#warging

I imagine Edd and Satin losing their minds trying to keep the various factions at The Wall in line, while their dead friend's large, apex predator dog seems even more lucid than normal.

Robb the Warg

Something I think is overlooked, largely because we don't get to look into his head (and he never confides in Bran or Catelyn about it) is that robb, like his siblings, starts the series by being given this supposedly divine animal companion that he shares a soul with. during the events of the first few books, all of the other starklings are accidentally warging and we see it affect them - they’re afraid, curious, getting used to eating raw meat in wolf form, and throw themselves into Identifying As An Animal. some quotes here, although none of this is stuff we all don't know-

Gendry nodded. Hot Pie said, "Hoot like an owl when you want us to come." "I'm not an owl," Arya said. "I'm a wolf. I’ll howl."

And later, when she's ready, Arya isn't the one to howl but another wolf-

When he stopped moving, she picked up the coin. Outside the walls of Harrenhal, a wolf howled long and loud. She lifted the bar, set it aside, and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Which leads us to think that perhaps it's Nymeria, that Arya made Nymeria howl, and perhaps Arya can still warg - something that is confirmed in the next book when Arya has dreams of leading a wolfpack and finds her mother's body, with Nymeria guarding it from being eaten by other wolves. Later on, Arya skinchanges into a cat in braavos while she's blind-

The priest winced and snatched his hand back. "And how could a blind girl know that?" I saw you. "I gave you three. I don't need to give you four." Maybe on the morrow she would tell him about the cat that had followed her home last night from Pynto's, the cat that was hiding in the rafters, looking down on them. Or maybe not. If he could have secrets, so could she.

We have several scenes where both Arya and Bran identify as wolves, and even howl alongside wolves. Rickon too howls along with the wolves, and his behavior becomes noticeably more animal like.

And of course we have jon snow, who even despite having visions of opening his third eye, meeting other skinchangers, and being involved in magical plots, is actively ignoring his own abilities. It's basically common knowledge at the Wall at this point, even Stannis comments on it-

“Aye. All that, and more. You are a warg too, they say, a skinchanger who walks at night as a wolf.” King Stannis had a hard smile. “How much of it is true?”

SO ALL OF THAT TO SAY....if Jon, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, all of whom have living wolves, are skinchanging regularly, if all these kids are practically steaming with magic...why isn't Robb? Well....he is! And the thing is, he hints at it to Bran-

"Did you hear Summer howling last night?" "Grey Wind was restless too," Robb said. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, and a reddish stubble covered his jaw, making him look older than his fifteen years. "Sometimes I think they know things … sense things …" Robb sighed. "I never know how much to tell you, Bran. I wish you were older."

Like Arya's initial re-settling of her bond with Nymeria in the Riverlands, like Jon's continued refusal to admit how much power he has, Robb doesn't understand what he's doing, can sense something off about the wolves, but can't quite put it into words. Later on, some of the men remark on how Robb was able to find the goat trick around the Golden Tooth-

"How did the king ever take the Tooth?" Ser Perwyn Frey asked his bastard brother. "That's a hard strong keep, and it commands the hill road." "He never took it. He slipped around it in the night. It's said the direwolf showed him the way, that Grey Wind of his. The beast sniffed out a goat track that wound down a defile and up along beneath a ridge, a crooked and stony way, yet wide enough for men riding single file. The Lannisters in their watchtowers got not so much a glimpse of them." 

It's from a Frey, and just a rumor, right? Except later on, Jeyne makes this comment to Catelyn-

"Robb has not eaten all day. I had Rollam bring him a nice supper, boar's ribs and stewed onions and ale, but he never touched a bite of it. He spent all morning writing a letter and told me not to disturb him, but when the letter was done he burned it. Now he is sitting and looking at maps. I asked him what he was looking for, but he never answered. I don't think he ever heard me. He wouldn't even change out of his clothes."

Does that behavior sound familiar? It should because Bran also does this when he's warging - not only does he go still for hours, but he usually forgets to eat because he eats through Summer, something Jojen and Bran even talk about.

But that's the problem - Robb has no Jojen, no wildlings, no Jaqen, no Osha to tell him what the hell he's doing and that magic still exists. He's completely lost in the political story and cut off from any magical ties despite actively doing magic. And I think this weights heavy on him because while Arya and Bran, for example, start to identify more as animals, as wolves, as their warging powers go stronger, Robb shies away from this-

"A hall is no place for a wolf. He gets restless, you've seen. Growling and snapping. I should never have taken him into battle with me. He's killed too many men to fear them now. Jeyne's anxious around him, and he terrifies her mother." And there's the heart of it, Catelyn thought. "He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you." "I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me." Robb sounded cross. "Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen—" "I saw Bran's wolf tear out a man's throat at Winterfell," she said sharply, "and loved him for it."

Why is he so cross? Perhaps because he's losing the ability to differentiate between himself and the wolf he regularly shares a mind with, controls? Perhaps because he's killed inside that wolf's head? Perhaps because he thinks he's going crazy?

And of course, his final moment that echoes Jon's - Robb whispers Grey Wind's name, Jon whispers Ghost. And just like it's guessed that perhaps Jon whispered Ghost's name because he's about to actively slip into Ghost's skin for the first time so his body can heal without his soul inside it, Robb is slipping into Grey Wind in his final moments. As Varamyr points out, this is common with skinchangers - a second, much more simple life when your first is ended.

So all this to say - Robb is actively warging Grey Wind throughout the series and starts losing his own sense of self in Grey Wind.

Grey Wind as Robb's Wife

Okay but what does this have to do with their bond? Well the thing is...Grey Wind does not exist outside of Robb. Nymeria, Summer, and Ghost both go off on their own; Nymeria practically has her own plotline outside of Arya, and Ghost goes on a number of little adventures all by himself. But Grey Wind begins and ends with Robb. Much like how Catelyn refers to Ned as the rock her life was built on, how she died with Ned at the ending of agot, Robb is the rock Grey Wind's life is built on, and Grey Wind follows Robb into the grave just moments later.

