ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
Alright everyone, that was the last chapter of the penultimate act. Now we're entering the home stretch with the final act—the name of which should be obvious. Unlike the others, this is the act I have the clearest vision for; the battles are already well-defined, with only a few minor details left to work out. See you in the next chapter.
Chapter 68: The Amethyst Crown and the Northern Storm
POV: Emperor Arawyn Stark (307 AC)
The silence of the Godswood of Winterfell possessed an almost divine quality. Near the ancestral trunk of the Heart Tree, where the faces carved into the weirwoods wept tears of red sap, I waited patiently under the faint light of the winter sun.
Two years had passed since we quelled the foolish rebellion of the Blackfyre boy and reorganized the order of the continent in the lands of Storm's End. Two whole years of absolute peace, industrial prosperity, and the strengthening of our borders. In Westeros, a two-year period of calm was a luxury as rare as it was precious... but today we were not here to speak of wars, storage strategies, or military decrees. Today was a day of celebration. I was to marry again—and, this time, it would be my last marriage.
Through the thousands of arcane eyes I kept scattered throughout the castle—flies on the ceiling, ravens on the battlements, and subtle breezes crossing the windows—I observed my bride, Sansa Stark, in her royal quarters. She was surrounded by handmaidens and an entourage of noble ladies, including my two Empresses, Margaery Tyrell and Val.
The choice to elevate Sansa to the position of Third Empress of the North was a decision that bound the coldest political necessity to genuine affection. As one of the most talented users of elemental magic in all the known world, Sansa had developed an overwhelming power: she was capable of freezing entire rivers with a mere gesture of her fingers or raising barriers of fire with a thought. Handing her hand in marriage to any vassal lord of the continent would be a grave geopolitical irresponsibility, as it would grant immense power to a secondary house. In the entire continent, only I and my cousin Aemon had the arcane density necessary to match her.
However, alongside a mystical power of such magnitude, the natural arrogance of nobles tended to flourish. Sansa had always been proud and demanding. She had already made it perfectly clear in the past that she would only accept me as a husband—and that if it were not me, she would remain single for the rest of her life. To seal this dynamic once and for all, the marriage was arranged.
Rhaenys Targaryen, my niece, would also have been a brilliant choice for the position of Third Empress. However, her recent appointment and coronation as Lady of Dorne made the idea impossible. It was administratively impossible to rule Sunspear and, at the same time, reside in Winterfell fulfilling the role of Empress.
The murmur of the guests' voices began to fill the Godswood. Northern lords, vassal kings, Dark Guard generals, and Free Folk clan chiefs settled around the clearing. My uncle Ned Stark approached me with a solemn smile, exchanged a few brief words about the preparations, and withdrew to the entrance of the wood, where he would await his daughter's arrival.
Even though she had been ready for several minutes, Sansa was slightly late in entering. I gave a side smile at the futility of the situation; being late for one's own wedding seemed to be a sacred and inviolable custom for all women of high birth.
Finally, footsteps echoed over the packed snow. My uncle Ned entered the clearing, leading Sansa by the arm.
She was truly breathtaking. She wore a sumptuous dress of grey silk and crimson satin—the ancestral colors of House Stark of Moat Cailin—ornamented with runic silver embroidery and a heavy cloak of Snow Fox fur. Her golden hair was braided into an elaborate crown, and her posture radiated an almost palpable elemental majesty.
The ceremony was officiated by Lord Willam Dustin. And, following the secular tradition of the North, the rites were swift, severe, and stripped of the pompous futilities of the Southern gods.
I approached Sansa, removed her maiden's cloak of House Stark of Moat Cailin, and covered her shoulders with the heavy cloak of the Imperial House Stark: a velvet fabric black as night, bearing the canonical direwolf of House Stark.
We sealed our vows with a calm, deep kiss under the cheers and applause of the nobles.
Hand in hand, we led the entourage out of the Godswood toward the Great Throne Room of Winterfell, where the official coronation ceremony would take place.
We entered the immense stone hall decorated with imperial banners. I settled onto the central throne of the dais, while Margaery and Val occupied their respective thrones on either side. Sansa walked to the center of the hall, adjusted the train of her dress, and knelt with elegance before the imperial dais.
I stood up from my throne, making my voice ressoate throughout the entire hall:
— My lords and my ladies of the Empire! Today we gather not only to feast upon the lasting peace we have built over the blood of traitors, but to celebrate the unwavering strength of the North. And today that strength gains a new and glorious face. Sansa Stark is a woman of peerless arcane talent, trained by me in the elemental arts. She fought for the North as a true Stark should fight, and will defend our people forever. Today, she presents herself before us to be consecrated the Third Empress of the North!
