Chapter 19: The Harvest of Fire and Ash
The ravens came to Winterfell like black tears shed by a weeping sky, each carrying tidings of fresh horror from the south. The Dance of the Dragons, long foreseen by Torrhen Stark I, had erupted with a suicidal fury that even his greensight had scarcely prepared him for. King Viserys I was dead, and his children, Aegon II and Rhaenyra, had plunged the Seven Kingdoms into a kinslaying civil war, their dragons the instruments of a realm's undoing.
From the Stone's sanctum deep beneath Winterfell, Torrhen I and his heir, Cregan II – a young man of twenty-seven now, his Stark gravity deepened by the apocalyptic news – watched the projected map of Westeros. Fiery scars erupted across it with each raven's arrival, each pulse of Torrhen's scrying: Rook's Rest, where Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meleys fell in a blaze of glory against Aegon II and Aemond on Sunfyre and Vhagar; the Battle of the Gullet, a pyrrhic victory for the Blacks that saw Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and his dragon Vermax perish, along with countless ships and men; the brutal sack of King's Landing by Rhaenyra's forces, followed by the city's descent into mob rule and the horrific Storming of the Dragonpit, where five more dragons met their end at the hands of crazed commoners.
Cregan II, witnessing these events through his great-great-great-great-grandfather's grim reports and the Stone's vivid scrying images, felt a sickness in his soul. "They are devouring themselves, Great Father," he said, his voice hoarse. "Their dragons… our kin, in a way… they die like flies swatted from the sky."
"Pride, Cregan," Torrhen I replied, his ancient eyes reflecting the distant fires. "And the insatiable hunger for a throne of twisted iron. This is the legacy of Old Valyria's arrogance, reborn in its last children. It is a tragedy. But it is also… an opportunity."
His words hung heavy in the air of the sanctum. The "opportunity" was one Torrhen I had long contemplated with a chilling pragmatism. As the Dance reached its most ferocious peaks, as thousands of men died in agony and, more significantly for his purposes, as the immensely powerful magical life-forces of the dying Targaryen dragons were violently released into the world, he enacted his grim contingency.
Within the deepest chamber of the sanctum, the Grand Alchemical Circle, inscribed centuries ago for the forging of the Crimson Heart, was reawakened. It was not the same chaotic, desperate ritual performed amidst Valyria's Doom. This was a more controlled, though no less profound, act of magical reception. As battles raged across Westeros, as dragonfire consumed dragonfire, Torrhen I, robed in simple grey, stood at the circle's heart. The Philosopher's Stone pulsed upon its obsidian pedestal, not with the steady rhythm of contained power, but with a new, eager hunger.
He did not actively take souls. Instead, the re-attuned circle and the Stone itself acted as a vast, passive spiritual lens, a focal point for the immense shockwaves of released life-energy, particularly the potent, magically saturated essence of the dying dragons. It was like standing on a shore as a distant tsunami, generated by an undersea earthquake, finally reached land – an inevitable consequence of a faraway catastrophe. He felt the echoes of their death screams, the raw agony of their departure, the explosive release of their ancient magic. It was a torrent of spiritual detritus, a psychic storm that would have shattered any lesser mind.
Torrhen I, his consciousness shielded by centuries of Occlumency and the Stone's own protective aura, filtered this incoming deluge, drawing upon only the purest, most potent magical energies, allowing the chaotic emotional residue to dissipate back into the indifferent ether. Cregan II, standing at the edge of the sanctum, shielded by his ancestor's wards, could only watch in horrified awe as the Crimson Heart pulsed with an increasingly fierce, almost blinding light, its internal galaxies of captured starlight swirling into new, more complex, and terrifyingly powerful patterns. The air thrummed, the very stones of Winterfell seemed to vibrate with the influx of raw, untamed power.
"This is a terrible necessity, Cregan," Torrhen I's voice echoed in his mind, a telepathic whisper across the roaring silence of the ritual. "Their self-destruction will not be in vain. This power, tragically harvested, will forge a stronger shield against the true Long Night. Remember this. Remember the cost. Power always has a cost."
As the Dance raged, both Greens and Blacks, their resources dwindling, their ranks thinning, eventually turned their eyes to the untouched, formidable North. Envoys arrived at Winterfell. First came Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra's heir, young, handsome, and desperate, flying his dragon Vermax (this was before his death at the Gullet, Torrhen's timeline of the Dance unfolding slightly differently or his scrying being pre-emptive of raven news). He pleaded for Northern arms, for the famed infantry of House Stark.
Cregan II, now appearing as the stern, capable Lord of Winterfell (Torrhen I having "retired" from public life due to his "great age," though he still guided everything from the shadows), received him in the Great Hall. Torrhen I was present, a silent, ancient figure by the hearth, his presence alone a powerful statement.
"Prince Jacaerys," Cregan II said, his voice firm, echoing his great-great-great-great-grandfather's carefully crafted words, "The North mourns the strife that tears your House, and the realm, asunder. We have no quarrel with either Queen Rhaenyra or King Aegon. Our harvests are plentiful; we can offer grain to feed the starving commonfolk of the Riverlands, who suffer most in this war of kings and queens. But Northern swords are for Northern threats. Our winters are harsh, our borders long. We cannot spare our strength for southern quarrels while our own vigil remains."
Jacaerys argued, pleaded, even subtly threatened with future repercussions. But Cregan II, advised by Torrhen I's silent mental cues, remained steadfast. Vermax, tethered outside Winterfell, roared his frustration, a sound that sent shivers through the castle but did not sway its lords. Jacaerys eventually departed, disappointed but perhaps with a grudging respect for Northern resolve, and unknowingly, with several wagonloads of grain pledged for humanitarian relief – a gesture that cost the North little but earned goodwill and maintained its neutral stance.
