Chapter 9: The Weirwood Vow and the Obsidian Bloom
The ancient godswood of Winterfell was a place of profound, solemn silence, broken only by the rustle of blood-red weirwood leaves and the distant caw of a crow. Sunlight, filtered through the dense canopy, dappled the sacred ground where generations of Starks had sought the counsel of the Old Gods. It was here, before the sorrowful face of the heart tree, its carved eyes weeping crimson sap, that Aelyx Velaryon stood beside Lyanna Stark.
Aelyx, ever the master of appearances, was clad in a doublet of dark grey wool, almost black, embroidered with the sea-green and violet of House Velaryon, a subtle nod to his paternal heritage. Over it, he wore a heavy cloak of Skagosi shadow-cat fur, a gift he had presented to Lord Cregan, who had, in turn, insisted Aelyx wear one as a symbol of his new Northern allegiance. He felt the primal magic of the godswood, a wild, earthy power so different from the structured sorcery of Valyria or the arcane complexities he wielded from Voldemort and Flamel. It resonated with the Stark blood in his veins, a faint thrumming that harmonized with his greensight, making the air seem thick with whispers of past and future.
Lyanna was a vision in a simple gown of white wool, her dark hair unbound, flowing like a river down her back. Her grey eyes, fixed on the heart tree, held a mixture of trepidation, Stark pride, and a defiant spark that Aelyx found… intriguing. She was a pawn in this game of alliances, yes, but a pawn with spirit. He would need to channel that spirit, or break it, gently if possible.
Lord Cregan Stark officiated, his voice gruff but resonant with the weight of tradition. There were no septons, no flowery Valyrian pronouncements. This was a Northern wedding, stark and binding. They stood hand-in-hand, Aelyx's grip firm but outwardly gentle on Lyanna's smaller, trembling one. He felt the faint, rapid pulse beneath her skin.
"Before the Old Gods and the eyes of men," Cregan declared, his gaze sweeping from Aelyx to Lyanna, then to the assembled Stark family and their banner_men_, "who takes this woman?"
"Aelyx of House Velaryon, now Lord of House Volmark of Skagos, takes this woman," Aelyx responded, his voice steady, echoing the ritual words Maester Walys had carefully coached him on.
"Who gives this woman?" Cregan's gaze softened almost imperceptibly as it rested on his niece.
"Cregan of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, gives this woman, Lyanna of House Stark, his kin, to be wife to Aelyx of House Volmark."
The vows were exchanged, simple, ancient words promising protection, fidelity, and the joining of their houses. Aelyx spoke them with perfect solemnity, his Occlumency ensuring no hint of his true, vastly different interpretations – protection for his interests, fidelity as defined by his needs, the joining of houses as a means to his ends – flickered across his features. When Lyanna spoke her vows, her voice was surprisingly firm, though a slight tremor betrayed her youth and the enormity of the moment.
Then came the symbolic exchange of cloaks. Lyanna's maiden cloak, bearing the direwolf of Stark, was removed by her cousins. Aelyx then draped a new, heavy cloak around her shoulders – a magnificent garment of deepest violet velvet, lined with the silver fur of the Skagosi snow fox, its clasp a beautifully wrought piece of obsidian carved into the snarling wolf's head of House Volmark, its eyes tiny, glittering amethysts. As he fastened it, his fingers brushed her neck. He felt a shiver run through her, whether from the cold, his touch, or the weight of her new allegiance, he couldn't tell.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Aelyx intoned, as per tradition, though 'love' was an alien concept to the core of his being, a weakness Voldemort had despised and Flamel had perhaps understood too late. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. It was a brief, chaste kiss, yet in that moment, he subtly brushed her mind with the faintest whisper of Legilimency. He sensed fear, yes, but also a stubborn resilience, a flicker of curiosity, and that intriguing undercurrent of wild, untrained Stark magic. This one would not be easily cowed, but her strength, if properly guided, could be an asset.
The Great Hall of Winterfell roared with life for the wedding feast. Long trestle tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats – boar, venison, suckling pig – along with wheels of hard cheese, loaves of dark bread, and endless flagons of ale and spiced wine. Minstrels played lively Northern tunes, their music often drowned out by the boisterous laughter and talk of the lords and their men. It was a far cry from the refined, decadent feasts of Valyria, but it had a raw, boisterous energy that Aelyx, in his role as the new Lord Volmark, affected to enjoy.
