The White Dragon - Double Trouble. (Patreon)

Ned Stark, Winterfell.

“The king’s banners approach,” said Catelyn with caution, as she watched a line of soldiers dressed in black and yellow begin to enter the castle.

Ned kept his face impassive, while internally he snorted at his wife’s words.

The king’s banners did not carry a damned stag on them, but a dragon.

The death of the old Arryn cunt had been an unexpected blow to him, not because he felt any kind of sympathy for the damned old man, but because it had placed him in a difficult position.

Having Robert and the Lannisters in his home, too close for his liking, it was not yet time, Aemon had not returned and if the stag was in Winterfell after Arryn’s death, it was for one single reason.

To name him Hand of the King.

The last thing he needed at this moment, to be honest.

Eddard looked at his wife with pride, feeling how the wolf inside him howled in triumph at the sight of the slight swelling in Catelyn’s belly, proof that another pup was on the way.

As usual, his wife looked radiant, back straight and proud, practically glowing and with her head held high while she carried a new Stark in her womb.

This would be the sixth Stark that Catelyn had given him, and Eddard, as well as Winterfell, were pleased.

Howland had arrived at Winterfell a few weeks ago, accompanied by Lady Maege, both answering the call with the characteristic loyalty of their houses, and the moment Eddard shared his concern, their response had been immediate.

It was not that Eddard was sick or anything like that, but rather that the ancestral gifts of the Starks were awakening from their long slumber, the Stark blood detected the precarious state of the family and urged Eddard to… procreate more princes and princesses of winter.

This was without a doubt a consequence of his meeting with Aemon, his passage through Ygdrasill had to be responsible for this blessing.

Because even if his carnal impulses were out of control, Eddard could not deny that he felt better than ever.

His body felt stronger, his senses sharper, and his instincts more precise.

Eddard had noticed great changes in Winterfell and its surroundings, subtle at first, but extremely important, as if the castle was...repairing itself.

When he trained with Jory, Eddard felt stronger, faster, when he took his sword he felt as if everything moved slower and the last time he had kicked Jory several meters away with a single blow, taking him out of the fight.

Additionally, his master-at-arms swore that, for an instant, his eyes had turned amber, similar to Aemon during his battle.

Another rather drastic change was that certain people inside Winterfell began to fall ill suddenly, a few servants and a couple of guards, who would not stop vomiting and trembling for no apparent reason.

Luwin dismissed an epidemic, but a hunch inside Eddard, like a constant itch in his mind, did not let him sleep, so following that curious sensation, Lord Stark had ordered that all the belongings and rooms of the sick individuals be investigated.

The result of the investigation? That all the sick were spies, without exception, sending information about his family to filthy southerners.

It goes without saying that Eddard executed each and every one of them in the same way his ancestors did, cutting their heads off at the feet of the heart tree of Winterfell, nurtiring their roots with their blood.

And yet… that was what troubled him the most. Not the spies… but how easily he had found them. As if something inside him had already known. As if the North itself whispered names into his mind.

However, that would have to wait, Robert Baratheon had arrived, mounted on that large horse which seemed to be on the verge of collapse from having to carry such an obese man.

The people of Winterfell began to kneel, however, when Eddard saw his children beginning to do the same, he interrupted with a cold voice.

“No.”

That single word made his wife and children look at him in surprise, at least until Eddard spoke again.

“This is Winterfell, the ancestral home of the Starks, my ancestors were already kings millennia before the first Baratheon appeared in Westeros, no wolf will kneel before a stag,” he said coldly, making his entire family look at him with astonishment and a hint of unease.

But Eddard did not yield, he simply remained calm and standing, looking the king in the eyes, who needed a damn ladder to get off his horse.

The stag who proclaimed himself king walked toward him with a frown, both without breaking eye contact, although Eddard began to notice certain… irregularities with Robert.

The Robert Baratheon he remembered was taller, his eyes were a darker shade of blue and he was so vain that he would never allow himself to become the abomination standing before him.

This… this man was not Robert Baratheon.

Eddard deduced with realization.

And yet, he did not act. Not immediately. A true wolf does not bare its teeth at the first scent of blood… it waits… it studies… and then it kills.

The impostor walked toward him, looking at him with a pathetic gaze that tried, unsuccessfully, to intimidate him.

