Chapter 3: Fire, Blood, and the Weirwood's Gaze
The journey from the Stony Shore to Winterfell was a masterclass in clandestine movement, orchestrated by Jon with chilling precision. The precious cargo, three unhatched hopes of a future dynasty, was transported in a specially constructed wagon, its axles muffled, its passage timed to coincide with moonless nights and desolate paths. The eggs rested within, nestled in a bed of imported volcanic rock from Skagos – a place Jon had previously pacified with iron and fire, now yielding its geological secrets to him – kept constantly warm by carefully regulated, slow-burning braziers fed with a special smokeless coal he'd "discovered." Jon himself often rode beside the wagon, his senses extended, Warging through owls and shadows, a silent, unseen sentinel against any conceivable threat.
No one in the North, save the handful of utterly loyal men involved in the transport – men whose tongues were bound by oaths more terrifying than death – knew the true nature of the King's secretive expedition and its even more secret prize. To the wider world, King Jon Stark had been inspecting remote western defenses and trade routes.
Upon their return to Winterfell, the eggs were not brought through the main gates. Instead, under the cloak of a fierce, manufactured blizzard – a display of weather manipulation that even Flamel would have acknowledged as impressively potent for this world's ambient magic – the chest was smuggled into the depths of the castle. Jon had long prepared their destination: a section of the oldest catacombs beneath the Great Keep, far deeper than the Stark Crypts, a place forgotten by time and masons alike. He had "stumbled upon" it years ago, a network of natural caverns and ancient, crumbling passages dating back to the First Men, possibly even earlier.
For months, while his agents hunted for the eggs, Jon had personally, secretly, toiled here. Using Flamel's understanding of architectural enchantment and structural transfiguration, he had widened passages, shored up ceilings, and carved out a vast central chamber. The air within was naturally warm, fed by geothermal vents he had unblocked and carefully channeled. The walls were now lined with obsidian he'd had discreetly quarried from a remote Northern mountain range, polished to a dark sheen – not just for aesthetics, but because obsidian, Flamel knew, was an excellent absorbent and reflector of specific magical energies. He'd etched them with layered wards of secrecy, silence, and magical dampening, ensuring no sound, scent, or magical signature could escape. This was to be the dragons' first nursery, their hidden sanctuary.
With the eggs safely ensconced in this meticulously prepared environment, nestled on a great, circular plinth of dark stone directly above a focused geothermal vent, Jon turned his full attention to the next, most critical phase: hatching them.
Valyrian lore, what little he could glean from Maester Arryk's texts and his own agents' whispers, spoke of fire and blood. Flamel's alchemical treatises delved into the very essence of life creation, the sympathetic resonances between elements, and the power of sacrifice – not necessarily of life, but of essence, of will, of energy. Voldemort's fragmented soul, though now integrated and wary, still hummed with an intuitive understanding of beings connected to the primal forces of destruction and power, like basilisks… and perhaps, dragons.
Jon knew he couldn't replicate the dragon-rich, magically saturated environment of Valyria. But he had his own unique advantages: his potent Stark blood, now infused with the inherited magical capacity from Flamel's lineage; his deep understanding of both structured High Magic and the more primal, elemental forces; and his indomitable will, forged in the crucible of two lifetimes of extreme ambition and conflict.
He decided against a purely natural incubation. These were not Valyrian eggs in Valyrian hands. They needed a catalyst, a directed magical intervention to awaken them in this alien Northern environment and, more importantly, to bind them to him and his bloodline from the very moment of their emergence.
For thirteen nights, corresponding with the cycle of the moon, Jon prepared. He fasted, meditated in the Godswood before the silent, watching face of the Heart Tree, drawing strength from its ancient, patient energy. He gathered ingredients: rare herbs from the Wolfswood that resonated with fire and life, powdered weirwood bark, and – his most personal contribution – vials of his own blood, drawn daily.
On the final night, a night of biting Northern cold outside, the geothermal chamber was an oasis of humid heat. Jon stood before the plinth, stripped to the waist, his Stark features stark and resolute in the flickering orange glow from strategically placed braziers filled not with coal, but with chunks of weirwood soaked in flammable oils, their smoke carrying a unique magical resonance.
He began the ritual not with grand incantations, but with a low, resonant hum, a vibration that seemed to shake the very air in the chamber, aligning his own magical energies with the geothermal heat and the dormant life within the eggs. He then began to chant in a bastardized fusion of Old Valyrian phrases gleaned from ancient texts (for sympathetic connection to the eggs' origin) and Flamel's own spells of quickening and animation, adapting them on the fly.
He anointed each egg with a mixture of weirwood sap, the fire-herb concoction, and his own blood, tracing intricate patterns that were part Stark sigil, part alchemical symbol of life, part Voldemort's serpentine runes of binding and dominion. As he worked, he poured his will, his essence, into the eggs, not seeking to control, but to connect, to offer a symbiotic pact: their fire, his protection; their might, his guidance; their loyalty, his enduring lineage.
