Chapter 63: The Wolf's Reluctant Oath and the Lion's First Blood (The Game Begins: Part 2)
The royal banners of the crowned stag and the golden lion cast long, imperious shadows over the ancient grey stones of Winterfell. King Robert Baratheon's presence, a whirlwind of boisterous bonhomie, feasting, and royal command, had unsettled the castle's sturdy Northern rhythm. Yet, beneath the surface revelry, a deadly serious game was playing out, its stakes the governance of the Seven Kingdoms, and its opening moves witnessed with chilling clarity by Aelyx Velaryon from his hidden throne on Skagos.
Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, wrestled with the King's demand that he become Hand. His honor warred with his deep-seated reluctance to leave the rugged simplicity of his homeland for the perfumed viper's nest of King's Landing. He sought counsel from his wife, the sharp-witted Catelyn Tully, whose fears for his safety were a constant, loving counterpoint to Robert's insistent pleas of friendship and duty. He spoke also with his most trusted Northern lords, among them Lord Lyulph Volmark of Skagos, Aelyx's public descendant.
Lyulph, guided by the ancient, an-humanly patient wisdom of Aelyx, offered counsel that was both loyal and subtly cautionary. "My Lord Stark," Lyulph said, his violet Volmark eyes steady, his demeanor one of unwavering Northern fealty, "the King honors you, and his need is undoubtedly great. The South is a different beast than the North; its currents are treacherous, its smiles often hide daggers. Should you accept this burden, know that House Volmark, and all of Skagos, stands with you. Our resources, our strength, are yours to command, to ensure the North remains secure in your absence, and to provide you with whatever support you might require in your new, arduous duties. But I urge you, my lord, to walk with utmost caution. Trust few, observe all, and remember that Northern honor, while our greatest strength here, can be a vulnerability amongst those who do not share it." It was advice Aelyx himself would have given, pragmatic and layered.
The decisive factor in Ned's deliberation, however, arrived not through open counsel, but through a clandestine message. A raven from the Eyrie, bearing a letter from Lysa Arryn, Catelyn's sister and Jon Arryn's widow, was delivered in secret to Lady Catelyn. Its contents, which she tearfully shared with Ned, were explosive: Lysa accused Queen Cersei Lannister and her kin of poisoning her husband, the late Hand.
Aelyx's agents within Winterfell – glamoured house-elves serving as unobtrusive chambermaids and castle servants – noted the sudden shift in Lord Stark's demeanor, the hardening of his jaw, the grim resolve that settled in his grey eyes. "So, the accusation is made," Aelyx observed from Mount Skatus, as Eloric relayed the news. "Whether true or a grief-stricken widow's paranoia, it matters little. It provides Eddard Stark with the one thing his honor cannot refuse: a call to justice, a duty to uncover the truth behind his foster father's death. He will go south now, not just as Robert's friend, but as an avenger. A dangerous path indeed."
And so, Eddard Stark accepted the King's offer. He would be Hand. He would bring his daughters, Sansa (betrothed now to the vile Prince Joffrey) and Arya, to court. He would leave his sons Robb, Bran, and Rickon, and his lady wife, to govern Winterfell in his stead.
The royal court at Winterfell continued its boisterous, often strained, existence. King Robert, relieved and jovial now that Ned had agreed, spent his days hunting, drinking, and reminiscing about past glories, largely oblivious to the simmering tensions around him. Queen Cersei, her green eyes like chips of ice, watched Eddard Stark with a mixture of disdain and calculation. Her twin brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, remained a figure of golden arrogance, his prowess in the yard unmatched, his gaze often lingering on his sister with an intensity that Aelyx's observers noted with cold confirmation of their incestuous secret.
Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, was a constant, intriguing presence. He spent much of his time in Winterfell's library, or in conversation with various Northern lords, including Lord Lyulph Volmark. Tyrion, Aelyx knew, had not forgotten his visit to Skagos years prior, nor the enigma of its boundless wealth.
