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The people of the north came to know the stranger their lord allowed into the lands by his voice first. It echoed through the barren lands with the wind, and the world stopped spinning for just a second. His melodies moved even the coldest of hearts in a voice so fair it had not been heard in any of Westeros ever before he had appeared or after his time there had ended.
They couldn’t pinpoint a date when he first appeared, not that it mattered. The way of telling time that the people used in the south meant little to them, and time was nothing less than smoke and mirrors here in these harsh lands. The people cared little for anything else but the passing of the seasons, enjoying the long summer they had been blessed with before once again, the winter would hold them in his tight embrace.
He had come to them first with a clouded mind and stood before the gates of Winterfell. No matter the ruined state he was in, with badly bandaged hands and scars wherever the eye fell, no matter the guise of the warrior he might've worn, when he sang the world stood still for a moment.
And so he stood before the gates of Winterfell and sang until the wood wept under his laments in a language unknown and opened under the grief of a stranger, and the guards could do nothing but let him wander into the courtyard. And when he stood there, and the Lord of Winterfell could see him in all of his ruined beauty, he couldn't bear the thought of letting his guards shoot.
Lord Eddard Stark had been called the quiet wolf, serious and stern where his siblings oftentimes were rowdy and loud. They said although he was raised in the vale, he did not care for southern niceties. A true northern lord, just what they needed.
Maglor Feanorian, in all his stunning presence, touched the heart of Eddard Stark in the very parts that had become stone since he found Lyanna lying in a pool of her own blood. It brought tears into his eyes, tears he hadn’t cried in almost ten years.
“I’ve come to pledge my allegiance to House Stark”, the stranger declared and sank to his knees, “For as long as the white winds blow I, Makalaure Kanafinwe known as Maglor Feanorian shall protect House Stark. As long as the stars shine and treacherous thoughts leech my mind, I swear to protect House Stark with my life should it be necessary.”
And as he kneeled in the middle of Winterfell's Courtyard, unbothered by the weapons pointed at him, Ned couldn’t help but think he must’ve been sent by the gods. For he could not explain the otherworldliness being radiated, the etherealness that illuminated him from within.
He didn’t quite trust his voice yet but he knew he had to speak, for every second the silence continued his men began to grow restless.
“I accept your allegiance and offer you a place in my home, Lord Maglor, for as long as you have need of it.”
Then, he turned to his guards and signalled for them to lower their weapons. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew that Maglor was no danger to anyone in his walls.
And so it came to be that, for a while at least, Maglor became a well-known figure in the halls and woods of Winterfell. Oftentimes they would find him on top of the highest tower, playing the harp that Catelyn had originally acquired for Sansa, singing quiet laments in that strange, strange language. He wouldn’t tell them what they meant or who he was grieving, but his grief was clear nonetheless. A sad smile would creep onto his face and his eyes would darken until they were obscured with clouds when Robb asked, and he would quietly shake his head.
“That, little Lord, is a story you’ll hear when you’ve grown up”
But even Ned had a hard time getting any answers out of Maglor. On a bad day, he would simply stare into the distance and go quiet, so quiet that Ned felt he could hear his own heartbeat even in company. On good days, he would get non-answers at best. Not that he stopped trying.
“How old are you, Lord Maglor?”
“I was alive when the sun had not yet risen and the world was lit by the two trees still”
And again, Ned would shake his head and accept the responses as they came. There was little else he could do, after all, but indulge in the ravings of someone who had lost his grip to this world a long time ago.
“Where do you come from, Lord Maglor? “
“I come from a land so far north it is south again, so distant that none of you can reach it while you're still breathing.”
But somewhere between the non-responses and the quiet songs mourning people they would never know, Maglor became a part of Winterfell.
He was good with the children, and smiled even when Arya tugged on his braid and Sansa bugged him to teach her how to play the harp and Robb wanted him to fight and Theon was sulking in a corner. He taught them his language, slowly, piece by piece. Not the one he was singing in, but a different one. He called it their secret language, for moments that no other shall hear but the House Stark. It felt like something had clicked in place deep within the ways of the world, and deep within Eddard Stark as well- a puzzle piece he had thought lost with Lyanna.
