Chapter 19: The Council of Wolves and the Kraken's Impending Tide
The ravens had flown from Winterfell, their black wings beating urgent messages across the vast, snow-dusted expanse of the North. King Torrhen Stark, his face grim as the granite of his ancient seat, had summoned his principal banner_men_. The warning brought by young Torrhen Volmark, heir to the increasingly formidable Lordship of Skagos, had been too specific, too dire to ignore. Whispers of a new Reaver King, Dagon Greyjoy, and an Ironborn fleet massing like a storm cloud in the Sunset Sea, had set the ancient anxieties of the North alight. The western coasts, ever vulnerable, braced for the familiar taste of salt, blood, and fire.
Aelyx Velaryon, Lord Volmark of Skagos, arrived at Winterfell with his son Torrhen, their retinue a disciplined column of fifty Skagosi guardsmen whose dark grey wolf-and-kraken liveries were now a familiar, if somewhat imposing, sight in the Northern capital. Aelyx had elected to leave Lyanna on Skagos. She was with child again – their ninth, a testament to the Elixir's vitalizing power and their shared commitment to a prolific magical dynasty – and while her counsel was invaluable, her presence at a war council was not essential. More importantly, she was needed to oversee Skagos's formidable home defenses, both mundane and magical, and to continue the rigorous arcane education of their younger children. Visenya and Maegor, now accomplished commanders and sorcerers in their own right, were managing the Volmark fleet's heightened readiness from Shadowport, while Lyra and Aenar supervised the sanctuary's wards and intelligence gathering. Aelyx was in constant, subtle magical communication with them, a silent network of command that spanned the turbulent waters between Skagos and the mainland.
Winterfell was a hive of tense activity. The Great Hall, usually reserved for feasting and revelry, had been transformed into a grand council chamber. At its head, upon the ancient stone throne of the Kings of Winter, sat Torrhen Stark, his weathered face etched with concern, his grey eyes sharp and assessing. Around him, on rough-hewn benches, gathered the lords of the North: Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, his bulk overflowing his seat, his eyes shrewd despite his jovial facade; Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, pale and still, his leech-like gaze missing nothing; the Greatjon Umber, a veritable giant of a man, his voice a low rumble; Harrion Karstark, lean and hard as the stones of Karhold; Lady Lyra Mormont of Bear Island, a fierce young woman already renowned for her courage, her expression grim, for her small island lay directly in the path of the Ironborn threat. Dozens of lesser lords and landed knights filled the hall, their murmurs a low thrum of anxiety and martial anticipation.
Aelyx and Torrhen Volmark were given seats of honor near the King, a testament to their house's rising influence and the critical nature of their warning. Aelyx, clad in impeccably tailored Northern wools of deep violet and grey, his silver-gold hair a stark contrast to the predominantly dark-haired assembly, projected an aura of calm, formidable capability. Young Torrhen, beside him, was the picture of a dutiful, intelligent heir.
King Torrhen Stark opened the council with a grim summary. "My lords," his voice echoed in the smoky hall, "you have been summoned because a shadow falls upon our western shores. My grand-nephew, Torrhen Volmark, brought word weeks past of a gathering storm in the Sunset Sea – an Ironborn fleet, larger than any seen in a generation, led by a new Reaver King, Dagon Greyjoy, hungry for plunder and infamy." He gestured to young Torrhen. "Lord Heir Volmark, recount again for the benefit of all assembled the tidings your father, Lord Aelyx, charged you to deliver."
Torrhen Volmark rose, his composure remarkable for his twenty-four years. He spoke clearly and concisely, reiterating the intelligence: the strange dreams of Skagosi seers, the unsettling reports from their far-ranging fishing fleets, the whispers from distant ports. He named the likely targets – Sea Dragon Point, the Stony Shore, the vulnerable fishing villages, and the lands of House Mormont. He painted a picture of a swift, brutal, multi-pronged assault designed to overwhelm the scattered defenses of the western coast.
When he finished, a heavy silence filled the hall. Lady Lyra Mormont spoke first, her voice surprisingly strong for her youth. "The Volmark heir speaks true, Your Grace. My own fisherfolk have seen more Ironborn scout ships than usual nosing along our shores. The krakens grow bold. Bear Island stands ready to fight, but we are few, and our lands are a tempting prize."
