Chapter 6: The Dragon and the Direwolf
The dragons arrived like thunder incarnate, a primal force descending upon Winterfell. Daenerys Targaryen, atop Drogon, surveyed the ancient castle, its grey stones stark against the snow-dusted landscape. Torrhen Stark stood on the battlements, a solitary figure against the biting wind, his face a mask of calm determination. He watched the dragons circle, immense and terrifying, and felt a thrill, cold and sharp, pulse through him. These were the weapons he needed, the ultimate power that would turn the tide against the dead.
The meeting in Winterfell's Great Hall was a tense affair, a clash of fire and ice. Daenerys, surrounded by her advisors – Tyrion Lannister, Varys, Missandei, and the remaining forces from the South – radiated a fierce, queenly pride. She spoke of her birthright, of breaking the wheel, of liberating the realm. Torrhen listened, his gaze unblinking, absorbing every word, every subtle nuance in her voice, every flicker of uncertainty or conviction. He read her like an open book, her passions, her vulnerabilities, her unwavering belief in her destiny.
He spoke little, but when he did, his words were precise, unyielding, and laced with an almost chilling pragmatism. He did not waste time on pleasantries or debates about the Iron Throne. His focus was singular: the White Walkers. "Your Grace," Torrhen said, his voice a low rumble that commanded attention, "the dead do not care for birthrights or crowns. They care only for extinction. The Wall has fallen. Their army is upon us. We fight for the living, or we die for the dead."
He presented his intelligence with a disarming directness: maps detailing the Others' movements, reports from his scouts beyond the Wall, grim accounts of skirmishes and the terrifying strength of the Night King. He spoke of dragonglass, of Valyrian steel, of the need for unity against an enemy that defied all human understanding. He didn't preach; he laid out facts, chilling and irrefutable, each one a product of his decades of foresight and preparation.
Tyrion Lannister, ever the sharpest mind in the room, eyed Torrhen with a keen, wary intelligence. "Your Grace, King Torrhen speaks with remarkable certainty. His knowledge of this threat seems... extensive."
Torrhen met Tyrion's gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. "When a storm gathers for decades, Lord Tyrion, one learns to read the clouds. The North has been watching, preparing, while the South played its games of thrones." His words were a subtle rebuke, a reinforcement of his position as the true visionary.
Daenerys, while initially resistant to his bluntness, found herself increasingly swayed by his logic and the sheer weight of his evidence. Her dragons were powerful, but against an army of millions of dead, a united front was imperative. She conceded to fight the common enemy first, to put aside the claim to the Iron Throne for the immediate threat. This was precisely what Torrhen intended. He had manipulated her to fight his war, on his terms, in his territory.
He meticulously planned the defenses of Winterfell. He drew on his future knowledge of tactics, recognizing the strengths and weaknesses of various battle formations against an undead army. He placed his seasoned Northern troops in strategic positions, his archers with dragonglass arrows, his specialized units with Valyrian steel blades. He integrated the Unsullied and Dothraki into his lines, utilizing their unique strengths while mitigating their weaknesses against the cold and the dead. He even reluctantly accepted the presence of Jon Snow, recognizing his destined role, but keeping him at arm's length, a dangerous variable.
During the planning sessions, Torrhen allowed Jon Snow and Daenerys to voice their opinions, even their objections. He listened patiently, then subtly steered them towards his own predetermined strategies, framing them as logical conclusions born of his superior understanding of the terrain and the enemy. He observed Jon's bond with Daenerys, the growing affection, and filed it away. A potential complication, or a useful lever.
His magical abilities were now flowing constantly, a hum beneath his skin. He spent hours in the Godswood, drawing immense power from the weirwood network, amplifying his foresight. He projected a chilling sense of determination into his troops, an unshakeable resolve that bordered on fanaticism. He also began to subtly dampen the morale of the wights and even some of the weaker White Walkers, a silent, unseen magical pressure that made their movements slightly less coordinated. He was preparing for the battle, not just physically, but magically.
The night before the battle, as the chill winds howled around Winterfell, Torrhen walked through the castle, observing his people. He saw the fear, the desperation, but also the grim resolve he had painstakingly cultivated. He passed by his son, Barthogan, standing vigil with his men, his face pale but determined. Torrhen felt a rare, fleeting surge of something akin to genuine pride. His legacy, his chosen instrument, was ready.
He made one final visit to the crypts, touching the stone of his first Horcrux. He felt the cold, familiar anchoring of his soul, the comforting invincibility. He was prepared. He was ready. The Great War was about to begin, and he, the Serpent in Winterfell, the true master of ice and blood, would ensure that the living prevailed, so that he might reshape the world to his will.