And when he left, Ned couldn’t say which of them it hurt more to part- his children or Maglor.
“But why must you go, Lord Maglor?”
“My heart yearns for my home, a place I shall not return to for a long time still. So I must go and wander, to ease the restlessness in my bones and soothe my crying heart. I will go north to the wall, and then a bit. I will go to Skagos and then south again until I’ve reached the Neck. And only then will I return to you, with ease in my heart, Lady Sansa, but I will return. And if it’s the last thing I’ll do, I’ll find you again, all of you”
Rickon just toddled up to him, hugging his legs and as Maglor looked down onto the red hair, he hoped this time he would see them again. That this time, he would return to the place that had been his home ever since he arrived here and find it unbroken.
And unbeknownst to everyone but the gods, Maglor managed to bend reality just the littlest of bits. Barely enough to get noticed, just enough to change things.
Sansa still loved stories of princes and romances and noble heroes coming to save her. But she also loved her family with all the fierceness she had always carried within her. She loved her home, and her home loved her back. And somehow, that changed things.
She still went south. She still was betrothed to the prince. She still was a deer amidst lions- the only prey in a pit of vipers. But this time, she knew she wasn’t alone. She knew where she belonged and where she would return to eventually. “And if it’s the last thing I’ll do, I’ll find you again” became a promise, echoing through her mind even in the darkest of times
Eddard Stark was still doomed to die, as it would be his destiny, for all times. Robb Stark still went to war, and still lost his head at the twins. Catelyn Stark still got tossed into the river of her youth and climbed out of it a Lady of Stone, forever seeking her revenge. Jon Snow still got stabbed by his brothers, and when he returned, he was a man reborn.
There were things the gods could not prevent even if they wanted to.
“And if it’s the last thing I’ll do, I’ll find you again”
Sansa whimpered. Ramsey had been long gone for the night, but still she could feel his hands on her skin, ripping open the flesh and twisting her insides. She had never imagined Winterfell would ever feel this cold, the walls of her home a cage rather than a home.
No one was coming to save her anymore.She had learned that lesson the hard way. If she wanted to be saved, she had to save herself.
Sansa and Theon crept through the darkness of Winterfell,limping, bleeding, barely alive. The courtyard was a graveyard of memories, and where she used to play knights and ladies with her brothers full of laughter, only snow covered the ground now. Sansa’s foot slipped near the broken well where she and Arya once played, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Theon clung to the shadows like a ghost, his eyes wide and hollow.
They passed the godswood, now just ash and ice, and the cold stone corridors where Maglor used to sing. She remembered his voice more clearly than she did her own mother's laugh, and wasn't that a frightening thought. In Winterfell’s darker days, it had been Maglor who hummed songs of forests and stars, sitting beside her with faraway sadness in his eyes, as though trying to remember something he could never quite grasp. She had once asked him why he stayed. He’d only smiled and said, “Because someone should.”
But he was gone now. She had thought him long dead, another thing that had been taken from her. Just like her father, her mother, Robb. She was alone, and if Theon was the last of her family that was left to her, she would treasure him like she once had her mother.
They pushed through the gates. Ramsay’s men had grown lazy in their cruelty.. The snow fell in blinding sheets, erasing everything behind and ahead. Sansa’s body ached, and Theon was barely upright, dragging one foot behind the other like it didn’t belong to him. They stumbled into the wolfswood, desperate for anything. Shelter, silence, death, it didn’t matter.
As long as they were together, nothing mattered anymore.
And then, just as her knees buckled and she fell into the snow, a voice called out- not sharp or startled, but quiet and familiar, like the closing note of a lullaby.
A figure emerged through the trees, tall and cloaked in midnight, snow gathering on his shoulders like it belonged there. For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe.
“Maglor?”
He crossed to her at once, kneeling beside her just like she imagined her father would. But Sansa knew. She would have known him even blind.
“You’re-” Her voice broke. “I thought-”
“I know,” he said gently, touching her face, not to heal her, but simply to ground her. “I am here now.”
She choked on a sob and buried her face against his shoulder. For the first time in months, she felt safe. Theon, shaking, finally sank to his knees, and Maglor offered him a hand as well. No judgment, only quiet understanding.
