The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Last Breath

The room was still, a biting cold seeping through the cracks of Winterfell's ancient stone walls, but Visenya Stark, once Targaryen, did not shiver. Her hands, pale and marked by age, lay softly atop her husband's, which were now thin, almost brittle. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows over the tapestries that had witnessed decades of life within these walls. The once-vibrant colors of her silver hair now reflected the wisdom and wear of years passed, falling in gentle waves over her shoulders, brushing the fur-lined collar of her gown.

Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, lay beneath the heavy furs of their bed, his breath shallow and uneven. His once-great strength had faded, leaving a man whose body was as cold and unyielding as the land he ruled. Yet Visenya saw more than the frailty of his final hours. In him, she saw the young warrior who had taken her hand in marriage many years ago, his eyes as fierce and unyielding as the winter winds that howled across the North.

She had been a dragon come to Winterfell, a queen without a throne, bound in marriage to secure an alliance. But what had been intended as a union of convenience had grown into something deeper, something neither of them had expected. They had built a life here, a family. Together, they had raised sons and daughters who now stood at the helm of their own lives, rulers of their own fates.

She reached out to brush a stray lock of Cregan's graying hair from his brow, her fingertips soft but trembling. The sight of him so still, so quiet, was something she had not prepared for, even in the long months of his illness. They had shared a life filled with challenges, but through it all, he had always been there—his presence steady, his voice a source of comfort. She could scarcely imagine the days to come without him beside her.

"Rickon... Alys..." Cregan whispered, his voice barely audible, as if calling out to their children, even though they had all said their farewells. He struggled for breath, his chest rising in painful gasps. Visenya squeezed his hand, hoping he could still feel her near, her strength there for him, as it had always been.

"They're safe," she whispered, her voice steady despite the sorrow building in her chest. "Our children are strong, just like you. They'll carry your legacy."

He turned his head slightly, his eyes fluttering open just enough for her to see the shadow of the man he once was. His gaze softened when it met hers, and for a moment, the pain in his eyes receded.

"You..." he began, his words slow, each one an effort. "You were the best thing that ever happened to me, Visenya. Not the sword, not the shield... not even Winterfell." He took a labored breath, and she leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath faint against her cheek. "But... there's a future ahead of you. A bigger one."

Her brow furrowed at his words. "What do you mean?"

He didn't answer. His breath hitched, his body sinking further into the furs as though the weight of the world was finally too much to bear. She knew it was time. The tears that had been held at bay now welled up in her eyes, spilling silently down her cheeks.

"Cregan," she whispered, her voice breaking, "I love you."

With a final, shallow breath, Cregan Stark left the world. His face relaxed, the tension in his brow smoothed, and a calmness fell over him. It was over.

Visenya did not move for a long time. She stayed by his side, holding his hand long after it had grown cold, listening to the silence that had settled over the room like the fresh snowfall. It was as if the North itself was grieving the loss of its lord.

When the servants entered, their footsteps tentative, she finally released his hand. She stood and smoothed down her gown, the heaviness of her grief bearing down on her, but she would not let it crush her. There would be time for mourning later. For now, she had to be strong for her children, for Winterfell.

She left the room without looking back.

The godswood was quiet, blanketed in fresh snow that glistened under the pale light of a waning moon. The red leaves of the weirwood tree stood stark against the white, its ancient face carved into the trunk, watching over the North as it had for centuries. Visenya walked slowly through the snow, her boots crunching with each step, the fur cloak wrapped tightly around her. The cold did not touch her.

She had always found solace here, beneath the towering trees and the quiet stillness of the godswood. Even as a Targaryen, she had come to respect the old gods of the North. There was a timelessness to this place that transcended the line of kings and queens, a power far greater than that of dragons.

As she approached the heart tree, her mind drifted to Cregan's final words. A bigger future. What had he meant? It was the rambling of a dying man, surely. Yet something about the way he had said it stirred something in her, a whisper of something... more.

She kneeled before the tree, bowing her head in prayer, though her mind was far from the gods. Instead, she found herself reliving the years they had shared. The battles, the nights spent under the same roof, raising their children together, watching them grow into the strong, fierce men and women they had become.

Cregan had been a force of nature, like the winter itself. Now that he was gone, she felt the weight of time pressing down on her, more than ever before. She had lived through so much—war, loss, love—but now, she wondered how much longer she had left. Without him, would the days feel as long? Would the nights be as cold as they were now?

She sighed and rose to her feet. As she turned to leave, her foot caught on a twisted root, hidden beneath the snow. She stumbled, reaching out instinctively, but there was nothing to hold on to. She hit the ground with a thud, her hands plunging into the cold snow.

But as she pushed herself up, something was wrong. The cold, biting snow beneath her palms had turned warm. Confused, she looked down, expecting to see the white expanse of Winterfell's godswood. Instead, her hands pressed into soft, damp earth. Brown leaves littered the ground around her, and the air smelled different—not of ice and pine, but of something... warmer.

She scrambled to her feet, her heart racing. She looked around, her mind trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The weirwood tree was gone. In its place, tall, dark trees loomed over her, their trunks thick and gnarled. The air was warmer, the wind softer.

Her hands... she looked down at them again, expecting to see the wrinkled, age-spotted skin of a woman who had lived many decades. But her hands were smooth, pale, and youthful once more. She turned them over, staring in disbelief.

"What in the gods' names..." she whispered.

She spun around, her silver hair whipping across her face. This was not Winterfell. This was not the North. She took a step back, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar forest, the towering trees that seemed to watch her, silent and ancient.

"Cregan?" she called, her voice echoing in the stillness. There was no answer.

Panic surged through her chest. She took another step, her heart pounding, but the landscape remained foreign. The snow was gone, replaced by the earthy smell of a forest in the heart of summer. She turned in a slow circle, her mind racing, trying to make sense of it all.

This had to be a dream. Some fevered hallucination brought on by grief and exhaustion. She knelt down, her fingers gripping the warm soil, trying to ground herself in reality. But the warmth was real. The leaves were real.

And her youth—it was real.

She was no longer the old woman who had sat at Cregan Stark's deathbed. She was young again, her skin smooth, her body strong. Her heart pounded in her chest, but it wasn't the dull, labored beat of age—it was the strong, steady pulse of a warrior.

Where am I? she thought, her mind spinning. She looked up at the sky, but it was no help. The stars were different here, unfamiliar constellations shining down on her.

She was alone. And wherever she was, it was far from Winterfell.

Visenya took a deep breath, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She would not give in to fear. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a Targaryen by blood. She had faced worse than this before.

But even as she stood tall, her heart still raced with uncertainty.

And far off, deeper in the woods, something stirred.