The air in Sothoryos was heavy, humid, and vibrant with a life Theon Stark had never encountered anywhere else. Standing on the forecastle of the Queen Anne's Revenge, he didn't just see a lush and threatening coastline; he felt the very breath of the continent. His eyes, a pale grey, were not focused on the physical landscape before him but were turned inward, where the ancestral magic of his Stark blood flowed like an underground river.
He was connected. His consciousness, amplified by a rare and complex blood spell, had spread like a spider's web over the dense forest. Through the eyes of a scarlet eagle, he soared over the canopy, mapping hidden clearings. Through the patient stalking of a great striped cat, he smelled the wet earth and prey. Through the senses of a hundred smaller creatures—insects, rodents, reptiles—he catalogued the pulsating life of the world.
It was a wealth of biodiversity that even his vast mind found impressive. Plants with flowers that shimmered with their own phosphorescent light, fungi pulsing with amber-colored sap, trees whose wood was so dense it sank in water. Life here was fiercer, more vivid, more ancient than anywhere else.
As he observed through his animal proxies, he confirmed the existence of legends. He saw the wiverns, magnificent and ferocious creatures. They had the scaly bodies of dragons, leathern wings, and a venomous tail, but they were significantly smaller than Valyrian dragons and, crucially, did not breathe fire. Their aggressiveness, however, was legendary; he witnessed a small pack take down a herbivore the size of an auroch with a coordinated and brutal assault.
Then there were the apes. The "sacred giants" of sailors' tales. Theon found the reports were not exaggerated. Through his eagle's eyes, he watched a male that wasn't even the troop's leader. In its natural, quadrupedal posture, the animal was easily two meters tall. When it rose on its hind legs to shout a warning, its imposing body must have approached three meters, its muscles rippling under thick, black fur. They were truly giant gorillas, a primordial force of nature.
And then, he saw what few mortal eyes had ever witnessed and lived to tell: a basilisk. Not a mythical, stone-turning chimera, but a snake. A gigantic snake. Its body, thicker than the trunk of an ancient tree, slid silently through the forest floor, its skin a mosaic of greens and blacks that camouflaged it perfectly. Only its size betrayed it – a serpent that would give even the largest dragon pause. Seeing it, even through a shared vision, was a solemn reminder of the absolute danger Sothoryos represented.
Satisfied with the reconnaissance, his consciousness returned to itself. He needed a base. His eyes scanned the coastline until he found the perfect location: a rocky hill that rose abruptly from the forest floor, with one side falling in cliffs to the sea and the other offering an unimpeded view of the plain. It was easily defensible.
A pang of frustration hit him. Establishing a presence here would take time. He would miss the Blackfyre Rebellion. But the thought was quickly dismissed. Rebellions were like weeds in the South; you cut one down and another sprouted. They would be recurrent for a time. There was a greater opportunity here, in the untouched riches of Sothoryos.
He ordered a boat to take him to the base of the hill. Alone, he climbed to the flat summit. The air vibrated with the sounds of the forest – shrieks, squawks, the rustle of leaves, and the growls of predators. Theon closed his eyes and stretched out his hands.
He did not chant, nor gesticulate. His will, pure and concentrated, flowed out from him. The grass under his feet began to glow with a cold, bluish light. Lines of energy flowed from his body, carving themselves into the stone ground, forming a colossal runic circle that encompassed the entire hilltop. The runes were not mere symbols; they were concepts of Repulsion, Purification, and Fortification given form.
The main circle was just the core. Root-like lines of power extended from the primary ring, running down the hillside and into the ground around the base, creating an expanded safety zone. A low, almost inaudible hum filled the air. Immediately, the sounds of the forest receded. A monkey venturing near the base of the hill suddenly stopped, snorted in confusion, and retreated into the dense foliage, reluctant to cross the invisible barrier. The very air within the perimeter seemed to become cleaner, purer, free from the pestilential miasmas and hallucinogenic spores of the forest. Any wound or disease here would heal at a remarkable speed.
