Reborn

It has been a Twenty namesday since Torrhen Stark, the last King in the North, bent the knee to Aegon Targaryen, the Conqueror. Their fateful meeting took place at the Neck, where the armies of the North and the hosts of House Targaryen faced one another in grim silence, the outcome uncertain. For three days, Torrhen and Aegon held private counsel, far from the ears of their lords and bannermen.

Their talks were not concerned with gold or conquest, but with the soul of the North — the sacred rites of the Old Gods, the sovereignty of Northern law, and the unbroken rights of House Stark.

Torrhen did not kneel as a coward, but as a protector, choosing peace over slaughter, the future of his people over fleeting pride. Through his submission, he ensured that under Targaryen rule, the North would remain whole, its customs honored, and its gods left undisturbed beneath the ancient boughs of the weirwood trees.

From those talks was born the Pact of Ice and Fire — a solemn accord, signed by both kings, binding dragon and wolf in uneasy alliance. But it was not made lightly. It was written with the understanding that should the pact ever be broken, then the oaths sworn in its name would be rendered moot — and the North, unbound.

Third-person pov

Winterfell — Outside the Birthing Chamber

The stone corridor was lit by torchlight, flickering shadows against ancient walls. Snow howled faintly beyond the keep. From within the birthing chamber came the muted sounds of pain, life, and struggle. Torrhen Stark, clad in black furs, stood unmoving like a carved statue, while his son Brandon paced the corridor, his jaw clenched tight.

Brandon Stark: (tense)

The maester said it's going well... but it's been hours. Too long.

Torrhen Stark: (voice low, steady)

The North doesn't yield to time, nor do its women. She'll come through. And so will the child.

Brandon:

Gods, I hope you're right. I've seen peace, but never trusted it. It always feels like quiet before a storm.

Torrhen: (glancing toward the chamber door)

Because it is. Peace never lasts. The dragon and wolf share a fire for now, but winter waits — and not just the turning of seasons. I've seen it.

Brandon: (pauses)

The dreams again?

Torrhen: (nods slowly)

Not dreams—not truly. Visions. They come in fragments. Fire devoured by shadow. A cold so deep it cracks stone. Wolves running through snow that bleeds. A darkness in the sky... no stars. And something older than death, walking in silence.

Brandon: (quietly)

The Long Night.

Torrhen:

Or something like it. A second one. I saw the Wall broken. The dead are marching south. Even dragons fell in my dreams — frozen and shattered.

Brandon: (uneasy)

Then all of this… everything we've done, the kneeling, the peace… is it all for nothing?

Torrhen: (firmly)

No. I bent the knee to buy time. Time to prepare. Time to survive. That boy — your son — may be the turning point. I don't know why, but he is important. His name echoes in the trees when I dream. Theon Stark. A name the old gods do not ignore.

Brandon: (swallows hard)

He'll grow strong. I'll see to it.

Torrhen:

He must be more than strong. He must be wise. The North cannot afford lords who only raise swords. It needs leaders who listen to stone and wind, who remember what we are. Winter is not a season. It is a warning.

Brandon: (nods solemnly)

And if your visions are true... then the North must be more than a shield. It must be the sword.

(Suddenly, the door creaks open. A young steward steps out, breathless.)

Steward:

My lords... It's done. Twins. Strong lungs. The mother and children live.

(Brandon exhales shakily, and Torrhen finally allows himself a small smile.)

Torrhen:

Then let the North mark this night well. For tonight, Twin Starks is born... and the future begins its long road.

Winterfell — Birthing chambers

The fire had dwindled to embers, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The newborn twins, Theon and Jonnos Stark, slept soundly in their swaddled blankets, nestled in a cradle by the hearth. The air was thick with the fragrance of winter wood smoke, pine, and fresh snow from beyond the walls.

Torrhen Stark, still bearing the weight of his age, sat by the window, looking out over the Godswood. His weathered eyes scanned the distant trees, as if seeking answers in the dance of the wind.

Brandon Stark: (standing beside the cradle, gazing at his sons)Look at them, father. They already bear the mark of the North. Strong as wolves.