I raised both hands into the air.
Activating my arcana matrix, I instantly condensed the moisture present in the room's atmosphere, combining it with small particles of melted dragonglass and magical purple essence. Before the marveling eyes of the lords, the elemental matter shaped itself in the air, crystallizing into a breathtaking floating crown of a dark purple hue, woven from crystals of amethyst and eternal ice.
Over my head, my own crown of ice condensed. Taking slow steps, I descended the steps of the dais and stopped before the kneeling Sansa. I placed the floating amethyst crown upon her head:
— With this crown, forged from elemental magic and the strength of the earth itself, I crown you Empress of the North. Arise, Sansa Stark... Empress of Summer!
Sansa rose smoothly, turning her body to face the crowd of lords who erupted into a round of applause and shouts of joy. I took her hand and led her to the imperial thrones.
On the dais, the arrangement of the seats followed the order of the seasons: to my right was the throne of Val, the Empress of Autumn; at the center, my imperial throne of Winter; to my left, the throne of Margaery, the Empress of Spring. And, right beside Margaery, stood the fourth seat reserved for Sansa.
As soon as Sansa settled into her place, the invisible web of runes engraved into the seat's structure was activated by her elemental power. The ordinary wooden throne transformed instantly before everyone: the stone became grey like Northern granite, crisscrossed by pulsing green veins and deep cracks that seemed to emit an inner glow of pure fire. The throne adapted perfectly to Sansa's mystical affinity, as she possessed an overwhelming predilection for fire and heat magic.
I sat on my throne and smiled at the hall:
— Now that the formalities have been properly resolved... let us get to what matters: let the imperial feast begin!
Shouts of joy from the nobility shook the castle's structures as servants entered the hall carrying jugs of mead and platters of game. The feast was just beginning.
POV: Prince Brandon Stark (307 AC)
The Godswood of Winterfell offered the only silent refuge I could find in the entire castle.
Even after two whole days since the conclusion of the Imperial Wedding of Arawyn and Sansa, the festivities in the Great Hall were still going full steam ahead. But the true reason I had retired to the solitude of the weirwoods was not the noise of the drunk lords... it was the biological need to escape the sound of my sister Sansa being destroyed with pleasure in the imperial suite.
Arawyn and his first two Empresses, Margaery and Val, decided to join Sansa in bed starting on the second night of the nuptials—claiming, with typical mockery, that the "newbie" needed to be properly instructed and serve the veterans of the harem. That had been more than enough to make me take my chair and ask to be brought to the wood.
I adjusted my heavy fur robes. Between my legs, kneeling on the snow under my heavy blankets, Meera Reed moved her head up and down with a smooth, steady rhythm, helping me relax my physical body while I projected my consciousness far away.
I closed my eyes, allowing my soul to detach from the flesh and sink into the mystical web of Greensight.
My consciousness navigated through the sap channels of the weirwood network, crossing continents and Eras in a fraction of a second. And, at the center of the great spiritual void of the ancestral tree, I found the wrinkled, centuries-old figure of the former Three-Eyed Crow, Brynden Rivers—Lord Bloodraven.
He had his back to me, staring at the darkness of the mystical web. Without turning, his faint, cavernous voice echoed in the void:
— Why haven't you officially married that girl from Greywater Watch yet, boy...?
I blinked in the spiritual projection, feigning innocence:
— What girl...?
The old Bloodraven let out a raspy, dry laugh that sounded like the tearing of dry leaves:
— Don't be foolish, boy... Just because you've learned to hide your thoughts from my sight doesn't mean I don't know exactly what is happening.
— But how do you know, if I block you with Greensight? — I asked, surprised.
— I was your age once, Brandon... — the old man answered, turning his face slowly. His single red eye gleamed in the gloom. — And my lover was Shiera Seastar. I know that relaxed expression on your face perfectly and I know exactly what little Reed is doing to you in the physical world right now.
I felt an overwhelming embarrassment take hold of my mind. The only reason I didn't turn bright red was because it was biologically impossible to blush in the astral projection form of Greensight.
The old Bloodraven sighed, his expression becoming severe:
— Now let's talk of serious matters, boy...
— Yes... What is it? — I regained my composure.