Not only this, but Robb the Brother and Robb the Warg as identities start to get subsumed into what Bran calls "Robb the Lord" and eventually Robb the King. Because Robb sees this war as his identity, his reason for being, I think he sees himself as almost a liberator - he owes his existence to the brutal murder of the man who was supposed to be his father and his grandfather, as well as the kidnapping & murder of his aunt that anyone with eyes can see completely upended his father’s ability to Feel Happiness Normally. For robb, this war is about not saving his family, but righting all the wrongs and indignities that have ever been done to the north - and when you factor in how quickly the Riverlands flock to him, I think this adds to his resolve because the riverlands is soooo vulnerable and no one’s ever been able to get a handle on them, to properly protect them, not the Targaryen kings, not the petty kings but maybe HE can. It's as Catelyn says-

There would be no peace, no chance to heal, no safety. She looked at her son, watched him as he listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled, yet wedded to his war. He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now: the sword he had laid on the table.

So he’s struggling with magic and identity just like everyone else, and at the same time being subsumed into this other identity of Robb the Lord, Robb the King. I think for a long stretch of time this means he’s combining these identities of Robb the Warg and Robb the King and viewing Grey Wind as his partner, his soul mate, his other half. AKA….his spouse. His husband. His true bride. All of this while he’s using Grey Wind not as a pet or even a defender (contrast to Jon who sends Ghost away when there’s battle or danger!) but as a weapon! But this isn’t because he sees Grey Wind as non sentient, not important, just an animal, it’s because Robb the King, Robb the Warg, it’s all tied up in his head in confusing & horrifying ways.

And that's the exact dynamic most noble marriages have! Men in most of Terros and especially in Westeros see their wives not as independent people but often as extensions of themselves. It’s why Viserys, Robert, Jon Arryn don’t see the “betrayals” at their wives hands coming, it’s why Catelyn phrases criticism in her head as “Ned would have done this", it's why the Khaleesis are required to go to Vaes Dothrak when their husbands die. And so the more Robb sees Grey Wind as his Partner In War, and the more he’s having these impossible true dreams where he is one with Grey Wind, the more Grey Wind is essentially playing the role of a Westerosi Wife for Robb. Summer, Ghost, and even Nymeria have like, lives of their own but Grey Wind is always in the same place as Robb, feeling the exact same things as Robb. Even moreso than Summer, Ghost, Nymeria, Shaggy, and Lady, Grey Wind seems to pick up on Robb's every emotion. He attacks Tyrion because Robb is angry, he bares his teeth at Catelyn when Robb gets cross with her more than once, and very often there's lines like ~Robb stalked from the room and Grey Wind padded along beside him~ or something to that effect.

What's really interesting is that when Catelyn gets back in ASOS, Robb has sent Grey Wind to the kennels because Grey Wind scares Jeyne - the moment Robb marries, he sends his wolf away. He's lost faith in Grey Wind's magical abilities after the "murders" of Bran and Rickon, the murders which sent him to Jeyne's bed in the first place and he says as much-

"I found them, remember? I know how many there were and where they came from. I used to think the same as you, that the wolves were our guardians, our protectors, until . . ."

And the moment Robb is separated from Jeyne, Grey Wind is back at his side, and Robb seems to not only prefer Grey Wind to his anxious little wife, but Grey Wind seems almost annoyed at the imposition of Jeyne-

The day was damp and grey, a drizzle had begun to fall, and the last thing he wanted was to call a halt to his march so he could stand in the wet and console a tearful young wife in front of half his army. He speaks her gently, she thought as she watched them together, but there is anger underneath. All the time the king and queen were talking, Grey Wind prowled around them, stopping only to shake the water from his coat and bare his teeth at the rain. When at last Robb gave Jeyne one final kiss, dispatched a dozen men to take her back to Riverrun, and mounted his horse once more, the direwolf raced off ahead as swift as an arrow loosed from a longbow.

Catelyn remarks that Grey Wind is at his side ones more - "where he belongs" - and from that point until they get to the Twins, Grey Wind remains at Robb's side. Every single scene afterwards mentions Grey Wind with Robb, whether Grey Wind is growling at someone, scouting ahead, or just receiving some scratches from Robb.

love this! i've also had this vague idea of how grrm might be playing with the ideas of free will. the bran/hodor thing is definitely one. then there's the melisandre/renly/garlan-in-renly's-armor prophecy.

and i agree. he's going to sever this supernatural and magic bonds.

i wish so, so badly yet again that we get to see some more of this story, if not all of it.

Don't we all want mooore? :)

Free will and abuse of power is absolutely at the center of the warging gift. Everything that Varamyr uses it for is horrific. He forces himself into animals in order to force people to obey him, or worse. Bran mirroring him in this, at the expense of Hodor of all peope, is the most screaming signal that this gift marks a deeply villainous temptation that Bran must (and will) eventually give up in every way. It is his escape from his grief and his sense of helplessness but it is those very things he will have to face and overcome organically, like any ordinary person.

Every single asoiaf villain - except Ramsay and Euron, those garishly over the top villains (affectionate) - have failed to process trauma and grief and turned to abuse of power to paint over it or pursue vengeance. Blood magic is that ultimate tool of oppressive power that can, at least, be rendered inaccessible.

Regarding Renly:

Stannis shifted in his seat, frowning. "Was, would have, what is that? He did what he did. He came here with his banners and his peaches, to his doom . . . and it was well for me he did. Melisandre saw another day in her flames as well. A morrow where Renly rode out of the south in his green armor to smash my host beneath the walls of King's Landing. Had I met my brother there, it might have been me who died in place of him." (ACOK, Davos II)

It's a beautiful example of what a hack Melisandre really is. We see it more clearly in her POV chapter later, but it's the same thing. She sees a vision, a bare snippet, outside of any true context or insight. Every single extra piece of information she attaches to that is her own inference. It's guesswork. That's why the girl in grey prophecy is such a mess. She sees a girl on a horse in an environment. She even somehow knows she is headed for Jon. Everything else is her own interpretation, from the girl's identity to her motivation to her location in the North.