“I know what you need,” Maglor said, the old weariness in his voice touched now with something like hope. He lifted them both like broken children and carried them to a pale horse that waited, steam rising from its breath like incense. He helped them mount, wrapped them in cloaks that smelled of pine and old songs, then turned north.
They rode through the night, past ruins and ghosts, the trees bending over them like watchers in mourning. At dawn, the Wall rose before them. Colossal, ancient, and terrible. Yet Sansa, wrapped in Maglor’s cloak, her head resting against Theon’s shoulder, felt no fear. And when Jon held her in his arms, she felt small pieces inside her snap back into place.
“Rickon is in Skagos. The old mages think they can hide him from the enemies’ view, but if I can see him I fear for his safety. The enemies’ dead eyes see more than most of the living.”
Sansa couldn’t help but think of the stories he told them when they were little. Of siblings that got separated and never saw each other again. Of siblings that were broken and then some more. She long since stopped asking how he knew these things.
“Pray, tell me, Lord Maglor, but what about my dear sister?”
“I cannot see Arya for she is in lands far away from the north and I cannot leave these lands, not even in mind”
“But why can’t you leave?”
The petulence in Sansa’s voice bordered on childish, and she knew it. But she wanted her family, with a fierceness she had not felt since she was trapped in Kings Landing. She wanted all of them- Arya who made fun of her and Theon who sulked in the corner and Jon who was always so solemn and Rickon who had grown up without ever knowing any of them and Bran, sweet Bran, who was so free.
“The temptation of my oath will be too strong once I cross the river that separates us. Even now I can feel it meddling with my thoughts and clouding my mind- although it has been over a thousand years since I last saw the objects of my darkest desire”
Sometimes, he didn’t make sense. She had spent a long time trying to understand what exactly he was- after all, in King's Landing she had a lot of time to do nothing but think. Maybe he truly was sent by the gods- her gods, the old ones- but she doubted it. Maybe he was only a wanderer, stumbled upon Winterfell as he claimed- she doubted it as well. She had come to no conclusion other than that she was deeply grateful for him (and that he probably was not of this world, but she was willing to put that aside for him).
“You're talking nonsense again dear Maglor, but that is alright. As long as you're here, none shall hurt us! Won't you sing a song for us, friend, for it can only do well to lighten our moods.”
And as she and Jon and Theon were sitting in the warm cabin at the wall, Maglors voice around them was like her mothers embrace, for a moment she dared to hope that everything would be okay in the end.
It had been years since Rickon Stark knew where he came from. He saw flashes of it sometimes, laughing with his siblings in a courtyard maybe? A beautiful, tall woman with hair kissed by fire like his, so he assumed she was his mother? A man with eyes as sad as the moon, a voice as soft as the wind.
Here, time and origin meant little to them. The Skagosi called him little Prince, but he wasn’t sure what they meant by that. He was a wolf more than he was human most of the time, his mind so much more at home with Shaggy and his pack. Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure he was human- the old magic ran through his veins like a steady pulse.
Of what the Skagosi said was his home he remembered little. When they drew him a picture of it, he could only shrug his shoulders. There was nothing there anymore, and he felt more at home under the stars than he ever would under a roof.
Osha tried to keep the memories alive. He was old enough now to know she was not his mother, old enough to know his family had not left him willingly. But although he knew their names, he could not remember their faces. It stung, in a way he would learn later only being irrevocably lost with no way home could hurt.
On Skagos, time moved differently. He could not tell how long he had been there for it was always winter and news travelled slow. As much as he came to appreciate the Skagosis independence, they were too reliant on the rare travellers that braved the way to their island. Maybe for them, it didn’t matter (“Southron kings breed southron worries that do not concern you, little prince”) but he had still not given up hope.
He was studying his runes when the stranger appeared. Still as broken and battered as he was in Rickons memory, still as beautiful. The Skagosi greeted him like an old friend, in a manner Rickon had not known them capable of.
“You’ve come back for me”
Rickon did not know what else to say. It had been years. Years of living in the wild, always on the run, always on watch. Years of being handled like a mere object, a tool of negotiation. Years of never truly arriving, never truly belonging somewhere. Suddenly he felt twice his age and half his age at the same time.
