Winterfell

292 AC

Winterfell

Third Person POV

The solar of Winterfell, a chamber carved from ancient grey stone, offered a sanctuary of quiet warmth against the perpetual Northern chill. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows upon the rich tapestries depicting direwolves and ancient battles. The scent of pine and old parchment mingled in the air, creating an atmosphere of thoughtful contemplation.

Seated around a heavy oak table, etched with centuries of use, were the Stark men. At the head sat King Rickard Stark his gaze steady and wise. He was the King of Asgard and a man who carried the weight of kingdom with quiet strength.

To his right sat his eldest son and heir, Prince Brandon Stark. Brandon radiated an intensity that set him apart. His mind, a whirlwind of innovation, seemed to be perpetually at work, even in repose. His posture was alert, his eyes, dark as the deepest lake, missed nothing.

Beside Brandon sat Prince Eddard Stark, his younger brother. Eddard was a man of quiet honor, his face thoughtful, his movements measured. He was the embodiment of Northern steadfastness, a stark contrast to Brandon's restless brilliance, yet equally formidable in his own way.

The third son, Prince Benjen Stark, sat opposite Eddard. Benjen was the most eager of the three, his spirit yearning for purpose beyond the castle walls. His eyes held a youthful enthusiasm, though tempered by the discipline of a warrior.

The conversation that morning flowed easily, a familiar rhythm of family and duty. They spoke of the recent trip to Winterhold and of the student's feats of skill, and the camaraderie forged between young lords. 

"Benjen," King Rickard began, his voice a low rumble, "the Spring thaw is upon us. Your decision to join the Night's Watch... still firm?"

Benjen nodded, his expression resolute. "Aye, Father. It is. I've spoken with the Members of the watch. I mean to ride for the Wall in a moon's turn. My heart is set on it."

Eddard looked at his younger brother, a touch of sadness in his eyes, but also understanding. "It will be a lonely vigil, Benjen."

"Perhaps, Ned," Benjen replied, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "But the vows remain. And a Stark should always be there, just in case."

Brandon, who had been listening intently, offered a rare, slight smile. "You'll make the Watch proud, Benjen. And you'll have the fastest way to send messages in the world. Just send letters from time to time."

Benjen chuckled. "I will, brother. You've certainly changed the world with those inventions."

King Rickard then turned to Brandon. "How are Hadrian, Barthogan, and young Cregan doing, Brandon? Hadrian must be eager for Winterhold."

Brandon's eyes softened. "Hadrian speaks of little else, Father. He pores over the Winterhold curriculum like a scholar obsessed. He'll be off in a few moons, full of questions for their engineers."

"Barthogan is a wild thing, as always," Brandon continued, a hint of pride in his voice. "He spends more time in the training yard than his tutors would like. A fine warrior, but stubborn as a winter rock."

"And young Cregan?" Eddard asked, a fond smile on his face. "Still silent, that one?"

Brandon nodded. "More so than ever. He watches, always. Sees everything. A sharp mind, a keen eye. He'll be a quiet force, that one."

As the conversation settled into a comfortable lull, a sudden, sharp rap echoed through the heavy oak door of the solar. The unexpected knock broke the tranquility, drawing all eyes towards the entrance. It was unusual for them to be interrupted in such a private meeting.

"Enter," King Rickard commanded, his brow furrowed slightly in mild surprise.

The door creaked open, and a young scholar in the service of House Stark stepped inside. He was not a Maester, for their order had long been dismantled, but a scholar trained at Winterhold, dressed in simple, practical Northern academic robes. His face was pale, and he clutched a sealed parchment in his trembling hand.

"Your Grace," the scholar, his voice tight with urgency, "a message. From the South. It arrived via raven from King's Landing just moments ago."

He held out the scroll, its wax seal bearing the distinctive, dreaded image of a three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen. The sight of it, delivered with such visible distress by the scholar, immediately heightened the tension in the room. This was not a regular missive.

King Rickard's expression shifted instantly from mild curiosity to grave concern. He took the message, his fingers brushing the cool wax seal. He broke it cleanly, unrolling the parchment. His eyes scanned the neatly written words, his jaw tightening with each line.

