Chapter 2: The Serpent's Coil and the Wolf's Cunning
The weeks following Jon's vision of the dragon eggs stretched into months, each day a testament to his newfound patience, a stark contrast to Voldemort's fiery impulsiveness. The initial reports from his agents in Essos were disheartening. Tracking specific Valyrian vessels across the vastness of the seas was like searching for a particular serpent in a pit of vipers. The Freehold's ships were numerous, their schedules erratic, and their security formidable. His men, brave and loyal as they were, were out of their depth against the casual might of Valyria. Several had simply vanished, presumed captured or killed, their absence a cold knot in Jon's stomach – not of grief, Voldemort had long since purged such sentimentalities, but of frustrated pragmatism and the cost of acquiring vital assets.
He sat in his hidden vault beneath Winterfell, the air thick with the scent of old parchment, drying herbs, and the faint, metallic tang of experimental alchemy. A detailed map of the western coast of Essos and the Disputed Lands was spread across a heavy oak table, illuminated by the steady, cool light of a magically sustained flame within a crystal. Tiny carved wolf figurines, each representing an agent or a piece of intelligence, dotted the map.
"They are like children fumbling in the dark," he muttered, the Voldemort aspect of his soul bristling with contempt for the inefficiency. Flamel's voice, however, the calm strategist, urged caution and a reassessment of tactics. Direct confrontation or simple espionage was clearly insufficient.
His Greensight offered tantalizing, fragmented glimpses: a storm-lashed coastline, the glint of scales, a Valyrian captain with a distinctive scar above his left eye. But the visions were maddeningly imprecise, shifting like smoke. His Warging, while powerful for reconnaissance within a certain radius of Winterfell or when he had a familiar animal as a conduit, could not reliably span the thousands of miles to Essos without a significant anchor point, which he lacked.
He needed a more direct magical intervention, yet one that maintained his crucial anonymity. His eyes fell upon a small, obsidian mirror resting on a velvet cushion. It was a mundane object, polished to a high sheen. Flamel's notes, however, described the principles of scrying mirrors, particularly those linked to a specific individual or object through sympathetic magic. He didn't have a Valyrian scrying mirror, nor the specialized knowledge of their particular brand of sorcery. But he had Flamel's ingenuity and Voldemort's willingness to twist any magic to his purpose.
For weeks, he'd laboured, drawing upon Flamel's understanding of enchantments and Voldemort's grasp of dark sympathetic links. He couldn't scry the eggs directly – they were inert, their magical signature too faint at this distance. But the Valyrian captain with the scar… if he could get something connected to him, or even a clearer psychic imprint…
He dispatched his most trusted agent remaining in Volantis, a silent, resourceful crannogman named Finn, with a new set of instructions, conveyed through a complex cipher. Finn was not to engage, not to approach the Valyrian ships. Instead, he was to frequent the dockside taverns favored by Valyrian sailors, to observe, to listen, and, if the opportunity arose, to acquire – steal, buy, or scavenge – any object, however trivial, that had been discarded by a Valyrian officer matching the description from Jon's vision. A lost glove, a dropped writ, even dregs from a wine cup if it could be preserved.
While Finn undertook his perilous task, Jon focused on his other preparations. The North continued to transform under his subtle guidance. Moat Cailin was rising, not just rebuilt, but reborn. Its twenty towers were now imbued with layers of protective enchantments Jon wove into the mortar and stone under the guise of ancient First Men rituals he claimed to be reviving. Wards of obfuscation would make the fortress seem more ruinous and less threatening from a distance to casual observation, while wards of strengthening made the walls preternaturally resilient. He even began experimenting with rudimentary alarm wards tied to specific frequencies of sound, a concept alien to this world but simple enough for Flamel's knowledge.