Maglor. That was the stranger’s name. He remembered.
“I said I would”
“And if it’s the last thing I’ll do, I’ll find you again ”, the sentence was burned into Rickons mind. He had held onto that, even when he was in strange places he would never have dreamed of.
“You’ve grown up. I always forget how fast you men age.”
Rickon had never really dared to hope someone would come for him. Not when he was ushered away to the rough stones of Skagos, not the friendliest place but safe. Jon was at the wall. Robb and Mother, he didn’t know. Sansa and Arya were in the south. Bran was in the very north.
“I can take you to Jon”
“I want my Mum”
It escaped Rickon. He had not known it until the words left his voice. Why was he longing for an embrace of someone he could not remember the looks of? But he knew his mother was warm- was safe - and he had not felt that way for so long.
“Oh”, Maglor replied. Rickon didn’t need to hear more, to confirm his biggest fear. She had left and never come back.
“Robb?”, he asked, voice all of a sudden getting small, as if he was nothing more than a babe. Maglor just shook his head and opened his arms, a deep sadness in his eyes.
“Come here, little Prince. It is okay to cry, just let it go”
Rickon launched himself into the embrace with all the power he had, halfway expecting them to tumble down. Maglor caught him with ease and only then allowed Rickon the tears in his eyes to fall. Deep down, he had known- Shaggydog had known and so had he. But until now, he hadn’t known it.
Only a fool would give up on hope, for hope was what shone the brightest in the night. Osha had whispered that into his ear one particular cold and dark night, and he had clung to these words like they were his lifeline.
Now, he had nothing but Maglor.
“I’m taking you home, Rickon Stark, do you hear me? We are going home”
And for the first time since he left, Rickon heard home and thought of the walls and woods of Winterfell.
The Skagosi let them go with little fanfare. Maybe it was harder for them, to understand how much this meant to Rickon, for few of them ever left Skagos and all of them had returned. But they made him promise to come back when he could, for according to them he still had much to learn. And so they left for the wall, the falling snow paving their way through the stormy sea, and maybe, or so Rickon thought, he could have a home again. And Maglor thought that maybe this was a kid he did not let down, memories of two elflings flashing through his mind.
Winterfell stood as proud as she always had, her towering walls ever steady. She had not the beauty the fortresses of his people had shone in nor the grandness of Himring, but she had become home, a place he could come back to. No foreign flags flying on her banners ever managed to diminish that feeling, and when Maglor arrived with Rickon next to his side, the Stark banners were hissed once again and she welcomed them with open arms.
It felt like a dream. Seeing Sansa rush to hug Rickon, her red hair catching in his eyes. (When she buried her face in Rickons arms, he could almost pretend she was someone else, someone lost to the fire and still burning in his heart) .
It was a strange sort of melancholy he felt, now, seeing them reunited. Four- Four of the seven were here now. (Sansa- Theon- Jon- Rickon). It was all so familiar- it had never happened before. It seemed like this could only happen in a dream. (Sansa- Theon- Jon- Rickon). (Sansa- Celegorm- Caranthir- Rickon). That wasn’t right- he knew that.
Sometimes, the borders between the Starks and his own family blurred up, when his mind was messy and he wasn’t quite sure where he was. (Sansa-Theon-Jon-Rickon). (Maedhros- Celegorm- Caranthir- Curufin- Amrod- Amras). He couldn’t help it.
“Lord Maglor, might I have a word?”Jon slipped past the scene before him. The young lord in front of him tried to hide just how affected he was, but Maglor had known him ever since he was but a toddler. There was little he could hide.
“You need not hide your emotions, lordling, for they are what makes you human”
“I don’t feel human- not anymore”
“You’ve glimpsed upon the halls of Mandos and what lies beyond, but you’ve returned. It is an honor only bestowed to the best of you. It is a heavy burden to carry but your shoulders have been molded to fit it ever since you were but an idea.”
Maglor had never hid that he wasn’t one of them- they were men (mortal-frail-greedy) he was not. They were men (compassionate-loving- determined)- he had never been. It seemed like Jon came to understand that.