Satisfied, Theon looked to the sky. His consciousness merged once more with the scarlet eagle, which now soared high above the hill. From that elevated perspective, he watched his ships on the coast launch smaller boats. His Black Guard troops, along with the architects, engineers, masons, and settlers he had brought for this specific purpose, began to disembark. They would march in formation to the fortified site, where they would begin the arduous task of building not just a fortress, but the foundations of a Northern city on Sothoryosi soil.
Then, in a final act of will, he made the eagle turn its gaze north, far beyond the horizon, to Westeros. The vision became blurred, crossing continents and seas with the strange logic of dreams. He saw, for an instant, the green fields of the south transformed into a nightmare of fire and steel. And he saw her. Nettles, mounted on the fearsome Sheepstealer, her figure a silhouette of fury against the smoky sky. He saw her dive, and from the dragon's maw, a torrent of liquid fire and rage fell upon the Blackfyre battle formations, a deluge of vengeance consuming all in its path.
A cold smile touched Theon's lips. The South was burning in his absence. It was fine. There would be time to set things in order. He had an empire to build first.
A year and a half after setting sail from White Harbor, the King's fleet returned, cutting through the grey waters of the Saltspear like ghosts emerging from the mist. The Queen Anne's Revenge led the formation, its runic sails now worn by the journey, but its hull as imposing as ever. The familiar, sharp cold of the North was a relief after the oppressive vapors of Sothoryos and the cloying perfumes of Qarth.
On the dock, a reception fit for an ancient god awaited them. Cregan Stark, with a few more silver threads in his hair but with the stance still firm of a commander, stood at the forefront. To his right, the serene and majestic Haelena Targaryen, her silver hair capturing the faint light. To his left, the woman known to the world as Nettles, her dark hair and eyes full of a barely contained fury, transformed into a fierce respect. Behind them, a line of Northern Lords, all with stern faces and rigid postures.
When Theon Stark descended the gangplank, it was not a man who set foot on Northern soil again. It was the personification of Winter itself. His eyes, older and deeper than when he had left, scanned the crowd. Without a word being spoken, all – Cregan, the Matriarchs, the Lords – knelt in unison. The sound of armor and knees hitting the dock's wood echoed like thunder. It was a gesture of submission not forced, but of recognition to the power that had returned to garrison their walls.
"Rise," Theon's voice did not need to rise to be heard by all. It was a soft command, but laden with unquestionable weight.
They obeyed. Cregan was the first to approach, bowing his head again.
"Welcome home,Your Grace. The North breathes easier with your return."
Theon placed a hand on his former Regent's shoulder. "The North has been in good hands, Cregan. That is visible." His gaze then settled on Nettles. "Lady Nettles. Your dragon's fury was felt even in the sands of Sothoryos."
Nettles bit her lip, a mix of pride and still-raw pain in her eyes. "Cowardice demands a price, Your Grace. Sheepstealer and I collected our due."
Theon merely nodded, his analytical gaze taking in the still-open wound in her soul. He then turned to Haelena, who offered him a gentle smile and a nod, which he returned.
The entourage proceeded to the New Castle, where a truly Northern feast was prepared. There were no exotic fruits or delicate delicacies. There was roast boar, dark rye breads, boiled roots, aged cheeses, and tankards overflowing with strong ale. The sound was of loud conversation, genuine laughter, and ancient songs, not whispered political talk. For the first time in a long while, Theon seemed to relax. He ate, drank, and listened to the stories of his lords. This was a celebration he understood.
After the feast, Theon, Gael, Haelena, and Nettles headed to a private room. There, in the center, a permanent runic portal pulsed with a bluish light. One step through it, and they were in the Main Courtyard of Winterfell, the night air even colder and more familiar.
In the King's Solar, with Theon's Ice Throne glistening in the background, Cregan began his full report.