His son, Beron, was now five. The boy's nascent magical abilities were becoming more apparent, if only to Jon's trained eye. Objects would occasionally twitch or float momentarily when Beron was highly emotional or focused. Jon nurtured this subtly. During their private moments, often in the Godswood under the watchful gaze of the Heart Tree, he would perform small feats of transfiguration, turning a pebble into a beetle, then back again, always framing it as a game, a secret shared between father and son.
"Can you make the leaves dance, Papa?" Beron asked one crisp autumn afternoon, his grey Stark eyes wide with curiosity. They sat by the black pool, the crimson leaves of the weirwood vivid against the pale sky.
Jon smiled, a genuine, almost warm expression that Lyra cherished but rarely saw directed elsewhere. "Perhaps, little wolf. Magic is like the wind. You cannot see it, but you can feel its touch, see what it moves." He focused, and a gentle breeze, not entirely natural, rustled through the weirwood's branches, causing a cascade of red leaves to swirl around them.
Beron giggled, reaching out to catch one. "I want to do it!"
"Patience," Jon said, his voice soft but firm. "It is in your blood, child. It will awaken when it is time. For now, watch. Learn. Feel." He was laying the groundwork, ensuring that magic was as natural to his heir as breathing, a birthright to be wielded with skill and discretion. Lyra, while not privy to the true nature of these "games," saw the bond between her husband and son deepening and was content. She attributed Beron's occasional strange pronouncements or "lucky" finds to the boy's vivid imagination and the old tales of the North.
Weeks later, a heavily sealed package arrived via a clandestine route, smuggled by a series of cutouts from Volantis. Inside, nestled among layers of oiled cloth, was a stained, salt-encrusted strip of purple silk – part of a Valyrian officer's sash – and a crudely carved ivory die, chipped and worn. A note from Finn, written in the same complex cipher, confirmed they had belonged to a Valyrian ship captain named Malarys Vaelaros, a man known for his prominent facial scar and his command of a swift galley, the Sea Serpent, often tasked with transporting valuable, discreet cargo for various Dragonlord families. The Sea Serpent had recently departed Volantis, sailing west.
Jon felt a cold thrill. This was it. He took the strip of silk and the die to his vault. For three nights, he performed a complex ritual of sympathetic attunement, drawing on Flamel's deep understanding of object-linking charms and Voldemort's more invasive techniques for wrenching information from residual magical signatures. He poured his own will into the obsidian mirror, fueling it with his intent, using the silk and die as foci.
On the third night, the surface of the mirror shimmered, no longer reflecting the candlelight of the vault but showing a swirling, misty grey. Jon concentrated, pushing past the interference, his mind a scalpel, dissecting the chaotic energies. Slowly, an image resolved: the deck of a ship, rain-lashed and storm-tossed. He saw Captain Malarys Vaelaros, his scarred face grim, shouting orders against the howl of the wind. And then, for a fleeting moment, the vision shifted below decks, to a small, reinforced cabin, where three large, jewel-toned eggs lay nestled in a bed of smoldering coals, their surfaces seeming to drink in the dim light.
The connection was tenuous, the vision unstable, but it was enough. The Sea Serpent was caught in a fierce storm off the coast of the Basilisk Isles, far south of its intended route, likely seeking shelter. The Basilisk Isles – a notorious haven for pirates, slavers, and exiles. A place where a Valyrian ship, even one as swift as the Sea Serpent, might find itself isolated and vulnerable if damaged by the storm.
Here was the opportunity Voldemort would have seized with brutal force. Flamel would have counseled extreme caution, perhaps abandoning the attempt due to the risks. Jon Stark, King in the North, synthesized the two. The risk was high, but the prize was immeasurable, the cornerstone of his centuries-long plan. He would not go himself. He would not overtly use Northern forces. But he had resources, and he had magic.
He spent the next day in a fever of activity. He drafted new, precise instructions for Finn, who, by prior arrangement, was already sailing west on a fast merchant cog, shadowing the Sea Serpent's presumed route at a discreet distance. He included detailed sketches of the Sea Serpent's layout, gleaned from his scrying, highlighting the location of the egg cabin.