It was the same with Renly. The idea that Melisandre can give her audience the power to influence events is smoke and mirrors. But oh, it buys her their attention and their willingness to go to extremes.

A rare win for Maester Pycelle:

Arya III, A Game of Thrones

Nettles gaining the trust of Sheepstealer also means nothing against her being a Valyrian and infact supports it as a call back to the Valyrians potential origin of being shepherds.

Why do people accept that only First Men can be wargs but hate the idea that only Valyrians can bond with dragons ??

They saw an opportunity, I think, of the "not-needing-blood-to-be-a-rider" and ran with it.

Perhaps they mistook the more class-diverse pool of wargers and greenseers, etc. (as opposed to Valyrians and Targs having most dragonriders be exclusively upper class or royalty by political intent and design, restricting access) as it being bc First Men chose to not restrict warging to their elite classes...meanwhile if this is true of those who feel this way, it's a fallacy.

Because we never hear or see histories of elite classes or houses actually using warging for any war efforts--not even the Starks--. OR they see warging as so mysterious (which yes it is), warging is not a socially recognized and organized exclusive ability the way the Targs made sure to keep certain Targs have access to dragons. However, unlike dragonriding, you can't stop a warg from wargng, they don't need to access anything external to warg. They are the warg, their ability lives within them, so there is no possible way any ruler could try to exclude a warger from warging to limit wargers to a specific line.

Chapter One: A Long journey

The very north of Westeros is a realm where the world seems to slumber beneath an endless blanket of snow and ice. Here, the air is a biting chill, carrying with it the whispers of ancient legends and the howls of wolves echoing through the night. The land is stark and unforgiving, a vast expanse where the snow-covered hills and dark forests stretch out as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the occasional frozen river or barren, rocky outcrop.

In this desolate and beautiful landscape stands Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark. Winterfell is a fortress as old as time itself, its great stone walls rising up from the white landscape like the unyielding mountains in the distance. The castle is a sprawling complex of towers, walls, and courtyards, each part of it touched by the harsh breath of the North. Its high walls are crowned with frost, and the massive gates, forged of ancient oak and iron, seem to groan with the weight of centuries.

The heart of Winterfell is the Great Keep, a towering edifice of gray stone that dominates the skyline. From its battlements, one can see the vast stretch of the Wolfswood to the west, where direwolves still roam, their eyes gleaming in the twilight. To the east lies the wide expanse of the Kingsroad, winding its way southward through the endless snow towards the warmer, softer lands beyond the Neck.

The Godswood within Winterfell's walls is a sacred place, a haven of ancient trees with branches heavy with snow. At its center stands a weirwood tree, its bark pale as bone, and its leaves a dark red, like the blood of old gods. The face carved into its trunk gazes out with solemn eyes, watching over the quiet grove where the Stark family has prayed for countless generations.

As the cold winds howl around Winterfell, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of winter, the people within its walls go about their lives with a resilience born of necessity. The blacksmith’s hammer rings out in the cold air, the scent of baking bread wafts from the kitchens, and the sound of laughter echoes through the stone halls. The Stark motto, "Winter is Coming," is not just a warning but a way of life, a constant reminder of the harshness of their world and the strength required to survive it.

Sitting beneath the weirwood tree sat the younger sister of Cregan Stark, eyes white as snow and a mind far away from her own body. Atop the great fortress that was Winterfell a bird of prey soared, eyes the same matching white as that of the girl sat against the ancient tree. Humans, in their ceaseless pursuit of power and conquest, found the power to carry swords and armor, their feet bound to the earth while their hearts yearn for what true freedom might feel like. Lyria often watches the birds with envy, their wings cutting through the air with effortless grace, embodying the freedom she craves. Yet, she is grateful beyond measure for the gift of skinchanging, a rare blessing from the Gods that allows her spirit to soar. Each time she melds her consciousness with that of a raven, she savors every moment, feeling the rush of wind beneath her wings and the exhilarating vastness of the world below. In these stolen moments of flight, Lyria truly feels alive, unburdened by the chains of the mortal realm.

A voice of which felt close, yet so far away came to join Lyira’s trail of thoughts, but it was not before the call of her name that her eyes returned to their normal, cool shade of gray. Behind her stood Cregan, her brother, Lord of WInterfell and Warden of The North, his eyes locked with hers, his mouth moving without her being able to make out a single word of what he said. Blinking a few times in hopes of getting rid of the ringing in her ears and the blurriness of her vision, Lyria’s brother knelt made way to kneel before her, his hand coming up to wipe the crimson liquid that escaped her nose.

“How long were you gone, sister?” A question Cregan had repeated for a third time before his sister made sense of what had been asked, her hands found their way to his arms, gripping them lightly as he went on to help her to her feet. When she looked around, it became clear to her that the sun had risen, the sky no longer bleeding gold— she had been gone for a good while without realizing. 

“The sky had yet to look blue when I came outside…” She paused for a moment, taking in her surroundings as she now stood with her feet on the ground once more. Cregan went to link their arms, guiding his sister out from the Godswood, slowly making their way towards the courtyard. “Are we to depart soon? The Gods seem to have granted us fine weather for our long journey– not a single cloud to be seen in the sky.” Lord Stark looked at his sister, her mind still far away even though she walked by his side. It was the usual outcome of her skinchanging— ever since it first happened. It took a while for Lyria to find herself again once her spirit returned into her body, as if it took a while for her to adjust to everything when she no longer saw the world through the eyes of whatever creature she came to possess. 

Cregan turned to his sister Lyria as they arrived in the frost-kissed courtyard, his hands finding and gripping her elbows with a mixture of urgency and tenderness. “We were to leave not long ago, but you were nowhere to be found.” He paused, his eyes locking onto hers with a stern but caring gaze. “I wish for you to stay here, Lyria. The South is no place for a wolf—”

Lyria’s calm fury interrupted him, her eyes flashing with a mix of longing and defiance. “I want to come—no, I need to. I wish to see dragons, Cregan. To feel winds melting my skin instead of the ones that nip at my soul. The North is my home, but you are my pack. You cannot make me stay while you dine with all the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom.”

