PROLOGUE: THE UNLIKELY ENCOUNTER
Theon POV
Time, a river that to me was more a lake of stagnant waters, flowed on after the echoes of the Blackfyre Rebellion faded. In the South, the political spiderwebs reorganized themselves. The king, in a calculated move to consolidate power and heal old wounds, wed a Dornish princess. The feat, sung by bards from Lannisport to Storm's End, was called the "Unification of Dorne." The Six Kingdoms officially became Seven, a fact I observed from my ice throne with a mix of disdain and amused disinterest.
Peace was a heavy, boring mantle. Annoying the Old Cannibal, the last truly wild dragon remaining in the Northern mountains, had lost its charm. The ancient beast now responded to my provocations with a tired snarl before going back to sleep, its inner fire as dampened as that of the Southern kingdom itself.
It was then, amid this monotonous lethargy, that a message from one of my many eyes at the Twins arrived. A simple parchment, but the words on it were like a spark in the darkness.
"An abnormally tall knight, accompanied by a common-statured, bald squire, is heading North. They avoid main roads and discreetly ask about dragons."
A slow, rare smile crossed my lips. Aegon. The fifth of that name, the "Unlikely" that history had not yet crowned. The youngest son of Prince Maekar, a boy who should be irrelevant in the succession web, coming North. Ambition, apparently, was a family vice that even the most distant branches of the tree couldn't prune.
I remembered clearly the last time his royal blood had disturbed my peace. His brother, the insufferable Prince Aerion, "Brightflame". The fool had tried to "tame" one of Haelena's young dragons, calling it "a half-breed beast." The beast had nearly made him a half-breed from the neck up. King Daeron and Prince Maekar had to come to Winterfell personally, swallowing their pride to beg for the idiot's life. I released him, but under severe conditions: he was banished from the North forever, and any descendant of his who dared cross my border would meet the same fate he nearly found - being charred. Now, here was the younger brother, the unremarkable Aegon, trying his luck.
Perhaps, I thought, entertained by the idea, the boy history will call 'the Unlikely' will earn the title earlier. Would he be the first Targaryen in centuries to achieve what so many craved? The prospect was interesting enough to warrant my personal attention. It was time to welcome my... unexpected guests.
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Aegon (Egg) POV
Anxiety was a live fire in my chest, mixed with the biting cold we were beginning to feel. Ser Duncan and I followed the Kingsroad, but the landscape was changing. The forests seemed denser and darker, the hills more rugged, and the air carried a weight, an antiquity that didn't exist in the South.
"Are we close, Ser?" I asked, my voice a whisper against the wind.
Ser Duncan, immense and solid in his armor, looked ahead. "To the border, yes, boy. But to get to where the dragons are... well, that's another story."
Finally, we saw it. It wasn't a simple fence or a marker. It was a Wall. Not The Wall, of course, but a formidable fortification stretching across the landscape, made of black granite and ironwood, cutting the continent in half. It was the North Gate, the official entrance to the kingdom of Theon Stark. The movement was intense, with merchants' wagons, groups of patrolling horsemen, and common folk, all subject to meticulous inspection by guards clad in black and grey.
We joined the queue of merchants. The atmosphere was serious, quiet. The Northmen spoke softly and their eyes seemed to assess everything and everyone with an innate suspicion. When it was our turn, a guard with the emblem of a clenched fist on his chest approached.
"Business in the North?" he asked, his voice rough as stone.
"Pilgrimage," replied Ser Duncan, keeping his voice calm. "The squire here wants to see the ancient lands."
The guard watched us, his eyes stopping on my face. He was about to say something when a heavy wooden door in one of the wall's towers opened.
The man who came out made even Ser Duncan seem common.
He was a giant. As tall and broad as my knight, but dressed in furs and leather, with a wild, black beard and eyes that glittered with fierce intelligence. He stopped, crossed his arms, and his gaze weighed on us like a physical weight.