Other lords from the western fringes echoed her concerns. Reports of missing fishing boats, of coastal watchtowers finding strange driftwood indicative of larger fleets, began to coalesce into a chilling pattern. The initial skepticism some lords might have harbored towards a warning originating from the "mysterious" Skagos was rapidly evaporating.
"The threat is clear," King Torrhen declared, his gaze sweeping the assembly. "The Ironborn intend to bleed us. We must meet their iron with Northern steel, their savagery with unyielding resolve. The question before us is how."
This was Aelyx's cue. He rose, his movements fluid and economical, drawing all eyes. "Your Grace, my lords," he began, his voice calm and measured, yet carrying an inherent authority that commanded attention. "House Volmark stands with Winterfell and the North, as we have always pledged. The moment my son brought these tidings, I ordered the Volmark fleet to prepare for war. Twenty of our swiftest, most powerful warships – dromonds and galleasses, fully manned by near five thousand Skagosi warriors and sailors, and armed to answer any Ironborn aggression – currently patrol the waters between Skagos and Sea Dragon Point. They await your command, Your Grace, to extend their patrols, to engage the enemy wherever they may be found, and to offer succor to any Northern settlement that comes under attack."
A murmur of approval went through the hall. The Volmark fleet was already legendary in the North for its size, its discipline, and the advanced design of its ships – a naval power the land-locked Starks could only dream of possessing directly.
"Furthermore," Aelyx continued, "I propose a coordinated strategy. Let the coastal lords – Mormont, Flint, Glover – bolster their holdfasts and prepare their levies to repel landings. Let Lord Manderly's ships from White Harbor, though their primary concern is the Narrow Sea, consider deploying a squadron to the western waters to assist in patrols or to secure vital supply lines. House Volmark can offer our port of Shadowport as a forward staging base for any Northern forces operating in the west, a place to resupply, repair, and coordinate. Our Skagosi levies, well-armed and twenty thousand strong, stand ready to reinforce any threatened sector, should the need for land-based intervention arise."
He laid out a clear, concise plan: a layered defense. Volmark ships forming the outer screen, intercepting and engaging the Ironborn at sea. Coastal lords providing the immediate land defense. A mobile reserve, perhaps drawn from the heartlands of the North, ready to move to any major breach. Communication through ravens and fast courier ships, coordinated from Winterfell and Shadowport.
Lord Wyman Manderly, after a moment's thought, rumbled his assent. "Lord Volmark speaks wisely. Though the krakens are not our usual quarry, an unmolested Ironborn fleet in the west could eventually embolden pirates in the east. White Harbor will commit ten warships to patrol the waters south of Sea Dragon Point, and our port will ensure supplies reach any Northern force operating in the west."
The Greatjon Umber slammed a fist on the table. "Good! Let these squids taste Northern steel on land and sea! The Umbers will pledge five hundred men to a mobile reserve, ready to march where the King commands!" Other lords followed suit, pledging men, resources, and support. Harrion Karstark offered skilled trackers. Roose Bolton, his voice a soft, chilling whisper, pledged the loyalty of the Dreadfort's men, though his eyes, as always, seemed to hold unspoken calculations. Aelyx noted Bolton's pledge with a flicker of internal interest; the Boltons were dangerous, but their ruthlessness, if properly channeled or anticipated, could be a tool.
There were, of course, debates. Some inland lords, far from the sea, grumbled about the cost and the commitment of men to defend distant shores. Aelyx, with a few carefully chosen words, reminded them that a weakened North in one sector was a weakened North everywhere, that the Ironborn, if successful, would only grow bolder, their raids potentially reaching further inland via rivers. He spoke of the economic impact, the disruption to fishing and coastal trade that would affect all. His arguments, backed by the undeniable reality of the threat and the promise of Volmark gold subtly lubricating the war effort (he had already offered substantial "contributions" to the King's war chest and to key lords for "outfitting their levies"), swayed most dissenters.
Throughout the council, Aelyx was the picture of the loyal, hyper-competent vassal. He offered solutions, not just problems. He pledged immense resources, but always deferred to the King's ultimate authority. He spoke of "our North," of "our people," subtly weaving House Volmark ever deeper into the fabric of Northern identity.