Her voice, steady yet fervent, cut through the chill of the air. Cregan’s gaze softened, torn between the protective instincts of a brother and the understanding of a sibling who knows too well the pull of one's heart. All Cregan could do was nod. Knowing his sister as he did, he realized there was no arguing with her resolute and wild spirit. With one final, reluctant squeeze of her elbows, he released her, though his gaze lingered on hers, filled with both resignation and affection. "Aye, then you shall dine alongside all the Lords and Ladies, lie your eyes upon the biggest of beasts, and see all that the South of the Neck has to offer."

Lyria’s grin widened, a flash of triumph in her eyes. With a playful jab to her brother’s shoulder, she spun on her heel and hurried towards her black stallion, her heart brimming with excitement. “Then we shall waste no more time! To the South we ride!” she declared, her voice ringing with a blend of determination and exhilaration as she mounted her horse and set off towards the awaiting journey.

The journey south was a grueling one, a week of relentless travel that saw Lyria and her companions spending a cumulative forty hours on horseback. The Northern travelers, accustomed to the biting chill and the steady rhythm of the snowy landscape, found themselves weary from the relentless pace and the varying terrain of the South. Despite making numerous stops to rest and resupply, the weariness of the road weighed heavily upon them.

As they traversed the Kingsroad, Lyria marveled at the changing scenery. The stark beauty of the North gave way to the lush and varied landscapes of the South. Passing the Neck, the looming silhouettes of the Twins came into view, their stone towers rising above the misty waters of the river. The sound of rushing rivers filled the air as they neared Harrenhal, its massive, crumbling structure a stark contrast to the vibrant life of the surrounding lands. 

The Gods Eye sparkled like a jewel in the early morning sun, its serene surface reflecting the soft light and adding a touch of magic to their journey. They pressed on past Sow’s Horn, its name evoking images of the ancient and the mythical, and Hayford Castle, with its imposing walls and storied past.

Finally, after days of arduous travel and the subtle shift of seasons, the travelers were greeted by the sight of King’s Landing. The sprawling city, nestled against the bay, shimmered in the distance, a vibrant and bustling hub of life. Its towering Red Keep and the bustling streets below seemed almost to beckon, a far cry from the cold, unyielding landscape of the North. As the travelers approached, the city’s grandeur and the promise of new experiences provided a welcome contrast to the fatigue of their long journey.

— — —

Lyria, Cregan, and their small assembly of Northerners made their way through the bustling streets of King’s Landing, the city alive with the sounds and scents of the capital. The Great Sept loomed magnificently to their left, its towering spires catching the midday sun, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. In the distance, the Dragonpit’s dome was a stark reminder of the powerful beast it housed below.

As they continued, the Red Keep came into view, a stunning fortress of red stone that dominated the skyline. Its high walls and grand towers were both imposing and awe-inspiring, a testament to the might and majesty of House Targaryen. The Northerners, weary yet resolute, felt a sense of anticipation and respect as they approached the grand entrance leading into the castle grounds.

Upon arrival, they were greeted by an honor guard of Kingsguards, their white cloaks billowing slightly in the gentle breeze, and their polished armor gleaming. Beyond them stood the royal family, a sight both regal and formidable. King Viserys, though frail and in ill health, was seated in his grand chair, exuding an air of dignified authority. Behind him stood Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, his expression stern and watchful. To the king’s right stood his sons, Aegon II with a proud stance and Aemond with a piercing gaze. 

On Viserys’ left, Queen Alicent stood with a composed grace, her presence commanding and serene. Next to her was the princess Helaena, her delicate features reflecting both beauty and melancholy. The Targaryen family stood proud and united, a powerful symbol of the realm’s might.

Lyria, Cregan, and their companions dismounted their steeds, the journey’s fatigue momentarily forgotten in the face of such grandeur. They slowly climbed the steps leading up to the royals, their movements measured and respectful. As they ascended, the Northerners felt the weight of tradition and history pressing upon them, aware of the significance of this meeting between the North and the Iron Throne. The air was thick with anticipation as they prepared to pay their respects and present themselves to the rulers of Westeros.

All of the guests lowered their heads in respect for the king and his family, though it didn’t go unnoticed by the Stark’s that a certain member of the family was nowhere to be seen— the heir, princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

As the lord of Winterfell and his sister approached the king, Cregan was the first to offer his greetings. Their hands met in a firm yet gentle handshake, a silent exchange of respect and acknowledgment. While King Viserys welcomed the young wolf lord, his gaze shifted to Lyria, whose soft features did not go unnoticed by his Grace. 

Cregan then moved on to greet the remaining members of the royal family, each gesture marked by the formal courtesy befitting his station. Meanwhile, Lyria stepped forward, her steps measured and graceful. She curtsied with deep respect before the king, who reached out and gently grasped her hand.

"Lady Stark, your brother failed to mention your presence, albeit I am honored to be graced with your northern beauty," King Viserys said, his voice warm and welcoming.

Lyria offered the elder man a small smile, holding her head high despite barely standing taller than the seated king. "You honor me, Your Grace. We sent a raven, though it seems that we reached your blessed home before it got the chance to inform you of my joining."

The king’s face lit up with a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he shook his head. "Nonsense, my dear. Your presence is that of a pleasant surprise."

His hand continued to engulf hers, a gesture both reassuring and kind. Lyria felt a sense of warmth emanate from the frail yet resilient king, a stark contrast to the icy winds of her homeland. As she stood there, hand in hand with the Realm's protector, she could not help but feel a sense of profound connection and mutual respect. This moment, amidst the grandeur of the Red Keep and the presence of the powerful Targaryen family, was a testament to the strength and unity of Westeros, a tapestry woven from the diverse threads of its noble houses.