“It is tradition that subjects kneel before their king,” he said, increasing the tension.

At those words, one of the pathetic King’s Guard stepped forward arrogantly until he reached Lord Stark, an idiot so insignificant that Eddard did not recognize him.

“Kneel before the king and… AHHHHGG—”

Eddard silenced the pathetic man with a punch to the throat, making him clutch his neck and collapse without control.

Lord Stark looked at him with indifference and spat.

“Pathetic, a damned punch to the throat and you are on the ground, you disgrace that worthless cloak, get out of my sight before I cut your fucking head off,”

Ned said, drawing laughter from the northern men present, while the humiliated man struggled to stand.

But Eddard paid him no attention, his gaze remained fixed on the stranger’s face.

The Robert of the Vale would have laughed… this one did not.

His gaze showed caution.

Hidden beneath a mask.

A good one.

But not good enough.

And in that instant, the game changed. Not of swords… but of words and lies.

“Well, do you have it?” asked Eddard calmly, directly to the monarch.

“What? Have what?” asked confused, his eyes flooded with panic.

Lord Stark rolled his eyes in a dramatic manner and with exasperation continued.

“What you promised after the rebellion, the royal decree granting Winterfell full control over the New Gift,” said Eddard, lying with alarming ease, surprising both northerners and southerners alike.

With one single exception.

The golden hair, the spotless armor and the cold green eyes of Ser Jaime Lannister, who simply raised an eyebrow, reserving his opinion, seeing through Eddard with alarming ease.

The impostor opened his mouth, confused, before laughing loudly and exclaiming.

“Ah hell Ned, did you really take that seriously? That was so many years ago HAHAHA—”

said, trying to divert attention.

Lord Stark, smelling blood, took a step forward and said.

“Of course I took it seriously, do you not remember? In the negotiations for the rebellion, your throne, in exchange for the decree and the reduction of taxes, both promises that you have not fulfilled, and the North remembers, Robert,”

said, his voice, although calm, was cold and with a veiled tone of threat.

A murmur began to spread throughout the courtyard, Lords looking at the monarch with disapproval, while judging him with veiled insult.

After all, a king that does not keep his word, had nothing.

And Eddard knew it.

And he pushed further. Not with rage… but with precision. Each word placed exactly where it would wound the most.

“So you did not come all the way here to fulfill your promise? Or is it that you wish to squeeze more from the North with some other demand before honoring your word?” challenged the Lord, the Stark magic within him threatening to surface.

The face of the impostor filled with terror, while he looked around discreetly.

“Damn it Ned I forgot, alright? I do not remember such a conversation, it has been so many years—”

he said, trying once again to slip away.

Lord Stark shrugged and replied.

“Then make the decree today, seal it with the ring of House Baratheon and let us celebrate your arrival as an ally of Winterfell,”

said calmly, having placed the impostor in a crossroads.

One that benefited his family.

A trap without steel. A blade without blood. And yet… far more lethal than any sword.

“Robert” adjusted his collar before sighing heavily and cursing, as he said.

“Fine, alright, we will make that damned decree, but it will be after visiting the crypts, I want to see her,”

said the impostor in a somber tone, clearly returning to the script that someone else had built for him.

Eddard looked at the “king” and nodded calmly, before guiding him toward the catacombs of Winterfell.

But not before crossing gazes with Ser Jaime, and in an almost imperceptible way, nodding to one another.

An understanding. Temporary. Fragile. But real.

The Game had only just begun.

And Eddard would make sure that the wolves stood on the winning side.

No matter the cost.

Lord Voldemort, Albania.

"You have your body again, my Lord" said his servant with devotion, making the Dark Lord snort with veiled mockery.

This… this was not a body, a damned homunculus, created with dark magic and the blood of the innocent, it would not last long, perhaps a couple of weeks before he would have to forge another.

His true body, his resurrection… would be more complicated than he had expected.

And that irritated him. Not the process… but the dependence. Voldemort did not tolerate depending on anything… nor on anyone. And yet, there he was… trapped in borrowed flesh.

Barty was in Hogwarts and had placed Potter’s name in the Goblet, however, the plan had only just begun.

