but stopped halfway as I witnessed a scene that made me let out a suppressed chuckle.
Near the ship's bulwark, Ned Stark was cornered against the wood, his face completely flushed and sweating cold from pure embarrassment in the face of Cersei Lannister's bold advances and provocative comments. The lioness displayed a feline, amused smile, clearly delighting in her future husband's shyness and knightly honor, testing the silent wolf's limits with every word. Ned looked at me with a silent plea for help in his eyes, but I merely shrugged and continued on my way, thoroughly amused by the situation.
I closed my cabin door and lay down on my daybed, listening to the comforting sound of waves lapping against the ship's hull. The swaying of the sea marked the beginning of our journey back.
Finally, we were going home. Returning to the North with absolute victory in our hands, with Elia's lineage spared from barbarism, and with Lyanna Stark perfectly alive and healthy, bringing in her arms the little babe who carried the blood of ice and fire—the young Aemon Targaryen. The Long Night would one day come, the prophecies would be fulfilled, but the North was now unified, strengthened by magic, and ready to face any winter that dared defy our realm.