"A Knight of the Kingsguard and his... squire," he said, his voice a deep growl that echoed off the stone. "Any Southern Targaryen must announce their coming to the North and state their purpose. It is the law. The King's law."
My heart froze. Ser Duncan tensed.
"How dare you—" he began, but the giant interrupted him.
"I dare because this is my land. And you're lucky." His dark eyes fixed on me, and I felt as if he were seeing through my cloak, my skin, directly to the blood running in my veins. "The King is already aware of your presence. He said not to make a habit of it. Prince Aerion should have been lesson enough for your house."
The mention of my brother's name sent a shiver down my spine. The story of Aerion's banishment was a closely guarded secret, a humiliation the family preferred to forget.
Still stunned and burning with curiosity, I leaned forward. "Ser... what is your name?"
The giant grunted, which might have been a muffled laugh. "I'm no 'ser' to you, boy. I am Borne, of the Umbers. General of the Southern Frontier. Now, pass through. And remember: in the North, you are guests. And guests must know their place."
Without another word, he turned his back and went back into the tower. Ser Duncan wasted no time, pulling on our horse's reins and guiding us through the huge iron gate.
As soon as we passed through the massive base of the wall and truly entered the North, I felt an immediate change. The air was cleaner, colder, and carried the scent of pine and wet earth. The road was now dirt, flanked by forests that seemed never to have been touched by axes.
We rode for a while, the silent vastness of the country leaving me both awestruck and intimidated. It was then that we saw him. A man, leaning against the trunk of a great weirwood, seemingly asleep. He wore a black cloak and simple clothes of a deep grey, but even from a distance, I could see the fabric was luxurious – the famous grey wool of the North, as soft as silk but infinitely warmer. I remembered how Aerion, in one of his rare moments of lucidity, boasted of owning a cloak made of that same material.
Our horses, however, did not share my curiosity. Suddenly, they stopped abruptly, snorting nervously, their bodies trembling. That's when I saw it. Emerging from the deep shadow of the forest, behind the sleeping man, came a wolf.
It was a creature from nightmares. Larger than any horse, the size of a young elephant. Its fur was black as a winter's night, and its eyes glowed with a green, ancient intelligence that did not belong to an animal. It stared at us, and a low, threatening growl came from its throat, a sound that made the air tremble.
"Ser!" I shouted, my fear overriding all caution. "Wake up! There's a wolf!"
The man opened his eyes.
They were a light grey, like the sky before a snowstorm, and as ancient as the mountain stones. He did not seem surprised or alarmed. His gaze passed over me, over Ser Duncan, and then over the giant wolf. He simply stood up, with a fluid grace that was frightening.
"You took your time," he said, his voice calm, but sharp as ice blades.
Then, it happened. The very air around him seemed to obey his will. The mist, the cold, the moisture coalesced above his head without any gesture from him. Droplets of water gathered, crystallized, and formed an intricate crown of pure, gleaming ice. It hovered for a moment before descending slowly to rest upon his brow with final authority. It was a crown that formed upon him.
I heard Ser Duncan swallow dryly. My own mouth was agape. The giant wolf took a step forward and sat beside the man, its absolute loyalty evident.
We were in the presence of Theon Stark. The King of Winter. The Immortal. The figure mothers in the South used to frighten children into behaving. "Go to sleep, or King Theon will come for you!"
He observed us, a mild interest in his ancient eyes.
"I find it interesting," he said, his voice breaking the spell of terror and awe.
I, caught in a mix of dread and fascination, couldn't resist. "What?" the word came out as a sigh.
"After the Dance of the Dragons," he continued, as if speaking to himself, "every Targaryen – legitimate, bastard, exiled, it didn't matter – came North trying to claim a dragon. All failed. Your brother Aerion was the only one who got close enough to get burned. He even had the gall to insult my late friend Haelena's grandson, Lord Lucerys, to his face. Called his lineage 'diluted'. I was going to take his head for that crime. His family's begging was the only thing that stayed my hand." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "What makes you, a kingsguard knight and the fourth son of a fourth son, think you will be different?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and humiliating. I felt my face flush, but something inside me, a stubbornness I didn't know I had, rebelled against his tone. I looked down at the hands holding the reins, and after a long silence, I spoke, my voice firmer than I expected.