The air grew thick, almost unbreathable. The obsidian walls seemed to drink in the shadows and reflect the firelight with an unnatural intensity. Sweat streamed down Jon's body, mingling with the blood on his hands. He felt the drain, the immense output of magical energy, but he pushed on, fueled by an unyielding resolve. This had to work.
Hours passed. The chanting became a raw, guttural invocation. The heat intensified. And then, a sound. A faint crack.
Jon's head snapped up, his green-flecked grey eyes, burning with focus, fixed on the jade egg. A tiny fissure, like a silver vein, spread across its surface. Another crack, then another. He poured more energy, more will, his blood singing with a primal connection.
With a sound like shattering stone, a section of the jade egg fell away. A small, wet, dark green head emerged, reptilian, with eyes like molten silver. It blinked, then let out a surprisingly powerful, high-pitched shriek that echoed through the chamber. Jon felt a surge of triumph, so potent it was almost painful.
He moved to the crimson egg, then the bone-white one, repeating the final stages of the anointing and the intense focus of his will, now amplified by the success with the first. Soon, all three eggs were cracking, shattering, releasing their occupants into the warm, humid air of the hidden nursery.
The crimson dragon was a deep, blood-red, its scales tipped with black, its eyes like burning coals. It was more aggressive than the first, snapping its tiny, needle-toothed jaws. The third, from the bone-white egg, was a startling creature of pale cream and gold, with eyes the color of a sunset, emitting an aura that felt both hot and strangely cold, like fire on ice.
They were small, no larger than cats, clumsy on their oversized feet, their wings still damp and folded. But they were undeniably dragons. Alive. Here, in the heart of Winterfell.
Jon sank to his knees, a wave of exhaustion washing over him, but his eyes never left the hatchlings. He had done it. He extended a bloodied hand slowly towards the green one, the firstborn. It hissed, then, hesitantly, nudged his fingers with its snout, its silver eyes blinking. A connection sparked, a nascent bond forged in blood and magic, far deeper than mere imprinting. He felt a flicker of its nascent consciousness: hunger, confusion, a surprising awareness.
He repeated the gesture with the other two, establishing that initial, crucial link. These were not mere beasts to him; they were the future of his House, the inheritors of a dual legacy of magic and might.
Over the next few weeks, Jon became their primary caregiver. He fed them charred meat, which they devoured with voracious appetites. He spoke to them in the Old Tongue and in Valyrian, sensing they responded to the cadence and intent more than the words themselves. He named them. The green one, agile and observant, he named Veridian, for its color and a subtle nod to the Latin roots Flamel knew. The aggressive crimson and black, he named Balerion, a daring, almost arrogant choice, but also a private acknowledgment of the power he intended it to one day wield – a new Balerion, bound to House Stark. The pale cream and gold, with its unusual aura, he named Ghostfyre, linking it to the direwolves and the ethereal nature of Northern magic.
The dragons grew with astonishing speed in the magically charged, warm environment. Their bond with Jon deepened daily. He could feel their presence in his mind, a faint, warm hum, a sharing of rudimentary emotions. He knew, with absolute certainty, that they were his, and would be loyal to his blood.
While the dragons were his most consuming secret, life in Winterfell, and the North, continued. His son, Beron, was now almost six. The boy's accidental magic had become slightly more frequent, if still uncontrolled. A toy wolf would animate and walk a few steps, a cup would rattle and slide across the table when he was upset, flowers would bloom out of season in a patch of earth he played near in the Godswood.
Jon decided it was time for more direct, albeit still heavily veiled, instruction. He couldn't take Beron to the dragon nursery – not yet. It was too soon, too dangerous. But he could begin to lay the foundations of magical discipline.
"Beron," he said one afternoon, finding his son in the library, ostensibly looking at picture scrolls but more likely trying to sneak a treat from a hidden jar. "Come with me."
He led Beron not to the Godswood this time, but to a small, unused tower room he had quietly claimed and warded. It was bare save for a table, two chairs, and a few simple objects: a smooth stone, a feather, a cup of water.
"You are a Stark of Winterfell, Beron," Jon began, his voice serious but not unkind. "Our blood is old. Older than most. And it carries… echoes. Memories. Strengths."
Beron looked at him, his grey eyes wide and attentive. He'd always been a perceptive child.
"Sometimes," Jon continued, picking up the feather, "you might feel things. Make things happen. Without meaning to." He met his son's gaze. Beron flushed slightly, but nodded.
"It is a gift, son. A part of you. But like a wolf pup learning to use its teeth, it must be understood. Controlled." He held the feather out. "Focus on it. Feel its lightness. Imagine it lifting, just a little, on a gentle breeze you create in your mind."
Beron stared at the feather, his small face screwed up in concentration. Nothing happened. He huffed in frustration.
"Patience," Jon said calmly. "It is not about forcing it. It is about… asking. Guiding. Close your eyes. Feel the air in this room. Feel your own breath. Now, imagine a tiny part of that breath, a gentle puff, nudging the feather."
Beron tried again, his brow furrowed. For a long moment, there was silence. Then, the feather twitched. It lifted, barely a fraction of an inch, hovered for a second, then fell.
Beron's eyes flew open, shining. "I did it! Papa, I did it!"