The battle for Winterfell was a maelstrom of ice and fire, a night of unimaginable horror and desperate heroism. The screech of dragons, the screams of men, the clatter of steel, and the chilling, relentless advance of the dead created a symphony of annihilation. Torrhen Stark, clad in dark Northern armor, stood on the command platform, his face grim, his eyes constantly scanning the battlefield, his mind a whirlwind of tactical calculations.
He allowed Jon Snow and Daenerys to engage the Night King directly on their dragons, a necessary distraction. He knew the Night King's target was Bran, and he had deliberately hidden Bran in a well-fortified, lesser-known part of the castle, a subtle deviation from the expected. He used his precise knowledge of the Night King's capabilities, gleaned from foresight, to counter his moves.
His own magical abilities were unleashed with unprecedented power. He was not on the front lines, not fighting with sword and shield. His battle was one of unseen forces, of subtle influences and crushing will. From his vantage point, drawing immense power from the weirwood network, he would:
* Dampen the morale of the wights: A silent, pervasive wave of mental dread would spread through their ranks, causing momentary confusion or hesitation, enough to give his defenders a crucial advantage.
* Amplify his archers' accuracy: A subtle mental push, guiding their aim, making their dragonglass arrows find their marks with uncanny precision.
* Conjure localized illusions: Fleeting shadows, phantom movements, drawing the wights' attention away from vulnerable points, buying precious seconds.
* Create walls of chilling mist: Disorienting the dead, forcing them to break formation, creating gaps for his cavalry charges.
* Fortify weak points: Not with physical barriers, but with a surge of psychological resilience in his troops, making them stand firm against overwhelming odds.
He also subtly influenced the actions of certain key commanders, guiding their decisions, making them act with an almost supernatural strategic brilliance. He ensured that critical orders were delivered at the precise moment, that reinforcements arrived exactly when needed. He was the invisible hand, guiding the dance of death and survival.
The casualties were immense. He watched his loyal Northernmen fall, their lives extinguished against the relentless tide. He saw the Unsullied hold the line with stoic determination, the Dothraki charge with suicidal bravery. He observed the dragons burning swathes through the undead, their fire a beacon against the encroaching darkness. He registered the death of certain characters he had foreseen – Theon Greyjoy, Jorah Mormont, Eddison Tollett – each a predictable casualty in his grand scheme. He felt no grief, only a cold, detached satisfaction that the timeline was unfolding as planned.
The turning point came when the Night King, having broken through the outer defenses, finally confronted Bran. But Bran was not alone. Torrhen had ensured Barthogan was there, ostensibly to protect Bran, but truly to be a witness, a pawn in a larger play. And then, at the precise moment Torrhen foresaw, Arya Stark struck, ending the Night King's reign of terror.
Torrhen registered the shockwaves of the Night King's death, the instantaneous collapse of the wights. He felt the cold, dark power that had sustained them suddenly dissipate. A profound sense of relief washed over the living, but for Torrhen, it was merely the successful completion of a crucial stage. The true enemy had been dealt with. Now, the path to his ultimate ambition lay open.
In the aftermath, Winterfell was a ruin, but it was a living ruin. The joy of survival was immense, but tempered by the crushing losses. Torrhen moved among his people, his face etched with a controlled sorrow, offering solace, issuing calm, efficient orders for recovery and burial. He was the undisputed hero of the hour, the King who had prepared them, the visionary who had guided them through the Long Night.
Daenerys, though triumphant, was exhausted and shaken. She had faced true death, and it had left its mark. She also saw Torrhen, strong and unyielding, lauded by his people. She sensed the immense power radiating from him, though she couldn't articulate it. She saw the unwavering loyalty of the North, a loyalty she now craved for herself.
"We have won, King Torrhen," Daenerys said to him, her voice hoarse, her eyes searching his.
"We have survived, Your Grace," Torrhen corrected, his gaze distant. "The greater war is yet to come. The living must now choose their path. Unity, or self-destruction."
He knew what would happen next. Daenerys's descent into tyranny, her burning of King's Landing, her ultimate demise. He knew Jon Snow would kill her. He knew the realm would be broken, desperate, and leaderless. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that he would be the one to pick up the pieces. The Serpent had ensured the North's survival. Now, it was time to claim the entire realm.
The victory against the dead brought a temporary, fragile peace, but beneath the surface, the fires of ambition and resentment still simmered. Torrhen Stark wasted no time. While Daenerys Targaryen wrestled with the aftermath of the Great War and the growing paranoia that would lead her to tragic decisions, Torrhen was consolidating his position, not just in the North, but in the collective consciousness of Westeros.
