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Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 1: Reincarnation and a Job Offer

I awoke with a gasp, although I lacked a physical body to draw breath. The starry sky above me sparkled with hypnotic lights. My previous life played in my mind with perfect clarity - an ordinary existence of learning, working, starting a family, and eventually succumbing to old age. There was nothing exceptional about my life; I was far from a virtuous individual, lacking the good karma often associated with reincarnation stories I used to enjoy as entertainment. I often fantasized about wielding personal power, contemplating what it would be like to be an apex being in a world of my own.

Suddenly, an ethereal voice resonated around me, breaking my thoughts. "Aha, you are correct in that, you have no good karma. You are nothing, just a little speck in the wheel of life and death. I choose you randomly." I glanced around and questioned the unseen entity, "What are you? What do you want with me?"

"It doesn't matter what I am. What matters is what we can agree on," the voice replied. "If you disagree, nothing will happen, and you will be thrown into the wheel, where you shall be recycled and born anew. The offer is this: I need personal entertainment. As an omni-being, even the multiverse is starting to become boring for me. There is a small enemy of mine that has spread across many universes. Your job is to hunt down beings corrupted by him. You can have four wishes for power. The first world you will be born into is A Song of Ice and Fire. It is a world where many entities are infected by my enemy. You must destroy them, find the veil of death present in every world, and walk through it to leave the world. At that time, you can keep any powers, possessions, and travel to the next world. You will be non-aging and functionally immortal, but you can be killed like any other mortal. So, choose your powers wisely."

The opportunity overwhelmed me. To visit Westeros, one of my favourite TV series worlds, was tempting. The offer of any powers was irresistible, despite the restrictions. I envisioned being overpowered and enjoying life in the new world.

"Naa naa," the voice chastised. "Let me clarify. You cannot choose any powers that would break the world. Only unremarkable powers can be selected. The more power you wish for, the more the world increases in danger. Let me help you with this, You are going to be a son of the most powerful magical bloodlines of that world, so choose your wishes with that in mind "

  Undeterred, I carefully considered my wishes, knowing that personal power was crucial in the tumultuous world of Westeros.

"Of course, I will keep that in mind," I replied. It seemed to me that I would be reborn as Jon Snow, with the Stark and Targaryen bloodlines, promising a unique combination of magical potential. Being a bastard in Westeros was a challenge, and I deemed being a Targaryen without a dragon worthless. My resolve solidified: I want to be both physically and magically powerful, preparing the North for the impending Long Night. The Night's King or White walkers or others, will be infected by the Great Enemy of this Omni-Being.  It will be impossible if they have 8000 years of corpses saved up

After contemplating the dire challenges ahead, I presented my wishes to the Omni-Being.

"Omni-Being, my wishes are: I want to have limitless potential along with control of mind, body, and soul." The being nodded, acknowledging the intelligence in my choice. It assured me that this wish would not cause major changes in the danger level.

"I want to have the adaptation powers of Doomsday," I declared, considering the hazardous landscape of Westeros. The being, however, deemed this power too world-breaking. I cursed at my bad luck, undeterred, I proposed a modified version, removing the resurrection aspect and limiting the adaptation to 1% of Doomsday, with healing up to twenty percent of Wolverine's capabilities.

"You are a greedy little shit, The limitless potential and adaptation will help you grow more than the world's power level, but since the base is not world breaking, I will allow it. Know that there will be consequences for this wish. The world will be changed from what you expect and foreknowledge would be the lowest cost for this wish." the being retorted.

For my next wish, I requested the ability to temporarily pass my adaptation and regeneration power from every part of my body, including blood, only with willful donation from me,  if it was present in the consumed being's physical structure.

The Being at first laughed mockingly and said, "I never pegged you for such a selfless person. Whatever, it is acceptable. Know that fate is cold bitch and if you increase the world's power level too much then my enemy can also increase it, but you are in luck, as the great enemy as increased his powers so much now that it would be very hard for you to be affected by this cost."

Expressing gratitude for the information, I presented my fourth wish. I sought the talent for instinctual learning of everything – psychic, martial, social, soul, and magic talents – inspired by stories from the Waifu Catalogue. To mitigate the cost, I requested a slower development than the original talents.

"Hmm," the being nodded, recognizing my cunning approach. It remarked on the seemingly modest power of each wish individually but acknowledged the potential when combined. With an enigmatic declaration, the being concluded, "The base is strong, may the Fate let you develop it. Let the game of thrones begin."

As the being's words faded, a bright light enveloped me, and consciousness slipped away into the unknown.

Winterfell.

I do not know how much time has passed after my meeting with the Being. The room was warm, adorned with white and grey walls, and I found myself swaddled in a cozy blanket. I was sure this was the legendary Winterfell. Distant shouts echoed around me, prompting my annoyance, particularly towards a Tully bitch, who seemed to be causing a disturbance, at least I know no one else who may shout near me for any reason at this point of time.

Determined to cease the commotion, I unleashed a loud cry. Miraculously, the voices hushed almost instantly. Amid the stillness, a teenager with an ethereal appearance approached my crib. His beautiful face boasted purple-violet eyes and silver-white hair, reminiscent of glaciers. Despite his striking features, a mixture of hope and sadness played across his expression.

"He is alive!" the teenager exclaimed. "My son is alive. Lord Stark, call the maester now."

My heart sank as I realized the implications of this revelation. I cursed my bad luck. The being had fucked me over; I was not reincarnated as Jon Snow, my desired persona. Instead, I found myself entangled in the complexities of another life. I bemoaned the wasted wish that was meant to empower my allies for the impending Long Night. The being played me as he never said Jon Snow. I was overjoyed by thinking that I will be reincarnated as Jon Snow. he was my favourite character even though the show made a mockery of the story by speed running S7 and S8. I liked the ending Jon received as he was only truly free when he was beyond the wall, just chilling.  I always know the story will not have a happy ending with Jon and Dany in the throne, it was acceptable, at least Jon got his rest.  Now I do not even know which year it is or who I am.

A man with grey eyes, resembling the Starks described in the books, approached me. His hair showed signs of aging, and his eyes reflected love and immense relief. The Stark hurriedly instructed a nearby guard to summon the maester.

"My Prince, it is a happy day. Do not worry; my grandson is of the Starks. A little winter fever will not take him. My daughter is also special; she will survive. What will you name him?" the Stark asked.

"I... I do not know. Lord Benjen, I just wished the raven from my father the King will arrive shortly that will allow me to marry your daughter. " The Prince replied, cradling me in his arms. I could feel the affection in his gaze, but I could not shake the realization that I was likely a bastard. Yet, in the grand scheme of my goals, personal power surpassed the significance of social status in the medieval world of Planetos.

The maester, with a weasel-like face and cunning eyes, entered the room, adding an air of authority and expertise to the situation.

"My prince, Lord Stark, I regret to inform you that Lady Lyarra Snow has passed away. The blood and childbirth fever were too much."

At the mention of "Snow," the weight of my bastard status and the foreseen complications in my life hit me like a bitter gust of wind. Observing my father's gaze shifting from heartbreaking sadness to a flicker of rage directed at me, I sensed the storm brewing within him. A loud roar echoed from outside. I wet my bladder in shock. Lord Stark took me carefully from my father as he must have seen the rage in the prince's eyes.

Lord Stark looked at me. his face had sadness for a daughter lost, but also acceptance of the fate occurred. He did not have a pint of rage against me and I clearly wished I will be brought up in Winterfell.  I was also happy at the roar as the dragons are still alive at this point of time.

"My Prince, your rage at your son is not good. It happens in childbirth. I also lost my daughter, yet I still love my grandson, an innocent babe.  What shall he be named?"

 The Prince looked at Lord Stark, his face blank from overstimulation of emotions. I understood that my father is near a break.

"Daemon, his name shall be Daemon Snow. I lost my love today. I do not know what to do now." The Prince replied sadly.

"It is ok son. All will be well in time." a melodic female voice said from the entrance of the room.

"Your Grace, I apologise for not welcoming you in the courtyard. I did not hear your dragon roar."  My grandfather bowed and said even with me in his hand.

"It is of no consequence Lord Stark,"  The Queen said looking at Lord Stark, "I deliberately did not announce my arrival. your master in arms welcomed me when I landed in the courtyard and guided me here. you have my condolences for your lost daughter."

My father could not hold back any longer. He snapped, "Mother, why was there no raven for almost a moon. I sent it one moon back. Why was not I allowed to marry my love. Now it is all over.  My child's mother is dead and now it is not possible. What was more important than this. Now I lost my love to my own child, a child who killed her."

Well fuck you too father. I thought to myself and destroyed any plans with the Targaryen's helping me for anything. It seems that there will be no dragon for me for a long time.

"Aemon, my son, we would never allow the heir to the Iron Throne to marry a bastard, even a daughter of Lord Stark," the queen said with a pitiful voice and grimaced remembering who else was in the room, "well apologies, Lord Stark for that. It seems that I am tired from the long journey"

Well, well, finally I knew who I was. I was the bastard son of Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen, son of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator. I can guess the time period to be after 65 AC as the Prince was born in 55 AC in canon.

Lord Stark stared at the Queen with a cold face. "Apologies accepted Your Grace. You should not insult the dead, especially in front of a parent of the dead person and I know and told prince Aemon that your graces shall never accept this request for marriage, but he still wished to make it for his love. I will be eternally grateful and loyal to him for that." My grandfather concluded and bowed to my father.

The Queen grimaced at the slight and her sworn shield started to voice something when the queen raised her hand to stop her.

"Prince Aemon," The Queen addressed her son, "what do you intend to do with the child, now that the mother is dead. The King, your father has ordered for you to return to kings landing as soon as possible and your tour of the realm is over for now. He has already denied the permission for your marriage and ordered the child to be brought up in the north by its mother. I suggest that you follow this order and let the Stark's raise him as he is a snow."  The Queen walked forward to look at her first grandson. As she came near, I saw a pretty face with honey-coloured curls and blue eyes. The eyes had no warmth for me. It only had plain dismissal for the dragonseed.

 "Yes, I will follow the order," the Prince said. "It is better he grows

up here, I do not want to see him and remember my loss for the rest of my days. Lord Stark, he is to grow up in the North and not to come to south for any matter unless called by me or the King. I know that there is no need for it but House Targaryen will provide a sum of dragons annually for his upkeep after I reach Kings Landing."

The Prince looked at me for a last time. His eyes were on my eyes. I tried to send the words with my eyes that I want to yell at his hateful face at least once, -Fuck you too!!!  My father's eyes widen for a brief second as he may have felt my disdain. He and the Bitch Queen left the room. My Grandfather carefully put me back in crib and tucked me lovingly.

 Then and there as I slowly started to sleep, I decided that the Targs may follow the stupid canon and die for all I care, I would not save any of them.

Authors Note.

reposting this because some mf reported my stories for mentioning the you know what sites.. jobless people imho.  there are hundreds of smuts  with more readers and the mentioning of you know what site in clear open than my small fics...  anyway will publish one chapter one day till we catch upto Fanfiction, qq and webnovel versions... 

my discord : My Discord

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Chapter 2: Four Years Later.

Benjen Stark
71AC

In Winterfell, a typical day unfolded as Benjen Stark stood on the balcony, overseeing the training of guards. His gaze focused on his son, Rickon Stark, sparring with Bennard Stark. Benjen, at 40 years old, observed with pride as both young warriors showcased their skills. Rickon, at 20, and Bennard, at 18, displayed considerable prowess in combat.

As Benjen watched the training, his thoughts turned back to the past four years, marked by the loss of his dear daughter, Lyarra. She had passed away at the young age of 15 during childbirth. Reflecting on the painful memory, Benjen's mind drifted to his grandson, Daemon Snow.

Recalling the day Daemon was born, Benjen remembered the profound moment when the child cried for the first time, two weeks after Lyarra's death. The baby's eyes hinted at something extraordinary, and although Benjen initially dismissed it as emotional turmoil, time revealed the uniqueness of Daemon.

Daemon, a distinctive baby, remained mostly silent, crying only when necessary and stopping promptly afterward. His appearance resembled the Targaryen's, with a face reminiscent of his grandfather The King. However, the most remarkable feature was his hair—half black and half silver-white, a rarity that perplexed and even frightened some of the castle's inhabitants. Benjen had seen the heterochromatic eyes the baby had in others, for even the babe's aunt Princess Alysaa had it, even though her eyes colour is different compared with Dameon's stark grey and purple-violet eye, but not this split hair colour.

The physical features of Daemon were the most ordinary thing about him. Despite the oddities in Daemon's physical features, he exhibited remarkable health. Any illnesses or diseases that surfaced after the initial two weeks quickly vanished. Benjen's perception of normality shifted further when Daemon started walking with a purpose by the age of two. Dameon had already learned to walk like any normal child would but his movements after some times were uncanny, as if he remembered his destinations rather than merely exploring like a typical toddler. Daemon could remember any place he explored once and will return there without any trouble there if he wants to return there. It was quite remarkable as sometimes even adults lost their way in the humungous castle.

Though his ability to walk posed dangers and resulted in frequent falls, Daemon miraculously avoided severe injuries. He seemed to cry initially due to pain but eventually that too stopped, leading Benjen to wonder if the falls were intentional because of the number of falls. At times, Benjen wondered whether Daemon deliberately chose to tumble for a mysterious reason. The intrigue surrounding Daemon Snow only deepened as he defied conventional expectations and starts not just babble words at the age of two but also remember any conversation he had with others. Now at the age of 4, Dameon could express whatever he wants to say in good manner. Even though he was not fluent in talking, it was unheard for a 4-year-old to engage in meaningful conversations and retain them in memory to continue it weeks later. The most trouble Benjen had with Dameon is that for a godforsaken reason he has started chasing his cats and rats now.

Benjen cleared his thoughts as his grandson walked to the balcony. He started to watch the soldiers training. The intense look in his eyes and the lack of surprise in seeing a new thing made him realise that Daemon was not seeing this for the first time. There was a small frown on his face while watching the guards and he switched to watch his uncles. The frown vanished and a smile appeared for some reason.

"Daemon, what are you doing on the balcony? You have a penchant for falling. Do you want to fall from the balcony now? Go inside," Benjen sternly advised.

"Papa, I too fight. I watch the fight to learn," Daemon replied with his broken speech.

Benjen always felt a sense of happiness when his grandson called him "papa". It brought back memories of his sweet daughter. Benjen assumed the role of Daemon's father, and his son Rickon acted as an older brother to the young boy. However, for some reason, Bennard, his youngest son, did not seem to like Daemon. Perhaps Bennard, who was close to Lyarra, blamed Daemon for her death, much like Daemon's own foolish father.

"Son, you have time to learn. You are too small now," Benjen said as he lifted the boy from the ground. Continuing, he added, "Let's go and settle you in your room, and do not come to the balcony or heights alone, Daemon. You still fall a lot."

Daemon Snow

As I settled into my room, where my grandfather had dropped me off, thoughts about my new life filled my mind. Despite my enhanced physique, it took me a considerable amount of time to walk on my own and explore the legendary castle. Enclosed by ancient walls of weathered grey stone, I gained an appreciation for how the Starks conquered the harsh North. Though I had not ventured to the outer walls, their towering presence surrounded by a moat was evident. Brandon the Builder must have been quite paranoid to construct a 100-foot wall, encircle it with a moat, and add another 80-foot wall.

the cold winds of the North whipped around the towers and walls, underscoring the fortress's strategic position in the vast landscape. Despite walking on my own and parting ways with my wet nurse, I had not explored even a quarter of Winterfell. My quick fatigue and frequent falls initially frustrated me. However, as I began to not feel the impact of the falls, I realized my body had adapted and was healing itself.

This realization marked a profound moment for me, leading to a decision to turn every day into a learning and improvement experience. I intentionally practiced falling from different places to enhance my durability. It was quite a spectacle and the people of Winterfell found quite entertainment in my quest to walk and run on my own feet. For the last couple of moons, I saw many cats and rats in the castle, and I decided catching them was a good enough exercise for me, if it was good enough for Arya in canon to train her speed. It was fun for me and saved me from the monotonous life of a toddler.

Observing the guards train and spar became a daily routine, providing me with insights into combat, even though their skill level was too poor for my instinctive learning to pick anything from them. While I could not articulate what I learned, my Stark Uncle spars intrigued me, pushing me to absorb as much as I could. Even though the heir was very good in my limited understanding, Bennard was much better. He trains from dawn to dusk some days and a born warrior. I made a conscious choice not to explore warging or magic until I reached the age of seven.

The only magical ability I dared to test was my resistance to fire and cold. Placing my hand into the flames was truly daunting. Unlike Daenerys, I discovered I was not unburnt. I could immerse my hands in the fire without immediate burns, but the effect of fire on my hands escalated rapidly. I realized I possessed only a modest fire resistance, akin to the cold resistance inherited from my Stark lineage, which I tested by going for a walk outside without any woollen cloak at early mornings. Determined, I made a spontaneous decision to enhance both elemental resistances to the point where I could confidently stride through dragonfire like a badass and halt the Ice Sword of the White Walkers with my bare hands, effortlessly seizing it and beheading them with the same sword. The concept thrilled me so much that I impulsively tested my resolve by placing my hands in the fire again until it caused a slight burn. The pain was intense, but fortunately, it healed overnight. I decided to increase my fire resistance by exposing myself to the fire without trying to overdo and burn myself, daily and slowly increase it.

When I am not resting or watching the spar, I followed my Grandfather everywhere. I had kept watch when he held court and my instinctual learning went crazy by taking in both a King's manner and smallfolk's manner of behaviour. It was only a drop of understanding but I was happy that I got to use my powers. I even followed my grandfather to his solar one day, but he quickly kicked me out of his solar.

It is not because I love him or something like that, the motive was purely selfish. My life as a family man who cares for others and live for others has been over in my first life. He is my ticket to greatness and an easy life while I increase my personal power. I want to use my adorableness and cuteness enough to get in his heart. He is the Lord Stark and the King in all but name in The North. It is by his grace that I am living the easy life I am having now. I decided that since he does not hate me on principle, I will try to integrate myself to him. It helped that the man was doting on me. Of course, I will be helping him to stay alive on this cursed world where anyone could die any day to a missed crossbow or assassination. Even though my Uncle Rickon, the next Lord Stark likes me and play with me I knew life will not be like this under his rule. It is as though I am the trueborn third son of Lord Stark and not the bastard son of the bastard daughter of the Lord. I am truly wondering how charismatic and lovely my mom was that she had such different effect on men upon her death.