"After Daemon Blackfyre's cowardly attack on Vaelor," Cregan began, his hands firm on the back of the chair, "the situation became untenable. Allowing House Truefyre to seek vengeance alongside the loyalists was the only logical response. Lady Nettles... well, she did not need much persuasion."
Nettles, standing near the fireplace, interjected, her voice a low growl. "Sheepsteeler burned their supplies, their camps, and half their rearguard at the Battle of the Field of Fire. The Pretender fled, but his army was shattered. It was the decisive blow. The rebellion collapsed shortly after."
Theon, seated in his chair, listened with an impenetrable expression. He then gave a single nod.
"You acted correctly,Cregan. The response was swift and decisive. The only mistake was formally allying with the Southern Targaryens. You should have allowed the Truefyres to attack alone, as an act of personal vengeance, and then declared neutrality."
It was a colder, more calculating perspective, typical of Theon. He saw vengeance not as a matter of honor, but as a political tool to be used without creating bonds.
He then dismissed Haelena and Nettles with a gesture. "My Ladies, the North thanks you for your role in defending our sovereignty. You may withdraw."
When the door closed, Cregan handed Theon the more detailed reports. The North's population had grown steadily. The rice cultivars from Yi Ti, sent ahead by faster ships, were already planted in the Neck and other wet lands. The first harvest was weeks away, and the forecasts were promising. The other plants – the purple grain, the black vine, the resilient tuber – were already in advanced stages of testing and genetic improvement through green magic, showing remarkable adaptability.
Satisfied with the state of the kingdom, Theon headed to his private laboratory, a sanctuary in the Winterfell dungeons where few ventured. Upon entering, the air changed, becoming charged with the smell of ancient herbs, potions, and parchments.
And there, sitting in an oak chair, was Lily. But not the Lily he had left behind. The aging he saw in her was alarming. A year and a half could not have caused that. She seemed to have aged decades, her once-youthful face now marked by deep wrinkles, her auburn hair streaked with thick white strands. Yet, her eyes still held the same sharp, loving spark.
"Theon," she whispered, her voice a rough echo of the one he remembered.
He crossed the room in a few strides and enveloped her in a silent hug. She felt fragile in his arms.
"Lily...what have you done to yourself?" he asked, his voice soft, laden with rare emotion.
She let out a soft, tired laugh. "What I've always done. Fulfilled my duty. And prepared my legacy." She pointed to a young woman standing in the shadows near a worktable.
The young woman stepped forward. She was stunning, in an almost supernatural way. Her features were a perfected, intensified version of Lily's – the same face shape, the same elegant bone structure. But the differences were striking. Her hair was an intense red, like freshly spilled blood, not the softer auburn of her predecessor. And her eyes... her eyes were a bright, penetrating yellow, like a falcon's. There was also a slight pull at the corners of her eyes and a softness to her features that reminded him of the people of Yi Ti, or, as Theon thought in his previous world, an ethereal Asian beauty.
Lily held the young woman's hand. "Theon, this is Alice. The seventh. And the last. She is the apex of centuries of research, the final refinement of our lineage. All the memories, all the experience, all the purpose... culminate in her. She will not be replaced. She will remain by your side forever."
Alice looked directly into Theon's eyes, without fear, without hesitation. She bowed slightly.
"My Lord."
Lily then gave Theon one last, long hug, her trembling hands clutching his robes. "Until we meet again, my old friend," she whispered, her voice already weak.
She lay down on the stone operating table, her breathing already shallow. Theon, with a face of stone that hid an ancient pain, placed his hands on her forehead. A silent ritual began, golden runes dancing between his fingers and Lily's skin. The candlelight flickered as a lifetime of memories, secrets, and love flowed from Lily to Alice. The process was not violent, but solemn, like the passing of a sacred baton.
When the last spark of light dissipated, Lily let out one last, soft sigh, and a smile of peace froze on her lips.
