Chapter 28: A Dance of Fire, A Wolf's Calculated Distance
The year 129 AC dawned heavy with the stench of impending war. King Viserys I Targaryen was dead, and the fragile peace of his reign shattered with him. Aegon II, his son by Alicent Hightower, had been crowned in King's Landing, a usurpation in the eyes of those who held to Viserys's named heir, Princess Rhaenyra. From Dragonstone, Rhaenyra declared herself Queen, and the rival claims plunged the Seven Kingdoms into a fiery abyss that would forever be known as the Dance of the Dragons. Ravens, bearing black and green seals, took to the skies, carrying demands for allegiance, promises of reward, and threats of utter annihilation.
Winterfell received envoys from both factions. The North, vast and historically insular, was a prize both Aegon and Rhaenyra coveted for its hardy warriors and untapped resources. Within the public halls of the ancient Stark stronghold, King Brandon II Stark, the Greenseer, listened with grave courtesy, his youthful face (though he was by now an immortal of many decades) revealing little of the intricate calculations occurring within his mind, or the silent counsel he received from his ageless kin in the hidden sanctuary of Dragon's Maw.
The Hidden Council convened, the projected map of Westeros now alight with the burning pyres of incipient conflict. Kaelen Stark, his presence a calm, ancient anchor amidst the storm of their deliberations, listened as his descendants debated their course.
"To side with Aegon the Usurper is to betray the rightful heir and the last King's will," Torrhen Stark, his spectral form radiating a stoic disapproval of the Greens' actions, argued. "Rhaenyra's claim is the stronger by law and tradition."
Rickard, Torrhen's son, countered with pragmatism. "Aegon holds King's Landing, the treasury, the main institutions of the crown. His faction, backed by the Hightowers and Lannisters, is powerful. Rhaenyra's strength lies with Dragonstone and the Velaryons, but she must fight to claim her throne."
Arya, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel, cut through the debate. "Both sides are fools blinded by ambition. They will unleash their dragons upon each other, heedless of the cost to the realm. Our only concern should be the North, and the true enemy that still sleeps, however fitfully, beyond the Wall. Whichever Targaryen promises the least interference, the greatest respect for our autonomy, and poses the least long-term threat to our secrets – that is the path we should consider, if any."
King Brandon II, the Greenseer, finally spoke, his gaze distant as if seeing echoes of possible futures. "My visions are… clouded by the smoke of dragonfire, Father," he addressed Kaelen (using the familial title in these private councils, acknowledging the true patriarch). "But Rhaenyra's line… her sons… there is a flicker of ancient duty there, a potential for understanding that seems absent in Aegon and his Green council. And the pacts of old… the songs speak of a Prince That Was Promised, a Targaryen of import for the true Long Night. Perhaps her line is the one through which that promise might flow."
Kaelen nodded slowly. "Your sight aligns with a cautious pragmatism, Brandon. Rhaenyra's claim has legitimacy. Her sons, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, are young. If their mother secures the throne, they may be guided towards a more enlightened understanding of the realm's true needs, including the North's sacred vigil. Aegon II is a puppet of Otto Hightower, a man whose ambition is exceeded only by his cunning. Such a regime would inevitably seek to bring the North more firmly under its heel."
He paused, his ancient eyes meeting each of theirs. "We will not commit Northern blood to their southern fires. We will not reveal our dragons, for that would invite scrutiny and challenges we cannot afford. But a carefully worded pledge of support to Queen Rhaenyra, coupled with tangible but limited aid – resources, not soldiers in their main conflicts – might secure her goodwill, should she prevail, and grant us leverage. It is a calculated risk, but one that offers the best chance of preserving our autonomy and our secrets."
And so, the decision was made. When Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra's eldest son and heir, arrived at Winterfell late in 129 AC, flying his young dragon Vermax, he found a North girded for winter but not for southern war. The sight of Vermax, a vibrant green dragon, circling the ancient towers of Winterfell, sent a ripple of awe and unease through the populace. Within Dragon's Maw, Lyra's illusions and Kaelen's misdirection wards worked overtime, ensuring that no hint of their own far greater draconic host reached the Targaryen prince. The air itself around Winterfell was subtly manipulated to mask any stray scent of dragonfire or unusual magical emanations from the north.