Since Lord Stark was such loving person to me, I have decided to empower The North in his time itself. It also serves my own purpose as North's power and stability is something I need, when the Others or White Walkers or whatever name they are called in this world try to kill everyone later, not the weak pitiful state like in the canon.


In these four years, neither my father nor his family has made any contact with me, and they haven't even reached out to the Starks inquiring about me. I expected something from my father, as he had quite the love for me the first and only time he held me. However, the common Westerosi nobles' stupidity in blaming the child for the mother's death in the birthing bed has infected even the vaunted Targaryens, who think themselves above the laws of gods and men. Stupid narcissistic inbred morons. What do you expect when the girl is young and has a child at such a young age before they are ready to birth them? Clearly, survival depends on luck, and I was quite unlucky. My hopes of riding Rhaegal or any dragon I could hatch as Jon Snow turned out to be impossible. Clearly, fate is cruel to me. As of now, House Targaryen has more dragons than they know what to do with, and here I am unlucky enough that I will be killed the moment I claim any of them. I thought about the dragons unclaimed now that I could claim;

Dreamfyre, Meleys, The Cannibal, and of course, the King of the dragons and the greatest—Balerion the Black Dread. This is only 71 AC, and Balerion will only die in 94 AC. If I had 20 years of time to share my blood and magic, then he would not die of old age and whatever injuries he obtained in his visit to Valyria with that stupid girl Aerea. However, it was impossible for me to claim Balerion, and the easy path to power has been lost to me.

I overheard numerous rumours circulating among the castle staff, guards, and visiting lords. It was remarkably easy, considering that most people dismiss my presence, seeing me as nothing more than a naive and unintelligent babe incapable of understanding the significance of what I hear. The only person who seems to be cautious with their words around me is my grandfather.

Through my observations, I have concluded that almost everything aligns with the established canon, except for the Starks. In the conventional timeline, Lord Benjen was supposed to be the grandfather of Cregan Stark, expected to be born sometime after 110 AC. However, in this altered reality, he already holds the title of Lord Stark, and Cregan is anticipated to be born soon, as my uncle Rickon is set to marry in the next five moons.


Despite my prior disdain for the Dornish with their seemingly impenetrable plot armour in the canon, and my frustration with Doran Martell's perpetual planning without any action, I have found merit in the idea of waiting for the perfect time. Doran's strategy of biding his time to strike at his enemies when they least expect it or waiting for them to die naturally to have his revenge aligns well with my own strategy to acquire a dragon. Though it may seem frustratingly slow, the deliberate and patient approach can yield greater results when the timing is right.

I decided waiting for the experienced dragon riders to die in the not-at-all suspicious circumstances like in canon was better for me. So, I decided to make my plans and training without dragons in equation- at least until my Uncle Baelon's potential demise in 101 AC, assuming canon does not get butterflied away by my presence. This strategy, I believe, is not an act of cowardice but a tactical decision to ensure I become the Unburnt before ever being in front of a dragon, friendly or wild.


Yesterday, my exploration of the castle finally led me to my intended destination: the Kitchens. My goal was to investigate without drawing attention, so I discreetly entered the vast area where dozens of servants were engrossed in various tasks. With no one paying attention to a seemingly inconspicuous figure like me, slipping through the half-open door was easy. Once inside, my focus narrowed on procuring a knife and locating the storage for water and ale. I believed the people of Winterfell could benefit from a health boost. After some skillful maneuvering, I managed to secure a small kitchen knife and quietly retreated to my room. It was astonishing to me, how much the castle servants gave their undivided attention to their given tasks and ignored their surroundings if one does not make a noise. It seems to me that no one want to be sacked from Winterfell for any reason and everyone did their best to do the perfect jobs.

Now, it was night and time to check my enhanced healing. I quickly locked the room by climbing a chair and took my stolen knife out. My hands shook as I picked the knife. I am not a fan of self-harm and pain will be a bitch, but since my survival depends on this, I moved the knife to my palms. I was already standing infront of the fireplace as I do not want bloodstains anywhere the servants would discover it. I carefully picked the knife with my right hand, the dominant one, and tried to make a slash that is small as possible in my left palm. The knife moved across my palm, but due to my fear it was just a feather touch and nothing happened. After several moments cursing all the gods I know, I gathered my courage to slash more decisively.

"Fuck!" I whispered in a shout as pain blossomed in my left palm. The knife proved sharper than expected, or perhaps my strength surpassed my estimation, resulting in a larger slash and wound than I had envisioned. Drops of blood began to pool in my small palms, prompting me to use a piece of cloth to wipe it away. My hands remained above the small fire in the fireplace as I carefully examined the wound. It will almost heal overnight and I threw the cloth in the fire to destroy the evidence.

"Boom!"


The instant the cloth touched the fire, it felt as if I had thrown petrol into an open flame back in my old world. A whooshing sound echoed through the room, and suddenly, my hands and upper body were engulfed in fire for just a single heartbeat. Then, as quickly as it erupted, the fire receded back into the fireplace, now burning with a bright orange intensity.

"Stupid moron!! How the fuck did you forget about the Red God or Red Demon or whatever it is in Essos?" I cursed myself for forgetting about the entity Melisandre is a stan for.

The fire burned with a bright orange colour and an otherworldly heat. My upper body had slightly turned red, and my shirt was entirely consumed. The real issue, however, lay with my hands. They were more severely burned than any time in my practice, and I knew they would not heal overnight. Adrenaline had initially dulled my pain, but now panic set in as I observed the orange flames slowly growing, consuming the cloth.

The fire slowly transformed, taking on a blood-red hue with a sinister edge. I swiftly deduced that a magical fuckery has occurred due to my careless act of putting my blood in the fire. I tried to guide the magic to see the future like red priests, but the time for directing the magic was over. It was truly Wild now. Whatever entity resided on the other side was now in control, and fear gripped me as I realized that it is NOT the advertised benevolent Red God of canon who allows his priests to resurrect people for fun. At that moment I understood deep in my bones that R'hllor is not on my side against the Others in the north. Whatever I knew about the Red God, priests or the religion is to be discarded as false in this new world.

By that time, I had positioned myself in the middle of the room, seeking refuge from the slowly encroaching heat. Prioritizing self-preservation over the fear of being discovered as a pyromaniac, I made a quick decision to unlock the door and escape. Rushing to the door, I fumbled with the lock, tumbled from the chair, and moved it aside. As I swung the door open, I cast a final glance at the fiery spectacle before sprinting outside without a second thought. Unfortunately, on my second step, I collided with a hard, stone-like obstacle, knocking my head backward.


My head was ringing like a bell when I hit the stone floor and since I am lucky, my back of the head also hit the floor. Pain like nothing else enveloped my entire upper body and my head, I looked at who the fuck was outside my door and responsible for my new pain. As my vision cleared, I glimpsed cold, grey eyes – those of Lord Stark – fixated on me. In my dazed state I saw grandfather crossing my body and entering the room with his Valyrian Steel sword Ice The last thing I recall before sweet unconscious claimed me was the cold snap of my Grandfather's voice,

"Red Demon, You are not welcome here, this is The North and the Old Gods rule here." and a sound of Valyrian Steel hitting on stone while the heat suddenly plummets to bone deep coldness that I would later identify as similar to that of the Others.

Authors Note:
Looking forward to the comments.

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Chapter 3: The Cost of Magic and Power: A Lesson in History.


Daemon Snow

I woke with a small gasp and felt little pain throughout my body. I was barely cognizant of my surroundings after waking up when the door to the room I was in opened, and my grandfather entered. The room resembled a dungeon with no windows or ventilation, illuminated solely by torchlight. Countless books and maps adorned the walls on shelves. Many shelves contained crowns, as well as numerous knickknacks, leading me to realize that I was in a Stark Family secret room or something of the sort. The room stored many records, and I could believe it might contain ancient history and forgotten magics. I was quite afraid, finding myself alone with my grandfather and no witnesses in sight, although I was almost certain that my grandfather would not harm me since he loved my charming self.

I decided to play the adorable charming child routine. "Papa, where are we? What happened? Why are we here?" I said with as much adorableness as I could muster. Lord Stark looked at my face sternly. His expression was hard, cold, and unreadable, even for me. Fear started to grip me, and it must have shown on my face because then my grandfather sighed, and the sternness vanished from his face.

He replied, "Don't play me for a fool like you do with others, Dameon. I do not want to hear your fake broken speech that you use on servants and the maester now. Do you understand?"

I paled further, but I nodded, realizing I did not have another option. He scrutinized me as if to see how much I would reveal, but seeing the panic in my face he tried to be calm again.

"This is the Stark Vault hidden in my Solar. This place belongs only to those of Stark Blood. In the 8000 years of North's history, not even a spouse of the Starks has entered here. This is where the knowledge and important records are kept. Secrets and knowledge that the ancient Kings of Winter found, conquered, and traded are buried on these shelves. The library outside is just a distraction for the common people and other interested parties. You will be one of the youngest people who know about this vault. The 'what' is that you fainted due to the pain and hitting your head; this is the next night. I brought you here because no one knows about your extensive burns, which were already healing at a speed that I have never even heard about before. I thought that you would value secrecy, as you have been hiding many things. I don't want the realm to know of your powers, so I brought you here and ordered that I will spend a day with you and dismissed everyone else."

I looked at my grandfather and cursed myself wondering about how I should explain this. 'Is this the end of my easy life?'

"Secrets? Powers?" I asked, confused.

Hearing that, soured Lord Stark's mood as his face became cold.

"Do not play the fool with me, Daemon. Whatever intelligence and growth you have, no ordinary 4-year-old will behave like you. I have known you were special for a long time, and you confirmed my instincts yesterday. You are a dragon dreamer like your Valyrian ancestors. Your knowledge and maturity come from the future or the dreams you had. Maybe you also have the Greensight, a potent gift in our line."

I sighed, knowing that any other lie from me would be further disbelieved and to go with the idea my grandfather himself came up with, so I agreed. "Aye, I am a dreamer. The reason for my healing is something that happened because of my powerful ancestry. I have been blessed by both the Old Gods and the 14 Valyrian Gods. My question is, how did you know? What happened yesterday, and how were you aware enough to come to rescue me?"

"The Starks have existed for 8000 years and have collected much knowledge. Do you really think we did not have any contact with the Valyrians? We did not acquire Ice, the largest Valyrian sword, by paying money, but by providing a service. A Dragonlord visited us seeking a solution for his young daughter's uncontrollable dragon dreams, having heard about ancient tales of greensight and warging, mental magic, and came to us. We helped her, and in return, he crafted Ice for us in a special manner. That property was used yesterday to banish the red demon. Ice is not a pure Valyrian steel sword; it is a unique mixture of Other's Ice sword and Valyrian steel, joined together by our blood, both Valyrian and Stark. Only a Stark who has magic in their blood can use its full function of Ice Sword, and yesterday I used the cold infusion to destroy the Red Demon's presence in the fire."

I was stupefied and looked at my grandfather with absolute shock. My grandfather looked at my face and started laughing.

"Well, what? Did you think that you already know everything there is by dreaming, Dameon? No, the truth is that you know nothing, Daemon."

I was lost and didn't know what to say. I never thought that in my life I would be subjected to the famous 'you know nothing, Jon Snow' line. I decided to ask the question: How did my grandfather know? My thoughts went to whether there is a hidden detection system for outside magical interference or something only the Lord Stark knows.

"I knew because the Old Gods warned me. I was meditating in the Godswood when my instincts lurched to find you. I immediately checked on you and saw you taking a knife to your palm, and later, the stupidity you followed it through with. Of course, your powerful blood of the kings attracted the Red Demon like a moth to a flame."

I looked at my grandfather, and I at least understood that. "You are a warg," I said.

"Yes, I am," my grandfather replied. "It has been exhausting for me when you started chasing my cats and rats away from their intended places."

"I apologize, Grandfather. I don't know what else to say," I said. My mind was going at the speed of a truck. 'The Starks of this generation are not too far removed from the King Of Winter that they still have the knowledge and magic. They are not lost to time as in canon. I need to learn whatever my grandfather can teach me, and it is a golden opportunity for me.'

"How did you know to deal with the fire and R'hllor in it? I thought he was the God of Essos."

My grandfather sighed and began to explain, and my world turned upside down with the information dump. It was nothing like the canon I assumed, and finally cemented the fact that this world is truly dangerous in my mind.

"There are records in this vault, and history passed down word for word from father to sons. Just like the cold one came to kill all life in the Seven Kingdoms, the Red God is truly a Fire Demon. According to the records, the Long Night was not only in Westeros; even ancient Valyria experienced snow for the first time. There is a land that connects Essos and Westeros after the Lands of Always Winter that is not shown on any conventional map. The land is unknown to any man, as the land and seas are so cold and infested with ice monsters that nothing warm could survive. The cold ones spread in that direction after almost defeating the First Men, and the entire surviving population fled the Seven Kingdoms to different islands around it: Dragonstone, Skagos, Iron Islands, Three Sisters, Arbor, Stepstones, etc.

It is said that the darkness spread by the cold ones awakened the monster called the Lion of Night. The Lion of Night's origin is unknown even to us at that time, but he controls shadows and monsters. They both attacked Yi Ti. The Five Forts were built after the Long Night to defend them, just like the Wall does for us. The more monsters and corpses the army had, the more powerful the Others and the Lion of Night became, and the more the darkness and coldness spread. The current Grey Waste was once a fertile land and populated beyond belief, but everyone died in the Long Night. The numbers were staggering, and darkness spread across the world."

I gazed at my grandfather in disbelief, pondering the profound devastation wrought by the original Long Night, a calamity so enduring that even 8000 years later, its scars remained unhealed. For the first time since my rebirth, I entertained the unsettling thought of whether I might meet my end in this world, despite the newfound powers at my disposal. It was unfathomable to contemplate the extent of empowerment bestowed upon the Others or the Lion of Night by the Great Enemy of the Being who had sent me here. Struggling to steady my thoughts, I listened as my grandfather continued the history lesson, his words flowing forth as if spoken in a trance.

"At this time, Azor Ahai embarked on a visit to Yi Ti astride his dragon, seeking to uncover the cause behind the spreading darkness. His quest led him to uncover a new threat looming on the horizon. Having traversed every civilization east of Valyria prior to this, he was known by name in every culture. A master of dragon dreams and pyromancy, Azor Ahai employed dragonglass candles to scry into the depths of the unknown. Through his mystical abilities, he traced the origin of the cold ones back to Westeros, unveiling the chilling truth of the first Other's creation by the Children. This involved the insertion of dragonglass and the Black Stone of the Blood Stone Emperor into the heart of Brandon's Grandfather, a Greenseer himself. The Lion of Night, embodiment of the Bloodstone Emperor, had been corrupted by the enigmatic Black Stone, believed to have fallen from the sky. Despite the formidable defences of the ancient mages of Yi Ti, their strength waned in the face of overwhelming numbers within the empire. Each monstrous entity was intricately linked to its leaders, bestowing upon them formidable powers.

Azor Ahai learned this harsh lesson firsthand when he and his colossal dragon launched an assault on the leaders in a bid to decapitate the enemy forces. Though many lesser beings perished and his dragon came perilously close to succumbing to the influence of the Great Other, Azor made the ultimate sacrifice, offering his beloved dragon to gain newfound power before narrowly escaping, vowing vengeance. Returning to the then-isolated and newly formed Valyria, Azor claimed another dragon and sought out the First Men and Children, recognizing them as the architects behind the creation of the Others. Understanding that only a united front of magical prowess could hope to counter the threat posed by the cold ones, Azor, alongside the Children of the Forest and the Builder's father, forged a pact to join forces on the island now known as Dragonstone. The Builder, renowned as one of the most brilliant minds to have ever graced the world, left behind surviving creations that stood as testament to his unparalleled genius. As the leaders of the Pact—The Builder's father, the Children, and Azor—debated the strategies for attack and the harnessing of magical might, it was the Builder who proposed a cunning plan.

He proposed that a direct assault, both magical and physical, would be tantamount to suicide. Instead, he suggested that a mental assault was necessary to fracture the alliance between the Great Other and the Lion of Night. The Builder, renowned as the greatest greenseer of his time, and his father, who bore a direct blood relation to the Great Other, alongside Azor's dragon dreams and dragonglass-induced visions, concurred on a plan. After numerous revisions, they settled on performing a ritual aimed at granting both the Great Other and the Lion of Night a shared dream or greensight, in which they would perceive each other's imminent betrayal. The location for the ritual was meticulously chosen—a place where the magic of the Old Gods held the greatest sway, intricately linked by the weirwoods throughout the Lands of Always Winter and extending all the way to the Mossvy. These weirwoods had been strategically planted by the Great Other himself, enabling him to observe the movements of his First Men adversaries.

The cost of breaking the defences of the monsters without alerting them was immense and only succeeded because of the blessings of the Old Gods. By granting the power, the Old Gods almost faded, and every Weirwood planted by the Great Other was consumed, along with Builder's father himself as he was channelling the power. A Child of the Forest sacrificed itself to power Azor's attack, and he lost his immense Dragon Dreams and Dragonglass viewing power after the assault."

I gaped at the lengths my ancestors have gone to fight the monsters. I was not looking forward to the fight and sacrifices I may be forced to make to fight the second long night and the surviving monsters.

"The armies of the Lion of Night and the Great Other clashed, and the Lion of Night lost. Every death in his monster armies empowered the Great Other, and after many moons, the Lion of Night fled, injured, and weakened so much that it was barely alive. He fled to the now Asshai, the Shadowlands. It was after his growth there that the name Shadowlands was formed.

Despite the significant reduction in the numerical advantage of the monsters, hope for their defeat remained slim. Azor arrived with a summoning ritual intended to call forth one of the Elder Dragons, recognizing dragonfire as a potent weapon against ice and death. While the Builder harboured reservations about the summoning, he ultimately threw his support behind it, seeing no alternative. Even to this day, the nature and significance of the Elder Dragons to Azor and Valyria remain shrouded in mystery. However, the ritual failed, summoning instead a fiery being who introduced itself as the Red God, R'hllor, a deity of fire. Offering assistance in the battle against the Great Other and his army, a new pact was forged—the Pact of Ice, Fire, and Death. The being pledged to fight alongside us, extracting something of value from each of us only after the Great Other's demise, and departing the world only once the enemy was vanquished. While Azor, a fire mage and pyromancer, placed unwavering faith in the Red God, Brandon's instincts proved correct— the being was not a god, but a fire demon masquerading as one, toying with mortal lives.