"It's... it's better to live with the sadness of failure, Your Grace, than with the uncertainty of doubt."
Theon Stark laughed. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but one of genuine amusement, like an adult hearing a child say something unexpectedly wise.
"Well said, little prince," he conceded. "Then I hope that when you are king, you do not commit the same folly as your ancestors."
When I am king? The statement stunned me. How could I be king? I was the fourth son of a fourth son! The line of succession was a maze where I was lost in some dead end. It was impossible.
He ignored my confused expression. "Follow your destiny, Aegon Targaryen. Follow it towards frustration. And after the dragons reject you – and they will reject you – go to Winterfell. There, I will give you permission to visit every castle, to see what your blood failed to conquer."
"How... how did you know that was what I wanted?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Not even Ser Duncan knew."
Theon Stark smiled, a small, icy gesture.
"You are in the North," he said, as if that explained everything. "Here, I can do anything."
And then, before we could blink, he and the giant wolf simply dissolved. It wasn't a quick disappearance, but a gradual dissipation, as if they became a mist of snowflakes and shadows carried away by the wind, leaving behind only the silence of the forest and the smell of ice and earth.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then, Ser Duncan let out a deep, shaky sigh, rubbing his face with a gloved hand.
"By all the gods, Egg," he murmured, his voice still shaken. "I nearly shit my breeches."
The tension broke. A nervous, uncontrollable laugh escaped my lips, a high-pitched, relieved sound that echoed in the silent forest. The King of Winter was gone, but his presence still hung in the air, a icy reminder that we had entered a realm where the rules of the South did not apply, and where destiny itself seemed to bend to the will of an immortal man.
Part 1.
The Godswood of Winterfell was a world apart. The cold, silent air was broken only by the occasional song of a bird and the soft rustle of the red leaves of the weirwood trees. Under the canopy of the largest one, Theon Stark found a rare moment of peace. Seated at a rustic table of petrified wood, he held a fine porcelain cup, a deliberate contrast to the primitive surroundings.
Inside the cup, a black, aromatic liquid steamed. Coffee. A discovery he had made in the forests of Naath during his Great Voyage. The peaceful inhabitants of the Isle of Butterflies, grateful for the protection Northern ships offered against slavers, gifted him with sacks of the precious beans. Theon, in turn, had established a discreet trade route. The bitter, energizing drink had become a symbol of status and resistance to the cold in the North. Its fame had reached the South, mainly because Lord Tyrell, during a visit, had seen the King of Winter savoring the beverage and, in a mix of curiosity and a desire to imitate, had taken some beans to Highgarden.
Theon took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. Beside him, Gael embroidered tranquilly, her serene face illuminated by the light filtering through the leaves. The scene was one of almost deceptive domestic tranquility. The years had passed; the previous generation was gone. Nettles, Haelena, their children, the loyal Cregan... all now rested under the eternal snow. The North was now governed by a new wave of lords, but under the same immortal gaze.
Peace, however, was a rare commodity. Two figures approached along the mossy stone path. Alice Makima – the surname adopted after Theon, in a rare moment of familiarity, compared her to a figure from his ancient memories – walked with a relentless posture, her falcon-yellow eyes fixed ahead, her blood-red hair violently contrasting with the green and grey of the woods. Beside her, Shiera Seastar floated more than walked, a living sinuosity dressed in blue and green silks that seemed to capture the very light.
It was a walking competition. A silent battle between Alice's absolute discipline and Shiera's disconcerting sensuality. Both wanted to be the best, the most useful, the closest to the king's power.
Shiera, more daring, slid into the vacant chair at the table, offering Theon and Gael a smile that was both an invitation and a challenge. Alice stopped at a respectful distance, her hands crossed behind her back, a perfect sentinel.