Alice, who had remained motionless throughout the process, opened her eyes. They were no longer just the eyes of a young woman; they were eyes that now contained the weight of centuries. She stood up, her movements fluid and full of a deadly grace. She knelt at Theon's feet.
"I am ready to serve," her voice was a soft melody, but with a resonance of steel beneath.
Looking at her more closely, Theon felt a belated recognition. The relentless posture, the predatory eyes, the intimidating beauty that was a weapon... she intensely reminded him of a figure from his deepest memories, from a long-lost world. She reminded him of Makima.
"Rise, Alice," he commanded. "Prepare Lily's burial in the Godswood. She deserves all honors. After dawn, you will assume all her functions."
The burial the next day was a private and solemn affair. Under the repose of Winterfell's Heart tree, Lily was laid to rest beside her predecessors. Only Theon, Gael, and Alice were present.
As they turned to leave the woods, a figure awaited them at the entrance. It was the unwanted guest from the South.
Shiera Seastar.
She had been staying at the castle of the Northern Targaryen House, Dragon's Promise, throughout the war. The name of the castle, Theon knew, was a perpetual reminder to its descendants of the pact he had made and with whom it was made, a secret of the future only he fully understood.
And she was... the personification of sensuality. Not a forced or theatrical sensuality, but an innate quality, as natural to her as breathing. Her silver hair fell like a waterfall over her shoulders, and her heterochromatic eyes – one light green, the other dark blue – seemed to see through everything. She wore a simple dress, but the fabric seemed to cling to every curve of her body in a way that was almost an art form.
As Theon and Gael approached, Shiera did not hesitate. She knelt on the cold ground, bowing deeply in a way that, without seeming intentional, accentuated the neckline of her dress, revealing the valley between her breasts. Then, surprisingly, she prostrated herself completely, her forehead touching the frozen earth, in a display of total submission that was rare even in the North.
"Your Grace," her voice was like honey poured over warm stones. "Please, teach me magic."
The request genuinely took Theon by surprise. Of all the things he imagined the infamous bastard sister, known for her beauty and courtly intrigues, might want, a request to be his apprentice in magic was at the bottom of the list.
Without a word, he extended his magical perception towards her, analyzing the currents of power within her. What he found made his eyebrows rise slightly. Her talent was... astounding. Raw, untrained, but of a pure potency that outshone even Gael's. And that was saying something, considering Gael passively absorbed his magic daily and had her power amplified by her bond with a dragon. Shiera's potential was an uncut diamond mine.
Theon chuckled softly, a genuinely amused sound. He closed his hand, and in the air between them, a scroll of pure, golden energy materialized, covered in complex runes and shimmering letters. It was a magical contract.
"Magical contracts are not a joke, Shiera," he said, his voice now serious. "They bind the very soul. You must read every clause. The teacher's obligations, the student's duties, the price of breaking—"
Before he could finish, Shiera, still lying on the ground, stretched out her arm. Without hesitation, she bit the tip of her own finger until it bled and, with a decisive movement, pressed the drop of scarlet blood onto the bottom of the glowing parchment. The contract flashed intensely and then dissolved, its power merging with her essence.
She hadn't even read it.
Theon looked at her, astonished. "You were incredibly hasty. What if, in the contract, it stated that from now on you become the sexual plaything of the King and Queen of the North?"
Shiera finally raised her head. A mischievous smile, laden with a dangerous promise, played on her lips. Her heterochromatic eyes sparkled with pure mischief. The expression was so disarming, so laden with invitation and confidence, that it made Theon's blood boil instantly, an unexpected and powerful wave of desire coursing through him.
"Then, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice a seductive thread, "have I already started earning bonuses as your student?"
For the first time in centuries, Theon Stark was caught completely off guard. He exchanged a look with Gael, who was watching the scene with an intrigued and slightly amused expression. The return to the North, he realized, would be anything but monotonous.