The Red God followed its words, and the last war of the Long Night occurred. The armies were destroyed, and Azor and the Red Demon fought the Great Other. Their battle broke the lands, forming the current Thousand Islands. At the time of the defeat of the Great Other, the expected betrayal from Red God occurred. The Great Other, the builder's Grandfather, was destroyed, but it left many children behind. The Red Demon allowed one child to escape back to the land of Always Winter and killed Azor's love, Nyssa, consuming her flesh. He took the talent of Greensight from the builder, and The Red God remained in this world as the enemy was not vanquished as per the Pact.

One offspring of the Great Other, born of a union with one of the Children of the Forest, managed to survive. The survival of this Other, coupled with the Red God's treachery, ignited an unparalleled fury within Azor and Brandon. The being continued to torment the populace, assuming the guise of the Red God. When Azor confronted it atop his dragon, Brandon seized the Ice Sword forged by the Great Other, its power bound to his blood. As fire magic erupted amidst the clash between the fire mage, dragon, and Fire Demon, the sea in the vicinity shrunk away, leaving behind the desolate expanse known as the Shrinking Sea, later dubbed the Plains of the Jogos Nhai. Despite their combined might, Azor and his dragon proved insufficient to vanquish the weakened being. Shielded by the Ice magic imbued within the Sword, and concealed from the Red God's sight by the Children's enchantment, Brandon delivered a decisive blow, beheading the Fire Demon from behind as it gloated before Azor, consuming the flesh of his dragon.
Azor perished from his wounds, and Brandon returned to the North. Knowing that the Others are still hidden in the land of Always Winter, he built the Wall using magic and giants. He also built this castle as the seat of House Stark. The magic binding the wall together was anchored to this place and by the vows of the Night's Watch. As long as there is a Stark here, the wall will retain its power."

I looked at my Grandfather in pure disbelief. This was nothing like the small history mentioned in show or books. Fuck my luck that I was sent to this dangerous death world. Lands destroyed, fire demons, shadow monsters, krakens, the only thing missing is Ice Dragons.

"Papa, I always thought that the Great Other was destroyed here, or perhaps trapped beneath the crypts or some such, which would explain why the castle is named Winterfell. Winter fell here, you, see? If not, then why name it Winterfell?"

Grandfather looked at me in shock and began to laugh. "Do you truly believe that a being of such immense power could be defeated merely by slashing or piercing with a sword, Dameon?" he chuckled. "No, if the Great Other were to be vanquished here, this place would have been akin to another Stepstones, with the land splintered by the ensuing battle."


His laughter faded, replaced by a sudden shift to sternness and fury. "This castle, the seat of our power, was named Winterfell after the time of the 13th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. The Night's King," he continued, his tone grave. "It was not because the cold ones fell here, but because the reigning King of Winter succumbed to absolute madness and folly on this very ground. The King of Winter forgot his purpose and fell in love with the Other, the Corpse Queen—paramour of his own brother, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Here, the King of Winter descended to the lowest depths possible for a Stark, committing every sin against the laws of Gods and Men including kinslaying and breaking guest rights."

"What?" I gasped at the sheer surprise. "I thought the starks were beloved and honourable people, grandfather. How else will we have such loyal bannerman except for the Boltons? What happened?"

My grandfather scoffed at my question and retorted, "Honourable? Don't be a fool, Daemon. The ancient Kings of Winter were as cruel and unyielding as the winter itself. We are honourable because we uphold our own words. There's no need for those words to align with the laws of gods and men. Kings are beyond those limitations.The tale begins with two twin brothers accompanying their father beyond the Wall. In those times, there were no wildlings; only First Men traversed the lands beyond the Wall in search of the Only Child of the Great Other, the last link allowing the disembodied Red Demon—now manifesting slowly as the Red God R'hllor in spiritual form—to persist. If the Last Other were to be destroyed, the pact would be enforced, and the Red Demon would be banished automatically, but there were no sightings of the Last Other.

The Stark brothers were equally charismatic and gifted. The heir was unmatched with a blade, while the spare possessed prodigious magical talent. Rivalry simmered between them until they encountered an ethereal woman with cold, blue eyes beyond the Wall. She captivated their hearts, but her affections lay solely with the spare, stoking the heir's fury at the rejection. Her image lingered in both brothers' minds for years.

As time passed, jealousy and rivalry between the brothers festered into hatred within the heir, who eventually ascended the Throne of Winter. Though he had married and fathered many children, his brother, who had shunned marriage and ignored all other women, joined the Night's Watch after his brother's coronation, eventually rising to become Lord Commander.

It was during his tenure as Lord Commander that he encountered the woman again, and took her as his paramour. Thus began a 13-year-long winter, during which the Stark brother and the woman ruled as the Night's King and Corpse Queen, birthing 13 immensely powerful children. These children were sent to the Lands of Always Winter by the queen as winter waned.

As news of his brother's liaison with a woman with blue eyes reached the King of Winter, jealousy consumed him. He summoned his almost sister-in-law under guest rights to Winterfell. Before the order came to Nightsfort at the end of 13-year long Winter the Queen and the Night's King went beyond the wall and the Queen did the same ritual to change the King to an actual Other. The Queen used Dragonglass and the black stone collected from the Lion Of Night to enact this ritual. The Night's King was unconscious when the summons came and knowing the time is limited the Queen decided to do as the Winter King Demanded.

When the Queen reached this castle, the Winter King beheld her ethereal beauty. Memories of his youthful infatuation and lust resurfaced, driving him to declare the woman as his brother's wife and to assert his right of First Night, even over his brother, who had relinquished his noble status by swearing the Night's Watch oath. During the barely legal rape, she fought against the Winter King and She revealed herself as an Other during the fight, sparking a deadly confrontation.

Realising that the cold women was the Corpse Queen searched by the Starks, the King tried to kill the women as his duty. In the ensuing fight the Queen escaped, but she lost her 14th​ child. The king's sword had pierced her stomach once and his brother's child was murdered. But the Corpse Queen survived enough to reach Nightsfort and inform to the Nights King. The Winter King's heir was enraged beyond belief by his father's doing but was powerless to do anything. The Night's King was already preparing for war when The Winter King knowing that his Brother would seek revenge, erased the Nights King name from records and decalared war on him as an Other Lover and betrayer. The Nights King's hatred towards his brother reached unknown heights when he heard that his brother has erased his Stark name from records and history. The Night's King declared that he would kill every person who called the Stark's their king, destroy everything any Stark ever build, kill every person who have even heard the name Stark and accelerated his preparation for attack on North."

I gasped and looked at my grandfather with open mouth.

I spluttered; "that... that... that is insane. You must kill every living being to achieve that. I mean almost anyone who trade has heard of The Starks."

His grandfather sighed and said, "well for what it's worth, at that time Stark was not as known as now and population was so low that he could achieve it in few years. Now, after 8000 years, you are correct. Also, do you see Daemon? The King followed his words and interpreted it as he deems fit. Only our own records shows that the King was in the wrong. For the World, he was honourable. Anyway, let's continue the history lesson, the army of king of winter met with Night's king little corpse army and the firstmen beyond the wall also attacked the same time. The Night's King and the King of Winter met sword to sword above the wall and the heir was the witness. The King of Winter the elder twin brother was always the best swordsmen, and with Ice was unbeatable. The Nights King was almost defeated when the heir saw some dark essence enter the being and Ice armour formed around the Nights King.

The King of Winter engaged in battle again but soon realized that defeating his brother was impossible with the new armour with Ice as the sword's magic was not working for him. So, the Winter King took the black-blue blood of his brother and mixed it with his own blood to enact the ritual of banishment from the Night's Watch. As the Lord Commander, he could bring the Other to this side of the Wall and pass through its magical protection. During this ritual, Winter King passed Ice to his heir to engage his uncle. Sacrificing his left hand and eye in the fight, the heir finally pierced the heart through the ice armour, proving himself worthy to wield the Ice's magical properties. With a smug grin, the King completed the ritual, believing he had finally eradicated his brother.

However, as the Wall's magic slowly disintegrated him, the Night's King roared in defiance and ran towards the Winter King. His outer armour and skin turned to red ash as he reached the King in a blink, piercing the King's chest with his hand through the steel armour and emerging from his back, holding the still-beating heart of the King. Without stopping his momentum, the Night's King jumped from the Wall to the other side with the corpse of the King. The Hier was stupefied for minutes but he recovered quickly. Despite the heir's efforts to search for them, nothing was found on the other side of the wall. He erased his father's name from history and the old name of the castle, renaming it Winterfell, where the mighty King of Winter Fell to evil as a warning to future Starks. It remains unconfirmed whether the Night's King survived, but his 13 children certainly did. The ancient kings believed that Night's King took considerable time recovering and regathering his strength. However, by the time he did, the Red Demon had become more powerful, and the magic of the Wall had strengthened beyond belief, leaving him waiting as he increased his own strength to match and overcome to enact his vow to eradicate the Stark name."

I was speechless after hearing the ancient history. My thoughts accelerated and it was not good things. I was exasperated that the current threat beyond the wall is now because two brothers' rivalry and jealousy over a woman. 'Is the The Being who sent me here fucking kidding me. The starks being foolish that they allowed to grow two threats beyond their borders without any intervention and whatever the fuck the Lion of night is now. I was quite sure now that the Night's King is powered by the Great Enemy and I dreads my future now. I wondered about what would happen if I find the exit and escaped this death world just before 290AC.'

The moment I thought that a cold dread enveloped me.

You Will Die A Most Painful Death.


The Voice pierced my mind from everywhere and my mind opened for just a pico second to the Beings Dimension and I fainted for a second due to the overload of my mind.

Just like that it was over and I was back in my body and before my grandfather who was looking at my reactions to his lesson and smiling at by flabbergasted and fearful expressions.

"Don't worry, my dear Daemon," Grandfather reassured me with a gentle smile, "they both have not attacked for 8000 years, and they will not attack for the next 8000 years. I am quite sure it is not in our lifetime, so don't be afraid. I believe that both are afraid to attack, as they are not sure of their victory. It's a continuous cycle of Ice and Fire being kept in check by each other, while we mortals are their playthings. As long as it is like that, we have nothing to worry about."

I looked at my Grandfather and cursed my luck.

"Papa, I am afraid because I will be alive for the Long Night," I declared, and the smile vanished from my grandfather's face in an instant. Sensing the gravity of my words, I knew it was time to share certain truths with him, particularly about my future knowledge as dragon dreams and greensight, to garner his support in preparing the North for the wars to come.

My grandfather studied me carefully. "Daemon, you are serious, and you believe it. I can see it in your eyes. I believe this also pertains to your unnatural healing and gifts from Gods?"

I looked at my hands and saw the truth. It was healing faster and I decided that bullshitting was my only option to save myself a world of trouble. I nodded slowly, preparing myself what to say.

"Let me stop you now. This day has been long, and you need rest. Have the food and water I brought, and take rest as you heal. We will talk after you have recovered." My Grandfather interrupted me.

I looked at him gratefully, nodding in agreement. My grandfather's suggestion was excellent, affording me the time to plan exactly what I needed to disclose and how the discussion would unfold.

Authors Note:
Well, that was an information dumb with lot of talking, but this history lesson is important to establish the threat levels and Daemon's choices later.

Chapter Text

Daemon Snow

72AC

It's been a week since the meeting in the Stark vault, and the promised meeting with Lord Stark still hasn't taken place. My burns were nearly healed, and I realized that the slow healing was due to their magical nature. The day after the burns, I was moved back to my room, and my grandfather announced that I was suffering from a contagious sickness, forbidding anyone from visiting me except him.

Wearing clothes over my upper body was painful due to the healing burns, and I stuck to consuming average adult meals during that week. The only visitor I had besides my grandfather was my uncle Rickon. He appeared frustrated during his visit, and I later realized that my grandfather had informed him about some of the recent events. Initially, I was angry about this, but upon reflection, I understood the importance of preparing Rickon, as the next Lord Stark, for what lay ahead.

After a week of planning, I still hadn't developed any solid plans due to the uncertainty of my grandfather's reactions and potential changes. The one thing I was determined to do was share my Power of advanced healing and biology with him. Keeping my grandfather alive for as long as possible is very much essential for my own ease of life.

The meeting.

I entered the Stark vault and found my grandfather poring over ancient parchments. When he noticed me, he nodded toward an empty chair, and I respectfully took a seat.

"Thank you, Papa," I said, trying to be charming.

He smiled at me and spoke, "Daemon, it's been a week, and you've recovered remarkably well from burns that would have been slow to heal for anyone else. As I've been researching ancient history, I've found no mention of such remarkable power. You mentioned that you will live to see the Long Night, and I am intrigued. Now, tell me the truth. Last week, I entertained your curiosities and shared truths known only to a select few. Now it's your turn."

I nodded respectfully and replied, "I am grateful for your guidance, Papa. It opened my eyes and humbled me from my arrogance of knowledge. The source of my power stems from a dream I had when I was injured. I believe I was blessed by the Old Gods and the 14 Valyrian gods to survive and to aid humanity during the Second Long Night, which I predict will arrive in about 225 years. With enhanced healing, I am capable of surviving anything given enough time, and I can share my power through blood. Anyone who consumes it will heal injuries and gradually become better themselves. The improvement is permanent, although the healing effect only persists as long as the power remains within their body. This revelation came to me in that dream."

My grandfather appeared intrigued and remarked, "I see. You believe you have been bestowed with this power to prepare for the upcoming Long Night and the monsters that will arise. It's almost as unbelievable as the prophecy that the Long Night will return."

As I observed my grandfather, I could see that he was deep in thought about the implications of my announcement. Interrupting his thoughts, I asked, "Why do you find it unbelievable, Grandfather? You are aware of the survival of our ancient enemies of Ice and Fire, so why should the return of the Long Night be considered improbable by you of all people?"

Looking earnestly at him, I continued, "Grandfather, I want to train. My mind is extraordinary, and I am determined to help strengthen the North. I want to share my blood with you to ensure your health and longevity. You must stay strong and alive for at least another 50 years. My blood could help you achieve that, assuming no major injuries or deadly diseases intervene."

"50 more years? Surely you jest," my grandfather replied with a wistful smile. "I am already 41, and few in the North reach such old age. Winter will come for the old, and the young must endure. I made peace with my mortality long time ago. However, for your sake and for the North's sake, I will strive to stay alive as long as possible."

"Long Night is improbable for me because for the last 8000 years they were there and everyone including us were doing nothing but preparing." my grandfather continued. "The Red Demon is stronger now than ever, and even the Night's King would tread cautiously around him. I struggle to see how it will be possible for such a catastrophic event to occur again in 225 years."

"Papa, I don't know what will change in the years ahead. I only have disjointed visions about the intervening years. I'm sorry," I expressed earnestly. "I will do my best to strengthen the North as much as possible."

"It's not your fault, Daemon. It's the Old Gods showing you these disjointed visions and they are to blame," my grandfather replied with a loving smile. Guilt for using such a loving man briefly enveloped me for the first time in this life, but I quickly pushed it aside.

I nodded in acceptance, but suddenly a question struck me, one that I hadn't thought to ask last week. I stared at the fireplace with a nervous frown, feeling as though it were observing me. My grandfather noticed my sudden unease and began to speak, but I interrupted him.

"Papa, is the fire safe? Does the Red Demon have a presence in all fires and see through them? How did he attack me all the way from Essos?" I blurted out anxiously.

"Don't worry, Daemon," my grandfather reassured me. "Fire is indeed a medium through which the Red Demon can operate, but not all fires are under his control or surveillance. Winterfell is protected from scrying by any means, including Weirwood, Dragonglass, or even fire itself. The Red Demon has developed his stolen Greenseer abilities by merging them with fire instead of Weirwood trees, but even he cannot focus on every fire in this world. Any person with even a hint of sensitivity will feel his presence when he is scrying."

He continued, "Even the visions he sends to his sworn slaves are not live scrying. The only reason he was present here last week was because the power in your blood attracted him, and he came to personally consume it before it could be lost to him. If your blood comes into contact with fire, be sure to use the power yourself, and the Red Demon will not even be aware of it."

I calmed down, reassured that the fire would not try to harm me in my sleep. Over the past week, I had been contemplating my mission here, and I was certain that both the Others and the Red Demon were enemies of the Being and therefore my targets. However, I had no idea how to defeat a bodiless Fire Demon enveloped in sacrificial energy and the faith of millions of people. The only solution that came to mind was fulfilling the Pact, which would banish the Red Demon from this world and eliminate his influence, thus achieving the mission of ridding the Great Enemy from here. My first step was to act against the only enemy I was certain of and begin my preparations.

"Papa, thank you for reassuring me and saving me from many worrying nights," I expressed gratefully. "I want to start preparing for the coming conflicts. I am confident that if I share my power with you, you will survive for another 50 years. Similarly, I wish to bless the castle inhabitants with my power. Winter is coming, and illnesses like fevers and other ailments will afflict our people. Let them be blessed by my power."

"How will this be done, Daemon? This must be kept secret, and only my heir should be informed," my grandfather replied with curiosity.

"I can manage it. I just need access to the storerooms. I will add my blood to the water and wine. Although it will be diluted, the healing properties will be sufficient for them to benefit. Additionally, I will add my blood to the wells and water sources used by the people of Wintertown," I explained. "In the future, I foresee fevers and famine after the coming winter. The population will be suffering across the North. By surviving these diseases and hunger, their bodies will adapt and become more resilient. The next generation will be stronger than the current one. By the time of the Long Night, their bodies will be incredibly powerful."

My grandfather listened attentively, clearly intrigued by my plans to bless, and strengthen our people secretly, ensuring their survival and resilience in the face of the challenges ahead.

He sighed heavily and said, "Famine? Bloody hell. We've lost the fertile lands of the New Gift, and the Night's Watch is deteriorating further day by day. The smallfolk living there are leaving in increasing numbers, affecting our grain stores. The Lords of the North and the Night's Watch write to me almost every moon, complaining about it."

I could see the annoyance and frustration growing on my grandfather's face. He continued, "I curse your stupid grandmother every day for being arrogant enough to disregard my brother's advice not to give away our lands. We have ruled these lands for 8000 years. Our sweat and blood are in every part of this land, and we know what works and what doesn't. The Good Queen was too idealistic in her beliefs to value our opinions. Stupid lizard."

