I - THE WEAVER AND THE THREADS (THEON'S POV)
The quiet before the storm was the perfect stage for Theon Stark's composition. As the vast Targaryen host organized itself like a disturbed anthill on the southern horizon, his mind was not on the imminent confrontation, but on the web of energies that made up the world. His memories of another life – of systems, cause and effect, a reality governed by rigid physical laws – were the lens through which he saw this world's magic. It was not sorcery; it was a superior science, an orchestration of fundamental forces that most men only felt as heat, cold, or fear.
Ice had been his public language, his conveniently constructed identity. It matched his House's banner, his kingdom's landscape, his people's expectations. Letting them believe his power had a limit, a specialization, was a deliberate strategy. An enemy who believes he understands your capabilities is an enemy who underestimates the threat. His travels beyond the Wall had been about learning to manipulate the other threads of the web: the subtlety of shadow, the resilience of stone, the fluidity of water in its liquid state, and even the fleeting echoes of fire itself. But for today, ice would be enough. A concentrated, lethal winter.
Inside Winterfell's Great Hall, the anxiety of the Northern lords was a pungent odor in the air, a metallic taste on the tongue of his expanded perception. Theon didn't need to hear their doubts to feel them. They were like small, flickering flames. With a subtle exercise of will – not a spell, but an imposition of calm, like soothing a lake's surface with the palm of his hand – he soothed the sharpest fears. It was a manipulation so gentle it felt natural, a return to the inherent courage of Northmen.
Lord Roose Bolton broke the silence, his voice a silken whisper carrying the weight of everyone's unease. "Your Grace, the dragons. They are... unchallengeable. Our arrows are like needles against them."
Theon turned to him, an almost imperceptible smile on his lips. "Unchallengeable, Lord Bolton? Fire is loud and impatient. It consumes everything quickly, but it is a slave to fuel. What happens when the fuel runs out?"
"It goes out," replied Bolton, his pale eyes fixed on Theon, trying to decipher him.
"It goes out," Theon confirmed, walking through the hall. "Ice, however, needs no fuel. It simply is. It is patient. It is persistent. Aegon Targaryen brings a wildfire to our backyard. We will not fight it with another fire. We will smother it with an ice age." He stopped and looked at the serious faces around him. "They think this will be a quick battle. They are right. It will be quick for winter, which has all of eternity ahead. Our victory will not be measured in bodies slain by swords, but in the quiet that follows the dragon's roar."
He gave no further explanation. His confidence was absolute, an unshakable fortress. The lords dispersed, their minds still perplexed, but their spirits inexplicably firmer. Theon felt their faith like a weak warmth, a resource he could, if necessary, channel.
II - THE FIRST BREATH (GENERAL POV)
On the plain, the disparity was almost comical. On one side, the Targaryen host, a shimmering sea of steel and silk, stretching as far as the eye could see. The sound was a constant roar – the snapping of banners, the grinding of armor, the thunder of thousands of horses. And above, the three dragons. Balerion, the black shadow that darkened the sun; Vhagar, fierce and impatient; Meraxes, graceful and deadly. It was the personification of overwhelming power.
On the other side, the Northern army seemed a mere dark, resolute smudge, silent as the snow covering the ground. And ahead of them, alone, mounted on his white horse, was Theon Stark. The Crown of Ice on his head looked like a common jewel in the weak light.
Aegon Targaryen, mounted on Balerion, felt a surge of triumphant disdain. All the caution he had felt in the marsh evaporated before the crushing reality of his military might. It was like taking a sledgehammer to crush an insect. He gave the order, and the trumpets sounded, a strident noise that echoed across the plain. The army began its advance, slow and inexorable as a tide.
Theon dismounted. He did not draw a sword. He simply knelt, placing his unprotected hands on the snow. A deep silence fell over the Northern lines. And then, he began to sing.
It was not a song with words any man could understand. It was a low, guttural murmur, a series of whispers that sounded like the grinding of ice and the howl of a distant wind. At first, nothing happened. The enemy advance continued. Some Targaryen soldiers laughed, pointing at the solitary, singing figure.