He dispatched his Maesters and trusted envoys to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, not with declarations of war, but with carefully crafted messages of resilience, of the North's unwavering strength, and of Torrhen's unparalleled foresight. They carried tales of how King Torrhen had prepared his people for decades, how he had amassed the dragonglass, how his strategies had saved them from annihilation, even when the South scoffed at his warnings. He was building his legend, brick by calculated brick, as the true savior of the living.
His own magical abilities were now flowing with a continuous, exhilarating hum. He could feel the power of the weirwood network, the ancient magic of Westeros, running through his veins. He practiced Legilimency almost constantly, subtly probing the minds of the disillusioned lords and ladies of the South, identifying their grievances, their fears, their secret desires. He identified the ambitious, the desperate, the morally bankrupt, and the truly honorable, categorizing them, preparing to play each to his advantage.
He knew of Daenerys's inevitable descent into madness, her burning of King's Landing, and the subsequent fury of the realm. He did nothing to stop it. In fact, he subtly encouraged it. His hidden network of spies and whispers subtly stoked the fires of suspicion around Daenerys, reinforcing negative perceptions, ensuring that her tyrannical acts would be seen as further proof of Targaryen madness, rather than a desperate reaction. He wanted the realm to be utterly exhausted, terrified, and leaderless when he finally made his move.
When the news of King's Landing's fiery destruction and Daenerys's subsequent assassination by Jon Snow reached Winterfell, Torrhen allowed a grim, somber public reaction. He ordered flags flown at half-mast, a show of mourning for the horrific loss of life. Privately, he felt a surge of triumph. The last of the dragons was gone, and the Iron Throne was empty, its last claimant dead by the hand of a man who would never seek power.
The surviving lords of Westeros, scattered and shattered, convened at the Dragonpit in King's Landing. Torrhen, accompanied by his formidable Northern guard and his trusted son, Barthogan, arrived not as a claimant to the Iron Throne, but as a reluctant, wise, and necessary presence. He was the one who had prepared, the one who had fought, the one who had survived.
The council was a chaotic affair. Proposals for a new King were thrown about – Gendry Baratheon, Sansa Stark, even Tyrion Lannister. Torrhen remained silent for much of it, observing, listening, letting the other contenders exhaust themselves. He let the petty squabbles and the underlying resentments surface, revealing the deep fissures within the realm.
Finally, when the chaos reached its peak, and despair settled on the faces of the assembled lords, Torrhen rose. His presence commanded instant silence, a magnetic field of calm authority. "My Lords," he began, his voice clear and resonant, devoid of any emotional flourish, "the realm is broken. It has been bled dry by kings and queens who sought only their own power, or who were consumed by madness." He gestured vaguely south. "The Targaryens are gone. The Baratheons are scattered. The Lannisters have brought ruin."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over each lord, his gaze penetrating, unnerving. "The North, alone, prepared for the true darkness. We fought it, we defeated it, and we survived it. Not by magic, but by foresight, by unity, by hard work, and by the unyielding spirit of our people." He omitted, of course, the decades of dark magic, the Horcruxes, the subtle manipulations.
"You speak of broken wheels, of new beginnings," Torrhen continued, his voice gaining a chilling momentum. "But what new beginning can be forged from the ashes of division? What strength can come from weakness? Westeros needs a ruler who understands the true threats, who has proven his ability to prepare, to unify, to lead through unimaginable darkness."
He let his words hang in the air, allowing the unspoken question to form in their minds. He was not demanding the crown; he was presenting himself as the only logical, necessary choice. He had not sought power for power's sake, but for the sake of survival, of order, of the future. He had cultivated this image for decades.
"The North does not seek to rule the South," Torrhen stated, a masterful deception. "We seek only peace, stability, and the assurance that the horrors of the past, and the horrors that may yet return, will be met with a united, prepared realm." He then proposed his solution, not as a demand, but as a logical inevitability. "Let us unite this broken realm, not under a new dynasty, but under a leader proven in the crucible of true war. Let us choose a King who sees beyond the petty squabbles, who has saved us all."
He let the implication hang, thick and heavy. The unspoken name was his own. The murmurs began, hesitant at first, then growing louder. He had the strength, the army, the foresight, the undeniable victory against the dead. He had no claim to the Iron Throne by blood, but he had a claim forged in the fire of survival and the cold steel of his intellect.
His son, Barthogan, stepped forward, his voice clear and unwavering. "My lords, my father has proven his worth. The North has bled for this realm, and he has guided us through the darkest night. He asks for nothing, yet he offers everything. The choice is clear."
The momentum shifted. The surviving lords, desperate for order, weary of conflict, and swayed by the undeniable evidence of Torrhen's leadership during the Long Night, began to see the logic in his unspoken claim. He was not a conqueror, but a savior. The Iron Throne, the symbol of the broken wheel, was about to find a new, cold, and utterly ruthless master.