Later, envoys from Aegon II's Greens arrived with similar pleas and veiled threats. They too were met with courteous refusal and offers of aid for the common people. The North would not be drawn into the Dance. Its gates remained closed, its armies within its borders, its true power a sleeping giant.
The Stark dragons – Umbra, Balerion, Terrax, and Argent – ancient and immense, felt the distant agony of their Targaryen kin. They grew restless within the Deepwood, their roars echoing with a mournful, frustrated fury. Torrhen I and Cregan II spent many nights with them, soothing their agitation, reinforcing their bonds, their Valyrian commands like calming balms on savage, grieving hearts. On one particularly dark night, as the news of the Battle Above the Gods Eye and the deaths of Aemond Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Vhagar, and Caraxes reached Winterfell, Umbra, with Cregan II on his back, took to the stormy skies above the most desolate northern peaks. The black dragon unleashed a torrent of grief-stricken fire into the uncaring clouds, his roars a lament for his fallen kin, a sound that blended with the howling wind and was heard by no mortal ear save his rider's.
As the Dance finally sputtered towards its bloody, ruinous conclusion – with Rhaenyra devoured by Aegon II's dragon Sunfyre, Aegon II himself crippled and eventually poisoned, and the young Aegon III (Rhaenyra's son) raised to the Iron Throne – Torrhen I assessed the Philosopher's Stone. Its power was undeniably, terrifyingly amplified. The Crimson Heart pulsed with a deeper, more resonant light, its energies vaster, more malleable. He could now sense its ability to influence not just base metals, but the very structure of organic matter with greater precision, to mend not just wounds, but perhaps even to subtly guide the growth and resilience of living things on a wider scale. His control over weather patterns became almost instinctual across the North. His greensight pierced further and deeper into the future, and more alarmingly, into the frozen wastes of the Lands of Always Winter, where the true enemy still slumbered, though its presence felt subtly stronger, as if the death and chaos in the south had been a faint, distant dinner bell.
The newly enhanced Stone also allowed him to perfect his dragonsteel. The blades he now forged, in a hidden forge deep within the Stone's sanctum, using dragonfire from his own ancient beasts and the Stone's transmutative power, were things of terrible beauty – blacker than night, impossibly sharp, unnaturally light, and imbued with an icy fire that sang faintly in the presence of dark magic. These were weapons truly capable of harming the Others and their wights.
Cregan II, now in his early thirties, had been profoundly shaped by these years. The horrors of the Dance, witnessed from afar, and the grim necessity of his ancestor's ritual, had stripped away any lingering youthful naivety. He was a hardened, pragmatic leader, his resolve as strong as Northern iron. He understood, with a chilling clarity, the terrible choices that true leadership sometimes demanded, the sacrifices required for the Long Watch. His relationship with Torrhen I was one of absolute trust, the old king his mentor, his guide, his living link to an ancient, sacred duty.
When the regents of the young Aegon III finally sent word to Winterfell, requesting Lord Cregan Stark's presence in King's Landing to help restore order and affirm his loyalty to the new king – the summons that in canon led to the "Hour of the Wolf" – it was Torrhen I who made the decision.
"You will go, Cregan," he said. "Take a strong force of Northern soldiers, enough to command respect but not to provoke fear of conquest. The capital is in chaos. The realm needs a firm hand to guide it back from the brink. This is not about choosing a side in their dead queen's war; it is about ensuring a measure of stability returns to Westeros. A fractured, bleeding realm is a weakness the Great Other will eventually exploit."
He gave Cregan II specific instructions: "Restore the King's Peace, swiftly and justly. Root out the poisoners and assassins who still lurk in the Red Keep. Show them the strength and honor of the North. But do not linger. Do not be drawn into their southern intrigues. Our place is here, guarding the true frontier. And while you are there," Torrhen I added, his ancient eyes glinting, "ensure that any surviving Valyrian steel blades, dragonlore, or useful historical texts are… preserved… and discreetly sent north. The Targaryens have proven themselves careless custodians of their own legacy."
Cregan II, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, marched south at the head of a formidable host of Northmen, their discipline and grim determination a stark contrast to the broken armies of the south. He arrived in King's Landing to find a city ravaged by war, famine, and fear. For a brief, intense period – the "Hour of the Wolf" – Cregan Stark became the de facto ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, dispensing stern, impartial justice, executing traitors, and laying the groundwork for Aegon III's reign. He did so with a ruthlessness and efficiency that awed and terrified the southern lords, all while his four ancient dragons and the Philosopher's Stone remained Winterfell's most profound secrets. Torrhen I, from his sanctum, observed through scrying, offering silent counsel, ensuring Cregan did not overstep, did not become entangled.
When his work was done, Cregan Stark turned his back on the Iron Throne and marched his army north, leaving behind a cowed but more stable capital, and carrying with him several chests of "confiscated" Valyrian steel weapons and priceless, unique books of lore from the Red Keep's library.
The Dance of the Dragons was over. Westeros was scarred, its dragon population decimated, the Targaryen dynasty forever weakened. The North, however, emerged untouched, its strength and secrets intact, its ancient Warden and his heir looking towards the future with grim satisfaction. The Philosopher's Stone, now engorged with the sorrowful power of a fiery civil war, pulsed with an even greater might. Torrhen I felt its enhanced resonance, a more potent tool for his research into the Heart of Winter, a stronger shield for the coming Long Night. The cost had been terrible, borne by others, but the Warden of Ages had ensured their sacrifice would not be entirely in vain. His vigil continued, the North his unyielding fortress, his purpose clear, his resolve absolute.