Chapter 14: The Weirwood Wands and the Dragon's Call
A decade had spun its thread since Lyanna Stark, now the formidable Lady Lyanna Volmark, had drunk the Elixir of Life and stepped fully into the shadowed world of her husband. Ten years of shared immortality, of raising a public façade as the benevolent rulers of a prosperous Skagos, while in the hidden heart of Mount Skatus, a magical dynasty was being forged in fire, sorcery, and dragon's breath. Torrhen Volmark, their firstborn, was now a sturdy lad of ten, his dark Stark hair a stark contrast to his father's violet eyes, which already held a disconcerting depth of understanding. Visenya, at eight, was her mother's shadow in looks but possessed her father's sharp, analytical mind and a fiery Valyrian temperament. Lyra, a quiet, observant girl of seven, seemed to commune more easily with the wind and the wild creatures of Skagos than with people, her greensight already a potent, if untamed, river within her. Maegor, a robust five-year-old, was boisterous and fearless, showing an early fascination with tales of warriors and dragons. And Aenar, the youngest at four, was a solemn, watchful child, his gaze often fixed on the flickering flames of the hearth as if seeing worlds within them.
Aelyx and Lyanna had watched their children grow, their public upbringing in Icefang Keep carefully managed to reflect that of any Northern noble house – lessons in arms for the boys, household management and diplomacy for the girls, history, sums, and the Common Tongue for all. But beneath this veneer, their true education, their true inheritance, had been subtly prepared. Aelyx had noted Torrhen's instinctive calm around animals and his unusually vivid dreams; Visenya's intuitive grasp of patterns and her flashes of fierce, uncontrolled energy when angered; Lyra's uncanny ability to predict minor events or find lost objects; Maegor's reckless courage that bordered on the preternatural; and Aenar's quiet, intense focus that seemed to draw power from his surroundings. The mingled blood of Stark and Valyria, amplified by their father's unique magical signature and their mother's Elixir-enhanced vitality, had bred true. It was time to formally introduce them to their birthright.
The summons came on a crisp autumn morning, when the sea mists clung to the black cliffs of Skagos. Aelyx and Lyanna gathered their five children in the solar of Icefang Keep. Gone were their rough Northern play-clothes. Today, they were dressed in simple, dark tunics and leggings. An air of solemnity, and barely suppressed excitement, filled the room.
"Today, my children," Aelyx began, his voice calm but resonant with an underlying power that always made them listen intently, "you will learn the true meaning of being a Volmark. You will see the heart of Skagos, the source of our strength, and the destiny that awaits you."
Lyanna, her grey eyes softened with maternal love but also filled with the gravitas of the occasion, took Torrhen's hand. "What you are about to see will change your lives forever. It is a great secret, a great power, and a great responsibility. You must be brave, and you must be wise."
Aelyx led the way, Lyanna bringing up the rear with the younger children. They journeyed into the hidden sanctuary, the passage behind the study wall sealing silently behind them. The children, who had only ever known the stone and timber of Icefang Keep and the rugged landscape of Skagos, looked around in wide-eyed wonder at the glowing runes, the vast, crystal-lit caverns, the bustling workshops of the house-elves – Mipsy, Tibbit, Kreely, Gorok, and now their own growing brood of elflings, who peeked shyly at the Volmark children from behind their parents' legs.
Torrhen, ever the most composed, asked, "Father, what are these… little people?"
"They are house-elves, Torrhen," Aelyx explained. "Loyal and powerful magical beings, bound to our House. They are the unseen hands that help build and maintain our true home, and they will be your allies and servants, if you treat them with the respect their devotion deserves." Mipsy, who had become a de facto majordomo of the entire sanctuary, bowed deeply, her large eyes regarding the children with affection.
The true test of their composure came in the dragon caverns. The twenty-nine dragons were no longer hatchlings. The largest, a magnificent black male with veins of fire in its scales that Aelyx had privately named Balerion's Shadow, was now the size of a small warhorse, its roar capable of shaking the very mountains. Others, of varying hues and sizes, lounged on heated ledges, snapped at each other over charred carcasses of Skagosi mountain goats, or soared through the immense cavern on leathery wings, their shadows dancing in the lava-light.