More importantly, he prepared a small, lead-lined casket. Inside, he placed three items. The first was a small, intricately carved weirwood figurine of a wolf, imbued with a powerful Confundus Charm, keyed to activate upon proximity to strong Valyrian magical signatures – designed to subtly warp the judgment of any Valyrian sorcerer or mage-guard on board, making them overlook inconsistencies or dismiss minor alarms. The second was a pouch of finely ground powder – a potent concoction of Flamel's devising, which, when thrown into a brazier or fire, would release a cloud of odorless, colorless gas causing deep, instantaneous sleep in a confined space. The third was a simple, dark iron amulet, cold to the touch. This was Voldemort's touch: an amulet of fear. Not a crude terror-inducer, but one that would prey on subconscious anxieties, making guards jumpy, prone to error, and less willing to investigate strange noises.
He also included a vial containing a single, perfectly brewed Draught of Living Death, enough for one man, with strict instructions for Finn: only to be used on himself as an absolute last resort to feign death and avoid capture and interrogation if all else failed. The risks to his agent were immense, but Finn was a man who understood duty and sacrifice, and the rewards Jon had promised his family back in the Neck were substantial.
The casket was dispatched via a series of swift, light fishing vessels, leapfrogging along the coast, then cutting across to the Basilisk Isles, a network Jon had been cultivating for years for just such contingencies – smugglers and free traders who owed him favors or feared his wrath.
Then, Jon waited. It was the hardest part. He immersed himself in the governance of the North, projecting an aura of calm and control, even as his mind constantly strayed south, to the storm-tossed seas and the perilous gamble underway. He spent more time with Lyra and the children, a strange sort of solace. Looking at Beron and little Arya, he felt the weight of his ambition, not as a burden, but as a fierce, protective imperative. They were the reason for this intricate, dangerous dance. They, and the long line of Stark wizards and dragonlords he envisioned safeguarding the North for millennia.
His Greensight flickered with possibilities. Visions of success – Finn slipping aboard the damaged Sea Serpent under the cover of darkness and the post-storm chaos, the Valyrian crew distracted by repairs and the threat of local pirates. Visions of failure – Finn captured, the Valyrians alerted, the eggs moved or worse, destroyed. He pushed the negative visions away, focusing his will, his magic, on the desired outcome, a technique Voldemort had mastered to bend probability, though Flamel's writings cautioned that the future was a flowing river, not a fixed point.
One evening, nearly a month after dispatching the casket, as he was overseeing the final enchantments on a newly completed gatehouse at Moat Cailin, a coded message arrived, carried by a mud-stained runner who had ridden three horses to exhaustion. It was short, almost insultingly brief for the magnitude of its content: "The wolves have new pups. Three. Journey home begins."
A slow, cold smile spread across Jon's face, hidden by the falling dusk. Finn had succeeded.
The journey back was fraught with its own perils. Evading Valyrian patrols searching for their missing cargo, navigating treacherous waters, and keeping three priceless, delicate dragon eggs safe and warm was a monumental undertaking. Jon used his scrying mirror now with greater focus, occasionally catching glimpses of Finn's progress, offering silent, magical encouragement, sometimes even subtly nudging a current or a fog bank through sheer force of will and a complex weather-influencing charm Flamel had used sparingly. He slept little, his mind a constant watchtower.
During this tense period, he also made a breakthrough with his own developing Philosopher's Stone research. He knew the Doom of Valyria would provide the ultimate catalyst, but he wanted the Elixir of Life now, or as soon as possible, for himself and for Lyra, if she would accept it. He wouldn't force her, but the thought of outliving her by centuries, of watching his children and grandchildren grow old and die while he remained, was a prospect even his hardened soul found… unpalatable.