"Lord Volmark," Tyrion said one evening, finding Lyulph in a quiet alcove overlooking the feasting hall, his tone laced with casual curiosity. "Your Skagos still thrives, I trust? The Heir's Hoard continues to yield its… remarkable bounty?"
Lyulph, ever the composed Northern lord, his responses guided by Aelyx's unseen counsel, replied, "Skagos endures, Lord Tyrion, as does the North. The Old Gods have been kind to us. Our people work hard, and our mine provides for our needs and allows us to support our liege lord and the realm."
"Indeed," Tyrion mused, his mismatched eyes glinting. "A most… generous mine. One might almost call it miraculous. Such consistent yield, for so many generations. Many a Southern lord, my father included, would trade half their lands for such a 'blessing.'"
"Perhaps the cold Northern air preserves its richness, my lord," Lyulph offered with a faint smile, a response designed to be both polite and utterly uninformative. Aelyx noted Tyrion's persistent probing; the Imp was like a terrier with a particularly interesting bone. He would not easily let go of the Skagosi mystery.
The royal children, meanwhile, provided their own, more overt, displays of character. Prince Joffrey, handsome but cruel, took delight in tormenting young Robb Stark during sparring sessions, his arrogance already a chilling prelude to the king he would become. Sansa Stark, smitten with her prince, remained largely oblivious to his true nature. Arya, wild and defiant, clashed frequently with her prim septa and found a kindred spirit in her bastard brother, Jon Snow. And young Bran Stark, adventurous and agile, continued his climbs upon the ancient walls of Winterfell, seeking out its hidden places, its highest roosts.
It was this last habit that precipitated the first truly bloody act of "the game." Bran, climbing the crumbling stones of the First Keep, stumbled upon a sight no child should witness: Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime Lannister, locked in an incestuous embrace. Before Bran could fully comprehend what he had seen, or cry out, Jaime Lannister, his handsome face a mask of cold fury, seized the boy and, with a callous whisper of "The things I do for love," shoved him from the high window.
Aelyx received the news with a surge of icy rage that surprised even himself. It was not for the boy, specifically – mortal lives were fleeting things to his immortal perspective – but for the sheer, brazen arrogance of the Lannisters, their willingness to murder a child, a Stark, in their own home, to protect their poisonous secret. This was an escalation beyond even his most cynical predictions for the opening moves of this new game.
His house-elf agents, disguised as castle servants, were among the first to "discover" the gravely injured Bran, his small body broken at the foot of the tower. They relayed the immediate, horrified chaos, Catelyn Stark's unearthly screams, the grim faces of the Stark household. Lyra and Daenys, their greensight flaring with images of a crippled boy and a winged wolf, confirmed the magical and prophetic significance of the event.
"They play for keeps, these golden lions," Aelyx declared to his inner circle, his voice like the grinding of glaciers. "Attempted murder of a child, a son of the Warden of the North, on Northern soil. This is an act of war, whether Robert or Eddard yet realize its full import. The Lannisters believe themselves untouchable."
He knew, with chilling certainty, that this was not an accident. It was a deliberate act to silence a witness. It confirmed the truth of Jaime and Cersei's incest, and the bastardy of Robert's supposed heirs. Eddard Stark was now walking into a den where his enemies would not hesitate to kill children to protect their secrets.
As Ned Stark prepared for his departure south, his heart heavy with Bran's fall and the unwelcome burden of the Handship, Lord Lyulph Volmark made a formal offer, one Aelyx had insisted upon. "My Lord Stark," Lyulph said, his voice resonating with sincere loyalty, "Skagos grieves with you for young Bran. Our finest healers" (house-elf healers with mundane disguises, their skills far surpassing any maester) "are at your disposal, should you require them, though I know Maester Luwin is most capable. Furthermore, as you journey south into… less certain lands, I offer you a personal guard of fifty of my most trusted Skagosi warriors. They are skilled, loyal, and accustomed to harsh conditions. Let them be your shadow, your shield."