— The elemental cold of the Far North is retreating abruptly beyond the Lands of Always Winter, — Bloodraven revealed in a grave tone.
— But that's excellent news, isn't it? — I responded, frowning. — It's a clear sign that the Others are hiding even further in the deep North because of the Empire's presence.
— No... It is not good news, Brandon, — the old man corrected coldly.
I stared at him in silence, waiting for him to explain.
— The remaining Children of the Forest... the Singers of the Earth who still lived in the deep caves... are preparing to leave and flee for the protection of the Empire, — Bloodraven continued. — Only Leaf will remain by my side to close the ancient cycles.
The bitter understanding of his words hit my mind like a hammer blow.
— So... the time has finally come? — I asked with a trembling voice.
— Yes, boy... The time for preparations is over, — said Bloodraven.
— But the Second Wall that Arawyn built in the Far North is still completely intact and garrisoned! — I argued, trying to grasp onto the military logic of the Empire.
The old man let out a sad laugh:
— An ancient prophecy holds considerably more power than any structure of stone or ice built by mortal hands, boy! If destiny and ancient magic decreed that the darkness of Winter will fall upon a specific place... the darkness will fall there. The final battle of the Long Night will be at Winterfell. If there were a thousand walls between the Lands of Always Winter and this castle, all thousand would fall during the Long Night!
— Why the hell did Arawyn build that stupid wall in the Far North then?! — I shouted in frustration.
— Are you doubting my tactical decisions, cousin...? — a calm, grave, and terrifyingly close voice echoed behind me.
When I turned to face Arawyn, the landscape had already changed against our will. The environment of shadows had vanished, transformed into the top of a frozen, terrifying cliff located in the heart of the Lands of Always Winter. The icy wind howled around us.
Emperor Arawyn was leaning casually against the trunk of a frozen weirwood that definitely hadn't been there a second ago. He had invaded the mystical plane of Greensight with the same ease a man walked through the door of his own home.
Arawyn adjusted his cloak and stared at me:
— I built that 'stupid wall', as you called it, Brandon... to allow the Free Folk and our vanguard troops to have ample time to evacuate, fortify the armories, and retreat in order. Is that a good enough tactical reason for you?
The old Three-Eyed Crow intervened, looking at Arawyn:
— Stop scaring the boy...
Arawyn let out a short laugh and turned his gaze to the infinite horizon of ice.
— Look over there, Bran... — he ordered softly.
Approaching the edge of the mystical cliff, I looked out at the white expanse. In the distance, a dark patch of thousands of bodies moved slowly: the army of the Night King.
However, what truly froze my blood and made my heart stop in my chest were not the common undead.
Behind the infantry of corpses, emerging from the shadows of a perpetual storm, gigantic monstrosities began to appear. They were not the size of our imperial giants... they were aberrations of ice and rotten flesh the size of fortifications and whole houses! Colossal ice spiders, undead behemoths, and hundreds of ancestral wights marched in formation. And, covering the frozen skies, dozens of ancestral Ice Dragons flew over the horde—each of them sporting a wingspan substantially larger than Aemon's own Doomfyre!
I backed away stumbling and fell on my back upon the spiritual snow, stammering in pure terror:
— This... This is the Long Night... We... we don't stand a chance...
Arawyn stepped forward, interrupting my panic attack:
— We will win, cousin.
— But Arawyn! Look at that! — I shouted, pointing at the monstrosities.
Arawyn stared at me. In that exact instant, his grey eyes gleamed with an overwhelming power.
His spiritual presence shed its human form and expanded violently in the mystical plane, stretching and growing until it seemed to cover the entire frozen sky of the Lands of Always Winter like a deity of light and arcana fury. On the other side of the plain, the Night King, the Others, and the Ice Dragons let out roars and howls of dread, as if they could feel Arawyn's colossal presence looming over their heads in the astral plane.
— We will win, Brandon... That I guarantee you! — Arawyn's colossal voice resonated like thunder through the mystical dimension.
The vision fractured violently.
I jumped back and reopened my eyes in the physical world, choking and gasping desperately for air.
The snow of the Godswood of Winterfell covered my knees. Meera Reed was standing before me, her face pale and her eyes wide with worry. She had stopped her movements long ago upon realizing my state of shock.
— Bran! What happened?! — Meera asked, holding my trembling hands. — What did you see?!
I looked at my beloved, feeling the cold Winter wind cut across my skin, and whispered in a trembling voice:
— The waiting time is over, Meera... The Long Night has begun.