Gilliane Stark: (from her seat by the hearth, a quiet pride in her voice)And they're as different as day and night. Theon... he's a force. He cries like a storm, loud and clear, and his eyes — they shine silver when the light strikes. But Jonnos... his eyes are darker, deeper, like they're pulling in the very shadows of the room.

Torrhen Stark: (turning his gaze from the window, a thoughtful expression crossing his face)Aye, Theon's eyes... they almost look like liquid silver when the light falls on them, like the moonlight on snow. There's something in that boy that calls to the old blood. But Jonnos... his eyes are darker still. Not grey, but almost black. They absorb the light, like they're looking into the void.

Brandon Stark: (raising an eyebrow)A strange pair, isn't it? One with eyes that shine like the storm, and the other like the night. Which one do you think will carry the weight of Winterfell, father?

Torrhen Stark: (pauses, a faraway look in his eyes, as if seeing something beyond the present)It's not always the brightest light that burns the longest, Brandon. Theon will have fire — that much is clear. But Jonnos… he may be the one to carry the weight of the North's shadows. He's quieter. There's a stillness in him that could be a gift… or a burden.

(A sudden, sharp cry rings out from the cradle — Theon, loud and insistent. The cry echoes, primal and strong, sending a ripple of sound through the walls. Outside, the wind howls fiercely.)

Gilliane Stark: (looking toward the window with concern)Do you hear that?

(As if on cue, a distant howl rises from the Godswood. A long, mournful call, sharp and clear. The wolves are answering. It's a sound familiar to every Stark — the cry of a wolf to the North winds.)

Torrhen Stark: (nodding slowly, as if the sound has stirred something ancient inside him)The wolves hear them. They are already calling to the boys. To Theon, who cries like thunder... and to Jonnos, whose silence is like the stillness before a storm.

Brandon Stark: (glancing toward the window, troubled)Do you think the wolves know something we don't? The pack is bound to our family... to Winterfell.

Torrhen Stark: (his gaze never leaving the Godswood, his voice low)The North has always been alive with spirits we don't always see. The wolves are the soul of Winterfell. They'll know what the children are before we do.

(The cry of the wolves in the Godswood grows fainter as it echoes deeper into the wilderness, as if fading into the very heart of the forest.)

Gilliane Stark: (quietly, almost as a prayer)They've answered. The gods have heard. The children will carry the weight of Winterfell in their blood, one way or another.

Brandon Stark: (sighing deeply, rubbing his hand over his face)I only hope we're ready. They're born with the weight of the North in their veins. Who knows what path they'll walk?

Torrhen Stark: (his voice firm, but his eyes filled with uncertainty)The North will shape them, as it shaped me. But their hearts will decide their fate. Let them walk the path they choose. For now, we protect them. For the storm that's coming… it will find no rest until it's over.

(Another cry — this time from Jonnos. A soft, almost unnoticeable sound, but it echoes in the quiet of the room like a whisper from another time.)

Gilliane Stark: (with a smile, though her eyes hold a touch of fear)Both of them... will be strong. I know it.

Torrhen Stark: (finally turning away from the window, his gaze softening as he looks at the twins)Yes. Strong enough to face whatever comes. Strong enough to survive the darkness. We will guide them… but the wolves will show them the way.

Winterfell — Lord's Solar, Dusk

The day had drawn to a close, the sky darkening as the last of the daylight dimmed. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the oak furniture. The silence of the Solar was heavy with thoughts unsaid, and Torrhen Stark and Brandon Stark stood before the fire, their faces etched with the weight of responsibility.

Torrhen's posture was weary, his aged features tired from the constant burden of leadership. Brandon, younger but with the same hard lines of duty, stood with arms crossed, eyes fixed on the fire, lost in thought.

Torrhen Stark: (breaking the silence, his voice calm but firm)It's been a long road, Brandon. The birth of the twins brings hope, but there's little enough to go around these days. The North... it struggles. Winter's toll has drained our coffers. The smallfolk are just starting to leave their shelters and head back to the fields. But it will take more than the thaw to recover what we've lost.