Once the king released Lyria’s hand, she moved on to greet Aegon. A mischievous smirk played on his lips, widening as the snow-white beauty bowed her head to him. In a swift motion, his hands found hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a long, rather un-kingly kiss. His violet eyes locked onto hers as their hands parted, his gaze that of a predator eyeing its next meal.

“The Realm has failed to mention that northern ladies are that of beauty, Lady Stark. The view before me is sent by the heavens.”

Surely Aegon thought his flirtatious words would elicit a blush, but Lyria saw the lustful gleam in his eyes, the gaze of a man longing to see what lay beneath the layers of her dress. She smiled—a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—as she replied.

“You flatter me, prince, though I assure you that I am simply human and not a gift sent from the heavens above.”

Aegon chuckled at her response, a small snicker escaping him, followed by a nod. “You could have fooled me, my lady. I look forward to seeing more of you in the coming days.”

Another kiss was placed on her knuckle before she moved to greet the second son of the king: Aemond Targaryen, the one-eyed prince. He stood stoic, taller than his older brother, his well-tended hair resting against the black leather he wore. Lyria nodded at him, her eyes fixed on his uncovered violet eye. This time, she spoke first, her hands intertwined in front of her.

“There are widespread tales of your skills with the blade, my prince. It would be an honor to witness them with my own eyes.”

Aemond’s lips curled slightly, a glimmer of confidence shining in his eye at the compliment. He bowed, his gaze never leaving hers as he extended his hand. Lyria placed her hand in his, and he bestowed a chaste kiss upon her pale knuckles before straightening.

“Your words honor me, Lady Wolf. I suppose it would be a pleasure to demonstrate my honed skills—if the celebrations of my father’s nameday spare us such pleasantries.”

Lyria nodded, her eyes meeting his with a mix of respect and curiosity, the formalities of the greeting charged with unspoken understanding and anticipation.

After greeting the king and princes, Lyria made her way to the queen. Alicent Hightower was young—much younger than her husband. Her auburn hair was neatly braided away from her face, falling freely down her back. A stunning green gown hugged her body, leaves embroidered with gold thread stretching from the collar, wrapping around her waist. As Lyria stood before the gracefully composed woman, she was struck by the realization that Alicent embodied beauty itself. Dropping into a small curtsy, she was met with a forced, yet tender smile from the queen.

“Words do you no justice, my queen. You are as graceful as they come,” Lyria said earnestly. She had never seen such beauty until her eyes slipped to the princess beside the queen. Their exchange was brief, only a few words passing between them before Lyria continued on to Helaena.

Just as Lyria was about to bow her head to the princess, she felt soft, cool hands embrace her face. She met Helaena’s gaze, shocked by the sudden touch of her gentle hands. In the princess’s eyes, Lyria found something familiar—a faraway look, though her physical form was present.

“The wolf can fly…” Helaena’s voice was soft, enigmatic.

Lyria was momentarily confused, aware of the many eyes upon them. Despite not fully understanding Helaena’s words, she nodded, her hands finding and holding the ones on her face. She made no effort to remove the princess’s hands, allowing the white-haired girl to maintain the tender contact.

“The wolf can fly, princess,” Lyria affirmed.

With Lyria’s words, it seemed Helaena returned to her senses, her eyes studying the northern girl she had embraced. It wasn’t often that others responded to her cryptic sayings, yet this stranger from a distant land looked at her with understanding and respect. Helaena smiled, her thumbs softly stroking Lyria’s warm skin. The two stood in comfortable silence, as if the world around them ceased to exist, until the queen beside them cleared her throat.

Helaena’s hands left Lyria’s face, the ghost of her touch lingering on her pale cheeks as the princess took a step back, her eyes still on Lyria, mirroring the curiosity of the Targaryen family. “A wolf with wings is but a rare thing—” She paused, as if the rest of her sentence had slipped her mind. “I’d like to show you the Keep, if you’d let me? The Godswood would be a great start to your stay with us, though I’m sure ours is nothing compared to what your home has to offer.”

Before Alicent or Viserys could stop their daughter, Helaena swiftly led the brunette girl away from the gathering and towards the Red Keep’s own Godswood. The two girls moved in tandem, the world around them a blur as they delved into the serene sanctuary, a silent understanding forming between them.

Arriving in the godswood, Lyria realized that the princess had been right—while the royal godswood was beautiful, it was nothing compared to that of Winterfell. The white bark of the weirwood trees did not blend into the soft summer snow as they did in the North, nor did the crimson leaves provide the striking contrast she was accustomed to. The weirwood tree here stood tall but felt small compared to the ancient giant she was used to praying by, though the somber face carved into its trunk remained much the same, a silent witness to their presence.

The two girls came to a stop before the mighty tree, its roots sprawling out like the veins of the land itself. They sat down by its base, settling into a comfortable silence. Helaena’s eyes roamed the ground as if searching for something hidden in the soil, while Lyria found her small dagger fastened at her hip. Unsheathing the blade, she brought it to her thumb and sliced the skin just deep enough to draw blood. The small drop of crimson, resembling a ruby, gleamed before it met the bark of the weirwood, which seemed to absorb the offering from the northern lady.

The two sat in silence, a sense of peace enveloping them. Though strangers, their brief introduction had unfolded an unspoken understanding between them. The sacred space, with its ancient trees and whispering leaves, provided a sanctuary where words were unnecessary. They were connected by something deeper, something primal and ancient.

Eventually, Helaena broke the pleasant silence. A spider crawled in the palm of her hand as she turned to face Lyria, whose thumb still rested against the tree. “I must ask… How does a wolf fly? Such creatures have no wings, yet your eyes have seen the world from above. How so?”

Lyria looked at the princess, her gaze thoughtful, not sure how the princess knew this information. She took a deep breath, feeling the connection between her and the weirwood tree, the life force that seemed to pulse through its roots and into her soul.