“What is your name, my lord?” (What are you?)
“I have many names given to me- Kanafinwe is what my father called me first and Makalaure is what my lady mother named me, and Maglor is what everyone else came to know me as. I have been named the minstrel, the monster, the kinslayer”
Briefly, Maglor stood next to Ned Stark again. Then he saw something else. A fire he had only ever seen burn within those who had taken their oath, the madness that devoured them all from within and burned away the very fabric of their souls.
“What do you know of the long night?”
“We had a long night once, after the trees fell and before the sun rose- Darkness and pain followed it although the world lit up again. Do not fret for this long night will never come to pass here.”
It was so easy to get lost in the thoughts of that time. Before everything went dark and before they set out on a quest none of them would ever return from. None of them but him. He was alone- alone- alone- Nothing but a stranger to all of them, cursed to see their body whither and their spirit die.
Die-die-die
Death followed him wherever he went. It was the only constant in this endless torture he was stuck in. If he could end it all. He would. He would’ve drowned himself in the tides of the seas in Arda long ago if he thought the Valar granted him this mercy. But this was not the end that awaited him and he must atone- atone- atone for his sins until the sun stopped rising once again and Vardas soft light stopped giving him comfort one last time.
When Bran came home, he wasn’t the same.
Maybe it was his fate, to see countless versions of his story play out right in front of him, and no matter how often he whispered them a cautionary tale he could not stop it. (Nienna wished nothing more for him to be able to see the many ways in which he had already brought change).
“You don’t belong here”, Bran whispered to him, cold, emotionless, factually correct.
“No, I do not”, Maglor agreed with what used to be Bran. There was something distinctly different about him, in a way he had not sensed since they had set out to the woods of Beleriand. Whatever forces at work, they were mightier than him and he had learned how to yield over the years.
“What are you doing here?”
“I swore an oath- to protect you for as long as the white winds blow and the stars shine and treacherous thoughts leech my mind.”
“to protect you for as long as the white winds blow and the stars shine and treacherous thoughts leech my mind.” Bran echoed with him, and all of a sudden Maglor began to see.
“You see Vaires' weavings. I do not understand what power blessed you but I advise you to use it wisely. There is danger behind knowing too much.”
“Don’t get lost in your oath, Lord Maglor. I know what happens when you do”
I know what happens when you - when you do- I know- happens when you- do- do- do.
He did the shameful thing. He fled.
He wasn’t sure where he was for a while. What he was. Who he was. It got all too blurry in a way it hasn’t been since he stepped foot on Westeros. He had to breathe, he had to sleep under Varda's cold light and hope-hope-hope- that he could find redemption one day.
When he returned with a clearer head and hope in his heart once more, they had crowned Jon as King in the North and Arya had found her way home again. She was dangerous, more deadly- she had seen things and Maglor dared not find the words of what she had lost. Time moved so awfully fast for mortals.
They were six now- six-six-six. (All but him- while his brothers were cast into the void, united in their shared suffering, he was all alone). One would always be missing. It was a fact of fate, one of the few ever consistent threads in Vaire’s weaving. Doomed to repeat itself, over and over and over again.
Together at last and yet forever ruined.
Rickon had become wild, in the way Ambarussa had been when they landed in Beleriand. He was at home in the wolfswood, running with Shaggydog and Summer and Ghost and even Nymeria, who haunted the north now. He would’ve enjoyed Oromes hunt, Maglor thought to himself. It did not do well for him to dwell in times long passed, but he couldn’t help it.
Bran was not himself anymore. He was lost to himself, lost in his visions, lost in what could be. Celegorm had been that way, sometimes, and so had his father. Foresight had never been his strong suit, but to Celegorm it had come in fits and bouts and before the Doom- losing touch with reality had never been an issue in Valinor, but after that… It pained Maglor to think of it.
Arya. Arya was deadly. She never talked about what happened to her, how she had found her way back home. She didn’t need to. It happened sometimes, the world turning people quiet. Caranthir had never talked about what happened either, but in the end, he had been Death on two feet. She was as quiet as a fox and slipped through the halls unseen, and when she slit the traitors throat, he realized this was what she was now.