But then, the wind changed.
A gelid breath, initially so weak it barely stirred the banners, began to blow from the north, against the warm wind coming from the south. The sky, once clear, began to be stained by high, thin clouds moving with an unnatural speed. The temperature, already cold, dropped a few noticeable degrees. The Targaryen army's advance hesitated slightly. The comfort of movement to warm up gave way to a persistent chill.
Theon continued his song. His voice was low, but it seemed to carry on the wind, amplifying itself. He was not summoning a blizzard from nothing; he was calling all the cold from the Far North, conjuring the moisture from the Shivering Sea, weaving a storm thread by thread. It was meticulous, patient work, like an archer slowly drawing the bowstring.
III - THE DUEL IN THE SKIES (LORDS' POVs)
The first hour of the "battle" was psychological torture. The blizzard did not arrive with sudden fury. It settled in. The snowflakes began to fall, sparse at first, then denser. The wind intensified, howling around the Targaryen soldiers, penetrating their armor, freezing the sweat on their backs. Visibility began to drop. The order of the ranks broke as men huddled for warmth, stumbling on increasingly slippery ground.
Lord Aedan Umber, from his position on the Northern front line, spat on the ground. "Why don't we charge? While they're disorganized!"
"Patience, Umber," said Lord Roose Bolton, his soft voice cutting through the wind's howl. His expression was one of macabre fascination. "Watch. The storm is merely the setting. The spectacle is about to begin."
He pointed to the sky. Through the veil of snow, a solitary figure was rising. Theon Stark ascended, not like a bird beating its wings, but like a leaf carried by the wind, his bare feet hovering over the tempest. The Crown of Ice on his brow shone like a pale star.
"Old Gods," whispered Lord Mors Mormont, making the sign of the axe. "He flies."
On the Southern side, the sight was one of pure terror. The soldiers saw this man rising against the wind, untouched by the snow, and a primordial superstition froze their hearts more deeply than the cold. "It's a specter!" one cried, his voice lost in the blizzard. "Winter incarnate!"
Aegon, on Balerion, finally understood the trap. Fury seized him. He would not be defeated by the weather. He shouted a command, and Balerion, fighting against the cutting winds, dove towards Theon. The great dragon opened its jaws, and a river of orange and black fire erupted, illuminating the white storm.
Theon did not dodge. With a disdainful wave of his hand, as if swatting away an irritating insect, he conjured a wall of solid, translucent ice in the air. Balerion's wave of fire hit the barrier with a deafening roar. The clash between fire and ice created an explosion of superheated steam that burned nearby soldiers, but the ice wall held, cracking but not breaking. The fire dissipated with an agonized hiss.
"Impossible!" shouted a knight of the Vale, witnessing from afar. "Nothing stops Balerion's fire!"
Theon gave no respite. As Balerion caught its breath, Theon attacked. He didn't launch a complex spell. He simply pointed two fingers at the dragon, and a concentrated jet of air so cold it seemed solid shot from their tips. It wasn't ice; it was the concept of absolute cold. The jet hit Balerion's left wing, and instantly, a layer of thick, white rime covered the wing membranes. The dragon roared in pain and surprise, its aerodynamics compromised.
It was then that Vhagar charged. Visenya, in her saddle, brandished Dark Sister, determined to cut the sorcerer in half. Theon turned to her with an expression of boredom.
"So predictable," his voice echoed, clear as crystal, despite the storm's roar.
He didn't create a wall this time. Instead, he moved. He flew not like a dragon, heavy and powerful, but like a whirlwind, spinning around Vhagar with a speed that defied vision. As he spun, he launched not only blasts of cold, but projectiles of ice sharp as spears, which ricocheted off Vhagar's hard scales, not to pierce, but to distract, to irritate, to freeze small sections and hinder its movements.
"Stop hiding, sorcerer!" screamed Visenya, twisting in her saddle, trying to follow his erratic flight.
"But it's so much fun!" Theon's mocking voice came from all sides at once. Suddenly, he appeared directly above Vhagar's head. He was upside down, smiling at Visenya. "You came all this way to freeze to death. What a waste."