I couldn't help but laugh heartily at my usually stern grandfather cursing and complaining like a child. Suddenly, a great idea struck me—a way to get one over my grandmother, who had insulted my deceased mother and never even held me, her first grandchild. It was ironic and a source of amusement for me to hear that the Good Queen was considered a perfect role model for motherhood by the Faith. I laughed hard that day in my room, knowing the sheer disregard she had for her own children, let alone her poor grandchildren. The fate of Saera, Viserra, Gael was examples for her selfishness. Even here, early on, she was proving what a great grandmother she was...

"Papa, I have a possible solution for reclaiming the New Gift and that may put them back into your hands, but it's borderline treasonous and will require careful planning. It will take time," I explained.

Intrigued, he looked at me and replied, "Well, let me hear it."

"Well, the first part of the plan involves issuing a secret private order during the upcoming gathering of lords at my uncle's marriage. Order that no more complaints regarding food shortages, migrating smallfolk from the New Gift, wildling raids, or Night's Watch desertions should be reported to you. Instruct everyone to send their grievances by raven directly to King's Landing, specifically addressed to the Conciliator and the Good Queen," I explained. "They won't be able to ignore these complaints, as they are trying to maintain the goodwill they built with the Lords of the Realm after the tyranny of my Great Uncle Maegor and need to be respected, or at least seen as more than just being rulers only because of dragons. The King is the Protector of the Realm, and the Night's Watch issue is outside the realm; therefore, it's the King's problem, not yours as Lord Paramount of the North. Moreover, the problem arose because of the Kings Ruling of sending prisoners to the Nights Watch and become compounded due to the arrogant misuse of Crown's power by the Good Queen against the advice of the then Lord Paramount of the North and thus exceeding the authority of Lord Paramount to make decisions now."

My grandfather looked at me as if I were a madman, clearly taken aback by the audacity of my proposal. The weight of the situation was clear, and I could sense his concern mingled with a hint of reluctant intrigue.

"That is exceptionally cruel, my son. And I love it. I know how much loud and annoying the northern lords can be and it will be truly vexing for the small council. You are brilliant, Daemon." my grandfather exclaimed, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"This should be done for at least 6 years, Da. I want to be at least 10 years old before we proceed with the borderline treason part. The idea will comply with every law of the king, but in practice, it will clearly go against the Queen's order regarding our lands. However, she won't be able to overtly make a move against House Stark for this manoeuvre, and any punishment will essentially fall on me. I'll gladly declare that the idea originated from me to get back at her for her slight towards me and mine," I explained confidently to my grandfather.

The smile that had graced my grandfather's face since I began explaining the plan vanished instantly. "Daemon, I don't want you to face punishment if this plan backfires. We need to consider other options, and you haven't explained how the treason part would unfold," he said with concern.

"It will be okay, grandfather. I will reveal the details of the treasonous part later. There's still time for that, and I won't be here for any punishment if it's truly severe. I can run away to the wilds of the North, which would help me further develop my powers. If it's just a whipping, it's nothing —I'll heal within days and it will only help me adapt more," I reassured him, determined to convince him of the importance of strengthening the North.

My grandfather still looked unsettled, but I decided I will press him later on this matter, knowing the strength of the North was crucial for my own future.

"Yes, we can discuss it further in the future, but the idea about redirecting complaints is actually great. I will begin implementing it. Now, what other ideas do you have?" My Grandfather asked me.

I replied eagerly, ready to contribute more to our strategic plans for House Stark's future.

"In my dreams, I saw two food items that could greatly benefit us: potatoes and rice that can be grown in swamps. I suggest financing a great voyage, involving the Manderley and Braavosi. Venture as far as Yi Ti to acquire these products and seeds. They will thrive in our cold climate and improve our food situation significantly," I explained enthusiastically.

"Next, we should acquire as many farm animals as possible. With regular intake of my blood, they will survive any winter or sickness. Daily consumption of my blood will be beneficial for them and help them endure harsh cold during winter," I continued.

"These are the basic ideas I have for now. I will have more to contribute after learning more about specific situations and receiving a basic education," I concluded, eager to see our plans come to fruition for the betterment of House Stark.

Grandfather fell silent, lost in deep thought. After a moment, he spoke, "Well, these ideas are intriguing. Acquiring the farm animals can be done immediately. However, the great voyage requires careful planning, resources and no one has done this before. Why specifically involve the Braavosi?"

"I know that Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, has not yet achieved fame for his Great Voyages. His journeys to Essos have only just begun, and few besides me know of their success. That's why I suggested embarking on such a voyage. Braavos was my choice because, among the Free Cities, it remains less powerful and boasts efficient shipbuilding capabilities—being the nearest to White Harbor makes it an ideal partner. If they provide the ships, and we the seamen and capable warg scouts with the captain of the Voyage, preferably our men, it could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. However, I'm aware it will be costly, and I'm unsure whether you have any secret wargs under your control."

My grandfather chuckled at my question before replying, "Your guess is correct. The Starks have maintained a small force of wargs among their sworn men, but currently, there is no one in it. We'll have to build it up from scratch. However, I can call upon the Warg force maintained by the Reeds for this journey. They must have at least one bird of prey scout. As for expenses, our funds are limited, and I'm hesitant to touch our reserves. The liquid gold is quite tight, although there's a sum of 4000 gold dragons that belong to you," he finished slyly.

"What? Mine? How?" I was taken aback, surprised to learn I had such a significant amount of gold in my name.

"1000 gold dragons is the annual sum the royal family sends for your upkeep. I haven't touched it since your care is my own responsibility, and it has been accumulating," he explained.

I was astonished by the amount. "That's a huge sum, isn't it?" I asked.

"Yes, the royal family's extravagance and arrogance know no bounds. But in this case, I accepted the funds gladly," my grandfather replied.

"You can use it, Papa. Consider it an interest-free loan that you can repay with the profits from the voyage. I have designed special ships that will be essential for the success of the journey. I know you are a warg—can't we enlist other wargs with birds as lookouts to watch for pirates or ambushes? This would increase our chances of success," I suggested, eager to contribute to our plans with innovative strategies.

My grandfather was intrigued by my suggestions and decided to table them for later discussion with Lord Manderly.

"This is all well and good, son, but you've avoided talking about the future," my grandfather continued sternly, scrutinizing my face for any signs of hesitation or evasion. "Shouldn't we try to inform your other grandfather? His family is known for magic and dragon dreams. For some godforsaken reason, he rides a Dragon, even with that, if he doesn't believe you, then he's a fool. Why haven't you mentioned anything regarding the Royal Family? It's more than just your father's anger toward you and the slights against House Stark regarding the New Gift. We need to consider all aspects, not just a strong North."

I swallowed nervously, anticipating his question. Whatever grudge my grandfather held against the Targaryens paled in comparison to his duty as Lord Stark to prepare for the Long Night. I dreaded this conversation, knowing my answer stemmed from pure selfishness. I didn't want to alter the Targaryens' fate, and if history played out as it should, I hoped to claim a dragon by 101 AC. This ambition could only be realized after my father and uncle passing in 92 AC and 101 AC respectively, or if existing dragonriders became too old or turned against each other to pursue the Bastard who claimed a dragon and flew away. However, if circumstances didn't align, claiming a dragon could become dangerous, potentially leading to kinslaying by my own hands. Despite these thoughts, I took a deep breath, preparing to address his concerns.

"Papa, my father's family considers themselves above the rules of gods and men. They believe they are almost divine, but the reality is that they are mortal like any other men. If they were to discover my powers, they might attempt to kill or imprison me, treating me as a mere resource to be exploited forever. Even if I only mention my dragon dreams, they may not believe me, and if they do, they would likely summon me south and keep a close eye on me. This would inevitably lead to the discovery of my healing powers when I survive their inevitable attempts to poison me, likely orchestrated by the Baratheons. Therefore, I am not willing to engage with them until I am in a position of power. I will not go south until I am confident in my personal strength and capable of surviving and escaping even dragons."

My grandfather was pensive, considering my reasoning. "I understand your concerns, but we must still try," he said. "I won't send a raven or anything like that. We will inform them when they summon you south."

I immediately agreed, confident that such a scenario would only unfold if every other Targaryen were dead and I stood as the sole claimant.

"You mentioned improving your personal power. What do you mean by that, and how?" Grandfather asked me curiously.

"Well, Papa, you remember how badly I was burned by the magical fire? Next time, I won't be burned so easily. I will still feel the fire, but the burns will be less severe, unless the Red Demon uses more power or I'm exposed for longer than my resistance allows. Similarly, I can build resistance to other things. Consume a small amount of poison, and I will become immune to it over time. If I sustain a sword cut, the next time, more force will be required to cut the same place. My plan is to become the 'unburnt' when I stand in front of a dragon for the first time," I explained.

My grandfather regarded me with a look of awe, as if he were gazing upon a god or witnessing the Builder himself.

"That is a godly gift, Daemon. And you're saying you can share this adaptation and the healing ability?"

"Yes, Papa, I don't know the effectiveness, but over time it will be very beneficial. Our guards will become faster and stronger than others. The major boon is preserving our loyal people from winter, diseases, and other threats," I explained. "I also want to learn magical arts from you, Grandfather. Warging and greensight, if you allow me. I aim to become the greatest warg the world has ever seen after my training."

Grandfather chuckled at my ambitious boast and then sighed. "I can train you in warging, but I am not a greenseer myself. I'll need to contact and summon the Reeds to see if the next generation has a greenseer among them. It has been 200 years since the last known greenseer. It's important to verify this history once again, as the last verification was performed by a Stark greenseer."

I was intrigued. "Verification?"

"Yes, Daemon. Greenseers, once they master their abilities, verify known history using the Weirwood as a conduit. The ancient Starks didn't solely rely on kings' heirs or written words, which can be misinterpreted. Instead, every greenseer born after mastering their ability would verify history through the Weirwood," Grandfather explained.

I was impressed by the determination and ingenuity to preserve knowledge. "That's quite a determined approach."

"Yes, it is, Daemon. Now let's conclude this meeting and rest for now," Grandfather said, signalling the end of our discussion.

5 Moons Later

It was the time of my uncle's marriage to Lady Gilliane Glover. She was beautiful in a northern way, soon to be my new aunt. Initially indifferent towards me, after two weeks in my presence, she warmed up and became friendly—perhaps influenced by how the Lord of Winterfell and the heir treated me as a full member of House Stark. The only exception was my second uncle, Bennard. He was a prickly man without a hint of magical talent. According to my grandfather, Uncle Rickon was talented in both warging and wielding Ice's powers, whereas Uncle Bennard excelled as a swordsman. I suspected he was envious, unable to wield Ice despite his swordsmanship.

Today marked the arrival of the Reeds, and Lord Reed was bringing his seven-year-old son, Aethan Reed. My grandfather believed Aethan was a greenseer in training, given the challenging journey he undertook at such a young age. I eagerly anticipated meeting the "bog devils" and learning more about greensight. Over the last five moons, my grandfather and uncle had taught me the basics of warging and demonstrated their skills, sparking my enthusiasm for learning. Witnessing their mastery prompted my own warging abilities to develop—I could now slowly enter the mind of a rat, though I lacked control. Though daily practice was improving my skills consistently.

My focus shifted primarily to warging for my magical studies, while my physical training saw significant progress. I began running after cats while carrying a shield I'd taken from the armoury. The guards initially tried to stop me, but Lord Stark's silent approval allowed me to claim the shield as my own. On the first day, I could only drag it behind me for five minutes before nearly fainting. I then enlisted a guard's help to move the shield to my room. Additionally, my room now housed various herbs from the Wolfswood. My grandfather had contacted a woods witch who provided small poisonous plants, which I ate piece by piece, masking the taste with meat. Even after five moons of this regimen, the thought of its taste still make me want to vomit.

Following the Red Demon incident, my grandfather confiscated my stolen knife and warned against cutting myself without his supervision. Increased security and my grandfather's rat spies prevented me from acquiring another knife, but during visits to the Wine and water store with my grandfather, I trained to withstand knife and sword slashes. I began with my palms and progressed to my shoulders, and within five moons, my blood replenishing capacity had increased. Now, I could lose almost a liter of blood and survive with sufficient rest. I recognized that the most immediate threat to my life was injury from swords or blood loss, so I focused on increasing my survivability, even with wounds to non-major areas like the brain or heart. I decided to protect these vital areas with armour and a helmet when I am in battle, as I was not foolish enough to risk injuring them like the rest of my body.

I have discovered an absolute best way of training to increase many things at the same time. I have discovered the magic of hot springs of Winterfell. The day my uncle took me to them for teaching me swimming is the day I cursed my own shortsightedness. The hot spring situated in Godswood was the best thing happened to me. Even though it is called hot spring it is almost a lake and flow in to the moat at the end of the Godswood inside Winterfell. The Godswood itself is acres of forest that has not seen an axe for millennia. It is thick with weirwoods and other trees and not accessible except for the Starks and their guests with permission. The Godswood is near the First Keep and the Crypts of Winterfell. the hot spring is shallow at the banks and gets very deep as one move from the banks. After I inquired about the depth of the lake, my grandfather informed me that no one knows the depth as it gets hotter and hotter it gets deeper and the stories of Starks getting burned due to the heat. In only 1 week I relearned to swim, my previous knowledge and my learning talent picking it up from my uncle or Grandfather also helped immensely.

After mastering swimming, I proposed a training plan to my grandfather, who reluctantly approved, provided he was present to ensure my safety. Over the last three moons, I've trained twice every three days. The plan involves tying a rope around my waist and swimming from the banks, going as deep underwater as possible. This routine allows me to enhance my heat resistance, breath-holding ability, and overall durability against the increasing water pressure with depth. If I can't swim up, I tug the loose rope, signalling my grandfather to pull me out.

Though I haven't yet tested my body's durability, I've noticed significant improvements in heat resistance and breath control. This progress became evident when I could comfortably sit in the the blazing fireplace for almost half an hour. The smoke, initially a challenge, has become more bearable over these five moons, making it easier to breathe in the fiery environment.

My thoughts settled as the Reeds entered the courtyard. They bowed to lord stark and guest rights were exchanged. Lord Reed was very short and in first view looked like an overgrown 16-year-old. There was someone short near him who was near my height, which was ridiculous as Aethan reed was supposed to be 7 names day old. I really hoped that his magical talent is not similar to his height. Lord Stark introduced me to them and I was asked to escort them to their guest quarters, a harsh glare from my grandfather told me not to ask anything sensitive out in the open. I escorted them into their quarters discussing my life here and nothing more. As I left them, I wondered when I could learn from them.

It had been five days since the wedding concluded, and the lords had already begun their departures, their journeys across the vast North taking several weeks. Finally, the time had come for the meeting with the Reeds, and the chosen location was the Godswood. I welcomed this choice, knowing that currently, there was no peeping tom in the weirwood like Brynden Rivers.

I stood with my grandfather, waiting as Lord Reed entered and bowed to us, well to Lord Stark his liege lord I guess, but I like to think some of the respect was for me too.

"Lord Stark, it has been a surprise seeing your order to escort my son here for training someone in Greensight. He is only started discovering his abilities thorough meditation after unlocking it, the only help I could give is to tell how to make the Weirwood sap that must be ingested to unlock your abilities and connect with the Old Gods." Lord Reed said without any questioning from our part.

"Oh?" Lord Stark looked crestfallen, and I feared this reaction. "It has been many years since the last Stark Greenseer, and the only information I could find was what you told me."

Upon hearing this confirmation, I felt a deep disappointment. I had been hoping for at least a book written in the old tongue or some sort of guide detailing the secret training methods. It appeared that mastering greensight was an individualistic journey of self-discovery. However, I am a cheater and I saw Aethan Reed looking like a child in search of a friend during our recent Knife practice together. I decided I would be his friend. Perhaps by practicing together, I could glean something from him with my unique talent. After all, something is always better than nothing.

"Grandfather, wouldn't it be better if Aethan stays here for fostering now? He could be under your teachings, and we could both help each other with our greensight abilities," I suggested hopefully.

My grandfather scrutinized me closely, as if trying to read my thoughts. He was wondering if it was appropriate for Aethan to learn about my abilities. I nodded in confirmation, and my grandfather turned to Lord Reed.

"Lord Reed, I request you to consider this. Aethan will be my ward and foster son, and I will teach him the ways of the North. I understand he is your heir, but this arrangement will be beneficial for both of our houses," my grandfather asked politely.

Lord Reed bowed low with barely hidden happiness. "Lord Stark, your request is our command. My house has protected our southern border for the North for millennia, and the Reeds have answered any call and order from our Kings. I am truly honoured that you have selected my son to be taken as a ward. I agree to your request, but I ask that after 5 years, he be allowed to travel to the Neck and stay there for 6 moons. The age of fourteen is important for the Crannogmen, a time when we learn the ways of the Neck. I would also be glad to host your grandson if you so wishes."

I was intrigued by that idea. Staying in the most dangerous place in Westeros for the uninitiated would be excellent training for me. My resistance to poisons and diseases would get a thorough workout, which would be essential for me later on. Even now, the only real poison I had access to was Sweetsleep from the maester. I still didn't have a clue why a maester appointed by the crown for tax collection and accounting purposes would possess Sweetsleep. When informed to my grandfather, he advised me to leave the maester alone and assured me that he was being watched carefully.

I want to accept myself, but I will not overstep my Grandfather in front of a lord again. My grandfather looked at me, and I nodded slightly.

"Lord Reed, I accept. It will be a good experience for him to see the North," my grandfather said.

Lord Reed was ecstatic, as his house had become closer to the Starks than in centuries. My grandfather decided to give me the Weirwood sap only after I turned 6.

Authors note: Next,Time Skip of 2 years and the unlocking of greensight along with a vision.

reposting this because some mf reported my stories for mentioning the you know what sites.. jobless people imho.  there are hundreds of smuts  with more readers and the mentioning of you know what site in clear open than my small fics...  anyway will publish one chapter one day till we catch upto Fanfiction, qq and webnovel versions... 

my discord : My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Cost of Magic and Power : Visions and Pain.

Daemon Snow
Winterfell
74AC

I looked at the sleeping form of my newborn cousin, Cregan Stark. He was cute as button and has a huge pair of lungs. My Grandfather had ensured that his daughter in law is as healthy as possible by making her drink a fake potion made out of my blood in addition to the usual amount in the water and the foods. The birth was hard, but she survived unlike my mother. My grandfather entered the room at that time and he looked at me surprised as it is the first time I am in the nursery to see my younger cousin.

"Daemon, It is good you have finally decided to visit your younger cousin, people were starting to think that you don't care for him and hate him for taking your spotlight as the baby of the family.

