Chapter 8: The Winter Wolf's Welcome and the Serpent's Bargain
Years passed upon Skagos, a blur of relentless construction, societal forging, and the secret, awe-inspiring growth of his draconic brood. The twenty-nine dragons, thriving in the magically controlled environment of the hidden sanctuary deep within Mount Skatus (as Aelyx had named the island's largest volcano, whose geothermal vents now powered much of his hidden infrastructure), were rapidly shedding their hatchling vulnerability. They were a kaleidoscope of terrifying beauty – amethyst, sapphire, obsidian veined with fire, burnished bronze, stormy blue, and pearlescent white. Each possessed a distinct personality, a burgeoning intelligence, and an instinctive deference to Aelyx, their creator and undisputed master. The two phoenixes, Fawkes and Auriel, were his constant, ethereal companions, their songs filling his private chambers in Icefang Keep with melodies of ancient power, their tears a potent panacea he had already utilized to cure ailments among his most valued human assets.
The population of Skagos, now exceeding eighty thousand souls, was a unified, industrious people. The former slaves, the Shadow Legion veterans, and the integrated native Skagosi had coalesced into a new society, their loyalty to the Shadow Lord, their mysterious and benevolent dictator, absolute. Shadowport was a fortified city of black stone and ironwood, its shipyards now capable of building and maintaining their own formidable fleet. The Glass Gardens, shimmering under the often-grey Skagosi sky, produced an abundance of food, defying the island's harsh climate. Icefang Keep stood as a grim, unyielding statement of power, the seat of Lord Aerion Marr – the public persona Aelyx maintained for his Skagosi subjects.
But Lord Aerion Marr was a ruler of an isolated, albeit powerful, island. Aelyx Velaryon, son of Lyra Stark, knew that long-term security and the subtle integration into the wider world required a different kind of legitimacy. Skagos, for all its newfound strength, was still nominally under the ancient claim of the Kings of Winter. To ignore this was to invite eventual, unwelcome scrutiny. The time had come to engage with his mother's kin, to weave Skagos into the fabric of the North, not as a rebellious vassal, but as a loyal, powerful new ally.
His decision was calculated. The Doom of Valyria was now a fading memory for most of the world, roughly five years past. Valyria was a wasteland, its survivors scattered and broken. Aelyx Velaryon, if he were to reappear, would be a curiosity, a relic, but also a potential bridge to lost Valyrian knowledge and, perhaps, wealth. His Stark blood was his key.
Preparations were meticulous. He would shed the guise of Lord Aerion Marr for this journey. He was Aelyx Velaryon, a name that carried the echoes of dragonfire and fallen empires. His backstory was carefully constructed: a Velaryon scion on a northern trading expedition (his original alibi when leaving Valyria) who had been near Skagos when the Doom struck. The cataclysm had caused magical disturbances, shipwrecking him and a handful of loyal retainers. Stranded, they had carved out a haven on the "largely untamed" Skagos, gathering other survivors and hardy settlers over the years, slowly bringing order to a portion of the notoriously wild island. It was a story that was plausible, if somewhat romanticized, conveniently omitting the thirty thousand-strong army, the fleet acquired through immense wealth, the fifty thousand new citizens, the hidden sanctuary, and the twenty-nine rapidly maturing dragons.
His retinue was chosen with care: fifty elite warriors from his Shadow Legion, clad in new, well-crafted armor of dark grey steel (not the black leather of their clandestine operations), bearing a newly designed sigil – a snarling wolf's head of grey stone against a field of Velaryon sea-green, its eyes chips of violet. They were presented as his 'Skagosi household guard.' Among them, disguised as senior advisors and servants, were Mipsy, Tibbit, Kreely, and Gorok, their elfin features subtly glamoured to appear human, their magical abilities a hidden trump card.