Ned, touched by the offer, initially demurred, not wishing to strip Skagos of its own men. But Lyulph, gently persuasive, insisted that Skagos had thousands more, and that Lord Volmark's honor demanded he ensure his liege lord's safety. Eventually, Ned agreed to take a smaller company of twenty Skagosi guards, their dark grey livery a somber addition to his own Winterfell men. Aelyx was satisfied; twenty of his elite Shadow Guard, their true magical abilities hidden, their loyalty absolute, would be his eyes and ears directly around Ned, and perhaps, a hidden line of defense should the worst occur.
Lyulph also reaffirmed Skagos's commitment to the North's prosperity in Eddard's absence. "Rest assured, Lord Hand," he stated, "while you serve the realm in King's Landing, Skagos will ensure the North remains strong. Our trade will continue, our granaries will be open to Winterfell, our gold will support your house and your endeavors. The North will not falter." This was more than mere vassalage; it was Aelyx ensuring his primary buffer state remained robust and indebted.
The royal party's departure from Winterfell was a somber affair, overshadowed by Bran's tragic fall and the uncertain future. King Robert, eager to return to the pleasures of the south, seemed largely oblivious to the deeper currents of unease. Queen Cersei's composure was impeccable, her expression unreadable. Ser Jaime rode with his customary arrogance. Tyrion Lannister, however, lingered, his gaze often turning towards the tower from which Bran had fallen, a thoughtful, almost troubled expression on his face. He also sought out Lord Lyulph Volmark one last time.
"A strange visit, my lord," Tyrion commented, his voice unusually subdued. "Tragedy seems to follow my family, even to the ends of the earth. I trust young Bran will… recover."
"We all pray to the Old Gods for his recovery, Lord Tyrion," Lyulph replied gravely.
"Indeed," Tyrion said, then, with a sudden shift, his eyes sharpened. "Your Skagos, Lord Volmark. It remains a place of… singular fortune. Should my travels ever bring me so far north again, perhaps I might impose upon your hospitality once more. There is much about your island that still piques my curiosity."
"Skagos will always offer what courtesy it can to a guest of House Lannister, so long as they come in peace," Lyulph replied, his tone polite but noncommittal, exactly as Aelyx had guided.
Aelyx noted the exchange. Tyrion was still digging. The Imp's interest in Skagos had not waned. This was a loose thread Aelyx would have to monitor.
Jon Snow, Eddard Stark's bastard, made his own fateful decision, choosing to take the black and join the Night's Watch. He would travel north to the Wall with his uncle Benjen Stark, and, for part of the journey, with Tyrion Lannister, who expressed a bizarre desire to see the end of the world. Aelyx found this development particularly intriguing. Jon Snow, with his hidden Targaryen lineage (a secret Aelyx was now all but certain of, his seers' visions around the boy growing stronger and more tinged with ice and fire), going to the Wall, where Bloodraven, another Targaryen with magical abilities, now resided as Lord Commander… the threads of fate were weaving a complex tapestry.
As the royal procession, with Eddard Stark and his daughters in its wake, finally rode out from Winterfell's gates, heading south towards destiny and disaster, Aelyx Velaryon watched from afar. The game had indeed begun. The pieces were in motion, the board set for a conflict that would engulf the Seven Kingdoms. He had his observers in place, his resources deployed, his hidden kingdom secure. He was not a direct player in this mortal game of thrones, not yet. He was the grandmaster, watching from an entirely different plane, his own game spanning centuries, his goals far transcending the petty squabbles for a jagged iron chair. But the chaos to come, he knew, would inevitably present opportunities for a patient, immortal king who commanded dragons and shadows. The fall of houses, the deaths of kings, the burning of kingdoms… all were but fleeting moments in the endless river of time, a river whose deepest, truest current Aelyx intended to direct.