(He pauses, his eyes scanning the room as though searching for answers in the stone walls.)

Brandon Stark: (his gaze hardens as he speaks)The North was never rich in coin, Father. We trade what we can, and we farm what we can, but we've always been strong in our unity, in our people. But now... with the wounds of the winter fresh, there's not much to look forward to.

Torrhen Stark: (nodding solemnly)Aye, we've been through worse, but the path ahead will be long and fraught with difficulties. We'll need to keep the bannermen united, but I fear their loyalty is fraying. Some have begun to question... well, the price we paid.

(He turns toward Brandon, his expression heavy.)

And not just with coin, but with honor.

Brandon Stark: (eyes narrowing, his voice growing more intense)You're speaking of the kneeling. Some of the old lords still haven't forgiven you for bending the knee to Aegon. They still whisper behind closed doors. The ones who claim we should have fought, should have resisted, should have bled for the North.

Torrhen Stark: (his tone stiffens, an edge of frustration creeping in)I know. I hear the whispers, too. They say the North is lost, that we've surrendered everything.

(He exhales deeply, his hand resting on the back of a chair as he sits.)

But I did what was necessary. We were outnumbered, outmatched. To defy Aegon and the Targaryen dragons would have been the end of the North. I bent the knee to save our people, to preserve what was left of the North, to keep our traditions intact. It was not weakness. It was the hardest thing I've ever done.

(His voice softens, as though remembering the weight of that decision.)

But before that... there were voices in the hall, voices in this very Solar that said we should fight. You remember, don't you?

Brandon Stark: (frowning, his voice dropping lower, a memory surfacing)I remember. I remember when Brandon Snow—your brother—suggested we go to the enemy's camp, during the hour of the wolf, and use the weirwood poisons to kill Aegon's dragons. He was adamant. Said it was our only chance to take the dragons down before they even had a chance to fight.

(His hands tighten into fists, his jaw clenched.)

He was ready to sacrifice everything... even himself. He said he could slip into the Targaryen camp undetected, poison the dragons. I didn't believe him then, didn't know if he could pull it off. But I know he was determined, more determined than any of us, even you.

Torrhen Stark: (eyes darkening, a shadow of regret in his voice)Brandon Snow... He was always a man of action. Reckless, perhaps. But driven.

(He pauses, his thoughts turning inward as he speaks.)

I remember the night he came to me before the council, after we'd already received word of Aegon's landing. He proposed the plan, told me it was our only way to stop the dragons. He was furious that I was even considering surrender. He said that if I bent the knee, we would be dishonoring the North forever.

(His tone grows quieter.)

It wasn't an easy decision, Brandon. He begged me not to kneel, said that no matter what, we should fight.

(He shakes his head, his hand rubbing his temple as he reflects on that fateful moment.)

But I could see the flames in his eyes, the fire of a man who'd already made his choice, who was ready to die for it. And I... I couldn't let him throw away everything. I couldn't send him to die in some Targaryen camp for a plan that might not have worked.

Brandon Stark: (softly, a hint of sorrow in his voice)I don't think he would've cared. He would've gone, regardless. And maybe... maybe he was right. Maybe we should've fought.

(He looks away, toward the darkening sky beyond the window.)

Now he's out there. In Essos. With the Company of the Rose. A mercenary, living among men of no honor, no cause.

(He shakes his head as if trying to shake the image away.)

But he's alive. And for that, we should be grateful.

Torrhen Stark: (sighing, his voice full of weariness)I've heard from him. He's well, according to his letter. He's found his place among the sellswords, it seems. But I still wonder if I made the right choice. I wonder if we were too quick to bend the knee.

(His voice lowers, almost a whisper.)

But I did what was necessary. For the North. For our people.

Brandon Stark: (nodding slowly, his tone resolute)I know you did, Father. You did what you thought was best.

(He looks his father in the eye, a hint of pride and respect in his gaze.)

The North will survive. We always do. Even if some of our blood is spilled in the process.

This fanfiction is mainly AI generated. In this MC is 5 Years older than Jaehaerys I Targaryen.