Gifts were prepared: chests of the finest Skagosi furs (snow bear, shadow-cat, white wolf), intricately carved narwhal ivory, and, most significantly, three Valyrian steel longswords and two daggers – items he could plausibly claim to have "inherited" or "recovered." Valyrian steel was a king's ransom, and such a gift would speak volumes of his supposed resources and respect.
They sailed from Shadowport not in the menacing warships of his hidden fleet, but in three swift, well-appointed galleys that looked more like diplomatic vessels than troop transports. Their journey took them south along the coast of the North, towards White Harbor. Aelyx observed the mainland with keen interest. It was a vast, sparsely populated land, its castles grim and practical, its people hardy and unyielding. A stark contrast to the opulent decay of Valyria or the regimented, magically augmented society he was building on Skagos.
From White Harbor, the overland journey to Winterfell was long and arduous. The Northern roads were rough, the weather often harsh. But Aelyx, hardened by his experiences, endured it with stoic composure, his mind constantly analyzing, planning. He used the journey to subtly question locals, gather information about the current Lord of Winterfell, his family, and the political climate of the North.
Winterfell, when it finally rose before them, was an ancient, sprawling fortress of grey granite, its towers blunt and powerful, exuding an aura of enduring strength and grim determination. It was a place built to withstand sieges and centuries of harsh winters. The direwolf banner of House Stark snapped in the cold wind.
Their arrival caused a stir. A Valyrian, claiming Stark blood, emerging from the Shivering Sea with a disciplined retinue and talk of taming Skagos – it was news that intrigued and unsettled.
Lord Cregan Stark, the current Warden of the North, was a man in his prime, stern-faced, with eyes the color of a winter sky, his dark hair already threaded with grey. He was known for his unwavering adherence to the Old Gods and the ancient traditions of the First Men, a just but hard ruler. He received Aelyx in the Great Hall of Winterfell, surrounded by his sons, his household knights, and his own grim-faced advisors. The heart trees in the nearby godswood seemed to watch with ancient, silent wisdom.
Aelyx, dressed in fine but practical Northern-style wool dyed a deep Velaryon blue, his silver-gold hair a stark contrast to the dark hues of the hall, approached Lord Cregan with measured respect. He did not bow deeply – he was a Velaryon, after all, and a Dragonlord by birth, even if their mounts were ash – but he inclined his head in a manner befitting a guest before a ruling lord.
"Lord Cregan Stark," Aelyx began, his voice clear and carrying the faintest, exotic lilt of High Valyrian, though he spoke the Common Tongue flawlessly. "I am Aelyx of House Velaryon, son of Aerion Velaryon and Lyra Stark, your kinswoman. I come to you as a survivor of the Doom that consumed my father's land, seeking the solace and strength of my mother's blood."
A murmur went through the hall. Lyra Stark. Many of the older lords remembered her, the wild northern beauty who had been sent south in a rare, ill-fated marriage alliance decades ago. Most had assumed her long dead, consumed by Valyrian decadence even before the Doom.
Lord Cregan's gaze was piercing. "Lyra Stark's son? We had heard… little of her fate, and presumed her lost with all the rest of that fiery doom. You have the look of the Valyrians, but your mother's name is not one we speak lightly here. What proof do you offer of this kinship, and what brings you from the grave of your father's empire to the gates of Winterfell?"
Aelyx had anticipated this. From a pouch at his belt, he produced a small, intricately carved weirwood locket. "My mother gave this to me. She said it was a piece of the heart tree from her own girlhood godswood, a memory of the North she carried in the heart of Valyria." He presented it to Lord Cregan.
The Lord of Winterfell took the locket, his calloused fingers turning it over. His maester, an elderly man named Walys, peered at it closely. There was a collective intake of breath as Cregan nodded slowly. "I remember this. My aunt Lyra… she was fond of carving such trinkets. This has the feel of her handiwork." His gaze on Aelyx softened fractionally, though the suspicion remained. "Your face does not favor the Starks, boy, but this locket speaks for your mother. So, you are Lyra's son. What then? Why are you here?"
