Journey Ends

38 AC

Third Person Pov

A day had passed since the return of Theon and Jonnos to Winterfell, the familiar grey walls a welcome sight after their long journey across the North. The courtyard had been filled with the bustling activity of servants and guards, but all had paused as the Stark brothers rode through the gates. Their mother, Lady Gilliane, had rushed forward, tears of relief and joy streaming down her face as she embraced them both in turn, her grip tight and unwavering. Lord Brandon Stark stood slightly behind her, a rare but genuine smile gracing his stern features, his eyes reflecting a father's pride in his sons' safe return and the work they had accomplished.

The air in Torrhen Stark's solar was thick with the scent of old parchment and woodsmoke. The setting sun cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the stern faces gathered around the ancient table. Lord Brandon Stark sat upright, his gaze fixed intently on Jonnos, who was recounting their journey across the North with his usual dramatic flair. Grandfather Torrhen, his eyes sharp despite his advanced years, leaned forward, his weathered hands resting on the table. Theon sat quietly, observing his family, the weight of their shared secrets a tangible presence in the room.

Jonnos was in the midst of describing the reaver attack on Bear Island, his voice animated as he recounted the chaos on the shore, the clash of steel, and the fierce resistance of the Mormonts. He painted a vivid picture of Diana Mormont, wielding her spiked mace with the fury of a cornered bear, his earlier teasing now replaced with genuine admiration for her courage.

"And then, Grandfather, Father," Jonnos gestured emphatically, "they came in these longships, sleek and fast, no banners flying, just pure savage intent. They fell upon the fishing villages like wolves on sheep. But the Mormonts, gods bless them, they fought back hard. And then Theon and our guards arrived, and we pushed the bastards back into the sea."

Lord Brandon's brow was furrowed. "No banners, you say? Ironborn ships, undoubtedly?"

"Ironborn through and through, Father," Jonnos confirmed, nodding grimly. "You could smell the salt and the arrogance off them. But no lord's colors, nothing to tie them to any specific house."

Grandfather Torrhen grunted, his gaze distant. "Pirates, then. Reavers acting on their own." But there was a skepticism in his voice, a sense that there was more to this than a simple raid.

Theon finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying a note of concern. "The scale of the attack was troubling, Grandfather. It wasn't just a handful of longships. There were many, well-organized and fiercely armed. It felt… bolder than the usual reaving." He exchanged a look with Jonnos, a silent acknowledgment of their shared unease.

Jonnos nodded in agreement. "Aye, it was more than just a snatch and grab. They seemed intent on causing real damage."

Lord Brandon steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful. "Bear Island is a hard nut to crack. For them to attempt such a raid… something has changed." He looked at Theon. "Did Lord Mormont have any inkling of why they might have been targeted?"

Theon shook his head. "He was as surprised as we were, Father. They had no warnings, no prior attacks of this scale."

Grandfather Torrhen's gaze sharpened. "The North is stirring. Our projects, our… advancements… they have not gone unnoticed. Could this be a warning? A test?"

The weight of their secrets, the subtle shifts in the North's power, hung heavy in the solar. The reaver attack on Bear Island felt like more than just random piracy. It felt like a shadow stretching from the horizon, a first taste of the challenges that might lie ahead.

A heavy silence fell over the solar after Torrhen Stark's words, the weight of the news settling upon them. The setting sun dipped further below the horizon, casting the room in deeper shadows.

Finally, Grandfather Torrhen spoke, his voice grave. "There is more. A missive arrived from Castle Black just a few days past. The Night's Watch… they have seen signs. A king beyond the Wall. One who is gathering the scattered tribes, banding the wildlings together in numbers not seen in centuries."

A collective unease rippled through the room. Lord Brandon's brow furrowed deeper. "A king beyond the Wall? Who?"

Torrhen Stark sighed, a weary sound that spoke of long years and countless threats to the North. "They call him Ragnar Lothbrok. A charismatic leader, it seems. He has united many of the disparate tribes – the Thenns, the Hornfoots, the Ice-river clans. The Watch fears he intends to march on the Wall."

Jonnos shifted uneasily in his seat. "Ragnar Lothbrok? All of them? United? That's… unprecedented."

Theon felt a cold dread grip his heart. A united wildling host led by such a figure was a threat to North. The Wall, though formidable, was manned by a dwindling force.

"The numbers?" Lord Brandon asked, his voice tight with concern. "What are the Watch estimates?"

"According to the estimates," Torrhen replied, his gaze troubled. "Around a hundred thousand, perhaps even more. Enough to trouble if determined."

Theon fell silent, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth, his mind racing. The news of Ragnar Lothbrok and his unified wildling host hung heavy in the air. After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice measured but firm. "Perhaps… perhaps there is another way."

Jonnos snorted, his skepticism evident. "Another way? They're wildlings, Theon! Savages who raid and kill. What 'other way' could there possibly be?"

"Peace," Theon stated simply, meeting his brother's incredulous gaze. "We should seek peace with them. Ask them to bend the knee, to pledge fealty to Winterfell, and join the North."