Maegor gasped, his eyes shining with pure adoration. "Dragons! Real dragons!" He made to run forward, but Aelyx's hand on his shoulder stopped him. Visenya stared, her lips parted in a mixture of terror and fascination, her hand instinctively reaching for her father's. Lyra, surprisingly, seemed the least perturbed, her gaze calm as she watched a smaller, sapphire-blue dragon meticulously pick apart its meal. Aenar hid behind his mother's skirts, peeking out with wide, violet eyes. Torrhen, though his face was pale, stood his ground, his gaze fixed on Balerion's Shadow, a strange look of understanding, almost recognition, in his eyes.
"Yes, children. Dragons," Aelyx said, his voice cutting through their awe. "The fire of Old Valyria, reborn here, in our sanctuary. They are our power, our protectors, and one day, for some of you, they will be your companions, your mounts, your very extensions of will." He made a low, guttural sound, and Balerion's Shadow turned its massive, intelligent head towards him, a plume of smoke escaping its nostrils in a rumbling sigh of acknowledgement.
Next came the phoenix chamber. Fawkes and Auriel, magnificent in their fiery plumage, greeted them with a trilling song that seemed to calm the children's racing hearts. Their four offspring, now half-grown and equally brilliant, swooped and played around their parents, their cries like liquid gold. Lyra reached out a tentative hand, and one of the younger phoenixes, a bird of purest sunset orange, landed gently on her arm, nuzzling her cheek. A genuine, rare smile lit up Lyra's face.
"These are phoenixes," Lyanna explained, her voice filled with a gentle reverence. "Creatures of light and healing, eternal and loyal. They, too, are part of our family, our strength."
Once the initial shock and wonder had somewhat subsided, Aelyx and Lyanna gathered their children in one of the sanctuary's newly completed council chambers – a circular room carved from black obsidian, its domed ceiling enchanted to resemble the starry night sky over Skagos.
Here, Aelyx laid bare the family secrets, his voice weaving a tale of fallen empires, of immense magical power, of immortality, and of a hidden destiny. He spoke of his true nature, not just Lord Volmark, but an ancient, powerful sorcerer. He explained Lyanna's extended life, a gift shared so they could guide their dynasty together. He revealed the true purpose of Skagos: not just a Northern lordship, but a cradle for a new line of magical rulers, dragon riders who would shape the future from the shadows. He spoke of the Philosopher's Stone, the source of their longevity and wealth, carefully omitting its soul-fueled origins for now. He mentioned the Deathly Hallows, artifacts of legend he possessed and was mastering.
The children listened, their expressions ranging from Torrhen's solemn concentration to Maegor's barely contained excitement and Visenya's sharp, questioning glances. It was a burden of knowledge that would have crushed most children, but these were Volmarks, children of Aelyx and Lyanna, bred for this.
"You are not like other children," Aelyx concluded, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "You carry within you the blood of Old Valyria's dragonlords and the ancient magic of the First Men. You have a destiny far greater than ruling a stony island. You will command magic, ride dragons, and live lives that span centuries. But this power comes with a profound responsibility: secrecy, discipline, and unwavering loyalty to our House and its goals. The world outside must never know the full extent of our power. To them, we are House Volmark of Skagos, loyal vassals of Winterfell. Within these walls, you are the heirs of a magical empire."
Their magical education began that very day. Aelyx and Lyanna became their primary tutors. Aelyx, drawing upon the combined knowledge of Voldemort and Flamel, focused on the theoretical underpinnings of magic, on spellcraft, Transfiguration, and the Dark Arts (which he taught with extreme caution, emphasizing control and consequence, intending for them to understand, not necessarily to wield, its most corrupting aspects). Lyanna, whose own Stark abilities had blossomed into a potent blend of greensight and controlled warging, guided them in connecting with their innate Northern magic, teaching them to listen to the whispers of the land, to feel the minds of animals, to interpret the fragmented visions that sometimes came to them in dreams.
Mipsy, Tibbit, and other specialized house-elves, their knowledge expanded by Aelyx's tutelage, taught them Herbology in the sanctuary's vast subterranean fungal gardens and sunstone-lit greenhouses, Potions in meticulously organized labs, and the basics of Runes and Arithmancy.
The culmination of their introduction to this new life came a week later, in a specially prepared chamber deep within the sanctuary, where a weirwood tree, transplanted from a remote Skagosi grove and now thriving under magical light, had taken root, its carved face looking on with silent wisdom.
Before it lay five velvet cushions. On each cushion rested a wand, a pair of gloves, and a folded set of robes.
"The wand is the conduit of a wizard's power," Aelyx announced, his voice echoing slightly in the chamber. "A deeply personal tool. I have crafted these for each of you, blending the strengths of your dual heritage."