King Brandon II received Prince Jacaerys with solemn dignity. The young prince, barely a man grown but already bearing the weight of war, was impressed by the Stark King's quiet wisdom, the palpable strength of his ancient castle, and the fierce loyalty of his bannermen. Brandon did not offer armies to march south; he spoke instead of the North's own burdens, of the long winters, of the need to guard the realms of men against threats the south had long forgotten.
But he did offer a pact, the legendary Pact of Ice and Fire. He pledged the North's support to Queen Rhaenyra's cause, promising substantial shipments of timber for shipbuilding, furs to warm her armies, hardy Northern grain to feed her strongholds, and a loan of gold from Winterfell's "modest" treasury (secretly inexhaustible thanks to Kaelen and the Philosopher's Stone). As a gesture of goodwill, and to allow those Northmen eager for glory or adventure to participate, he agreed to the formation of a volunteer contingent, the "Winter Wolves," primarily landless second sons, grizzled veterans, and fierce mountain clansmen, who would march south under their own chosen leaders to fight for Queen Rhaenyra. Their numbers would be significant enough to be a valued contribution, but not so great as to deplete the North's own defenses. Kaelen ensured these men, while brave, were not privy to any of the Starks' deeper secrets.
Prince Jacaerys, eager for any substantial alliance, readily agreed. He and Brandon swore their oaths before Winterfell's heart tree, the ancient weirwood's carved face seeming to watch with a timeless understanding. Brandon, guided by a flicker of his greenseeing, also offered Jacaerys a cryptic piece of advice regarding dragon deployment in the Riverlands, a warning about overconfidence that the young prince, impressed by the Stark King's almost preternatural insight, took to heart.
As the Dance of the Dragons consumed the Seven Kingdoms in a vortex of fire, betrayal, and kinslaying, the Hidden Council used the southern distraction to further their own ancient purposes. Kaelen, Eddard, and young Kaelen Stark (King Brandon II's son, now a young man of keen intellect, his training in alchemy and ward-craft accelerating under his great-great-great-grandfather's tutelage) delved deeper into the mysteries of the Philosopher's Stone and Flamel's most esoteric texts. They experimented with refining soulfire steel, seeking to create lighter, more durable blades. They worked on strengthening the magical wards around Dragon's Maw and the Night King's prison, layering them with enchantments that drew upon both Flamel's structured magic and the primal energies of the North.
Arya and Umbra became the council's lifeline to the unfolding catastrophe in the South. They moved like shadows through war-torn landscapes, their reports painting a horrifying picture of the Dance's brutality. Rook's Rest, where Princess Rhaenys and her dragon Meleys perished against Aegon II and Aemond on their dragons Sunfyre and Vhagar; the Battle of the Gullet, where Jacaerys Velaryon and Vermax met their end in a fiery naval conflagration; the fall of King's Landing to Rhaenyra, then her subsequent flight; the two battles of Tumbleton, each more savage than the last. Dragon fought dragon, kin slew kin, and the realm bled.
The immortal Starks listened to these accounts with a mixture of cold horror and grim affirmation of their chosen path. This was the madness they had insulated the North from. This was the self-destructive nature of unchecked dragon power they had vowed to avoid. Their own dragons – Nocturne, Veridian, Glacia, and the others – sometimes grew restless within Dragon's Maw, sensing the distant agony of their kind, the air thick with the scent of their burning kin. Kaelen and the other riders would spend long hours communing with them, soothing their agitation, reinforcing their bonds, reminding them of their sacred duty to the North, a duty that required patience and secrecy above all.