Sansa. Sansa was his dearest brother given a new form. Her hair flamed the same red as Maedhros crown once did and her back was littered with the same scars. She was the leader, the general people listened to, no matter the crown on Jons Head. She was protective and fierce, and had become colder than the winter, bitter and lonely. Just like Maedhros had been, right at the very end, when the fire in him had flamed up for the final time and then consumed him.
Theon was Curufin in the ways he could’ve been. There was a sharpness in him that had dulled not with age, but with suffering- once arrogant, once cruel, now raw and uncertain in the light. He bore his guilt like armor, thinner than steel, but heavier by far.
Jon was like him, if Maglor had ever been allowed to die. He had the same distant eyes, full of things unspoken — of duty done, of names that no longer fit. Maglor had walked the shores in silence; Jon watched the snows fall the same way, as if waiting for the world to end, or for his part in it to be over. He saw himself in Jon in a way that made his heart grow heavy.
Then the Dragons came. And with them, an army.
An army that was appreciated but not expected, and Maglor felt himself fall into old patterns. He had been the Lord of Maglors gap, after all, and he had learned to be a lord in times of war.
It was a hard thing, to remember these Dragons were not here to set them all ablaze. Dagor Bragollach. The escape to Himring. Everything that followed. He had never told anyone, but his lungs had never been the same after Glaurung torched Maglors Gap and on bad days, his eyes were blinded by the grey fog that had filled the air and not settled for years.
He knew the dragon queen noticed. He didn’t care. She was doomed, and he had known that the minute he had laid her eyes on him. She burned with the fire that had burned within his father, and little good had come of that. As long as her dragons only burned the dead, he cared little for what else she did- her reign would not be a long one, and not a happy one either.
She had brought many people to Winterfell, and some were more interesting than other. He had been in these lands for maybe half of a human lifespan, and met little more people than that- the north was sparsely populated and even less so in current times.
With the people came laughter and smiles and a livelihood he hadn’t yet seen in these strange lands. With the people came life. The Dothraki and their horses, that reminded him of the people he had met in Beleriand. With the people came questions.
“You’re a strange man”, Tyrion had said, and Maglor could only look down amused. If he wasn’t so sure he was the only distinctly valar being in this world, he would’ve thought he was a dwarf.
“You’re one to talk”
“What has this world come to”, Tyrion sighed and chuckled. They were standing on the walls of Winterfell, looking out to the darkness. It was always dark these days.
In the end, the darkness was easily defeated, almost laughably easy.
There was a battle, Maglor remembered, but it was nothing like the battles from his past. He was out of breath, but the undead fell on his sword just like the Orcs did, a long time upon. They had a dragon, but with dragons of their own, it didn’t matter. Neither the giants nor the ice spiders had anything on a Balrog with his fiery force.
And then the dead just dropped down, and stopped moving. It was anticlimactic in the worst way. Later he learned that Jon had killed the night king with a sword made of fire. That almost got him to chuckle.
His nephew would’ve loved to get a hand on that sword, and so would his father. He rarely thought of him now, the oath as far away as if he had never sworn it. Maybe this was it, his redemption. Making sure all the starks left would live to see the end of their days that his brothers never got to see.
He had expected more. More fights and more losses.
Maybe because he was used to it, losing all the people he cared about- mourning all of the people he cared about. But Arya was alive, Sansa was unscathed, and Theon, Jon and Bran would heal. The long winter was over before it had begun and somehow he felt strangely disappointed.
Not that he longed for the battle, for the singing of swords. But war never was this easy. In a fight against evil, it went to sleep for a thousand years, licking it’s wounds just to return when mankind had returned into sweet complacency.
But as he looked around, he saw tears and laughter and love, so much love. He saw blood and sweat and tears streaking dust-soaked faces and so much love for everything around them. And he decided that maybe this was what it was about, all this time. That maybe the evil would return, but humankind would defeat it as it always did.
They had another war to wage. It didn't matter to him, not as much. The few times he wandered further south, the oath affected his mind more than before, so he decided to not leave Winterfell. He stayed behind, and there was nothing more he could do for them.
They survived so far, and whatever they faced, they would face it together.