He gestured to the wands. They were beautiful, unique creations. Each was carved from pale, resilient weirwood – wood Aelyx had carefully, respectfully harvested from a lightning-struck ancient weirwood during one of his 'diplomatic' visits to Winterfell, a gift from Lord Cregan for the 'sacred incense' Aelyx claimed Valyrians used in certain ceremonies. The wood felt strangely alive, thrumming with the ancient magic of the Old Gods.
"The core of each wand," Aelyx continued, "is a heartstring from a dragon of Old Valyria, creatures of immense fire and power, whose remains I recovered from the ashes of our ancestors' folly. Weirwood for the resilience and ancient magic of the North that flows in your Stark blood. Dragon heartstring for the fire and sorcerous might of Valyria that is your Velaryon birthright."
He picked up the first wand, slightly longer and thicker than the others, its weirwood almost white, its surface smooth and unadorned save for a single, carved violet eye near the handle. "Torrhen."
Torrhen stepped forward, his expression serious. As his fingers closed around the wand, a shower of silver and violet sparks erupted from its tip, and a faint gust of wind, smelling of ozone and pine, swept through the chamber. The weirwood face on the tree seemed to sigh. Aelyx nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. A perfect match.
Visenya's wand was slimmer, the weirwood a darker, blood-red hue, intricately carved with swirling, flame-like patterns. When she took it, it emitted a pulse of heat and a shower of crimson and gold sparks, its light reflecting fiercely in her violet eyes. She grinned, a predatory Valyrian gleam.
Lyra's wand was slender and pale, almost translucent, with delicate carvings of leaves and stars. It hummed softly in her hand, releasing a soft, ethereal green light and the scent of crushed herbs. She held it gently, a look of quiet wonder on her face.
Maegor's wand was thick and sturdy, the weirwood a deep, earthy brown, its handle wrapped in dark leather. It spat a volley of crackling orange sparks and felt hot to the touch, fitting his boisterous, fiery nature. He whooped with delight, swinging it exuberantly until a sharp look from his father stilled him.
Aenar, the youngest, received a shorter, smooth wand of pure white weirwood. When he touched it, it glowed with a soft, steady violet light, like his own eyes, and pulsed with a gentle warmth. He clutched it tightly, his solemn face unreadable.
With their wands came other gifts. Dragonhide gloves, supple yet incredibly tough, crafted from the hides of the Valyrian dragon corpses, dyed in colors to match their nascent magical signatures – black for Torrhen, crimson for Visenya, forest green for Lyra, bronze for Maegor, and deep indigo for Aenar. Robes of a fine, dark grey Skagosi wool, magically treated for resilience and comfort, embroidered with the new, secret sigil Aelyx had designed for their magical lineage: a dragon coiled around a weirwood tree, its eyes violet stars. They also received beginner's satchels containing crystal phials for potions, silver-tipped quills, and blank parchment books for their studies.
The children, armed with their new wands and clad in their initiate robes, looked transformed. They were no longer just Northern nobles' offspring; they were the first generation of Aelyx Velaryon's magical dynasty, initiates into a world of unimaginable power and secrecy.
Their initial lessons with the wands were a mixture of fumbling attempts and surprising successes. Torrhen proved to have a knack for charms that required steady intent. Visenya excelled at anything involving elemental force, though her control was initially erratic. Lyra found a surprising aptitude for subtle transfigurations and healing spells. Maegor, predictably, loved conjuring small bursts of fire and light, often with explosive results that required Kreely's quick intervention. Aenar, despite his youth, showed an unnerving focus, mastering simple levitation charms with a quiet intensity that impressed even Aelyx.
They also began to form tentative bonds with the younger dragons and phoenixes. Torrhen found himself drawn to Balerion's Shadow, the massive black dragonling regarding him with a cautious, assessing intelligence. Lyra spent hours with the phoenixes, their songs seeming to unlock something within her, her greensight growing clearer in their presence.
Aelyx and Lyanna watched them, a formidable, immortal pair guiding their extraordinary brood. Lyanna, now fully integrated into her husband's world, found a fierce joy in nurturing her children's unique gifts, her Stark practicality tempering Aelyx's more ruthless ambition. Aelyx, for his part, saw in his children the future he had meticulously planned: a line of powerful sorcerers, dragon riders, and long-lived rulers who would carry his legacy through the ages, their roots in the ancient magic of weirwood and the fiery heart of the dragon, forever shielded by the secrecy of Skagos and the might he had so patiently, so ruthlessly, accumulated. The true work had begun.