I looked at him and scoffed, "Grandfather, in the past year you have understood me like no one else, and even my own endeavor to present a front failed on you. You do know that I don't care for him beyond the use I will have for him as lord stark, when he ascends years and years later. I can't care for any of you as I know I will outlive every one of you and my own empathy is burned out of me."

Grandfather looked at me with his mysterious smirk that usually enrages me at the mocking in it, like he doesn't believe me.

"Daemon, you may believe so, but I will ask you one question. Will you harm him or try to usurp his position as Lord Stark."

I scoffed upon hearing the question and replied firmly, "You know well that ruling over Winterfell is not my purpose. I have no intention of causing harm to him. If I desire power, it is the Iron Throne and a dragon that I seek—a right denied to me despite being the firstborn grandchild of the king. The position of Lord Stark does not interest me. Yet even those ambitions pale in comparison to my true calling, which extends far beyond mere kingship."

"And that is why I said you care for us, Daemon. Whatever horrors you have endured, they haven't broken you, and you continue to fight. Even now, I can see the additional weights you've concealed under your woolen clothes and tied to your limbs, biting into your skin. I don't know how you tolerate the coldness of the metal along with the burden of the weights. I've told you to stop this; you're too young to bear such burdens on your body."

"As I've told you, Grandfather, it's not a problem for me. My body will heal naturally, and any issues that arise will resolve themselves in time," I replied calmly.

Grandfather was frustrated that I ignored his advice on this matter, but he set it aside for another time.



"Daemon, your warging abilities have improved significantly, and your eagle companion has grown alongside you. You can now see through the eyes of cats and rats. I believe it's time to develop your greensight and open your third eye," he remarked.



I felt immediate excitement, eagerly anticipating the ability to witness the past like a movie. Living in a medieval world was dreadfully boring, devoid of entertainment. I derived amusement from introducing basic hygiene practices to the population—such as boiling water before drinking, daily bathing, and maintaining clean water sources—and observing their genuine shock in response. My grandfather initially implemented my suggestions on a small scale, later applying them across Winterfell and the lands under his direct control if successful.

"Aye, that is good news, grandfather. I've been awaiting your permission. When will we do this?"



"I will prepare the Weirwood paste today, and you will drink it tomorrow night at the Godswood. Are you ready for the consequences and the pain? The paste is said to be pure poison that even affects the Gods, and only the blessing of the Old Gods will save you," my grandfather cautioned.



I looked at my grandfather with determination to become the ultimate voyeur, enveloped in my thoughts. Internally, I smirked, confident that I would survive the poison without the blessings of the Old Gods due to my adaptation and healing abilities. Over the past year, I had deliberately consumed various poisons in smaller doses, building up my immunity to almost all of them. In anticipation of consuming the weirwood paste, I had even begun chewing on weirwood leaves, which initially made me sick and tired for an entire week. However, months of practice had granted me a small immunity to the substance, ensuring I could survive the paste's poison on my own.



"I am as ready as possible, Grandfather. I have no fear of the poison, as I am confident I will survive even if my third eye is not opened and I do not gain the ability of Greensight," I reassured him. I am confident because even if, I didn't have it originally, which is not possible to check, I definitely has something now as my Talent has picked something from watching Aethan using his Greensight.



Lord Stark nodded and dismissed me from the nursery.

Godswood
Lord Stark awaited us as we entered the godswood. Aethan Reed had become one of my few true friends, displaying unwavering loyalty in the short year we had spent together. He shared his experiences of greensight and taught me the meditation techniques used by the Reeds to unlock this ability. In return, I trained with him in knife wielding skills, and he attempted to keep up with my routines, avoiding permanent injury only due to my shared power. He never divulged what he had seen through his greensight unless ordered by Lord Stark.



The night was cold and eerily silent, unlike a typical forest at night. There was no wind, and the usual sounds of insects were absent. The Weirwood tree, with its carved face, seemed to smile faintly, its eyes oozing red sap. Lord Stark stood solemnly before the tree, his hands and chin resting on the hilt of Ice, the sword's pointed end piercing the ground. In front of the tree, a bowl of white soup sat, into which the red sap dripped incessantly. Remarkably, despite the continuous flow, the bowl did not overflow.

As we entered, my grandfather looked at me and asked, "Daemon, are you sure you're ready for this? The pain of consuming this poison is said to be crippling, and we already have a greenseer. There's no need for you to suffer as well."



I knew the pain would be excruciating and grimaced inwardly, but outwardly, I remained calm. This power upgrade was too important to me. While I had been diligently improving my physical abilities, there was still much to be done for my mental prowess beyond warging. According to my grandfather, my progress in skinchanging was unprecedented, with my learning talent absorbing skills from him and even Aethan Reed. I could already connect with animals beyond my sight, provided they were already 'broken in' by another skinchanger.



However, I struggled to maintain control over both my body and a controlled animal simultaneously, a challenge I had been attempting since the outset. When I brought this up to my grandfather, he laughed, dismissing it as an outrageous notion, claiming no one had achieved it before.



Undeterred, I continued to experiment with various mental techniques inspired by fiction. I practiced Occlumency through meditation and clearing my mind, which helped me enter an animal's mind more swiftly. Additionally, I attempted to create a mental shield by visualizing one, even though I was uncertain of its feasibility in our world. Despite the uncertainty, I resolved to practice diligently because maintaining my independent mind was crucial to me, especially given the existence of powerful wargs capable of entering and potentially controlling my mind.

"Grandfather, I am sure about this. There is no gain without pain," I replied firmly.

He nodded in acknowledgment and gestured for me to sit at the base of the weirwood tree with my back against it. I obeyed, settling myself cross-legged on the massive roots with my back to the tree. As I positioned myself, the red sap dripping from the tree's eyes gradually ceased, yet I could still sense its cool, tingling sensation sliding down my back, making my skin feel simultaneously colder and hotter.

My grandfather then handed me a bowl containing a foul-smelling potion that I was certain would taste terrible. Knowing I had no choice but to endure this ordeal, I tightly closed my eyes, tried to ignore the smell, and swiftly gulped down the contents of the bowl in one go.

The potion felt like drinking acid as it seared down my throat, the intense heat and oily sensation causing discomfort. As soon as it reached my stomach, an excruciating pain unlike anything I had experienced before struck me. My eyes rolled upwards, and I lost consciousness, overwhelmed by the intense agony.

VISION

I awoke suddenly, taking a deep breath to calm myself, anticipating pain, but to my surprise, I felt nothing. I realized I was in a vision. Looking around, I found myself in a Godswood that, though smaller, eerily resembled Winterfell's surroundings, yet there was no castle in the distance. I watched as a giant of a man approached the Hearttree, clothed in wool with an Ice blade at his side. He bowed before the tree.



"Old Gods, may your blessing be given as I decide to build my castle here. This will be the home of my descendants and the Kings of Winter," he prayed.



I gasped as I witnessed this legendary figure in prayer. He suddenly opened his eyes, glancing around. I was certain he would have seen me if his Greensight hadn't been destroyed by the Red Demon. He returned to the clearing, speaking of building, and then memories hit my mind like a dragon's tail.



Images of the Long Night passed before my eyes in a blur. The storied history of the Kings of Winter's wars with the Warg King, the Barrow Kings, and the Red Kings flashed by. The lives of Brandon the Shipwright, Brandon the Burner, and Theon the Hungry Wolf taught me lessons as they raced through my consciousness. Eventually, I was thrust away by the weirwood, flying southward. The sky stretched vast above, and people below resembled ants. Finally, I arrived at my destination: the island of Dragonstone.

As I approached the great keep of my family's fathers, a sudden black shadow enveloped me, sparking panic. Rolling back, I beheld The Black Dread looming above me. After a moment of pure awe I realised that his eyes were fixed on me and he is staying afloat in the air without advancing forward. For the first time since this new life had begun, genuine fear seized me. The Dragon peered down at me as if deciphering a puzzle, letting out a thunderous roar. His unblinking black eyes remained fixed upon me, watching intently.

I didn't know what to do, unsure if the magical flames in this vision could harm my mind or soul. I attempted to project calmness, respect, and feelings of kinship to the Great Dragon through my Warg abilities. However, my mind encountered a formidable barrier, like a firewall of black stone, and the dragon's eyes quickly turned malicious and rageful.



Cursing myself, I realized he must have been bonded to someone during this time, perceiving my intrusion as a threat to that bond. Before the dragon could unleash fire, I attempted to speak in Valyrian, words I had picked up from maesters and books, while projecting images in a desperate attempt to communicate and show respect.



"Great Dragon, forgive me for wishing to contact you. I am Daemon, son of Aemon, grandson of Jaeherys, great-grandnephew of Maegor, and great-great-grandson of Aegon Targaryen." This time I was able to stop before I slammed to the Firewall in The Dragon's mind.

The moment the dragon heard the names Maegor and Aegon, he became calm and snorted for some reason. A rumble emanated from his mouth, almost like he was laughing at my proclamation. Despite the fire burning my mind, I heard a reply in my mind.

My eyes widened in surprise at the sound.

"You may be a future child of my current rider, young one, but the sky belongs to me, and everything that flies in it does so by my permission. You have dared to fly above my home and tried to enter my mind. Such insolence and daring can only be of my rider's lineage, and he will be quite wroth with me if I destroy you here and now. I shall forgive you magnanimously because of that and your young age. Nevertheless, you do not have my permission to fly here and now. Begone!"

The roar was deafeningly loud, and I was certain that if I were actually present, my eardrums would have shattered. The only reason my mind had not been destroyed by the fire was due to the defenses I had created using a form of rudimentary occlumency since the age of four. I thanked my lucky stars, unsure until now whether any progress had been made with my mental protections.

My eyes widened as I desperately tried to fly away, but then I saw The Black Dread somersaulting in mid-air, his tail coming crashing down toward me. I attempted to dodge, but it was impossible. I used my arms to shield my head as the tail batted me down toward Dragonstone castle.

Even though I couldn't feel anything in this vision, I was certain that my real hands were broken and I would wake up in great pain. At least I was thankful that Balerion didn't burn me alive. As the acceleration increased due to gravity, I saw the black stones of the castle approaching faster and faster. I prayed to all the gods that I would not break my legs too, and finally, I reached the castle walls.



I hit the wall with my leg first, encountering resistance, but it felt like passing through water as I flew down the roof. For a fleeting moment, I glimpsed a decorated room before crashing through the floor into the next room. I tried to control my flight, but the acceleration was too intense, and I passed through multiple rooms before coming to a stop in a large chamber.



My vision was blurry as my eyes adjusted to the lights. The room was heavily decorated and far larger than my own room in Winterfell. There were many tables made of quality wood, and the floor was strewn with Myrish silk clothes. As I looked around, I froze at the scene before me.

I had landed in the middle of a threesome. A Valyrian man with a defined warrior physique was fucking a woman from behind. The woman, on her hands and knees, was licking the other woman. However, it wasn't the explicit scene that rendered me frozen; rather, it was the striking beauty of the women involved. The woman being engaged was breathtakingly beautiful, and even the man possessed a captivating and alluring quality. It dawned on me why Targaryens were described as the most beautiful and ethereal people in the books. Even though Emilia was considered the most beautiful in the cast, she paled in comparison to these real-life versions.

And for the first time in this life I decided that whatever happens I will try to seduce as many of my aunts/niece or cousins from my fathers family. Initially I was not comfortable with the Incest and my plan was to ignore any personal relationships with them and only claim a dragon from them and fuck off, but now seeing the two women, I agree with my Grandfather who famously said, "Laws of neither Gods nor Men apply to Targaryens" while making the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. It seems that incest is wincest.

I identified them as the Conqueror and the sister -wives. There was an immense pleasure on the face of the woman getting eaten by her sister. Sizable breasts of the woman who I assumes to be Rhaenys was dangling back and forth as Aegon fucked her from behind. Even then her mouth didn't leave Visenya's pussy and I could see the fingers moving in and out while the mouth was busy with the upper part. Visenya was on her back and leaning on her hands while looking at her sister and brother.

Brother, you are a beast tonight and did you forget that you are fucking your delicate sister and not the warrior one. Visenya said…. Suddenly room become a blur and my vision was going black.

"Daemon.." "Daemon…"

I started hearing a distant echo and I looked around for the source. There was nothing visible but I knew it was from my own time and from my true body. I tried to go back even though the scene in front of me was tempting enough for my adult mind but I knew it is useless as of now. While thinking how I could wake back up in my time, suddenly I felt water falling on me and I gasped in my true body.

I spluttered and coughed as the hot water entered my nose and dripped down toward my lap.

"What the hell? Why did you do that?" I snapped as I saw a grinning Aethan and my laughing grandfather.

Aethan just shrugged and said, "Lord Stark's order, my friend. I didn't have a choice."

I looked at my grandfather for an explanation, and he responded with a questioning look and raised eyebrows. He nodded toward my arms, which were motionless. As I glanced at them, suddenly pain shot through me, and I fell unconscious.

It was the next day morning when I woke up and the first thing that hit me is the discomfort of mending bones and muscles in my hands. At least my bones will become more stronger now after healing. I sighed while thanking the gods that Balerion didn't burn me and I was still in disbelief that my physical body got attacked through time by whatever magical fuckery the weirwoods is. At least now I don't have the Fear Of Missing Out of bonding with the Black Dread itself. I am pretty sure that he will burn me if I show my handsome face in front of him.

As I thought back to the scenes I witnessed from ancient times, I marveled at how my talent for learning seemed like a cheat, picking up so much even from visions. Opening my third eye had drastically increased my magical capacity, and the techniques I learned from watching Aethan were proving invaluable.

I heard footsteps approaching my room and turned to see who it was. It was my grandfather. I was certain that a rat I could sense in the corner had informed him of my consciousness.

He entered the room and looked at me.

"Daemon, how is the healing? Is there any complication? And what the hell happened that you got injured in the present? What did you see?"

"Balerion happened, Grandfather," I replied. "The dragon somehow sensed me and was quite angry for me flying in its sky. The damned beast slapped me down to Dragonstone castle with its tail. I tried to stop it with my hands and they broke. But it's fine now, grandfather. Healing is as normal as it is for me. It was the last vision and before that what I had was a brief history of all the major Winter Kings."

My grandfather looked thoughtful. "Intriguing. Maybe there's a reason for Torrhen Stark's decision to kneel and not use magic against the Black Dread. You were already gifted with dreams, Daemon, so it's not such an outlier that you could see it all the first time. Now it's your duty to verify that our records are correct about the actions 8,000 years ago. It's been 200 years since the last Stark greenseer updated the records. This is how we preserve knowledge without it being changed."

I approved of the intelligent move and thoughtfulness of my ancestors, agreeing to undertake the task after I had fully healed and recovered. My grandfather left me to my thoughts and rest.

It was after two days that I was fully healed and back in the training yards with Aethan Reed. Many soldiers were training, and I was personally instructed by the Master-at-arms. Though he was not as skilled as Bennard, he was still quite competent. My talent was overworking to grasp the various skills I could observe in the yard. Aethan was practicing his knife skills, and if I say so myself, he was very proficient.

Consequently, I was also very good with a knife, and as a child, the knife was my most useful weapon.

"Daemon, stop thinking about something else and keep your mind on the battle, or you'll be dead in a real battle," Aethan snapped at me in irritation.

Internally, I scoffed, knowing that this was not possible. I was very skilled for my age, and by the time I entered a battlefield, I would be the king of the battlefield with my magical practice and skill in arms.

I smirked with a pretentious arrogance enveloping my face. "Well, I am already so good with a knife that I don't have to concentrate while fighting amateurs like you, my dear friend," I said, still watching the adults spar while my talent prickled my mind, picking up various skills.

Aethan scoffed and increased his speed. His right hand, holding the knife in reverse grip, flashed towards me with the hilt aimed at my stomach. I stepped backwards to avoid it, simultaneously moving my right hand to slash at his hands. However, he swiftly executed a throwing gesture, causing the knife to turn in his hands with the point aimed towards my stomach. The sudden increase in reach almost caught me off guard, but I used my moving right hand to parry the knife just in time.

"Aethan!" A shout echoed near us as the Master-at-arms approached, clearly alarmed that Aethan had nearly stabbed me with a real knife.

"Aethan, Daemon, how many times have I told you not to use real knives?" Ser Cassel exclaimed.

I smiled at the Master-at-Arms, while Aethan frowned in thought. "It's okay, Ser Cassel," I interjected. "As you know, we have permission from Lord Stark, and you've seen how skilled we've become in knife wielding."

Indeed, it was true. The private lessons Lord Stark had given us in knife wielding and the spars had accelerated our skills exponentially, at least in my case. Aethan was truly a prodigy with the knife, almost able to keep up with me. I suppose all the practice and training, along with the occasional bloodshed, had paid off.

Authors Note: Looking forward to comments and reactions!!

Chapter Text

75AC

Daemon Snow

I relaxed in the hot water of the hot springs after a day of training in arms and parkour, enjoying a brief respite as my microbreaks in the bones and many wounds healed. The hot water proved surprisingly soothing for me. Training in arms had become routine and no longer stressed my bones and muscles, even with the additional weights tied around my hands and legs. The parkour I attempted among the trees in the Godswood was to blame for most of my injuries.

I climbed a tree near the edge and ran through the branches, jumping from tree to tree and even swinging like Tarzan at times. The current height I maintained was only about two men's height, with the trees towering so tall that I estimated even three giants could stand shoulder to shoulder to reach the topmost branches. My goal was to climb to the highest branch and run across the forest without falling even once. So far, at this height where I jumped and swung the most, I had only suffered a broken leg and minor bruises, but my body was growing tougher, and my skill in balancing was improving day by day.  I derived several benefits from this training. Firstly, I became more surefooted, able to navigate tricky terrain with confidence. Additionally, my increased agility and strength meant that I could potentially survive falls that might otherwise prove fatal—an important skill in a world where accidents, such as falling from horses or stairs, were common methods of assassination.

 Aethan was nearby, and I could tell he had some questions, but I left him to his thoughts. Leaning back against the edge, I laid my head on the ground and closed my eyes.

 My eyes rolled back, and I entered another state of consciousness. My primary connection was with an eagle, but that wasn't my focus at the moment. Recently, I had managed to establish a bond with a falcon and sent it south. The connection nearly faltered when it crossed the Neck, but with daily practice, I managed to maintain a weak connection. I hoped to strengthen it further once it reached King's Landing.