Erebus, the wild crimson-black dragon, seemed particularly affected by the distant war. He undertook long, solitary flights, soaring high above the Neck, his smoldering eyes turned southwards. Kaelen worried that the scent of so many battling dragons might draw him into the conflict, potentially exposing their secrets. But Erebus, as always, followed his own counsel. On one occasion, Arya reported seeing him from afar, a dark speck against the smoke-choked skies of the Riverlands, observing a particularly savage dragon duel before veering away, as if disgusted or merely cataloging the folly. His interest seemed academic, predatory, but not participatory.
King Brandon II, with Kaelen's unseen guidance, masterfully navigated the treacherous diplomacy of the war. He fulfilled his pledged aid to Rhaenyra's faction, ensuring the shipments of resources reached her loyalists. He politely but firmly rebuffed increasingly desperate demands for Northern armies from both sides as the war dragged on and their need for fresh troops grew. He cited the North's own long winters, the need to guard against wildling incursions (a convenient, if not entirely false, excuse), and the ancient pacts that prioritized the North's own defense. His reputation as a wise, steadfast, but stubbornly independent ruler grew.
The "Winter Wolves," the contingent of Northmen who had gone south, fought with distinction and savagery, earning a fearsome reputation but also suffering heavy losses. Their sacrifice, while tragic, served its purpose: it demonstrated Northern commitment to Rhaenyra's cause without embroiling the core Stark forces or revealing their true strength.
As the Dance neared its bloody end – Rhaenyra fed to Aegon II's dragon Sunfyre, Aegon II himself a broken, poisoned wreck, leading to the eventual ascension of Rhaenyra's young son, Aegon III, the Dragonbane – the North's role, as Kaelen had anticipated, became subtly more influential. Lord Cregan Stark, in canon, had marched south with his army during the Hour of the Wolf to restore order. In this timeline, King Brandon II, having already provided consistent, if limited, support, was in a strong position. When the call came from the council of regents seeking to stabilize the realm under the boy king Aegon III, Brandon marched south, not with a conquering host, but with a strong, disciplined force of Stark household guard and loyal bannermen.
His arrival in King's Landing was a stark contrast to the ruin and paranoia that gripped the city. He was not there to claim power, but to ensure the pacts made with his house were honored, to see a just (by Northern standards) end to the treason and kinslaying, and to secure the North's continued autonomy under the new regime. His very presence, the quiet, unyielding strength of the Northmen, helped to stabilize the capital during those chaotic days. He served briefly as Hand of the King for Aegon III, overseeing the trials of the Green plotters, his judgments stern but fair, before returning to the North, his task accomplished, leaving a realm deeply scarred but with a newfound respect for the integrity and strength of Winterfell.
Kaelen and the Hidden Council observed these events with satisfaction. The North had weathered the storm. Its secrets were intact. The Targaryen dragon power was shattered, their magnificent beasts largely annihilated in their own fratricidal madness – a grim lesson that Kaelen took deeply to heart. It reinforced his conviction that their own dragons must always be a shield, never a sword for conquest, their existence forever veiled.
Young Kaelen Stark, King Brandon II's son, had matured considerably during these turbulent years. His magical training had advanced, his understanding of Flamel's alchemy and Eddard's ward-craft becoming profound. He had witnessed, through carefully filtered reports and his father's preoccupied mien, the horrific cost of unchecked ambition and internal strife. The lessons of the Dance would shape him, and all future Stark Lords, for centuries to come. He was not yet a dragon rider, but Kaelen the Elder sensed the boy was nearing readiness, his spirit aligning with the ancient power that awaited him.
As Westeros slowly began to heal from the wounds of the Dance of the Dragons, the North stood apart, stronger and more secure in its isolation than ever before. The Targaryen dynasty was irrevocably weakened, their dragons, for now, a shadow of their former glory. The immortal Starks of Winterfell, their own hidden flight of eight magnificent dragons intact, their Philosopher's Stone a source of endless renewal, continued their timeless vigil, their gaze once more turning to the true North, where the ancient enemy, though bound, still slept, and where the real Long Night patiently awaited its hour. Their dance was a slower, more deliberate measure, played out across the vast stage of eternity, its purpose the enduring survival of their people and their land.