Flamel's notes detailed lesser Elixirs, temporary life extensions, or those requiring constant replenishment from a less potent Stone. He began experimenting with substitutes for the more esoteric ingredients, drawing upon the unique flora and fauna of the North, some of which possessed surprising magical properties when analyzed through an alchemical lens. He even found that certain fungi growing only in the deepest parts of the Wolfswood, when combined with weirwood sap under precise ritualistic conditions, produced a substance that resonated with vitality. It was not the true Elixir, not yet, but it was a promising avenue.
He was also considering the ethics, or rather, the pragmatics of soul harvesting. Voldemort had torn his soul into pieces for Horcruxes, a crude and destabilizing path to a fractured immortality. Flamel's Stone, Jon now understood, didn't destroy souls in the same way; it transmuted their essential energy, their lingering life force, into a potent catalyst. The distinction was subtle, perhaps only meaningful to a philosopher, but to Jon, it meant that the souls gathered from a cataclysm like the Doom weren't being tortured or fragmented in the same way as Voldemort's Horcruxes. They were being… repurposed. Recycled. It was a grim calculus, but the survival and eternal guardianship of the North, in his mind, justified it. The coming Long Night, glimpsed in his Greendreams, would claim countless lives anyway. His Stone would be a bulwark against that oblivion, paid for by an earlier, distant tragedy.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, another message arrived. Finn had reached the secret cove on the Stony Shore they had designated, his small ship battered but intact.
Jon travelled west himself, with only a handful of his most loyal household guard, men sworn to secrecy on pain of not just death, but the erasure of their families from all records – a threat Voldemort would have relished making, and one Jon delivered with chilling conviction.
The meeting took place in a lightless sea cave, the only illumination coming from a single, shielded lantern. Finn was gaunt, his eyes haunted, but he knelt before Jon, a grim satisfaction on his face. Beside him, on a bed of furs and warmed stones, lay a large, securely bound oaken chest.
"Your Grace," Finn rasped, his voice hoarse. "As you commanded."
Jon's heart, an organ he often forgot still beat with anything other than icy calculation, hammered in his chest. He stepped forward, his men remaining respectfully distant. With his own hands, he unlatched the chest.
There they were.
Three dragon eggs. One was the color of deepest jade, veined with silver. Another was a terrifying, beautiful crimson, like fresh blood on snow, with swirls of black. The third was the color of bleached bone, with whorls of fiery orange and gold that seemed to shift and shimmer even in the dim light. They pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, a dormant life that called to the magic in his blood.
He reached out a hand, his fingers tracing the scaled surface of the jade egg. A faint thrum resonated up his arm, a whisper of ancient power, of fire and sky. For a moment, Voldemort's lust for dominion and Flamel's insatiable curiosity merged into a single, overwhelming wave of triumph.
"You have done the North a service that will be remembered in whispered legends for a thousand years, Finn," Jon said, his voice quiet but resonant with an emotion that was almost… awe. "Your family will want for nothing, for all their generations."
He had them. He truly had them. The first scaled seeds of his hidden dragon army. The foundation of House Stark's secret arsenal.
As they carefully packed the eggs for the clandestine journey to Winterfell, securing them in a specially constructed wagon with a hidden, warmed compartment, Jon allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. The Valyrians would be searching, fuming, perhaps even suspecting piracy or treachery among their own. They would never look this far north. They would never imagine that the quiet, brooding King of Winter, ruler of a supposedly backward and magic-less land, had struck such a blow against their pride and power.
The serpent, Valyria, had been subtly wounded by the wolf's cunning. And this, Jon knew, was only the beginning. The game was a long one, and he had all the time in the world. Or rather, he soon would.
The journey back to Winterfell was slow and meticulous, every precaution taken. The eggs were his most precious secret, more valuable than all the gold in Casterly Rock. He already envisioned the hidden hatchery, deep beneath Winterfell, warmed by geothermal vents he knew existed, shielded by layers of magic that would make it invisible and inaccessible to all but those of his blood who carried the Spark.
The age of Stark dragonriders was dawning, not in a blaze of glory, but in the silent, watchful shadows of the North. And the world would never see them coming until it was far, far too late.