This was Aelyx's moment. He employed all the persuasive charm Voldemort had possessed, tempered by Flamel's ancient wisdom and his own innate cunning. He spoke of his "survival" of the Doom, his "shipwreck" near Skagos, and his subsequent efforts to "bring order" to a small part of that "lawless, stony isle" with a band of "loyal followers and settlers." He painted a picture of himself as a capable leader, a man of Valyrian resilience tempered by Stark blood, who had achieved what many Northmen had failed to do: establish a stable, defensible settlement on Skagos.
"Skagos is a wild land, Lord Stark," Aelyx continued, "a dagger pointed at the heart of the North if left in the hands of savages or pirates. I have pacified its southern coast. I have built a keep, a port. My people are hardy, loyal, and wish only to live under the protection and ancient laws of House Stark."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "Therefore, I come to you with a proposal. I wish to pledge my sword, my keep, and the Isle of Skagos – or at least that portion which I control and intend to further tame – to House Stark. I wish to create a new noble house, House Volmark of Skagos" – he chose a name that blended Velaryon echoes with a sense of Northern strength and his wolf-like ambitions – "sworn vassals to Winterfell, guardians of the northern sea passage. We will pay tribute, answer your call to arms, and keep the Skagosi reavers from troubling your shores ever again."
The offer was audacious. Skagos had always been a rebellious thorn in the side of the Starks. To have it willingly brought into the fold, by a man claiming Stark blood and possessing Valyrian heritage, was an unexpected, and potentially advantageous, development.
Lord Cregan stroked his beard, his eyes narrowed in thought. "You ask for much, Aelyx Velaryon. To be Lord of Skagos, a King of Stone and Salt in all but name, sworn to me. What assurance do I have of your loyalty? What proof of your ability to hold what you claim to have taken?"
Aelyx gestured to his guards, who brought forward the chests of gifts. "A token of my respect and resources, Lord Stark. Furs from Skagos, and these…" The Valyrian steel blades were presented. The sight of them caused another wave of murmurs. Even in the North, the value and rarity of Valyrian steel were legendary.
"As for my ability to hold Skagos," Aelyx said, his voice firm, "my people and I have bled for it. We have built where others fled. We are not afraid of hardship. My loyalty will be proven by my deeds, and sealed by a bond stronger than mere oaths."
He then played his masterstroke. "To bind my new house to yours, to ensure that the blood of the Starks flows strong in the veins of Skagos's future lords, I humbly ask for the hand of one of your kinswomen in marriage. A Stark bride for the Lord of House Volmark. Let our children be a bridge between the ice of the North and the fire that once was Valyria, a lineage strong enough to guard these harsh lands for generations to come."
The hall fell silent. A marriage alliance. This was a language all lords understood. It cemented pacts, merged bloodlines, and forged lasting ties.
Lord Cregan looked at his sons, then at his grizzled advisors. Maester Walys leaned in, whispering. The Starks were not known for rash decisions. They valued strength, honor, and pragmatism. Aelyx's offer presented both opportunity and risk. Skagos pacified was a significant boon. A powerful new vassal, potentially wealthy and possessing lost Valyrian knowledge, could strengthen the North. But a Valyrian, with their rumored sorcery and dragon-born arrogance, could also be a dangerous viper in their bosom.
"You speak boldly, son of Lyra," Cregan said finally. "Marriage is not a matter to be decided lightly. We have… kinswomen. Daughters of my brothers, nieces. We would need to consider who might be… suitable for such a wild domain as Skagos, and for a lord of Valyrian blood."
Aelyx maintained a respectful, patient facade. Inside, his mind raced. He knew from Tibbit's discreet inquiries in White Harbor that Lord Cregan had a niece, Lyanna, a girl of sixteen, orphaned daughter of his younger brother who had died in a skirmish with wildlings. She was said to be spirited, with the "wolf blood" strong in her, and possessed of the classic Stark dark hair and grey eyes. She would be perfect. Strong Northern blood, young enough to bear many children, spirited enough to perhaps even adapt to the unique environment of Skagos, or at least provide heirs who could.