As he read, a chilling transformation came over King Rickard's face. His usual calm dissolved, replaced by a grim pallor that spread from his lips to his brow. His eyes, usually so steady, narrowed, a flicker of disbelief, then a dawning comprehension, seizing them. A silent, unsettling dread settled over him.

He finished reading, his hand clenching the parchment. Without a word, his gaze fixed on Eddard, who sat closest to him. He handed the letter across the table, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly.

"Read this, Eddard," King Rickard commanded, his voice a low, strained whisper, barely audible above the crackling fire.

The scholar, having delivered his ominous message, bowed quickly and retreated, closing the door softly behind him. The air in the solar thickened, charged with unspoken fear.

Eddard, sensing the terrible weight of the message, took the parchment. His eyes quickly scanned the words. As he read, his own face blanched. His eyes widened in shock, then tightened with profound worry.

"Father," Eddard whispered, his voice incredulous, "it says... the dragons are missing." He read the key passage aloud, his voice trembling: "'All the wild dragons from Dragonstone have gone away. Flown. We know not where.'"

Benjen, listening intently, gasped. His own face turned pale. "Missing? All of them? But... how? Why?" He looked from Eddard's shocked face to King Rickard's grim, unyielding expression.

But Brandon Stark, seated across from them, remained unsettlingly calm. His posture was rigid, his face a mask of cold, almost detached, composure. His eyes, though fixed on the letter, held no visible shock, no panic. It was as if he had always known such a day might come. His presence was a stark, unwavering pillar in the face of the sudden dread.

Then, Benjen's eyes, wide with sudden realization, darted to Brandon. "Brandon!" he exclaimed, his voice sharp with urgency. "Our wild dragons! What about our wild dragons? Are they... are they all present?" The thought that their own ice dragons might have vanished sent a fresh wave of terror through him.

Brandon, without opening his eyes, simply closed them, a subtle shift in his demeanor. His breathing deepened, becoming slower, more deliberate. A faint, almost imperceptible blue glow seemed to emanate from him, a subtle ripple of power that only his family could sense.

He was reaching out, not with words, but with his mind. Connecting. To Winter, his bonded ice dragon, and through Winter, to the others of their kind that lay at long lake.

A moment of hushed tension filled the room. Eddard and Benjen watched Brandon with bated breath, their fears hanging heavy in the air. King Rickard, too, waited, his gaze fixed on his eldest son, trusting in the ancient bond.

After a long, drawn-out moment, Brandon's eyes slowly opened. The subtle blue glow faded. His face remained cold, but a flicker of grim certainty entered his gaze.

"They are," Brandon stated, his voice a low, steady rumble, cutting through the silence. "All of them. Winter confirms it. Our wild dragons are present. Accounted for."

A collective sigh of relief, ragged and audible, escaped Eddard and Benjen. The tension that had held them rigid seemed to deflate, leaving them momentarily weak. King Rickard's shoulders visibly relaxed, a deep breath escaping his lips. The North's ancient guardians, at least, were safe.

King Rickard, though relieved, quickly regained his composure, his mind already racing, shifting from personal fear to the broader implications for the realm. He looked at his sons, his voice firm, infused with new urgency.

"This changes everything," King Rickard stated, his voice grim. "The Targaryen dragons are gone. And their prophecy... this is no longer a distant whisper."

He turned to Eddard and Brandon. "Send telegrams. To every Northern house. To every Lord, every castle, every port along the coasts. They are to message us immediately if they see a dragon. Any dragon. Anywhere."

"And if it's the wild dragons from Dragonstone, they are to report their location, their direction, and any sign of behavior. We need to know where they have gone. We need to know why."

Eddard and Brandon nodded, their faces now grimly resolute. Benjen, though his future had just been altered, looked at his brothers, a renewed purpose in his eyes.

"It will be done, Father," Brandon stated, his voice clear.

Without another word, the three sons rose from the table. The conversation about Benjen's joining the Night's Watch was forgotten, overshadowed by this far graver news. They had their duties. The unknown had just knocked on the door of Westeros, and the Starks, as always, would be the first to prepare. The long night, it seemed, was truly coming.