He blew gently towards her. It was not a breath of air, but an exhalation of pure winter. The air around Visenya froze instantly. Her armor became a frozen torture chamber, trapping her. Her fingers, holding the reins, stuck to the metal. She screamed, but the sound froze in her throat. Vhagar, sensing its rider's panic and agonizing pain, and being itself tortured by the cold and the distracting attacks, roared in despair and retreated, diving out of the blizzard in blind flight.
Meraxes and Rhaenys, hovering above, witnessed Vhagar's flight and Balerion's struggle. Rhaenys, the gentlest, had no stomach for the slaughter. "No!" she cried, seeing Aegon paralyzed by the cold on Balerion. "Enough!" She pulled on Meraxes's reins, and the silver beast, relieved, turned and fled, escaping the storm faster than its sisters.
Aegon was alone. His body was numb, his mind wrapped in a frozen fog. He saw Theon land softly on Balerion's neck, right in front of his saddle. The King of Ice walked towards him, his feet not slipping on the slippery scales. The Crown of Ice pulsed with a faint light.
"I warned you, Targaryen," said Theon, with no triumph in his voice, only a factual statement. "You brought fire to the wrong place."
He touched Aegon's forehead with a finger. The cold was so intense, so absolute, it was as if the very flame of life within Aegon was about to be extinguished. Balerion, feeling its rider's imminent death, roared one last time – a sound of pure agony and defeat – and turned in the air, diving out of the blizzard in blind panic, carrying a semi-conscious Aegon.
IV - THE END OF THE NIGHTMARE (GENERAL POV)
As the last dragon disappeared into the white veil, Theon's song diminished. He did not cut it off abruptly, but reduced it gradually, like a conductor ending a symphony. The howling wind died down to a whisper, and then to silence. The clouds dissipated, revealing a sky throbbing with a pale, cold blue. The sun shone on a scene of pure scourging.
The plain was unrecognizable. Where there had been an army, there was now a landscape of white mounds, under which lay thousands of frozen men and horses. The silence was absolute, disturbing. There were no moans of the wounded, only the light wind hissing over the immaculate snow carpet.
And, in the center of this nightmare, the Northern army remained intact. Every man was unharmed, dry, looking at the carnage with a mixture of horror and an unshakable faith bordering on fanaticism. They had not fought. They had witnessed a man challenge and destroy an innumerable army and three dragons without raising a sword.
Theon stood for a moment, his solitary figure against the white backdrop. Then, he turned and walked towards his horse. His steps were firm, but there was a slight pallor on his face, a shadow of fatigue around his eyes that hadn't been there before. The Crown of Ice still pulsed softly. The effort, though calculated, had been colossal.
No sound was made. No cry of victory. The silence was the greatest tribute. The Northern lords simply knelt, one by one, bowing their heads in silent reverence. They had witnessed winter personified.
V - THE MESSAGE (AEGON'S POV)
Aegon Targaryen woke up gasping, his body a single agony of cold. He was slumped over Balerion's neck, which was flying erratically south, its body shaking violently. The flight had been a total, absolute, humiliating defeat.
Shame burned him inside, hotter than any dragonfire. He looked back, to the north. The plain of destruction was far away, but he could see it in his mind: his army, his dream, all reduced to ice and silence.
It was then that he noticed. Stuck to the saddle, near his leg, was a small piece of parchment, pinned by a spike of ice that did not melt. With trembling, numb fingers, he pulled it out and unrolled it.
The handwriting was precise, angular. There was only one phrase:
"You were lucky. I was in a good day."
A cry of pure, impotent rage escaped Aegon's lips. He had been not only defeated, but dismissed. Mocked.
On Vhagar, flying beside him, Visenya watched her brother. Her own body ached with residual cold, but her mind was in turmoil. She remembered how Theon moved, the ease with which he faced the dragons. He was not just a master of ice. He was something much more dangerous. And he was only beginning.
She looked north, to where Winterfell stood amidst the ice. And for the first time in her life, Visenya Targaryen felt a cold that had nothing to do with temperature. It was the cold of fear.