"Daemon," Aethan called out, shaking my arms as I had been underwater for almost five minutes now. I lost awareness of my body while warging, and it had nearly drowned. However, having trained to survive underwater for almost 30 minutes, I was unharmed.

 Emerging from the water, I noticed Bennard eyeing us suspiciously as he passed nearby the springs. My lord uncle remained a little bitch towards me with his snide remarks and looks. I could understand why a war erupted in the North when Cregan assumed the lordship of Winterfell after his regency. The power he wielded as Lord Regent of Winterfell likely consumed him, as depicted in the canon. I hoped he wouldn't behave similarly here, as I had no desire to become a kinslayer so early on.

"So, Daemon," Aethan interrupted my thoughts, "what is the purpose of our upcoming journey to White Harbor? The warg scouts under my father were sent there two years ago."

 I looked at him, surprised that Lord Reed hadn't shared this information with him in his letters.

"Aethan, it marks the beginning of a great voyage for the North," I explained. "House Stark, supported by House Manderly and the Sealord of Braavos, is funding this endeavor. Wargs are crucial for scouting and traveling through the nights. Over the last two years, they have traveled with Manderly ships and scouted the Narrow Sea all the way up to Volantis. According to reports, they can now cut across the open sea without staying near the shores, thanks to bird scouts and updated maps."

Aethan frowned in thought.

 "Daemon, why would Lord Stark disclose the secret of warg scouts to the Manderlys now?" he asked.

 "Keeping power without using it is stupidity, Aethan," I replied. "It is time for the North to utilize its resources to perfection for our continued survival."

 Aethan seemed perplexed. "Is that why you shared the secret with me and shared your powers? What about the rest of the people?"

 "Aethan, Lord Stark is aware, and under his supervision, I share my power through the water, wine, and ale stores with the castle residents," I explained. "Don't think that I share it with only you or something like that. I told you because you are my friend, so you benefit more directly through consumption like my family here and indirectly through the foods."

"Thank you, Daemon," he said, his eyes reflecting respect and loyalty as he realised how much I have helped him.

 76 AC

Kingslanding

The Spring Prince

 Baelon Targaryen sat beside his beloved elder brother Aemon in the Small Council Room. The meeting had been going on for hours, and Baelon was growing quite bored, as usual. Although he had no official seat in the room, he was allowed to sit and observe as the heir's heir, and for future training.

When bored, Baelon's eyes wandered around the room. It was spacious, rectangular in shape, with high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings and several candelabras for lighting. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of historical significance, including the Burning of Harrenhal, the Crowning of the Conqueror and his Sister-wives, and portraits of his father and mother. Baelon always understood why these historical scenes were displayed, but he couldn't fathom the inclusion of the last two paintings, especially given the king's vehement hatred for all things related to Maegor the Cruel.

The portraits was  Balerion burning down the sept of Remembrance and the dance of dragons above Godseye where Maegor killed his Uncle Aegon and Quicksilver.

Baelon, with his trained eyes, always noticed the frown on the Hand of the King, Septon Barth's face whenever his gaze landed on the portrait depicting the burning of the Sept of Remembrance by Balerion. Baelon wondered if anyone had ever dared to inquire about the presence of these two portraits before he and Aemon were inducted into the council. At least, they had not dared, knowing the king's legendary temper whenever Maegor was mentioned in his presence.

Baelon cleared his thoughts as he noticed the king beginning to frown in his direction, realizing that his wandering thoughts had been noticed. He shifted his attention to the council member who was about to report something. It was Lord Manfred Redwyne, the Master of Ships. Normally confident and prideful in his demeanor before the King and the council, Lord Redwyne's visible hesitation signaled that the topic at hand likely concerned the North.

Baelon knew that for the past years, the ravens and the men sent by the Lords and the Night's Watch had been a headache for the King and this council. The Queen, seated beside the King, grew irate every time they came up, knowing the King blamed her and the Hand for that disaster.

 "Your Grace, I have some news regarding the North," Lord Manfred said hesitantly.

 "What is it, Lord Redwyne? Which lord has sent representatives now?" the King scoffed.

 "It's not that, my King. The North has been making moves," Lord Manfred explained. "I heard that 50 ships have been commissioned in Braavos's arsenal by the Starks. Initially, I thought it was just a rumor, considering the cost would be quite high and the Starks are known to be poor and unable to afford such a venture. However, I have confirmation that a Great Voyage similar to that of the Sea Snake was initiated last year."

 Lord Manfred paused, his expression conveying the weight of his report. "The Starks have not reported their contact with Braavos to the Iron Throne or sought your permission, Your Grace, especially given Braavos's lack of direct relations with the Seven Kingdoms after the stolen dragon eggs debacle."

Baelon observed the King's expression turning stern and thoughtful, while Aemon appeared increasingly interested in the news concerning the North.

 "Why would the Starks or any lords, for that matter, ask my permission for engaging in trade? I wonder why you cared enough to report this to me when you didn't do it for the Sea Snake's Voyage," the King questioned with a dismissive tone. "I have not banned trade or relations with Braavos or any other Free Cities. I have only forbidden ships or individuals from venturing into Old Valyria and threatened war if any dragon were to fly over Braavos. As long as these orders are not violated, I have no problem. If they want to squander their money on ships and a risky venture, let them do it—as long as they pay their taxes for the trade."

 Baelon exchanged a glance with his brother Aemon, recognizing the King's position on the matter. This was old grudges at play. The centuries-long loss of the Andals against the Starks still haunted the Faith and the Andal Lords more than anything King Maegor had done a couple of decades back.

 "And if the Starks have enough money to build a small fleet, why the Seven hells are they complaining about food shortages and famine to us?" the Queen added, clearly frustrated with the situation in the North. "It's not my fault that the Night's Watch was filled with stupidity and scorned my gracious gift. They should just trade for food from the Riverlands or the Reach if they care for their people that much," the Queen finished, her tone tinged with irritation.

Baelon had to use his full concentration to suppress the snort of laughter that threatened to erupt from him. His eyes twinkled with mirth, though his expression remained composed. Except for Septon Barth and the Maester, who had no training in logistics, everyone present understood the impossibility of the Queen's suggestion. All others in attendance were trained in war, and the first thing they learned was the logistics of the army. Baelon remained quiet, not wanting to embarrass his mother in front of the council.

 He glanced at the exasperated king. "My Queen, it's not possible to follow that suggestion. The food will expire long before it reaches the North. It's hard for us to realize the distance, as we have only traveled there by dragon," the king explained to the council. "Let us end the meeting. If there is nothing else, as I ordered, there's nothing to be done about the foolishness of the Starks in buying ships. Keep an eye on the ships in the North, Lord Manfred."

 "Of course, your grace. I just want to note that no other lords in the south have dared to maintain any possible relations with Braavos after they displeased you, my king. There is one more thing, your grace. The flags of this voyage bear a sigil that was very intriguing, in addition to the normal snarling direwolf of House Stark and the merman of House Manderly. It featured a snarling white wolf and a black dragon interwoven on a black and red background. After some inquiry, I confirmed it was the sigil of Daemon Snow," Lord Manfred said delicately.

The moment the name was mentioned, Aemon lost his composure to anger and sadness.

 "Your Grace," Septon Barth, who had been silent until now, called out, "it is not right for a seven-year-old bastard with no achievements or land to inherit to use a sigil with noble heraldry. It is a crime when the said heraldry features the animal representing the Royal Family, a Dragon. He should not be allowed to use it, Your Grace, and should be punished for rising above his station. Moreover, the sudden relation with Braavos is not at all benign as a trade relation or voyage. I believe that Lord Stark wishes to obtain a dragon egg for the bastard grandson. They should be punished for this overstepping, Your Grace."

 The council was eerily quiet as the accusation echoed around the halls, and the king looked around the room for further opinions.

Baelon knew it was time to ask the most important question before an argument erupted. "My Lord Hand," he addressed Septon Barth, "why would Lord Stark allow his eight-year-old grandson to use a sigil that includes his representation, and furthermore, why would this sigil be displayed on voyages funded by the Starks, Manderly, and Braavos? Those dragon eggs would have crystallized by now without the heat of Dragonstone, and how would the Starks afford to purchase them in the first place? Even then, they couldn't hide a dragon from us for years to make it rideable."

As the implications sank in, everyone in the room widened their eyes, grappling with the implications of Baelon's questions.

 "My Prince," Lord Manfred interjected, "I also had this question in mind. I pressed my contacts in the shipbuilding industry in Braavos, and the rumor is that half the gold required for the entire contract came from him. The rumor is that Daemon provided the money as a loan to House Stark with a significant interest and a profit share in the venture. The sin of greed in the bastard is high."

 The council chamber fell into a tense silence as the gravity of these revelations settled among the gathered members. Baelon snorted and looked at the king, realizing that Lord Redwyne had contradicted his earlier statement that no lords maintained relations with Braavos.

"What?" Aemon exclaimed. "You're saying that a eight-year-old brat had enough sense to use the gold given by me in a productive way and not splurge it? I think this reeks of Lord Stark misusing the gold I sent for him. I don't think there is even a question of punishing Daemon here."

 Aemon's frustration was palpable, and the room buzzed with murmurs and exchanged glances. The implications of Daemon Snow's involvement in funding such a significant venture were clearly unsettling to many present.

"My prince," Septon Barth cautioned, "The North is truly a wild land, and stories speak of violent men with a thirst for bloodshed. They are barely above the lawless wildlings beyond the Wall. They say the Wolfswood is so vast and dense that even the Starks don't know the entire forest. After all, they were foolish enough to lose a castle inside it that belonged to House Blackwood. It is entirely possible that a dragon could be kept hidden in it if it is sufficiently controlled, and there are stories of skinchangers among the First Men—monsters who use the bodies of beasts as their own. Dragons are also beasts, after all."

"Enough!" Aemon snapped. "Whatever horror stories the faith has about the First Men pale in comparison to the might of the Dragon. If anyone is foolish enough to try to bond with a dragon other than Targaryens, their minds will be destroyed in fire and blood."

"Of course, my prince. You know more about dragons than us, and I will defer to your judgment."

"My prince," the Grand Maester said, "I have received some concerning reports from the maester appointed to Winterfell by His Grace. The boy is a prodigy in whatever he puts his mind to—reading, writing, fighting, anything. Even now, after the lords in the south started using our other services, the lords of the North do not utilize the maesters appointed by His Grace for anything other than the ordered tax account maintenance and verification owed to the Iron Throne. However, the boy is different and curious. He has asked many questions of the maester, and the maester asked me to inquire with his grace whether he should teach the bastard boy. Surprisingly, Lord Stark never ordered him to teach anything. What should I reply?"

"What? The bastard needs a lord's education now? Order him not to teach the boy anything," the Queen exclaimed.

"No," Aemon said, his voice stern, resembling the King's for the first time. Baelon saw the King's shadow in his elder brother.

"What did you say, Aemon?" The Queen was flabbergasted—it was the first time her child had said no to her.

"I said no, Mother. Daemon is my son, and I will decide what to do with him and what to teach him. It is not under your jurisdiction. I may hate him for killing his mother, but I will not deny him a few answers. Maester, order the maester to answer and assist Daemon in any way possible. This is your Crown Prince's order."

The Grand Maester looked at the Queen with concern, knowing her explosive temper, but he also knew that only the King could countermand Aemon's order.

"Of course, my prince, as you command," the Maester nodded and accepted.

"Brother, are you going to allow this?" Alysanne snapped at her husband. Baelon saw the king sighing before preparing to answer.

"As I told you when he was born, he is Aemon's bastard and he can decide what to do with him. I will not interfere without sufficient cause. Grandmaester, do as the prince says and inquire whether Lord Stark used the funds provided to Daemon with his consent. Let the North do whatever they want with their money and alliances. If they are after the dragon eggs, it is of no concern to House Targaryen. We will reclaim the eggs and hatchlings from them, dead or alive. Let us table this discussion about the North; I have had my fill of their complaints for a lifetime in the last years. Let's hope the voyage solves some of their problems so that we can enjoy peaceful years ahead. Dismissed," the king ordered, and everyone began to leave after bowing.

"Baelon, Do not go, stay here." The King's voice echoed as he tried to leave.

As the room cleared Baelon was increasingly getting nervous as he knew the question would come.

"Baelon, why is this the first I am hearing of this northern voyage now? What have you been doing all this time? Why haven't you seen anything about this trip in your dreamwalking? Aren't you checking in every week as I ordered?"

"My king, I apologize. I failed," Baelon replied, his voice tinged with unease. "After practicing dreamwalking using the Dragonglass candle, it was only yesterday that I could penetrate the protections around Winterfell, and even then I had to bleed heavily. After all that, I encountered a firewall of black stone in his mind and saw an aerial view of Winterfell. The castle is made with blackstone similar to the stones used in Dragonstone."

The king's wide-eyed expression was a rare sight, and Baelon took note of it.

"That is quite fascinating. There are no stories of such elaborate defenses was possible in the mind anywhere," the king remarked. "It seems that we must rely on ordinary spies from now on. Do not try to enter his mind again, Baelon. We wouldn't want him to discover it and attempt it in reverse."

Baelon exhaled loudly, relieved to have escaped the king's wrath. He had expected a severe scolding for his failure.

"Now, son, let me hear about the latest secrets of my kingdom, collected using both physical and magical methods by you," the king continued. "Let me see whether you have learned my teachings regarding the position of Master of Whisperers and whether I could fully transfer the maintenance of my own network to you."

Baelon straightened, ready to report on the intelligence he had gathered.

77AC

Daemon Snow

I rode on my pony beside Aethan along the Kingsroad, heading towards the Neck as promised to Lord Reed. The journey, though hellish and boring at times, held a certain fascination for me—it was my first glimpse outside the confines of Winterfell. We were accompanied by ten guards from Winterfell, all familiar faces who likes me very much as I was often underfoot, a child who followed them and interacted with them more than most.

 Over time, even some of the old ladies in Winterfell began to mention that the number of sicknesses among the castle folk had decreased significantly after I turned four and fell ill for a week. Aethan  started a rumor that I possessed a magical charm against illness, and I have been blessed by the Old Gods in my say so.

We were near the Barrowlands, and nightfall was approaching. We moved slowly on horseback, with the guards riding two men abreast. As we searched for a suitable shelter to make camp for the night, my falcon suddenly alerted me to danger. She flew above the treeline and tugged at our connection, indicating the presence of men creeping below the trees.

Authors Note: Ended in a Cliffhanger!!! Next Chapter:  Bandit troubles and greywater watch. Looking forward to the reactions regarding the Kings attitude and the entire meeting!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Cost of Power: Arrogance.

Kingsroad

Daemon Snow

 Out of the 10 men-at-arms accompanying us, 5 were ahead of me and Aethan, while the rest guarded the rear. Everyone was mounted on horses, and I realized that shouting would only alert the ambushers. Though I couldn't determine their exact numbers, it was clear that it was big as they were confident enough to ambush a group under the Stark banner.

I glanced at Aethan, riding beside me, and hissed, "Ambush. Arrows." I then surveyed the guards, noticing the shields strapped to their backs. Aethan nodded in understanding.

"Stop, you shitheads! I need to take a piss!" I yelled loudly and with feigned petulance like a small child misusing his status on subordinates.

Aethan's eyes widened in brief panic before realizing my tactic to halt our slow gallop. Captain Cassel, who had known me since birth, immediately became cautious, recognizing the unusual petulant tone in my voice, which he has never even heard in my early years.

Captain Cassel halted the gallop and glanced back at me. I had already dismounted my pony and was walking towards him. As I passed the first guard, I murmured "ambush, shield," and his eyes widened, but he was trained enough not to immediately take it and alert the ambushers to our awareness. Captain Cassel observed me approaching and, as I passed between two guards on their horses, I mimed taking shields and hiding behind them to shield ourselves from archers on the side. He nodded, and I saw him discreetly signaling to the guards with him. A few meters back, Aethan also successfully reached the middle of the guards and informed them of the impending ambush. He was short enough like me that he could hide between two horses, preparing his bow.

Captain Cassel yelled, "Bastard, why are you here and not at the surrounding trees to take a piss? Do you want us to hold your dick for you?" While yelling, he made sure to unlock the shields and prepared to use them at a moment's notice. The rest of the guards followed their captain's lead.

Since I was positioned between two horses and guards sitting in the saddle, I was not noticeable  from both sides of the forest due to the low light.  I quickly retrieved a bow and quiver from one of the saddles and armed myself. Fortunately, it was not a longbow, so I could use it effectively even if not with perfect ease.

As I armed the bow, I briefly connected with my eagle to identify the archers of the ambush team. I spotted two archers perched among the branches on both sides, while two archers on the ground had advanced to the second row of trees on both side the road. I sent my falcon to the right side of the road to distract the archer in the trees and target his eyes.

 Slowly moving to the side with my back against the horse on the right, I aimed the arrow and connected mentally with my second eagle, which was observing from the air. I saw myself standing still using the eagles eyes, and I calculated the angle needed to make the shot and marking the position of the second archer for my next move. After breaking the mental connection, I moved forward and peeked from behind the horse, quickly adjusting my angle. I located the archer with my own eyes, preparing to take the shot. I connected with Eagle to check again and tried to maintain both control of my body and the connection but failed as usual. I disconnected from the eagle and aimed.

Hours and hours of practicing knife throwing and training with the bow flashed through my mind in an instant. My talent had absorbed skills from everyone who practiced before me, including the hunters with bows during our outings with Lord Stark in the Wolfswood. Despite the challenge of making the shot from a hidden spot and an awkward angle, I was confident I could succeed. I hadn't missed a shot from even 100 feet away in the training yards over the past year. The archer was not even 100 ft away.

I adjusted my aim, connected with my eagle for final checking, disconnected and saw the archer finally seeing me with a bow and I could pick his eyes widening even from this distance, and I knew the moment is here.

And something clicked in my mind.

The countless hours of training alongside my talent has the first break through in archery.

I mentally commanded the eagle on the right to attack. As the eagle dove, I released the arrow. Before the arrow had even traveled halfway, I knew it would hit its mark. I shouted "Shields!" just before the archer on the ground could react. Without hesitation, I grabbed the next arrow from the quiver, aimed, and let it fly toward the second archer in the tree.

Moments later, there was a yell from the archers as they were pierced and fell from the tree branches. The guards quickly took up their shields and defended themselves before the archers on the ground could retaliate.

I reconnected with the falcon and saw one of the archers on the left side holding his ruined eyes, while the other fell from an arrow shot by Aethan. The ground troops were shocked and panicked for a moment before regaining their composure and running toward us in anger.

