The White Dragon - Winter Secrets. (Patreon)

Aemon Targaryen, Beneath Winterfell – The North.

The young Dragon moved his wand with delicate precision, making elegant circular motions as he allowed his magic to flow throughout his body.

Not that he truly needed to use the Elder Wand to do so, but the underground complex was...

Simply immense.

And unmistakably magical. Aemon had been able to sense at least seven lower levels, practically a second castle beneath the already enormous Winterfell.

"Has... all of this always been here?" Lady Stark whispered, stunned and frightened as she stared at the immense Winter Throne, swallowing hard before letting out a small cry when she saw the roots moving on their own, rising as though they were living creatures and "looking" toward Aemon and Catelyn.

"Gods!" the red-haired woman exclaimed, moving as close to Aemon as she possibly could while staring in absolute shock at everything surrounding them.

"We are the first people to set foot in this place in hundreds of years. I recognize that banner. The Crowned Direwolf was used long before Aegon's Conquest," Aemon stated as he used his wand to illuminate the immense hall.

It was truly impressive.

The architecture was undoubtedly similar to Winterfell's, an extension of the enormous castle above, with the only difference being that it had been built downward into the depths, with at least five lower levels visible from the railings surrounding the Throne Hall.

The roots of the Heart Tree glowed faintly, revealing that they stretched deep into the foundations of the castle, which, although covered in dust and neglect...

Had been remarkably well preserved.

Some sections were even in better condition than the Winterfell standing above them.

Slowly, Aemon walked toward the Throne, studying it not only with his eyes...

But with his magic.

And by the Gods...

The young Dragon could not stop himself from shivering at what he felt.

"The magic in this place is titanic. All of Winterfell, both the castle above and the one beneath it, is connected to this Throne. It is... asleep. My mother found it in her youth, and for some reason she never shared the discovery with anyone, but I can feel it. The power... the ancient gifts... roaring to awaken," Aemon whispered as he surveyed his surroundings with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"This... this is unnatural, Jon... I... the Seven..." the red-haired woman tried to stammer.

Aemon simply continued walking toward the Throne, observing it with unmistakable respect.

It was immense.

Roughly ten meters tall.

Carved from Heart Tree wood that appeared...

Petrified.

Enormous roots emerged from its base, spreading throughout the entire chamber.

Certain sections were adorned with bronze and covered in First Men runes, magical in nature, though clearly devoid of even the faintest trace of magical power.

Something entirely normal, considering the countless years it had remained dormant.

"The Seven hold no power here. As I once told Sansa, this is Winterfell, the heart of the faith of the Old Gods of the Forest, and we are Starks. Not Baratheons. Not Lannisters. Not Arryns. And not Tullys. Thank the Gods," Aemon said absentmindedly, making Catelyn frown, though she wisely kept her comments to herself.

She was far too fascinated by the immense Throne to defend her faith.

With extreme caution, and no small amount of fear, Lady Stark looked toward Aemon, who remained perfectly calm.

"What are you going to do?" Lady Stark asked.

"Activate it, of course," the young Dragon replied as he approached the imposing structure and gently placed a hand upon it, his magic causing every root throughout the chamber to glow for a brief instant.

"Do you intend to claim it?" Catelyn asked cautiously.

Aemon did not answer.

At least not immediately.

He remained lost in thought.

The answer was actually quite simple.

The Stark side of him...

Roared for the Throne to be free.

For magic to be free once more.

For the return of everything that had been lost.

Everything the Raven had stolen from the world so many centuries ago, not only from the North...

But from all of Vanaheim.

However...

Although he proudly carried Stark blood...

Aemon was not one of them.

A Wolf Lord, yes, the Gift of the First Men ran strongly through his veins...

But Winterfell belonged to the Starks, and Aemon had accepted long ago that he was not one.

His seat lay elsewhere, far to the south, on a remote island in the Narrow Sea.

He was a Targaryen.

A Dragon.

Therefore, this Throne was not his to claim.

Then, looking directly at his aunt, he answered, his voice firm and without the slightest hesitation.

"No... I will not," he declared, surprising her in the process. Lady Stark opened her mouth to speak, but Aemon did not allow her to.

"This Throne... is not mine to claim. I carry Stark blood, but not their name. This is the seat of a Wolf, not of a Dragon," Aemon replied calmly, politely ignoring the guilty look in his aunt's eyes.

Aemon raised his gaze, solemnly observing the ancient Stark banner before continuing.

"My Throne... lies in the South, and the road to claim it will be long and arduous. One that begins today," Aemon said with a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the titanic task before him.

He had to gather allies.

He had to prepare everything for his grandmother's arrival.

And he had to begin his journey south.

But he could not leave Winterfell until he was absolutely certain the castle would be completely secure for his family.

The foundations had already been laid.

Aemon could feel the runic clusters deep beneath the castle.

Surprisingly...

They were active.

Only dormant.

Barely holding any energy.

"We will come back down with Robb. I need him here so the castle can be bound to House Stark once again," Aemon ordered, turning his back on the Throne and looking at the astonished face of his aunt, who merely nodded silently, still unable to meet his eyes.

Aemon paid it little mind.

His thoughts were occupied with matters far more important than dealing with the guilt of his uncle Eddard's wife.

He could not neglect what was happening in Midgard.