"Your schedule for the day, my lord," Alice began, her voice a clear, impersonal melody. "You have a joint meeting at ten. Lord Vaelor Truefyre and Lord Ryswell have requested an audience."
Theon almost smiled. The irony of that meeting was delicious. Vaelor Truefyre, now a middle-aged man nearing old age, was the lord of a house that had become fiercely loyal to the Starks. They didn't just serve; they considered themselves the personal protectors of the royal family. So much so that when they discovered the Ryswells, in their unbridled ambition, were trying to pressure the new Lord Stark into an unfavorable political alliance and co-opt other lords to their cause, the Truefyre response was swift and decisive.
Vaelor, mounted on Green Day, flew to Ryswell castle. He sent no messages. He demanded no explanations. He simply flew over the towers and released warning flames, charring the empty stables and an unoccupied section of the walls. The message was clear: To touch the Starks is to touch us.
Panic set in. Only the quick intervention of Gael, flying on her own dragon, prevented the Truefyres from reducing the entire Ryswell castle to ashes. The North almost lost one of its oldest noble houses that day.
Now, both lords were coming to Winterfell. The Truefyres, to maintain appearances, pretending to apologize for their "excessive zeal," a theater everyone knew. And the Ryswells, to apologize genuinely – or rather, to express their deep and renewed fear.
"The Ryswells should have learned from the Boltons," Theon commented, placing the cup gently on the saucer. "They dared to betray the Starks in a minor rebellion three generations ago. I killed all the adult members of the family who were involved and raised the remaining children myself. Now, they are as loyal as a domesticated wolf, and even changed their sigil."
Alice Makima nodded, her face imperturbable. She then handed Theon a small scroll of parchment sealed with black wax. "A message arrived via the Steel Raven channel, my lord."
Theon took the parchment. He knew it was from his spy network, a web that Alice, the seventh and last of her line, managed with terrifying efficiency. She had refined her skills, learning and developing a subtle magic of control and persuasion that made her seem even more like that figure from his ancient memories.
He broke the seal and read the message. His grey eyes scanned the lines, and a slow, genuinely malicious smile spread across his lips.
"News from the South," he announced. "Aegon, the Fifth, has been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. The Unlikely, indeed."
Gael raised an eyebrow. "My great-great-nephew's grandson... on the Iron Throne. The world turns in curious ways."
"And his first act as king," Theon continued, his voice laden with amused anticipation, "was to imprison his own Master of Whisperers. Brynden Rivers. The Bloodraven."
Shiera let out a low chuckle. "Uncle Brynden was always too clever for his own good. He must have underestimated the boy."
"Or the boy is smarter than he seems," Theon countered. He then looked directly at Shiera, his smile turning into a deliberately mischievous nod. "Shiera, I want you to go to the eastern border of White Harbor. You will accompany a group of new recruits heading to the Wall. Ensure that... no incident delays them."
Shiera made an exaggerated pout. "Oh, Your Grace, that is so cruel! Sending me to haunt poor Brynden? He must be bitter enough in his icy cell already."
The image she painted – her, a vision of disturbing beauty, watching from afar as her half-brother and once platonic love, now a prisoner, was sent to the Wall – was exactly the kind of dark irony Theon appreciated. His laughter echoed in the Godswood.
"He deserves every second of discomfort for his arrogance," Theon said, still laughing. He added, knowing it would twist the knife, "And I hear his great-uncle Aemon will be joining him there soon, to serve as Maester. A family reunion at the end of the world."
While Shiera continued her seductive protest theater, Theon turned his gaze south. His mind, sharpened by centuries of existence, calculated the variables. Aegon V on the throne. The Bloodraven neutralized and sent to the Wall. Maester Aemon departing to serve there as well. The pieces on the southern board were moving, approaching a configuration he recognized from his deepest memories.
The boredom that had consumed him in recent years began to dissipate, replaced by a cold, familiar feeling of anticipation. The action was finally approaching. And he, Theon Stark, the Immortal King of Winter, was more than ready for it.