During that moment, I disconnected from the falcon and rolled forward under the horse, pulling a knife from my boots into each hand. As the archers on my left side of the road released their arrows, I swiftly threw the knife in my right hand, followed by the one in my left hand a second later.

As soon as I released the knife, I rolled backward under the horse and positioned myself again in the middle of the guards. Through the eagle's eyes, I saw both knives connect with the archers, rendering them out of commission.

I checked the situation on the ground near Aethan. One of the archers was dead from an arrow, but the other was missing from his spot. The ground troops continued their advance toward us in anger and desperation.

Seeing that the archers were dispatched, two of the guards dismounted to defend me from both sides. The other three, including Captain Cassel, spurred their horses toward the oncoming bandits. Though not a true charge, the sight of moving horses with trained guards swinging their swords was effective against the unprotected and disorganized bandits.

I surveyed the battlefield, feeling numb as blood splattered on the dirt road and the screams of men assaulted my ears. I drew two knives from my hip sheath, prepared to defend myself against any stragglers who might get past my two guards.

I witnessed the merciless killing of bandits on the battlefield. Three screaming bandits who had escaped the guards on horses came running toward me.

My guards swiftly used their shields to block the first slashes of the rusted swords. The third bandit was impaled by the swinging sword of one of the guards. As I heard movement from behind, I dodged to the left, rotating on my left foot, and deflected a blade with my knife from the bandit who had ran toward me from the other side.

I completed a 180-degree rotation and thrust my left hand into the chest of the bandit. The knife pierced it to the hilt, and I saw fear enter the man's eyes as realization set in.

Quickly withdrawing the knife, I simultaneously slashed the right knife in the neck. Blood splattered on my face from the slash, but I dodged to the side before it affected my vision.

By that time, the fight was over and the bandits lay dead. The numbness was receding, and the realization started dawning on me as the adrenaline wore off that this was my first kill in either life.

I fell to my knees, and my stomach churned as the smell of shit and urine hit me from the dead bodies of the bandits. I was in a daze when I heard Captain Cassel asking whether everyone was fine or if anyone was injured. I didn't hear the reply of others or say anything myself. My thoughts started spiralling as the accusing eyes of bandit I killed filled my mind. I was looking for a distraction when I saw Aethan approaching me, and I wanted to get out of the battlefield, so I started walking towards him, with my guard beside me for silent support, a look of understanding on his face.

Just as I was about to reach Aethan, he called out for me to dodge. The last archer who was missing earlier had aimed at me and already fired the arrow. Since the adrenaline rush was over, I was in shock and couldn't move at all. My guard, who was walking behind me, pushed me forward, and the arrow entered his right arm near his elbow. I fell to my knees from the push, looking backward, I saw the arrow in the guard's arm, and anger engulfed me. I threw the knife still in my hand, and it entered the bandit's eye up to the hilt due to the force of my throw.

It was the end of all the bandits.

I sat beside the fire after cleaning up in a nearby stream. We were resting while two guards stood as sentries near the edges, while the others rested. A guard with basic medical knowledge had removed the arrow and applied some herbs to the wound, stopping the bleeding by binding it. The arrow had penetrated deep, and everyone knew that without adequate care, the arm might need to be amputated if the wound festered.

Aethan, sitting beside me, looked at me pointedly. "Daemon."

"What is it, Aethan?"

 "Do I have to spell it out for you?" Aethan murmured so that others wouldn't hear.

 I looked down, feeling ashamed. I immediately thought of offering the guard my blood, but I didn't want to reveal my abilities at this age. However, Aethan's pointed look reminded me that these guards were the future retainers of House Stark, and they would remember if I didn't share my gift once they learned the truth about me. I decided to be cautious.

 I took Aethan's Ale waterskin and opened it, still holding my knife and playing with it. Deliberately, I palmed the knife's sharp edges while keeping my hands down in the shadows, squeezing drops of blood into the waterskin. I wiped my hands and watched as the cut on my palm healed.

I got up and approached the guard.

"Brandon, thank you for pushing me. Don't worry, I'm sure the Old Gods will protect your arm from festering. Here, you deserve a reward." I handed him the waterskin. "This is a special ale waterskin for you. Drink it now and keep some for tomorrow. Everything will be fine," I finished, trying to sound charismatic.

 The guards looked at me with pity, thinking my optimism was misplaced. Brandon's face showed gratitude as he bowed.

"Thank you, my lord,"

He took the ale waterskin and drank from it eagerly.

Greywater watch.

It had been a couple of months since then, and during that time, I learned the ways of the swamp—how to navigate it and conceal myself within its depths. My stealth improved significantly as my innate Talent  worked overtime seeing the Cranogman's skill levels.

 After a moon had passed, Captain Cassel and the Stark guards departed, having rested and allowed time for the soldier's arm to heal. The guards regarded me with a mix of awe and reverence, as the more experienced among them understood that Brandon should have lost his arm. The arrow had pierced bone, and even with immediate medical attention from a healer or woods witch, successful recovery was unlikely. Brandon's unexpected healing, coupled with my rumored abilities, began to sow seeds of belief in the rumours about me among them.

The seed of respect, loyalty over and above the respect afforded to me as a Stark blood. In time, I knew it will grow along with my own accomplishments.  Brandon tried to stay as my own sworn shield, but I made him leave for Winterfell saying that I will consider when I return. The true reason was that I knew with him personally present there, the story would be more credible and my legend will begin with a bang.

I was waiting with Lord Reed in the dining hall as Aethan and his party returned from their hunt. The hunt for a lizard-lion was a rite of passage for any Crannogman seeking to venture beyond Greywater Watch. Aethan had traveled alone, shadowed by the party but with no assistance, tasked with tracking and successfully killing the lizard-lion.

As Aethan entered the hall with his party, carrying the spoils of their kill, I watched with pride for my friend, knowing that with his enhanced abilities, he could survive anything in the Neck. Aethan knelt before Lord Reed;

"Lord Reed, I have tracked and hunted down the Lizard Lion, proving myself as a Crannogmen capable of defending The Neck from the enemies of the Stark in Winterfell, let it my tribute to my loyalty towards you and The Stark in Winterfell. I swore my eternal loyalty towards House Reed of the Neck and Stark in Winterfell. I swear it in the name of the Old Gods, by Bronze and Iron and I swear it by Ice and Fire."

The Lord Reed smiled proudly at his heir's accomplishment.

 "Rise, Aethan. You have returned faster than any Crannogman in living memory from the hunt. You have proved yourself worthy of being a Reed of the Neck, and I hereby name you my heir."

 Aethan stood and bowed again. "Thank you, Father."

 I looked at the father and son in confusion. I had assumed Aethan was already the heir, considering Lord Reed had no other sons. Perhaps this hunt held greater significance than I realized.

"REED!!" "REED!!"  "STARK!!!"  "STARK!!"

The room was enveloped in cheers and I broke from my thoughts.  I was exasperated as I watched the shouting and by the loyalty the Stark name has here. I really want to know what the Winter king who conquered the Neck did to ensure such loyalty millennia later and why it didn't work with the Red Kings, The Boltons.

After the cheers died down, Aethan came and sat beside me with a smug grin.

 "Daemon, I have returned with a gift for you, my dear friend," he began. "A lizard lion skin coat for your armor will look fantastic. It will always remind you that I am a better hunter than you, while you remain the better fighter."

 I sighed theatrically. "Aethan, Aethan, don't be a whiny brat," I teased. "You just tried to one-up a 9-year-old on your day of ascension to Crannogman from Crannogboy. And if I need a lizard lion skin, I could hunt for one myself. I've learned your ways, thanks to Lord Reed and yourself being kind enough to teach me."

Aethan had that familiar glint in his eyes that signaled a cunning plan, a look I had grown accustomed to in our friendship. It was the kind of glint that went unnoticed by others until its culmination.

"Really, are you sure about that, my dear friend?" Aethan said with a sly smile. "You may be a better fighter than me, but hunting in the Neck is different. You won't survive the swamps with just a little time of teaching. I can't blame you for that, actually. You're not a Crannogman, and you don't have the advantages of those born here."

His challenge pricked at my pride, and I met his gaze sharply. I knew he was aware of my abilities to adapt and heal, so I wondered what game he was playing. But my pride was at stake, and I couldn't resist.

"Well, then it seems you like to be overshadowed by me," I replied coolly. "I will indulge your wish. I will go and kill a lizard lion right now."

Despite our low voices, Lord Reed, sitting on the other side of Aethan, had heard our entire banter.

"No, Daemon Snow. I forbid it," Lord Reed's voice interrupted firmly. "I don't want to answer to Lord Stark about how his beloved grandson died under my care."

I wanted to protest, but I knew it would be fruitless. Instead, I nodded and turned to Aethan. "I guess you'll have that victory over me for the foreseeable future. But I will return when I am fourteen and do it then."

Aethan smirked in response.

It was nighttime, and I was scouting using my eagles. Determined not to be stopped, I wanted to confront and kill the Lizard Lion now, not wait until I was fourteen. I had great confidence in my abilities and survival instincts.

As I sneaked out the window, I saw Lord Reed and Aethan standing near the tree outside. I felt ashamed that I had been caught so quickly and that my own eagles had failed to detect them.

"Daemon Snow, did you think you could sneak upon us in our own home using those eagles?" Lord Reed's voice was exasperated. "Such arrogance could only come from your thrice-damned father, not from the Stark blood."

Father, Aethan's voice cautioned. Lord Reed shook his head and said, "My son is correct. He told me you would sneak out at night to hunt down the Lizard Lion, not to one-up him, but to test whether your gift from the Old Gods will save you."

I looked at Aethan in anger because he was not supposed to reveal anything about my powers to his father.

 "Oh, don't look like that at my son," Lord Reed continued. "He didn't say anything to me directly, but I saw what you did for Brandon. His arm was saved only by your gift. The rumors among the guards, along with your actions, confirmed it for me. Aethan asked me to let you go, and he guaranteed that you will survive, even when you shouldn't, given your abilities to heal."

"We survive the Neck because we have learned to live with its lands, diseases, and poisons," Lord Reed explained. "Magical rituals by the ancient Marsh Kings ingrained this survival into our blood. It is reignited at birth by feeding every baby a very small drop of our most lethal poison along with its cure. Now let us see whether your abilities are up to the task. Leave, and you can either return to Winterfell or come back with a Lizard Lion skin. Aethan and his sworn group will follow you, whether it is to recover your dead body or to carry the Lizard Lion body—it is up to the Old Gods."

My anger turned into surprise upon hearing about the magical immunity passed down through birth for survival in the Neck. After the ultimatum, I looked at Aethan, and there was no hint of worry on his face—just pure confidence in me that I would survive.

I smirked at Lord Reed and replied, "Well, you can have a feast for another week from my own kill when I get back."

 Turning, I headed to where I had hidden my supplies, knives and a spear. Armed and ready, I walked out onto the path in the swamp to hunt down a Lizard Lion.

After walking for 10 minutes, I regretted ever visiting the Neck. The darkness wasn't the problem; my eyes had adapted enough from warging into animals with night vision and walking in darkness myself to see very clearly on a moonlit night like tonight. The mosquitoes were my first enemy. They swarmed around me, biting any exposed skin, and I was becoming increasingly irritated. I didn't even think about any diseases they might carry; they seemed inconsequential to me.

The second enemy was the dampness. I nearly drowned twice as I lost the path in the darkness, and my pants were already soaked with water and mud. I decided that aimlessly walking was foolish, at best. I climbed a nearby tree to rest and use my eagles to scout and look for the Lizard Lion.

Sitting with my back against the thick trunk, I secured myself on a branch and let my mind fly. The moment I left my body, I felt peaceful, no longer bothered by the mosquito bites or the sounds of insects.

 I flew further as the eagle searched for any trace of the Lizard Lion.  My own blood with constant warging at night has even made the eagle see at night. After a couple of hours, I failed to spot any signs of the creature and returned to my body.

As the first thing that I felt was fatigue and a strange high, I shook my head, and the swarm of mosquitoes dispersed along with dozens of spiders. However, as my head cleared, I realized that two different snakes were biting into my legs, injecting venom into my veins in an attempt to kill me. The sense of euphoria was actually from the poison cocktail in my blood stream.

Quickly, I retrieved a knife from my hip and slashed at both snakes. They were bisected and fell from the tree, blood spurting from the severed parts still embedded in my flesh. I bent down and pried away the snakes, hissing in pain as I pulled out their teeth, which had sunk deep into my flesh, ripping away chunks of tissue along with them.

"Fuck" I hissed.

I cursed my inability to monitor my own body while warging. I took the ale I stole from the store and drank two mouthfuls before pouring the balance on the rotten area in my leg where the venom is concentrated. I observed the area and was surprised to see the torn tissue not bleeding and the rot starting to fester and not slow down as it should by my abilities. Venom shouldn't affect me so much, as I have grown my immunity to all the poisons and venoms I could find.

Even then, I could feel the fatigue and unconsciousness approaching, which surprised me as it should not be possible from two measly snake bites. So, I took the oil container that I had and tore my own shirt. I wrapped it around the spear and poured down the lamp oil. I took the flint and my knife. I made a cut on my hands, poured some blood onto the spear and flint. With one scratch of the flint against the knife edge, the spark fell on the spear and started burning brightly

I took the spear and put the fire towards my legs to cauterize the poisoned wounds. After moments, I realise that my fire resistance will be a bitch and the wound was not burning. It was then that I saw a black something near the snake bite through the torn part of the pants. Cursing my luck, I chucked both my boots and pants away and saw atleast 20 leeches sucking on my legs for the blood. And I suddenly understood why I was fatigued by a small snake bite.  

I used the fire to burn away the leeches and free myself. Within moments, I could feel the fatigue lessening and the rotten wound not worsening. I sighed in relief and decided to eat the stupid snake for sustenance

I climbed down and looked for the snake, which I found lying near the water. I took a piece and pinned it using the knife above the fire to roast and eat. The snake was half consumed when the lizard lion, attracted by the blood, attacked me. Stupidly, I didn't even realize it was creeping up on me due to the fatigue.

I didn't even see its size before it jumped and bit into my waist, dragging me into the swamp water. The only thing I noticed was that it was positioned perpendicular to my body, so I wouldn't have to contort myself to stab it in the face. I tightened my hold on the knife pinning the snake as I hit the water and started drowning.

Pain unlike anything bloomed as its teeth pierced my stomach and near my spine in the back. Anger at the continuous assault by stupid animals surged within me. My right hand wrapped around the knife pinning the burnt snake. I turned sharply and used my entire considerable strength to stab it right in the eye and into the brain for an easy kill.

 My knife pierced the eye, but I couldn't push it inside because of the body of the snake still pinned in it. The Lizard Lion roared in pain, freeing me, but I wasn't done with it. I swam and latched onto its head with my legs, sitting on its back as I couldn't allow it to bite down on my neck, which would kill me. I tore the stupid snake from the knife and brought the knife down hard against its face again and again.

Even with all my strength, the buoyancy of the water was truly an enemy as the knife didn't have enough piercing power to break through its scales. I cursed myself, realizing that I was behaving like a crazed barbarian by trying to use a knife. It is a stupid animal and I am a skinchanger with power to spare.

My mind hit the mind of the lizard lion like a battering ram of giants, and my own anger empowered it beyond limit. The mind of the lion broke, and I made it swim back towards the surface and then onto land. As it reached the land, I left the mind of the lion and plunged the knife into its other eye to the hilt, truly killing it.

I fell from its back into the mud, panting heavily as my eyes started to see blackness. I watched and panic enveloped me as another lizard lion approached the dead body of the first one as I lost consciousness.

Authors Note:  Arrogance will have consequences.

 Looking forward to the reactions and comments!!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: The Humbling

I lay in a bed fashioned from leaves, my body drenched in sweat as if I had just emerged from a bath, when consciousness returned to me. Attempting to move my legs, I found them unresponsive below the spine. Propped on my back, I felt the weight of heavy bandages encircling my waist, each movement sending waves of pain through me. As I tried to lift my hands, a stronger grip halted my efforts.

Slowly, I shifted my gaze and beheld Aethan sitting beside me, barely concealing his amusement. The realization dawned on me that he had orchestrated my current predicament. A surge of anger welled within me, a desire to punch the smug bastard in his nose rose in my chest. But for the first time, my body betrayed me.  Where once I could have fought or fled, now I was vulnerable, exposed to any potential threat. A sense of helplessness washed over me as I grappled with the reality of my condition.

My body's adaptation and healing mechanisms waged a desperate battle against the onslaught of diseases, poisons, and blood loss incurred from my encounter with the lizard-lion and the toxins I unwittingly absorbed during my bath in the swamps of the Neck. I could sense the venomous cocktail of viruses and toxins attempting to devour my flesh, while my own adaptive defenses fought to keep me alive.

Remarkably, it seemed that my adaptation had unlocked something within my body, enabling me to combat even the magical toxins present in the swamp's murky waters. Despite the significant blood loss and the gaping wound near my stomach, I knew that the absence of damage to any vital organs in that area meant that the immediate danger lay elsewhere. Fortunately, blood loss was no longer a concern for me, thanks to my unique abilities.

I groaned in pain as I attempted to sit upright.

 "Don't bother, Daemon," Aethan chided gently, "you're too stubborn. Your body doesn't have the energy to even stay awake right now. Here, have this soup and go back to sleep."

I looked at him with questions burning in my eyes, but I knew now was not the time. I opened my mouth, and Aethan tried to pour down the hot soup without making it spill. I drank it down like a lifeline, the hotness soothing my parched throat.

 "So you were right, as usual, Aethan," I heard Lord Reed's voice from the entrance of the room. "He survives and even becomes conscious enough to have soup."

I grinned at them and attempted to speak, but then I lost consciousness again.

 "Fucking, Aethan," I thought before succumbing to sleep, realizing the soup must have contained something to make me sleep so I could heal peacefully.

Two days later, I regained consciousness. Experimentally, I tried to move my legs, and to my relief, I found that I could. The flesh on my ruined back, which had felt like a void before, was now present, with new flesh pushing against the bandages.

 Groaning in pain, I attempted to sit upright, using my hands to support myself and move backward until my head rested on the headrest of the bed. Closing my eyes, I focused on controlling the pain, a task I had struggled with until now. Despite my efforts, I had never gained complete control over my mind, body, or soul. However, I had learned to reduce the intensity of the pain I experienced.