But neither could he abandon Vanaheim.

It was an extremely delicate situation.

On one hand...

There was the Alliance, Voldemort and Harry.

He trusted his brother but he would never leave him alone to face that abomination.

Yet at the same time...

He also had responsibilities here with his family.

Aemon grimaced at the thought of the inevitable conversation.

He had not the faintest idea what his Targaryen relatives would be like.

That was a bridge he would have to cross when the time came.

But for now...

He would devote his time to constructing another Bifrost, one capable of taking him wherever he wished, perhaps some sort of interior garden hidden within an enchanted trunk.

Merlin...

He had far too much to do, the young Dragon thought with resignation as they prepared to return.

"I'll make sure to gather Robb tonight... and bring him up to speed on everything," Lady Stark replied, making Aemon nod gently.

"That would be for the best. We can organize another expedition tomorrow morning. It's already quite late, and we should return before..." Aemon answered, only to be interrupted by a...

Gentle tug on his cloak.

Immediately drawing his attention.

Surprised, the young man turned around, looking in astonishment at the small white-furred creature with red eyes that was biting onto his cloak.

It was small.

Barely a pup.

But Aemon recognized what it was immediately.

"A Direwolf," he whispered to himself as he knelt down and began gently stroking the silent pup, laughing softly as it playfully bit his fingers without making the slightest sound.

Aemon was so distracted that he barely noticed Lady Catelyn approaching from behind.

"Oh, so that's where Ghost has been," the red-haired woman said, making Aemon raise his head curiously.

"Ghost?" he asked as he stood up with the pup in his arms.

Lady Catelyn nodded before replying.

"Yes, Ghost. That's the name Arya gave him. He appeared only a couple of days after your uncle brought Robb's and the other children's pups home. Many people in Winterfell have seen him, but he always vanished without leaving a trace. Apparently... he kept coming down here."

Aemon nodded at his aunt's words before looking intently at the little pup.

"It seems he's an albino... and mute," Aemon whispered as he slowly entered the pup's mind with the utmost care and gentleness, smiling as he felt the animal accept the bond without the slightest resistance.

As though...

Somehow...

He had been waiting for Aemon all this time.

"A gift from your Gods, without a doubt. Six wolves... for six Starks," his aunt said with a smile, causing Aemon to smile as well, the warm feeling spreading through his chest impossible to conceal.

"Let's head back upstairs. We have a great deal to do before my grandmother arrives," Aemon said decisively, laughing as he saw the expression on his aunt's face, who sighed before replying,

"Yes... Gods, I still can't believe Queen Rhaella is alive... and if Robert finds out..." the red-haired woman shuddered, instinctively placing both hands over her stomach in a protective gesture.

Aemon intervened, placing a reassuring hand upon his aunt's shoulder before speaking solemnly.

"It won't matter what he does. By the time I'm finished, Winterfell will be the safest and most impregnable castle in all Seven Kingdoms. You have my word," he promised solemnly.

His aunt looked him in the eyes for a long moment.

Then she simply nodded.

"Where will you go? Once the Queen arrives and your affairs here are finished... where will you go, Aemon?" the red-haired woman asked.

The young Dragon remained silent for a long time, lost in thought.

"I don't know. My uncle mentioned I have business in Dorne and Highgarden, so I suppose we'll head south. Perhaps I'll buy a ship in White Harbor... or perhaps I'll visit Uncle Benjen at the Wall. The future is still uncertain," he replied calmly as they prepared to return to the surface and organize everything properly.

When Aemon felt Ghost tugging on his robes once more, the young Dragon lowered his gaze, watching curiously as the pup held what appeared to be a piece of cloth between his teeth.

"Do you want me to see something, little one?" Aemon asked with amusement as he knelt down and took the piece of cloth from Ghost's mouth, the pup immediately taking off at a run toward one of the descending corridors leading away from the Throne Hall.

Aemon watched him in surprise before looking down at the piece of cloth in his hand.

He froze.

Completely stunned by what he read.

Prisoner 0356 – Azkaban Prison.

Utterly astonished, Aemon wasted no time.

He immediately sprinted after Ghost, determined to uncover the truth behind this mystery, paying no attention whatsoever to his aunt's shouts.

His only objective...

Was to find the little Direwolf.

Aemon chased Ghost at full speed through the descending corridors, beginning to discover, much to his surprise, more and more robes that were instantly recognizable to him.

Aemon had seen them before.

In the photograph the Daily Prophet had published of Lord Black after his escape from prison.

How in the bloody hell were Azkaban robes in this place?

Aemon received his answer only a second later.

He reached a vast chamber deep within the complex, where an enormous pile of bodies surrounded what appeared to be a stone archway.

It was large.

Ancient.

Incredibly ancient.

Even older than Winterfell itself.

It was as though the entire castle had been built around this place...

For some unknown reason.

Aemon had no idea what this...

Artifact...

Actually was.

But of one thing he had absolutely no doubt.

It was important.

This thing...

Carried a sensation remarkably similar to the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone.

That...

Strange power...

Which Aemon had learned to associate with Death itself.

This artifact was dangerous.

And the young Dragon needed answers.

"What other secrets have my ancestors been hiding?" he asked himself with a heavy sigh, an uneasy feeling settling deep within him as he stared at the mysterious arch.

He was not mistaken.