The negotiations took several days. Aelyx was questioned extensively about Skagos, its resources, its people (whom he described as "hardy settlers from various lands, and tamed Skagosi natives"), and his plans for its governance. He answered with carefully crafted truths, half-truths, and omissions, painting a picture of a burgeoning, well-ordered lordship that would be a credit to the North. He hinted at valuable mineral deposits found on Skagos (true, thanks to house-elf surveys) and potential for new trade routes (also true, once he decided to reveal them). The Valyrian steel gifts had already demonstrated his access to wealth.
Finally, Lord Cregan summoned him again. "We have considered your proposal, Aelyx Velaryon. The North needs strong hands, and Skagos has long been a blight. If you can truly hold it, and rule it justly under our laws, then your House Volmark shall be welcome among the banners of the North."
Aelyx inclined his head, a flicker of cold triumph in his eyes, quickly masked. "You honor me, Lord Stark."
"As for the matter of a bride," Cregan continued, his gaze intense, "my niece, Lyanna, daughter of my late brother Rodrik. She is of an age to marry. She has the Stark spirit – perhaps too much of it for some southern courts, but Skagos… Skagos might suit her. Or she it." He paused. "She is a Stark of Winterfell. She will not be given lightly. She will expect to be treated with honor, as befits her name and her blood."
Aelyx's expression was perfectly composed. "I swear upon the honor of my Valyrian ancestors and the Stark blood of my mother, Lyanna of House Stark will be cherished as the Lady of House Volmark, her children the heirs to all I possess. She shall have a place of utmost honor, her counsel valued." Internally, he amended: her womb valued, her loyalty ensured, her spirit molded or, if necessary, contained.
Lyanna Stark was presented. She was indeed as described: sixteen, with long, wild dark hair, defiant grey eyes that mirrored her uncle's intensity, and a proud, untamed set to her jaw. She looked at Aelyx not with fear, but with a challenging curiosity, a flicker of the wolf appraising a strange, dangerous beast that had wandered into its territory. Aelyx met her gaze, offering a slight, charming smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He saw strength, resilience, good breeding stock. He also sensed a faint, almost imperceptible resonance, a whisper of the Old Gods' magic about her – perhaps a touch of greensight, or the potential for warging. An unexpected, but welcome, bonus.
The betrothal was announced. A feast was held, a grim, Northern affair, but one filled with a sense of momentous occasion. Aelyx Velaryon, the last Dragonlord with Stark blood, had come home, and in doing so, had brought the rebellious Isle of Skagos into the fold, founding a new house that promised to guard the North's exposed flank.
Lord Cregan Stark believed he had made a shrewd alliance, securing a troublesome territory and gaining a powerful new vassal.
Aelyx Velaryon knew he had acquired the perfect public shield for his true ambitions. House Volmark would be the respectable face of Skagos, interacting with the North, paying its dues. Behind this façade, Lord Aerion Marr, the Shadow Lord, would continue to build his hidden kingdom, his immortal legion, his dragon armada, and his dynasty of sorcerer-kings. Lyanna Stark would be the mother of his public heirs, children who would carry his Velaryon name and her Stark blood, binding Skagos to Winterfell in the eyes of the world. His true, magically gifted descendants, born of unions he would carefully orchestrate within his hidden sanctuary, would inherit the real power.
As he stood beside his betrothed, raising a ceremonial horn of ale, Aelyx felt the cold, satisfying click of another piece of his grand design falling into place. The Winter Wolves had welcomed the Valyrian Serpent into their den, believing they had leashed him. They had no idea he was there to claim a part of their legacy, and use it to weave a web of power that would entangle the world.