The Dragonpit, once a symbol of Targaryen might, became the crucible of Torrhen Stark's ultimate triumph. The consensus, slowly but inevitably, shifted. Weary, disillusioned, and desperate for strong leadership after the horrors of the Long Night and Daenerys's fiery end, the lords of Westeros turned to the King in the North. He had no claim by blood to the Iron Throne, but he had a claim forged in foresight, in unyielding preparation, and in undeniable victory against the dead.
Torrhen Stark accepted the crown, not with a flourish of triumph, but with a solemn, almost weary gravitas. His coronation in the Dragonpit was subdued, a reflection of a realm in mourning. He did not sit on the melted, grotesque Iron Throne, refusing to acknowledge its symbolic power. Instead, he ordered a new throne, carved from black weirwood, imbued with the ancient magic of the North, its surface stark and unyielding, reflecting his own chilling purpose. The Weirwood Throne was his silent declaration.
His reign began with an iron fist, subtly cloaked in pragmatism. He announced that the Seven Kingdoms would become the United Kingdom of Westeros, with the North as its heart. He dismantled the traditional power structures, replacing them with a system of governors and regional councils directly answerable to him. He was a benevolent dictator, offering peace, order, and prosperity, but demanding absolute obedience. He ruled not through love or charisma, but through a terrifying blend of undeniable competence, subtle manipulation, and the quiet threat of his overwhelming power.
His magical abilities were now fully integrated into his governance. He could use Legilimency to ensure loyalty, identifying potential dissenters before they became a threat. He could send silent, unseen suggestions into the minds of his advisors, making them believe his ideas were their own. He could even subtly influence the weather, ensuring bountiful harvests in loyal regions and creating "unexplained" blights in areas that resisted his authority. His Horcruxes, three now, anchored to ancient, powerful locations across Westeros, ensured his invulnerability, a chilling testament to his eternal reign.
He reformed the institutions of Westeros with ruthless efficiency. The Night's Watch was transformed into a formidable, well-equipped standing army, its purpose expanded to defend against any future existential threats, be they from the North or within the realm. The Citadel was placed under his direct control, its Maesters now serving his agenda, their researches steered towards ancient magic, forgotten histories, and anything that could contribute to his knowledge and power. He rebuilt the infrastructure of the realm, not for the benefit of the common folk alone, but to ensure the efficient flow of resources and the rapid deployment of his forces.
His son, Barthogan, was named Hand of the King, a loyal and efficient instrument. Torrhen had cultivated his son's loyalty so profoundly that Barthogan saw his father not as a tyrant, but as the only man capable of bringing true peace and order to Westeros. He was the public face of Torrhen's rule, enforcing his father's will with unwavering devotion, unaware of the insidious darkness that fueled it.
The other surviving houses, shattered by years of war and unified by their fear of the Others, slowly bowed to Torrhen's will. The Lannisters, weakened and disgraced, were brought to heel. The Tyrells, their power base destroyed, were rendered impotent. The Martells, their thirst for vengeance tempered by the scale of the recent horrors, grudgingly accepted his authority. He was the King who had saved them, and they feared him more than any they had ever known.
Torrhen ruled from Winterfell, transforming it into the undisputed capital of Westeros. The Weirwood Throne sat in the Great Hall, a stark reminder of his Northern origins and his ancient power. He rarely visited King's Landing, preferring to govern from his ancestral seat, surrounded by the ancient magic he had cultivated.
The whispers of the 'Serpent King' spread throughout the realm. Not just a king, but something more. Some spoke of his uncanny foresight, others of his chilling aura, still others of the strange, unseasonal cold that seemed to follow his presence. But no one dared to challenge him. He brought order, he brought peace, and he promised protection from any future darkness. And for a realm that had known nothing but war and chaos for generations, that was enough.
In the deepest chambers of the crypts of Winterfell, beneath the Weirwood Throne, Torrhen spent hours communing with the ancient magic of his first Horcrux, the essence of Winterfell itself. He was not just the King of Westeros; he was becoming one with the very soul of the land. He felt the vast network of weirwoods pulsing across the continent, an intricate web of power waiting to be tapped. He knew that true immortality, true dominion, lay not just in splintering his soul, but in binding it to the very fabric of the world he now ruled.
The Serpent King had ascended. The Iron Throne was broken, replaced by the Weirwood Throne. Westeros was unified, but not by peace or love, but by the cold, calculating will of a man who had transcended humanity. Torrhen Stark, the reincarnated Lord Voldemort, had not merely won the game of thrones; he had redefined it. And his reign, forged in ice and shadow, would last for eternity. The Long Night had ended, but a new, chilling darkness had dawned upon Westeros, one that would never truly know spring.