“Wolves may not have wings, but there are other ways to soar,” Lyria began softly. “In the North, some are gifted with the ability to skinchange—to enter the minds of animals and see the world through their eyes. I am one of those few. Through the eyes of a raven, I have soared above the trees, felt the wind beneath my wings, and seen the world from the sky. In the body of a wolf, I roamed the woods and lived freely and in the skin of a bear I experienced the mind of a beast and the power that comes with it. ” She paused briefly, but continued as if knowing that she could trust the princess with such a heavy secret. “I know the South views our ways as wrong, some going so far as to call it black magic, but it is far from truth. I swear it by my Old Gods, for they granted me this gift.”

Helaena’s eyes widened slightly, her fascination evident as she listened. The spider in her hand crawled leisurely, oblivious to the weight of the conversation. “A raven,” she mused, her voice almost a whisper. “How extraordinary. To see the world from such a vantage point… it must be freeing.”

“It is, though I believe you have felt that freedom too.” Lyria agreed, a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s a gift, one I cherish deeply. It allows me to escape, to see beyond the confines of my own body and experience the world in a way few others can.”

The princess smiled, a serene expression settling on her face. “Perhaps we are more alike than I thought, Lady Stark. We both see the world differently, in ways others might not understand.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them faded, leaving only the two of them and the ancient tree that bore witness to their bond. The silence returned, but it was no longer empty; it was filled with mutual respect and the promise of a deepening friendship.

Now it was Lyria who continued their conversation. She removed her thumb from the weirwood and moved closer to the princess, her eyes captivated by the massive red spider in Helaena’s hands.

"That is one big spider. We only have small ones in the North, and it’s rare to be graced with their presence."

Helaena nodded, turning her hands over and over as the spider crawled along her skin. There was no fear in her eyes, only a fondness for the small, eight-legged creature. "I can't imagine the North having many insects... Word says it’s terribly cold in those lands, that snow never leaves the ground." She paused, letting the spider go and watching as it crawled its way up the massive tree they sat under. "Though that is just a word of tongue. I'm sure a true Northerner like yourself would be the right person to ask about such things."

Lyria found her dagger again, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she twirled the blade between her fingers with ease. "Aye, while winter is everlasting, we are blessed with bare ground for a while, albeit very short. Summer snow is not as heavy, nor the winds as harsh. My home might not be as colorful as yours, princess, but the North is beautiful in its own way."

Helaena reached forward, grabbing Lyria's unoccupied hand in hers. Normally, the princess was quite reserved, tensing at physical contact—even from her own mother. But seated under the weirwood tree, observed by the gods, the two girls had quickly come to understand each other. In all earnestness, Lyria had been the first person not to judge her, not to question her odd sayings, nor look at her as if she had said something that should never be spoken. Their friendship, though new, was profound. The Targaryen princess had never been around anyone like the girl wolf seated with her.

Lyria looked at Helaena, her expression softening. "The North may be harsh and unforgiving, but it has its own kind of beauty. The silence of the snow, the strength of the trees, the resilience of its people. It’s a land that teaches you to be strong, to endure. And in that, there is a beauty unlike any other."

Helaena’s eyes shimmered with understanding. "I would like to see it someday. To feel the cold you speak of, to witness the stark beauty of your home."

Lyria smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face. "And I would love to show it to you. The godswood at Winterfell is ancient, the heart tree standing tall and proud. It’s a place of reverence and peace, much like this one, but with a unique northern charm."

The princess squeezed Lyria’s hand gently. "You are different, Lyria. In a good way. You see things others don’t, like me, and you don’t shy away from what you find."

"And you, Helaena," Lyria replied, her voice soft, "are one of the most genuine souls I’ve ever met. Your insight, your way of seeing the world—it’s a gift."

The two girls shared a moment of silence, the bond between them growing stronger with each passing second. The godswood around them seemed to embrace their newfound friendship, the ancient trees bearing silent witness to the connection forming beneath their branches.

Before the two girls could continue their genuine conversation, footsteps approached, stopping a few feet away from them. The girls looked up to meet the stoic gaze of the one-eyed prince, Aemond Targaryen. His right hand firmly gripped the sword at his hip, while his left hand rested behind his back. He studied the scene before him: his sister’s hands playing with the Northerner’s fingers, both of them looking utterly peaceful in each other’s company. A small hum emitted from his throat, his eyes darting between the young ladies before settling on his sister, though she didn’t meet his gaze.

"The King is requesting your presence. You will have time to show the Lady Wolf our home in due course, sister. As of now, though, the day is growing late, and I’m sure our guest would be pleased to clean up before the welcome feast."

Though Aemond had finished speaking, he remained standing in front of them, waiting to be their escort into the castle. Lyria was the first to stand, dusting herself off before lending a hand to the princess and helping her to her feet. As the two of them closed in on Aemond, he offered his arms to the girls—like a proper prince ought to do.

Lyria placed her hand on his elbow, accepting his escort. However, Helaena chose to intertwine her arm with Lyria's instead of her brother’s. Aemond wouldn’t go so far as to say he was offended, but the fact that Helaena preferred to link arms with someone who was initially a stranger instead of her own brother did something to weaken his ego.

As they walked towards the castle, the air between them was filled with an unspoken tension. The courtyard was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows that danced on the cobblestone path. Aemond’s tall, imposing figure contrasted sharply with the delicate forms of Lyria and Helaena. The serene atmosphere of the godswood was left behind as they moved closer to the grandeur of the Red Keep.

Lyria couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for Aemond. She sensed the hurt behind his stoic demeanor, the subtle wound inflicted by his sister’s preference for her company over his. But she also understood Helaena’s choice. There was a unique bond forming between the two girls, one that transcended the formalities and expectations of court life.

As they approached the grand entrance of the castle, Aemond spoke again, his voice a touch softer than before. "Lady Stark, I hope you find your accommodations to your liking. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask."

Lyria nodded, offering him a gentle smile. "Thank you, Prince Aemond. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated."