Harry Potter… was not the stupid and gullible child he remembered from three years ago after the incident with Quirrell.

Oh no, little Harry had grown and flourished, becoming a competent and lethal wizard, as he had demonstrated during the Quidditch World Cup and the international dueling circuit.

And although formidable, the true problem of the Dark Lord was not Harry Potter himself, but the circle of allies that surrounded him, or one person in particular, to be specific.

Jon Stark.

That… was a name that inspired caution in Voldemort, even more than Dumbledore at this point, even more so after seeing the memory his servant had brought from Estonia, in the damned massacre of the werewolf clans.

Jon Stark descended from the damned skies mounted on a dragon of all things, mercilessly incinerating entire clans, and subjugating others.

And with the fall of the werewolves, Voldemort was left without giants and without beasts, greatly limiting his army, leaving him practically with only dementors and acromantulas.

Lord Stark did not hesitate, he was decisive and had the determination to do what was necessary to win, such as hunting his possible sympathizers like rats in their own homes, and in a cunning way, using his own mark as a weapon, making the traitors believe that it was a personal revenge.

A brilliant move, even if it cost him to admit it.

And that was what made him dangerous… not his power, but his judgment. Stark did not react… he executed. And men like that did not make easy mistakes.

One that forced the Dark Lord to… take extreme measures.

"ROOOOOOAAAR"

The Dark Lord looked toward the imposing beast that one of his loyal servants had acquired, an Iron Belly, if he remembered correctly, one of great size and ferocity, an imposing magical beast…

And the perfect weapon to deal with Jon Stark.

Or at least… that was what he intended. Because if Stark commanded dragons… then this could not remain just a beast. It had to become something worse. Something unnatural. Something that even a dragon would fear.

Voldemort raised the provisional wand and with an elegant movement, made magical chains charged with dark magic emerge, wrapping around the body of the beast like serpents, while screams of agony erupted from it.

The Dark Lord smiled in a manic way, enjoying the suffering he was inflicting upon the beast, however, he was not yet finished, the most important part was still pending.

"Bring the volunteer, Yaxley" he ordered, making his servant bow his head and levitate a young muggle girl they had kidnapped from the nearest village.

Her pathetic life would serve a greater purpose, to secure the immortality of Lord Voldemort.

"Avada Kedavra!" he roared, extinguishing the life of the young woman instantly and beginning the ritual, his final Horcrux.

"Nagini" he whispered with madness, his mutilated soul clinging to the subdued dragon, deforming it in a simply perverse way.

The beast screamed in agony, the scales blackened, the eyes lost all their light and transformed into beacons of dark magic, the membranes of the wings tore, giving the creature a terrifying and powerful appearance.

"Bow before me!" spat Lord Voldemort, looking maniacally at the enormous beast, which obeyed instantly, its will broken and its body nothing more than a puppet in service of the dark wizard.

But even in its obedience… there was something. An echo. A minimal resistance. Not enough to defy him… but enough to remind him that even the darkest magic… had limits.

And with the first part of the plan ready…

"I want a list of the associates and allies of Jon Stark, all of them, it is time for Nagini to go hunting" said the Dark Lord.

Voldemort prepared his move, he would destroy Potter and his allies.

No matter the cost.

The Dark Lord looked at the hands of this vessel, observing that so much channeled magic had deteriorated it greatly, he would have to change bodies soon.

But before that…

"Do we have information about our contact in the Ministry?" he asked, walking toward his throne and sitting upon it, while Nagini coiled around him.

"Yes my Lord, we have a clear path to Azkaban, during the Yule Ball most of the aurors will be in Hogwarts, the perfect moment to attack" said Yaxley calmly.

Nodding with pleasure, Voldemort replied.

"Perfect, I will take care of freeing our loyal brothers from Azkaban, I want you to prepare everything, phase two of the plan begins, you know what to do" ordered Voldemort, making Yaxley nod and disappear, leaving behind a thoughtful Dark Lord, planning the devastating strike against his greatest obstacle.

He had to eliminate Jon Stark no matter the cost, and he could not do it in Wolf’s Den, the Stark defenses were… formidable, even for him, as much as he hated to admit it.

But Hogwarts… during the third trial…

With all his enemies gathered so conveniently in one place…

There was much to do, and so little time.