Jonnos' jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Peace? Are you touched in the head, Theon? That's about as likely as finding an ice dragon in the Wolfswood! Even if this 'Ragnar Lothbrok' were mad enough to agree, which I highly doubt, the Northern lords would sooner sup on their own boots than share land with those savages. Generations of raiding, of kin stolen and villages burned… the hatred runs deeper than the roots of the oldest heart tree."

Lord Brandon, who had been listening intently, nodded in grim agreement. "Your brother speaks the truth, Theon. The hatred runs deep. It would be near impossible to bridge that chasm."

"Aye, but the true enemy is not the living," Theon insisted, his voice rising with conviction. "It is the dead. Shadows in the snow, creatures that should not exist. If the dead rise in force, what chance do we stand against them divided? We need every living soul we can muster." He looked at his brother, his eyes pleading for understanding. "Think of it, Jonnos. An army of hardened warriors, familiar with the harsh lands beyond the Wall, fighting alongside us against a common foe."

Grandfather Torrhen, who had remained silent, his gaze thoughtful, finally spoke. "Even if we were to entertain this… audacious proposition, Theon, who would go beyond the Wall and speak to this king? It is a fool's errand, fraught with peril."

"I will go," Theon declared, his voice resolute. "I will take a small company of the Wolfpack, those who understand the… the breathing techniques, those I trust implicitly. I will speak to Ragnar Lothbrok myself."

"You? Beyond the Wall?" Jonnos protested vehemently, leaping to his feet. "That's madness! I'm going with you."

"No, Jonnos," Theon said firmly, meeting his brother's gaze. "I am the heir to Winterfell. My word carries weight. If I can convince Ragnar Lothbrok of the truth of our threat, it will hold more value than if anyone else went. And if… if something were to happen to me…" He hesitated, then continued, "then you would be the heir. You would need to be here, ready to take on that responsibility."

Jonnos still argued, his face etched with worry, but Theon remained steadfast. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Jonnos relented. Lord Brandon watched his son, a deep sadness in his eyes, and gave a slow, dejected nod. Grandfather Torrhen, after a long, silent contemplation, finally spoke. "Five moons," he said, his voice raspy but firm. "Five moons from now, you will go beyond the Wall, Theon Stark. May the Old Gods guide your steps." 

The heavy silence that followed Theon's audacious proposal was broken by Grandfather Torrhen, his voice now carrying a different weight, a somber note that eclipsed even the news of the wildling king. "There is other news that has reached Winterfell, lads," he said, his gaze drifting towards the dying embers in the hearth. "A raven arrived from King's Landing, carried by swift wings. King Aegon… his health is failing rapidly. The maesters say he is on his deathbed. It is no longer a matter of if, but when the Conqueror will breathe his last."

A stunned silence descended upon the solar. Aegon Targaryen, the Dragon, the man who had forged the Seven Kingdoms… his mortality had always seemed a distant, almost abstract concept.

Lord Brandon's brow furrowed with a new concern. "The succession… what news of that?"

"The missive was brief on details," Torrhen replied, his expression grim. "Prince Aenys is his named heir, but there are whispers, always whispers in the Red Keep. Of factions, of those who might challenge his claim."

Jonnos shifted uneasily. "A king dying… and talk of unrest in the South. It feels like the world is shifting beneath our feet."

Theon felt the weight of this new information settle upon him. A destabilized South, a potential war of succession, coupled with the threat beyond the Wall… the North was facing dangers on multiple fronts. His journey beyond the Wall now felt even more precarious, a gamble taken amidst a world teetering on the brink of chaos.

Torrhen Stark waved a dismissive hand, his gaze hardening. "The squabbles of the South are of little concern to us. Let the vipers in King's Landing coil and strike at one another. They are driven by ambition and the lust for power, always searching for reasons to spill blood for their own gain. Their games will not shield them from the true winter that is coming. Our focus must remain here, in the North, on the threats that truly matter – the wildlings beyond the Wall and whatever darkness stirs in the frozen wastes. Let the dragons fight amongst themselves; the wolves have their own battles to prepare for." His words were firm, a stark reminder of the North's traditional isolation and its focus on the more primal dangers that lurked in its own harsh lands.

"So be it," Grandfather Torrhen declared, his gaze fixed on Theon. "Prepare yourself to go beyond the Wall when the time comes. Choose your companions wisely. If your negotiations with this wildling king bear fruit, send a raven with haste. I will summon every lord of the North to Castle Black. We will meet with Ragnar Lothbrok and his leaders, face to face, and forge whatever alliance is possible. It will be a delicate dance, fraught with mistrust, but if it offers the North a chance against the true enemy, we must attempt it."

A heavy silence hung in the air, the weight of the decision palpable. Theon nodded, the enormity of the task ahead settling upon him. An hour passed in tense discussion, dissecting the potential pitfalls and the slim possibilities of such an unprecedented alliance. They spoke of the ingrained hatred between Northmen and wildlings, the logistical challenges of such a gathering, and the delicate balance of power beyond the Wall. Finally, as the last embers in the hearth glowed softly, the meeting broke. Theon and Jonnos left the solar, the weight of their respective duties pressing down on them, the fate of the North hanging precariously in the balance.