Helaena, still holding Lyria’s arm, glanced at her brother with a look that held a mixture of apology and defiance. "We shall make haste, brother. But know that Lyria’s company is a welcomed change for me. She understands things others do not."

Aemond’s gaze softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through his eye, despite not fully gripping what his sister meant.. "Very well, sister. But do remember, the feast awaits."

Helaena and Lyria walked slowly through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the warm glow of torches casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. As they reached Lyria’s chamber, Helaena paused and gave her new friend a gentle smile.

"This is your room, Lady Stark. I hope you find it comfortable. I’ll see you at the feast."

Lyria returned the smile, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Princess. I’ll be there shortly."

Helaena nodded, her hand lingering on Lyria’s arm for a moment before she turned and walked away, her footsteps soft and echoing down the corridor.

Lyria entered her room, taking in the opulent surroundings. A large bathtub had been brought in, steam rising from the hot water. She sighed in relief, eager to wash away the dust and weariness of their journey. She carefully removed her travel-stained clothes, folding them neatly before stepping into the tub. The hot water enveloped her, soothing her sore muscles. She took her time, scrubbing her skin clean and letting the warmth relax her.

Once she felt sufficiently refreshed, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a soft towel. She found a small bottle of cinnamon-scented oil on the vanity and applied a few drops behind her ears, enjoying the comforting aroma. She then began to work on her hair, her fingers deftly weaving it into an intricate triple braid that joined into one at the back. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped into a stunning white gown. The shimmering silver thread and stormy gray accents complemented her eyes perfectly, and the white fox fur that draped over her shoulders added a touch of northern elegance.

Ready to join the feast, Lyria left her room and met her brother, Cregan, in the hallway. The two of them walked in silence, the bond between them unspoken but strong. Cregan, in his dark shades of gray and black, with a mighty fur cloak hanging over his broad shoulders, looked every bit the formidable Lord of Winterfell. In contrast, Lyria shone in her white gown, a vision of northern grace and beauty.

As they entered the grand hall, they were met with the sight of lords and ladies already taking their seats. The room was filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of goblets. Helaena spotted the siblings and waved in their direction before returning to her conversation.

The Starks made their way to their seats, their contrasting attires drawing the eyes of many. Once seated, goblets were filled with wine—a more fruity and refined beverage than what they were used to in the North. Lyria took a sip, savoring the unfamiliar taste, while Cregan merely nodded his approval, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests with a warrior’s vigilance.

As they settled in, the feast began in earnest, the tables laden with an array of sumptuous dishes. Lyria and Cregan exchanged a glance, both feeling the weight of their northern heritage amidst the southern opulence. They were wolves in a dragon’s den, but they held their heads high, ready to face whatever the evening—and the days to come—might bring.

The feast in the grand hall of the Red Keep was a dazzling affair. Lords and ladies engaged in lively conversation, the clinking of goblets and laughter filling the air. Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was frequently engaged in conversation with various nobles, discussing matters of the realm, the North, and their mutual interests. Despite the attention, his gaze frequently darted to his sister, Lyria, to ensure her well-being.

Lyria, however, sat mostly in silence. She was a stark contrast to the animated conversations around her. Her quiet demeanor was alarming to Cregan. He knew his sister to be a wild spirit, full of life and opinions. Her silence in such a setting was unusual and disconcerting.

As the feast progressed, and dessert was served, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Most men were deep in their cups of wine, their tongues loosened by the drink. It was then that Lyria, with a determined glint in her eye, rose from her seat. The creaking of her chair drew attention, and soon all eyes were upon her. 

Ignoring the stares, Lyria focused on the royal family. Helaena, sensing Lyria's intent, gave a subtle nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Lyria addressed the king. "My King!" Her voice rang out, silencing the hall. Cregan watched her, confused and worried.

"If I may be so bold and ask," Lyria continued, "it is said that Old Valyria was a place of great things, such as magic. Is that something you believe in, Your Grace?"

At this, Otto and Alicent Hightower, seated beside the king, shot her sharp looks of disapproval. Cregan’s grip on his sister’s wrist tightened, a silent plea for her to reconsider. But Viserys, intrigued by the boldness of the young lady, smiled warmly. He seemed oblivious to the discomfort of his wife and the Hand.

"Well, yes, Lady Lyria," Viserys responded, taking a sip of his wine. "The Targaryens are from a place of old magic. If there are such creatures as dragons, it would be foolish not to believe that things akin exist, no? Any particular reason for these questions?"

Cregan's grip grew more intense, but Lyria met his gaze with a soft yet determined look. In a whisper meant only for her brother, she said, "The South paints us as heathens, brother. We should not be shamed for sharing blood with the First Men. Our home was built atop creations made by the Children of the Forest. Our faith is no laughing matter, and we should not be a jest for our beliefs—no matter how old."

Returning her attention to the king, a mischievous grin played on Lyria’s lips. "It would do me great honor, Your Grace, to show you the gift I’ve been granted by the Old Gods... though I’d much prefer less of an audience for such a matter. Only if it pleases you, my king."

Viserys leaned back in his chair, clearly fascinated by the young Stark's boldness. "Such confidence and conviction in your beliefs, Lady Lyria. Very well, I shall see this gift of yours. Ser Otto, Alicent, and my sons will accompany us. Let us adjourn to a more private setting."

As the king rose, the hall buzzed with whispers and curious glances. Cregan released his grip on Lyria, his expression a mix of concern and pride. He followed the royal family, along with his sister, to a more secluded part of the castle where Lyria would reveal her extraordinary gift.