He sat at the high table beside his bride, Lyanna, with Lord Cregan to his other side. Lyanna was mostly silent, picking at her food, her grey eyes observing everything with a watchful intensity. Aelyx made polite conversation, praising the hospitality, the quality of the ale, the valor of Northern warriors. He spoke of Skagos with carefully chosen words, emphasizing its taming, its potential for prosperity under Stark suzerainty, its role as a future bastion against threats from the Shivering Sea.
Many Northern lords, burly men with weathered faces and suspicious eyes, approached him throughout the evening. They were curious about this Valyrian Stark, this new Lord of Skagos. Aelyx met their inquiries with charm and a display of worldly knowledge, speaking of trade, of shipbuilding, of managing harsh lands. He used these interactions to subtly assess them, their ambitions, their loyalties, their potential as future trading partners or rivals.
The true business began in the days that followed the wedding, amidst the lingering atmosphere of celebration. Aelyx, leveraging his new status and the goodwill generated by the alliance, sought out key Northern lords – Lord Manderly of White Harbor, with his significant merchant fleet and control of the White Knife; Lord Karstark of Karhold, whose lands bordered the eastern coasts; Lord Umber of Last Hearth, a giant of a man whose warriors were known for their ferocity against wildlings.
To each, Aelyx, now formally Lord Volmark, proposed trade agreements. Skagos, he explained, under his diligent development, had much to offer. He spoke of prime furs – shadow-cat, snow bear, silver fox – far richer and more plentiful than those usually found on the mainland. He displayed samples of intricately carved narwhal ivory andSkagosi jet, hinting at a burgeoning artisan culture. He mentioned rich fishing grounds around Skagos, promising salted and smoked fish in abundance. Most enticingly, he spoke of newly surveyed mineral deposits – iron ore of high quality, veins of tin, and even hints of silver – that House Volmark was beginning to exploit.
In return, he sought Northern goods: hardy timber from the Wolfswood for continued shipbuilding and construction on Skagos (supplementing their own island resources), shipments of grain and livestock to bolster Skagos's food security as its population grew, and perhaps even Northern expertise in certain areas like deep-shaft mining or animal husbandry.
His approach was sophisticated. He did not just barter; he spoke of mutual benefit, of long-term partnerships. He used the (laundered) gold from the Philosopher's Stone to offer favorable terms, to invest in joint ventures, even to provide short-term loans to lords looking to expand their own operations. Lord Manderly, a shrewd man with an eye for profit, was particularly receptive, seeing the potential for White Harbor to become the primary hub for the "Skagosi trade." Agreements were drafted, sealed with wax and oaths. Aelyx was weaving Skagos into the economic fabric of the North, creating dependencies and alliances that would further legitimize his rule and provide a steady stream of resources.
His most significant gesture, however, was reserved for House Stark. A few days after the wedding, during a private council with Lord Cregan, Maester Walys, and Cregan's eldest sons, Aelyx made a proposal that stunned them into silence.
"Lord Stark," Aelyx began, his tone one of sincere filial piety, "my mother, Lyra Stark, though she lived many years in Valyria, never forgot the North. She spoke often of its stark beauty, its harsh winters, and the resilience of its people. She missed the sight of green things growing when the snows finally retreated. In her memory, and as a testament to the shared blood that now binds our houses even more closely, I wish to offer a gift to Winterfell, and to the people of the North."
He paused, allowing the anticipation to build. "On Skagos, we have… developed methods to cultivate crops even in the harshest conditions. Structures of glass and ironwood, heated by the earth's warmth, where gardens can bloom year-round. I wish to build five such 'Glass Gardens' here at Winterfell, Lord Stark. To provide fresh herbs, vegetables, and perhaps even fruits for your table throughout the long winters. To serve as a place of warmth and green life, a reminder of my mother's spirit, and a symbol of House Volmark's enduring loyalty and gratitude."
The silence in the council chamber was profound. Glass gardens? In Winterfell? The concept was almost fantastical. Maester Walys looked intrigued, his scholarly mind racing. Lord Cregan's sons exchanged bewildered glances. Cregan himself stared at Aelyx, his expression unreadable.
"You speak of… Valyrian magic?" Cregan asked, his voice low.