A genuine smile touched Jon's lips. "You did, Beron. The first step." He felt a profound sense of satisfaction. The Flamel magic was indeed breeding true in his Stark heir. This was more important, in the long run, than even the dragons. The dragons were power. The magic in his bloodline was continuity, the wellspring from which generations of guardians would draw.
He began regular, secret sessions with Beron, teaching him basic meditation, focus techniques, and the very simplest of charms, always disguised as games or mental exercises. He stressed control, subtlety, and absolute secrecy. "This is our secret, Beron," he would say. "A Stark secret. Not to be shared, not even with Mama, or Arya, or your friends. Not until you are much older, and I say it is time." The boy, thrilled to be included in such a solemn, important confidence with his Kingly father, swore he would never tell.
Meanwhile, Jon's alchemical work on the Elixir of Life continued in his primary vault. The Wolfswood fungi and weirwood sap combination showed remarkable promise. After months of careful refinement, distillation, and charging with his own magical essence under specific astrological alignments Flamel had meticulously charted, he produced a small vial of shimmering, silver liquid. It was not the true Elixir born of a fully-fledged Philosopher's Stone, the one that granted near-absolute immortality. This, he theorized, was more akin to the earlier versions Flamel had created, capable of significantly extending life, perhaps by a century or two per dose, and halting aging, but requiring periodic replenishment.
He held the vial to the light, the silver liquid swirling within. The temptation to test it himself was strong. But caution, Voldemort's hard-learned lesson, prevailed. He needed to observe its effects first, on something less critical than himself. He considered animal trials, but Flamel's notes indicated the Elixir's truest effects were most pronounced on sentient magical beings.
His thoughts turned to Lyra. She was strong, loyal, the mother of his children. But she was not magical, not in the way he and Beron were. Would she even want this? To live for centuries, watching the world change, her non-magical friends and more distant family wither and die? Could he share this monumental secret, this burden of extended life, with her? The potential for complications, for emotional fallout, was immense. Voldemort would have dismissed such concerns. Flamel, who had shared his life with Perenelle for six centuries, would have understood the longing for companionship. Jon was torn.
For now, he decided to hold back on offering it to Lyra. He would continue to refine it, observe it, perhaps find a less… permanent way to gauge its initial effects. The dragons, perhaps? No, their physiology was too alien.
He did, however, consider a different kind of application. Maester Arryk was growing old, his knowledge vast but his body frail. A small, diluted dose, presented as a potent restorative cordial of Jon's own concoction… it might sharpen the Maester's mind, extend his usefulness for a few more decades, giving Jon continued access to the Citadel's lore without raising suspicion by seeking a new, younger maester who might be more inquisitive. It was a ruthless, pragmatic thought, classic Voldemort, but cloaked in Flamel's subtlety. He filed the idea away.
News from the wider world was sparse in the isolated North, but what trickled in was of interest. There were whispers from Lys and Tyrosh of a Valyrian trade galley, the Sea Serpent, disappearing near the Basilisk Isles. Some said pirates, others a freak storm. Lord Malarys Vaelaros and his crew were presumed lost, along with a 'valuable but unspecified' cargo. The Valyrian Freehold, arrogant in its power, seemed to have written it off as a minor loss, more concerned with their internal rivalries and the ever-present tensions in the Disputed Lands. Jon allowed himself a rare, grim smile. His secret was safe.
Moat Cailin's new fortifications were nearing completion, a string of grim, magically hardened towers that would make any southern army pause. The North's granaries were fuller than they had been in generations, thanks to the agricultural improvements. His network of agents, both within the North and now extending tentatively into the Riverlands and the Vale, was growing, a web of whispers and watching eyes.
But his greatest achievement, his most treasured secret, lay deep beneath Winterfell. Veridian, Balerion, and Ghostfyre were growing rapidly, their initial clumsiness giving way to a reptilian grace. Their screeches were deepening into rumbles, and occasionally, Balerion would cough out a puff of acrid black smoke and a flicker of orange flame.
Jon spent as much time as he could in the hidden nursery, reinforcing their bond, guiding their nascent instincts. He knew the day would come when the geothermal chamber would be too small. He was already scouting locations in the most remote, mountainous regions of the North for a larger, more permanent, and equally secret lair.
He stood one night on the battlements of Winterfell, the cold wind whipping his cloak. Below, the castle slept. Above, the stars glittered with icy clarity. Thirty years until the Doom of Valyria. Thirty years to raise his dragons, to train his heir, to perfect his Elixir, to transform the North into an unbreachable fortress, guarded by magic and fire. It seemed a long time, yet also terribly short.
He was King Jon Stark. He was the shadow of Voldemort, remade with the wisdom of Flamel. He was the father of dragons, the progenitor of a new line of wizards. He was the North's silent, eternal guardian in the making. And as he looked out over his dark, sleeping kingdom, he felt not arrogance, but a cold, profound sense of purpose. The game was afoot, and the board was vaster than anyone knew. The White Walkers would come one day. The Andal kings and their southern ambitions would always be a threat. Valyria, even in its death throes, would unleash chaos. But the North would endure. He would ensure it. With fire, with blood, and with magic whispered on the winter wind.