-----------------------

Like the wall is this giant ice structure that supposedly has magic coursing through it. Per legends, this magic supposedly from the Children of the Forest who helped Bran the Builder build the Wall. It’s an ice structure so I’m not sure if it’s ice magic within the Wall or the more earthy magic of the Children. And it looks like the Wall’s magic pours outward. Melisandre says that her own magic is growing due to the Wall’s influence and this on turn makes her more powerful. So powerful that any spells she casts can do some real damage. Maester Aemon also seems to think that the Wall prolonged his life; the whole cold preserves thing. Aemon is a Targaryen, who are a magical family. I wonder if the magic laying dormant in his blood mixing with the Wall’s? I don’t think we have any other examples of NW brothers whose lives are strangely prolonged. It’s super crackpot-y but fun to think about. There are also theories that Jon’s body may be kept in an ice cell before he’s resurrected. So if we go by Aemon, is it possible that the magic inside Jon and the magic within the Wall mix? Then he won’t be as badly damaged as some people think he will be. I remember Mel saying something like Jon’s shadow has been etched across the Wall so I wonder if this will come up later on. Might be a silly little line or might have some greater magical implications…

Then I’m thinking of the magic within Jon himself. Jon is such a magical being but he (and the fandom) downplays it a lot. For starters, he’s the only person in Westeros history (as far as we know) who has Stark and Targaryen blood. These are two of the most magical houses in the series. So he has the ability to harness a bunch of different powers: warging/skinchanging, dragon riding, prophetic dreams. And he’s already showed affinity to some of these in the text. He one of the more powerful Stark wargs, he gets prophetic dreams, and he has that weird, inexplicable superhuman strength going on. By ADWD, his warging powers are getting so strong that he can now (unwillingly) warg into Ghost without sleeping or falling into a trance. I think it’s safe to assume that resurrection will make him more powerful. Bran unlocks his greenseer powers after his fall and Jojen awakens green dreams after a deadly illness. Arya unlocks skinchanging powers after going blind too. Jon not only has First Men magic but Valyrian magic as well so I think the change in him will be even greater. And I think that actually dying makes a much bigger difference than nearly dying.

I wonder what sort of magical changes we’ll see in him. For sure heightened warging powers and he’ll definitely become a fully fledged skinchanger. I wonder if he’ll be getting more prophetic dreams? So far he’s only had the Winterfell Crypt dreams and the Azor Ahai one but maybe it’s possible he gets more. I’m veering into the crackpot again but I’m remembering his Winterfell crypt dreams and how the Kings of Winter react to him. Ned and Theon have similar dreams (at different places and times) but the Kings of Winter don’t behave as they do with Jon. Ned only says that they look at him judgingly (iirc) and Theon only says they’re angry (not entirely sure about the wording). But with Jon, they actually rise from the dead to confront him! It’s quite scary but it brings to mind Aragorn vs the ghosts in LoTR. And also brings to mind that weird thing Benerro (?) says about people drying in service of Azor Ahai who are reborn again….It might just be GRRM upping the horror aspect of Jon’s dreams but I prefer the crackpot explanation of Jon raising people from the dead. And it’s not super out of left field either! Beric is able to raise Stoneheart; Thoros raises Beric though he’s not a devout follower. If Jon gets some of that R’hllor heat in him then…

Speaking of Beric and Thoros, there’s the whole Lightbringer thing. Thoros does some tricks (I think he uses wildfire?) to set his sword aflame but Beric uses his own blood. If the Red God has a hand in Jon’s resurrection, I wonder if Jon is able to replicate Beric’s actions. But unlike Beric, Jon’s sword will never go out because his sword is Valyrian Steel and his blood is magic. And it will be different from Stannis’ too because his will actually give off heat and will thus be the real deal (sorry Stannis). Maybe this will be the Targ magic in him acting up? Or might we expect other things? But what? There’s also his berserker mode. I’ve been wondering if this is due to his magical nature based on the frequency and the strength. Might be his warging powers manifesting physically or might be because of his Stark and Targaryen heritage. And if we veer into more crackpot, there’s a number of theories about how the Targs are part dragon because of the blood magic Valyria’s practiced or how the Starks may share some genetic markup with the CoTF/the Others. They’re kind of insane but that would make Jon part ice and part fire. I have no idea what impact that would have though but it will probably be huge (if these theories are even true). Idk. The fandom has agreed that R+L=J is less to do with Jon ruling Westeros and more to do with him the magical war against the Others. So I hope his parentage plays a big role in the magical realm.

We can’t also forget all the prophets surrounding Jon. Prophets from different magic bases: R’hllor, the Drowned God, the Old Gods. All of these have seen Jon’s death and resurrection at various points in the story. First is Bran who seems to get a vision of Jon’s death in AGoT (Jon laying in a cold bed with all memory of warmth fleeing from him). Then we have Patchface, a prophet of the drowned god if theories are correct, who seems to have foreseen Jon’s death and resurrection (crows being white as snow, snow falling up). And then Melisandre who is constantly being bombarded with visions surrounding Jon’s death and reurrection. Almost like R’hllor is warning her about something major that’s about to go down. It seems like Jon dying and resurrecting is causing some cosmic shifts in the metaphysical world that it doesn’t matter what god you worship or what type of magic you’re using, you’ll be affected anyway.

All things considered, I think Jon’s resurrection will be a clash of different magic systems; all of them converging into the magical Jon. I remember someone once speculating that Jon will be “post-human” and I kind like that theory. Not really a god, but not an ordinary human either. Maybe he’ll be something in-between. I think the manner of resurrection might help as well. Ghost is there to preserve his soul. And Ghost seems like a weird firewood (quite different from the other Stark direworlves beyond just his coloring). There’s the ice cells which might preserve his body and maybe cause some other changes. Some people speculate that Mel might give him the kiss of life but it kinda seems lame imo. Mel is a shadowbinder from Asshai, who has practiced blood magic like Mirri. I’d like to imagine that we might see a combination of different things from her. Perhaps a funeral pyre, perhaps a blood ritual, or maybe a little bit of everything. But I do believe the circumstances surrounding Jon’s resurrection will also affect things. This is yet another dose of crack but his birth feels like a floppy Azor Ahai thing. It’s all very metaphorical but we have a couple of things that could meet the requirements but don’t really. But the main point is that his birth is surrounded by thousands of people dying all over Westeros, and more dying at the tower where he was born. I like to think that there was some magical effect there with the waking of a (metaphorical) dragon…