Aelyx offered a self-deprecating smile. "Not magic in the way of fire and dragons, Lord Stark, which, as you know, is now but ash and memory. Rather, it is a forgotten art of engineering and horticulture, a skill my Velaryon ancestors experimented with, and which we have rediscovered and adapted for the harsh climate of Skagos. It requires no sorcery, only skill, specific materials which I can provide, and the proper understanding of geothermal heat, which Winterfell, with its hot springs, possesses in abundance."
He was careful to frame it as lost Valyrian knowledge, not active magic. This made it more palatable, less threatening to Northern sensibilities. He knew Winterfell was built over natural hot springs that already heated parts of the castle. Tapping into that for Glass Gardens was a logical, if ambitious, extension.
The potential benefits were undeniable. Fresh food year-round would be a boon to Winterfell's health and morale, especially during the brutal Northern winters. Medicinal herbs could be cultivated consistently. It would be a symbol of Stark prestige, a marvel unseen elsewhere in Westeros.
"This is… a most generous offer, Lord Volmark," Maester Walys said, his voice trembling slightly with excitement. "The practical applications would be immense."
Lord Cregan remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Aelyx. He was a pragmatic man. The offer was almost too good to refuse. It was a display of wealth, of unique capability, and a powerful gesture of goodwill. "And what would you ask in return for such a gift?" he finally asked, his voice still cautious.
"Nothing but your acceptance, Lord Stark," Aelyx replied smoothly. "And perhaps the allowance for my own skilled foremen and artisans – men from Skagos who understand these techniques – to oversee the construction, working alongside your own people, so that the knowledge may be shared, for the lasting benefit of Winterfell." This was a subtle insertion – his own loyal men, on site, for an extended period. They would be house-elves and highly disciplined Shadow Legionaries with technical skills, all glamoured, of course, their true purpose to observe, to learn, and to ensure the gardens were built to his precise, magically augmented specifications.
After much deliberation, Lord Cregan accepted. The prospect of such a resource, coupled with Aelyx's plausible explanation and his status as family, outweighed any lingering suspicion. The North valued strength and practical results, and Aelyx was offering both.
The days at Winterfell settled into a routine of feasting, planning the trade routes, and initial surveys for the Glass Gardens. Aelyx spent time with his new bride, Lyanna. Their interactions were a careful dance. He was courteous, attentive in public, even presenting her with small, thoughtful gifts – a beautifully carved Skagosi snow owl, a warm cloak lined with phoenix feathers (passed off as a rare arctic bird). He spoke to her of Skagos, not of its hidden power or its true ruler, the Shadow Lord, but of Icefang Keep, of the growing port city, of the wild beauty of the island, painting it as a challenging but rewarding domain for a strong Stark woman.
Lyanna remained wary, her wolfish spirit not easily tamed. She asked pointed questions, her intelligence sharp. She missed her Stark cousins and the familiarity of Winterfell, but there was also a nascent curiosity about this strange new life, this powerful, enigmatic Valyrian husband who was now her lord. Aelyx, for his part, began the slow, subtle process of conditioning her, rewarding compliance with kindness, meeting defiance with a cool, unyielding firmness that brooked no argument. He needed her loyalty, or at least her manageable obedience. She would be the mother of his public heirs, the Stark face of House Volmark. Her happiness, as ever, was a secondary concern, though a contented broodmare was often more productive.
As the time for their departure to Skagos approached, Aelyx felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He had achieved all his objectives. House Volmark was established, recognized, and bound by marriage to the ruling house of the North. Trade agreements were in place, promising a flow of resources and further legitimizing his domain. The Glass Garden project would not only benefit the Starks but would also embed his influence within Winterfell itself for a time. Lyanna Stark, a bride with strong Northern blood and a hint of latent magic, would soon be on her way to Skagos, to play her part in his grand design.
The Winter Wolves had not just welcomed the Valyrian Serpent; they had invited him to share their hearth, their table, and their bloodline. Aelyx Velaryon, Lord Volmark of Skagos, smiled inwardly. The foundation for his public legitimacy was perfectly laid. Now, he could return to his true work, to the dragons, the phoenixes, the hidden sanctuary, and the forging of an eternal, magical dynasty, shielded from the world by the unsuspecting might of House Stark.