Internally, his calculations were far more complex. This war was a multifaceted opportunity. Publicly, it would cement his image as the North's indispensable shield at sea. His fleet, crewed by the highly disciplined warriors forged from the original Shadow Legion and newer Skagosi recruits, would gain invaluable combat experience. His children, Visenya and Maegor, would be blooded in naval command. The "Heir's Hoard" gold, generously expended, would further indebt the Northern lords to him. And the chaos of war, the inevitable displacement of people… Aelyx had already instructed his agents on Skagos to prepare for a new wave of "refugees" seeking the safety and prosperity of Lord Volmark's domain, further swelling his loyal population. He was also keenly observing the other Northern lords, their strengths, their weaknesses, their loyalties – information that would be invaluable for his long-term manipulation of Northern politics.
Torrhen Volmark, seated beside his father, absorbed every word, every nuance of the council. He saw how his father commanded respect, how his strategic mind shaped the debate, how his carefully deployed wealth and power influenced decisions. It was a masterclass in statecraft, both overt and covert, and Torrhen, heir to this complex legacy, filed away every lesson. He also interacted with the other young Northern heirs during breaks in the council, forging connections, assessing potential future allies and rivals, playing his own part in his father's grand game.
King Torrhen Stark, after hours of debate and counsel, finally laid out the North's strategy, one that heavily incorporated Aelyx's proposals. The Volmark fleet, in conjunction with Manderly ships, would form the primary naval defense. Coastal lords would man their walls. A mobile reserve, under the command of one of his own sons, would be stationed centrally. Ravens would carry messages, beacon fires would blaze warnings. The North would present a united front.
"Lord Volmark," King Torrhen said, his gaze resting on Aelyx with a newfound depth of trust, "the North owes you a great debt for your foresight and your unwavering commitment. Your ships and men will be our first line against these Ironborn wolves of the sea. May the Old Gods grant you victory."
Aelyx inclined his head gravely. "We are but fulfilling our duty to our King and our kin, Your Grace. Skagos will not falter. The Kraken will find no easy prey while the Wolf and the Dragon-Wolf stand together." (He often used 'Dragon-Wolf' in private with the Starks, a subtle reminder of his dual heritage that played to their sense of unique alliance).
As the council dispersed, the lords hurrying back to their own lands to muster their forces, Winterfell itself transformed. The clang of hammers on steel echoed from the armory day and night. Warriors trained with a new urgency in the courtyards. Maesters rushed to and fro, dispatching ravens, preparing medical supplies. The mood was grim, but resolute. The North was mobilizing for war.
Aelyx remained in Winterfell for a few more days, finalizing coordinated strategies with King Torrhen's commanders, ensuring his lines of communication with the Volmark fleet were secure. He used the time to subtly engage with Roose Bolton, a man whose cold intellect he respected, if not trusted. Their conversations were a careful dance of veiled meanings and mutual assessment, two master manipulators sizing each other up. Aelyx knew Bolton could be a dangerous enemy, but also, potentially, a useful, if treacherous, instrument if their interests ever aligned.
His true focus, however, was on the information flowing silently, magically, from Lyra on Skagos. Her greensight painted a vivid, ever-shifting picture of Dagon Greyjoy's fleet, its numbers now confirmed at over two hundred longships, its course set for a sweeping series of raids beginning with Bear Island and moving south along the Stony Shore. This detailed, precognitive intelligence gave Aelyx an almost insurmountable advantage, allowing him to position the Volmark fleet perfectly, to anticipate the Ironborn's moves, and to prepare traps that would turn their reaving hunger into a feast of death.
When Aelyx finally departed Winterfell with Torrhen, leaving behind a kingdom bracing for impact, he carried with him the King's gratitude, the respect of the Northern lords, and a detailed operational plan that he himself had largely authored. Publicly, he was the loyal vassal rushing to defend his liege. Privately, he was the puppet master, pulling strings that extended from the smoking heart of Mount Skatus to the stormy waters of the Sunset Sea. The Ironborn thought they were sailing to plunder unsuspecting shores. They had no idea they were sailing into a meticulously prepared killing ground, orchestrated by a sorcerer-king whose ambitions stretched far beyond their watery graves, and whose true power they could not even begin to fathom. The pieces were set. The game was about to turn bloody.