 As my body adapted to injuries, so did my mind adapt to the pain associated with them. I had noticed this phenomenon when I no longer felt the pain of broken bones after my hands were injured by Balerion during my first Greensight. Entering my imagined mindspace—a replica of Winterfell with black stone and a Firewall shield akin to Balerion's Mind —I pondered whether it was merely my imagination or an actual representation of my mind.

 Within this mental realm, I observed the representation of my body, noting the blackened portions that signified injuries. Concentrating, I attempted to lessen the pain emanating from those areas, and I sighed in relief as the intensity of the pain immediately diminished.

"Ah! It worked?" I asked myself, surprised by the diminished pain compared to my hands during the healing period after Balerion's attack.

 Looking around the sparse room, filled with bloodied clothes and the scent of rotting flesh, I glanced down at my legs. The flesh around the snake bites and leech-inflicted areas was slowly bleeding and emitting a putrid odor. I observed new burns in all 22 wounds, evidence of the rotting flesh being cauterized and removed.

Another groan escaped me as Lord Reed and Aethan entered the room.

I looked at them, wondering how the animal had managed to inform them so quickly of my awakening. Studying Lord Reed's eyes, I immediately discerned a myriad of emotions flickering within them. I saw respect for my perseverance and awe at my resilience, but the most prominent was fear. Fear of the unknown, even here in familiar surroundings. He regarded me as if I were a god in flesh or a monster in human form. It dawned on me then that only Aethan's unwavering loyalty and Lord Stark's love for me had stayed his hand from ending me during my unconscious state. Though it would have been difficult for him to kill me, as I had ensured that one of my eagles always watched over my body whenever I slept outside Winterfell. Even now, I could see myself through the eagle's eyes, perched on a branch 200 feet away, through the ventilation in the upper part of the wall in my room.

My thoughts came to a sudden halt as I realized I could see from the eagle's eyes and my own at the same time.

'Fucking finally!' I exclaimed internally, feeling a surge of triumph. After all that practice, I could inhabit my body and an animal at the same time. I thought back to the moment when I had battled with the lizard lion's mind, forcing it to swim upwards while holding it myself to hitch a ride to the surface.

'Desperation is truly the mother of invention!' I thought, feeling a rush of relief at my newfound ability.

 "You are truly blessed by the Old Gods, to survive such injuries and toxins," Lord Reed remarked. "Even we, with our immunity, would not survive so much compounded damage because we lack your healing ability."

 I nodded gratefully. "What can I say? I thank the Old Gods every day for that. And thank you for rescuing me from the second lizard lion and treating me."

Lord Reed nodded in acceptance of my thanks. "Aethan, here has the soup, this time without the sleeping potion mixed in. He will inform you of anything that happened in these days."

 As Lord Reed left us, I eyed Aethan with a stern gaze, the steel glint of my heterochromatic eyes unmistakable. Aethan gulped nervously, well aware that even in my injured state, I could kill him in seconds. "Why?" I asked, my tone cutting through the air with sharp clarity. There was nothing else to ask, and there was no need for anything else.

 Aethan composed himself before faking a smug expression. "Come on, Daemon, you're intelligent enough to understand why I goaded you into this and convinced my father to let you go to the swamp alone."

 "Why, Aethan? I want your reasons, not my imagined ones," I demanded, my voice firm.

Aethan sighed heavily, his expression serious. "Well, there are two reasons for this. First is your arrogance, Daemon..."

 "What?" I interrupted, incredulous. "I never thought that was the answer you'd give me. I'm not that arrogant."

 "Stop it," he snapped, his tone firm. "Listen fully, then talk." I swallowed my curse and nodded, allowing him to continue.

 "I have been your shadow for the last five years and observed you enough to understand you," Aethan explained. "You are arrogant and brash, Daemon. I wanted to show you that this arrogance could lead to your death and the end of this world if it's not curtailed to a lesser degree. I can understand your arrogance more than anyone else. I can feel my body becoming more inhuman as each day passes, my mind growing sharper, and my warg ability increasing, all because of your shared power. I don't even want to guess how much more you are feeling when you train. But you are still only a boy, Daemon. There are more powerful people out there who could kill you. The only thing going for you is the element of surprise. Your abilities have made you live and behave as if you are living in a state of imagined world or in a dream. As you can see, you are only alive now because I was there to scare away the second lizard lion. I goaded you so that you would temper your arrogance with enough wisdom to understand that you are not yet invincible, and the greatest threat still lies with men, not dragons in the south or Others beyond the wall."

My eyes widened as the rant continued. I couldn't believe Aethan had picked up on me showing a disregard for life and living like in a fantasy world. He was right, because I was living in a fantasy world with insane powers. If he could see that, it meant I was way over my head in arrogance.

 I sighed and nodded. "You are correct, Aethan. It means I have to temper it. Thank you for saving my life after endangering it."

 Aethan laughed at that. "So, what is the second reason?" I asked, curious, as I knew the first was the true reason.

 Aethan hesitated, trying not to look at my face. "Yes, the second reason. What is it?" I asked sternly.

 "Well, you see, I was curious about your abilities and potential," he finally admitted.

I looked at him with disbelief. "You were curious, and instead of asking me, you made me go through so much pain? What the hell were you curious about regarding my abilities that you couldn't just ask me?"

 Aethan shifted uncomfortably. "You have complained about the lack of dragons and how you will bond with one many times. You have talked about having the full potential of both your bloodlines, and I wanted to confirm it," he replied.

 I was completely lost. "What?"

Looking at my confused expression, Aethan explained, "Well, you see, if you have all the unlocked benefits of both bloodlines, that means you will have the Crannogman's immunity to poisons and diseases of the Neck, since we have married into the Stark line many times. You have explained that your powers work by adapting, and if once exposed, it would take more to affect you. So, I tested if it was there, and as I suspected, you have it. It allowed you to survive the poisons and diseases, with being unconscious for a week and a half, instead of moons like it would have taken for you to adapt and heal on your own. So, you should thank me, as I have confirmed you can go in front of a dragon and try to bond one without worrying about getting eaten by the beasts."

 I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times in clear disbelief.

"What the hell, Aethan? Are you insane and stupid? You should have just asked me why I believed I could bond with a dragon instead of experimenting using me without telling me. Then I would have told you that as a son of Targaryen, I will inherit the ability to bond with a dragon, or I would have said I have seen it," I exclaimed in frustration.

 "How can you be sure, Daemon?" Aethan snarled. "You are not a Targaryen in name and not a pure Valyrian. They are famous for being sister-fuckers to maintain the ability to tame a dragon. That is the reason even for the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. No one other than a named Targaryen has ever ridden a dragon after the Doom. You have no knowledge of Dragon Riding and secrets behind it. For all I know, it may be that you have to drink Dragon's blood or something like that. For god's sake, the greatest dragon alive even tried to kill you in a vision. So I want to make sure now itself you survive a dragon before you appear in front of it years later."

I can see that Aethan only want to make sure I will survive with the information he had. It was not even my mistake, as I couldn't actually say that the Being said to me, I will be able to bond with a dragon.

 I decided to reassure him. "Aethan, you don't have to worry about me. The answer is in the Targaryen words: Fire and Blood. As long as I have enough magical Valyrian blood, I can bond with them. There is no problem."

 Aethan looked uncomfortable for a moment and then glanced over my injuries again, grimacing.

 "Well, at least you won't get a disease that is native to Westeros, nor will you be affected by any poison in this part of the world. Maybe Sothoryos and the Faceless Men will have toxins that may have any chance of affecting you," Aethan remarked, his tone grave. "You had six different poisons running in your body, and almost all eleven of the diseases that are native to the swamps, which have destroyed the Andal armies."

 "Six?" I exclaimed incredulously. "I was only bitten by two snakes! Where the hell did the other four come from?"

 "You're lucky, my friend. It was only six," Aethan replied, his expression serious. "You were bitten by two snakes, three different types of spider, and the most dangerous one in the swamp water: the frog. The only reason you survived is the similarity of poisons you have been exposed to since the age of four and the unlocked immunity."

 I grimaced at the thought of the number of deadly creatures that had attacked me, feeling a mixture of disbelief and relief that I had survived such a harrowing ordeal.

I tried forget the pain caused by the poisons.

 "why does this sickroom have so many waste from my injuries."  I asked pointing to blood stained clothes and  gouged out flesh.

"It was my doing," Aethan replied. "My father ordered to burn it, but I remembered you mentioning the Red Demon in fire that consumed your blood. I wasn't sure what would happen if such a large amount of blood and your flesh were burned. So I instructed them to put it away from you, knowing you would not be affected, and even we would not be affected by it."

 I nodded, recalling the fire incident. "You were correct, Aethan. Even now, this much blood will attract attention if burned. Burn the rotten flesh; there is no problem, as it is dead with venom. Wash the clothes as much as possible, and then burn them. There is no other option."

Aethan nodded.

"I will do as you say now and send more soup and food for you. I know it is essential for you to heal faster."

"Send the Lizard lion meat if you can," I said.

"Are you sure, Daemon? It is for a feast in honor of you as a Crannogman."

"Yes, I want to savor the kill now. I don't want the entire beast now itself."

"Well, I couldn't put it past you. You may even eat it fully yourself," Aethan remarked.

I grinned at him as he left imagining the torture, sorry, training I could put him when I train with him after I am done healing in two weeks.

1 Moon later

Brandon Snow

Winterfell

 Brandon Snow was born in Wintertown, a village just outside the walls of Winterfell. The bastard son of a seamstress, he grew up amidst the clanging of hammers of his grandfather and the hum of sewing needles. Though he bore no blood relation to the noble House Stark, he had always felt a strong connection to the ancient castle that loomed above his home.

 From a young age, Brandon was captivated by the stories of the Stark Kings and the men-at-arms who served them. He often sneaked into Winterfell's courtyard, watching the soldiers train with wide-eyed admiration. His dream was to one day become one of them, to wield a sword in service of the great house of the North.

 By the time he was fifteen, his grandfather had taught him the basics of swordsmanship. Brandon's grandfather, though a blacksmith by trade, had once been a soldier and saw potential in his grandson. Encouraged by his mother and driven by his own aspirations, Brandon decided to present himself to Ser Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell, and seek a position as a trainee.

 Ser Cassel, a seasoned knight with a keen eye for talent, saw the determination in Brandon's eyes and agreed to take him on. Thus began Brandon's life as a young man-at-arms, training alongside other recruits and gradually earning his place among Winterfell's defenders. However, that was ten years ago, and at that time, like almost everyone else, he was also smitten by the bastard daughter of Lord Stark. She had a wild beauty and a charm that made everyone who met her love her.

 Brandon had dreamed, even though he knew it was not possible, that he could prove his worth or make Lady Snow fall in love with him. But luck was, as always, with the highborn, this time with The Dragon Prince. So, when he heard about her death, he cursed The Prince and his spawn in his mind fervently. He tried to avoid seeing the child when he was little, and almost succeeded, but the child was too curious and clever. Daemon somehow knew by the time he was four that many guards didn't like him, and he started charming them to his side. Initially, Brandon scoffed at the idea of a child that young manipulating the veteran guards of Winterfell, but the silent support Daemon had from Lord Stark and his uncle made it possible. Even though it took Daemon years to charm everyone, the final arrow was the rumor someone started a couple of years ago.

 Brandon and the men-at-arms laughed at the old crone who first uttered it to him. The rumor was that Daemon, blessed by the Old Gods and suffering from a fever for a week when he was four, saved the rest of the people in Winterfell from almost any sickness. There were even whispers of the Valyrian gods blessing the child, his half-colored hair as proof. The silver-white represented the weirwood, and the black represented Balerion the Black Dread. Brandon tried to dismiss such superstition among his friends, but the boy's performance in anything he put his mind to made even him have second thoughts whether the boy was truly blessed by the Gods.

 Brandon knew how many hours he had put into becoming a capable swordsman, and he never saw Daemon putting in the required hours, yet his growth was legendary. Archery, knife wielding, fighting, anything athletic – both Daemon and his Crannogboy friend were prodigies in it. Brandon even once saw Daemon trying to learn singing from a bard.

 Brandon was a non-believer until his journey to the Neck. He still couldn't believe his eyes when he saw his right hand. By all known means, he should have been crippled and left worthless, but something helped him heal. His anger toward Daemon Snow expired the moment Daemon addressed him personally and gave him a reward for saving him.

 The Special Ale.  Ale drank by the Lords and not the piss available to the smallfolk, even guards.  Even that was a worthy reward for a cripple, but whatever it was, he believes it was that made him heal. The optimism Daemon showed at that time and his own healing made him a believer.  Brandon knew Lord Stark could see the same devotion in his eyes as he kneels before him in the great hall during court.

 "Brandon Snow, you have been crucial in keeping my grandson safe and thwarting the bandits. What reward would you want for such loyal service?"

 "My Lord, I am grateful for your recognition, though I've merely fulfilled my duty. I must also extend my gratitude to Lord Daemon Snow for aiding in my recovery; I believe him to be instrumental in it," Brandon said with utmost sincerity. He noticed Lord Stark's disapproving expression and realized it wasn't meant for public disclosure. However, Brandon couldn't suppress his loyalty. While it had always been to House Stark, it now prioritized Daemon Snow, his Prince.

 "I wish to serve as his sworn shield upon his return from the Neck," Brandon requested.

 Lord Stark's frown deepened at Brandon's words, but he remained silent for a moment, considering the request. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Very well, Brandon Snow. Your loyalty to my grandson does not go unnoticed. When Daemon returns, you shall be appointed as his sworn shield, to protect him with your life if need be."

Authors note: Poor Daemon!!  becoming an experiment and being humbled by your own friend.

Next chapter, the meeting of the northern lords where Daemon and LS reveals the plan to address the problem of the gift and Night's Watch.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: A Game of Thrones

78AC

Daemon Snow

The Godswood was silent except for the sound of wooden swords clashing. I was sparring with my sworn sword, Brandon, in a clearing in the Godswood. Winterfell was packed with the lords of the North, their families, and retainers. The usual training ground was filled with heirs measuring their prowess, and I had no patience to entertain them. Even though my uncle was above their squabbles due to his age, they might still try to needle me, especially because of the rumors and my close association with Heir Reed.

After returning from the Neck, Brandon was assigned to me by my grandfather. Initially, I had tried to reject the assignment, but after understanding that Brandon was insanely loyal to me, I accepted it. It was a good decision, especially as my pride had been shattered in the Neck, and having a supportive companion was good for my recovering confidence. The fact that he was good with a sword was just a bonus, as my own talent improved as we sparred daily. He even shared some memories of my mother with me, which was awkward as I did not know how to feel about her. My feelings about my father were way more easier—he didn't care about me, and I didn't care about him—a perfect quid pro quo.

 My observations using my eagle as eyes in the south confirmed that Aemon was happily married to Jocelyn and secure in his position as Heir and Master of Laws. He was eagerly expecting the birth of the future Rhaenys. The care he gave the unborn child and Jocelyn Baratheon made me ponder what-ifs. It would have been easier for me had I been a Targaryen, but I must deal with the hand I was dealt with. I am not mad at them for the abandonment as I have no need for a new family in this life, I am mad at targs because I lost the easy way to grab power: The Dragons. I am also mad that I has to sacrifice capable dragons and dragonriders to stupidity of the canon making my quest that much harder, so that I could finally get away with claiming a full grown dragon. More over  Balerion would have survived his wounds if I had been in Kingslanding, but now the greatest living dragon will be lost to mankind.

My thoughts were interrupted as Brandon's sword struck my left arm, breaking my guard.

 "It seems the praise you bestow on your friend is biased, Aethan," a female voice said from the edge of the clearing.

 Brandon tensed as neither of us had heard her approach. I motioned for him to stop sparring and turned to see who had spoken.

 The owner of the voice was a tall, strong girl with a lean build that reflected her warrior training. She had the distinctive look of the Mormonts, with long brown hair and green eyes. I had seen her with Lady Mormont when she was received by Lord Stark in the courtyard and guest rights were exchanged. From my room in the castle, she had not seemed impressive, but up close, there was something about her that was undeniably attractive. My heart beat got faster, suddenly I felt nervous talking to her. I knew she must be one of Lady Mormont's daughters; according to my knowledge, the elder one was fourteen and the younger one thirteen, though they both looked at least a seventeen-year-old in my eyes.

 "Well, Lyra, Daemon is always lost in his head when he's sparring with us because he knows we'd be careful. I've been trying to beat it out of him, but it seems the lesson hasn't stuck," Aethan said.

 "Don't be like that, Aethan," I interjected. "You know if I concentrated hard enough, the bout would be over in the blink of an eye, and no one would learn anything. Please introduce this fine young lady to me."

 "Daemon, this is Lyra Mormont, daughter of Lady Dacey Mormont. Lyra, this is Daemon Snow," Aethan introduced us with a mischievous smile.

 "Even on Bear Island, we've heard the rumors of you being the blessed son of the Old Gods and Dragon Gods, how you suffered some childhood sickness for a week for the prosperity of the North. Horseshit, I say. The only truth among the stories is that you're a cute little boy," Lyra said mockingly.

 My heart skipped a beat at the ultimate taunt from a girl who, for some reason, had made me develop a crush on her in minutes. May be it was because of my crush on warrior women's from my previous life. I grimaced, knowing that even though I looked like a fourteen-year-old, I was only eleven, shorter than her and have no chance as of now.

 "I am not a little boy, my lady. I am skilled enough to have fought my first battle years ago and had my first kill then, too. If you doubt the stories or even Aethan, we can schedule a spar here, and you can personally taste my steel," I said respectfully.

 Lyra's eyes widened for a moment, and she snorted. "Well, you talk like a little adult, at least. We will spar later."

The Meeting

The Lords of the North were assembling in the Great Hall of Winterfell while I waited with my grandfather in a nearby room accessible only to the Starks. The room had a perfect view of the Great Hall, though the people in the hall couldn't see us.

 I was slightly nervous, knowing that life was about to change forever as I officially entered the Game of Thrones. I knew the Game would pull me in, even if I didn't want the throne or to be king.

"Daemon," the calm voice of my grandfather called, pulling me from my thoughts as he placed a supportive hand on my shoulder. "Are you sure about this, son? Maybe I could suggest the plan instead. No one would guess it originated from a 10-year-old. I will be the one to bear the consequences."

 "No, Grandfather. I will be the one to propose it; only then will the plan be effective. Otherwise, House Stark will lose more than we gain by it. There is more to this than just the King's response; we can identify who is a spy in this castle and who works for other masters."

 "Daemon, I care more about our family than our strength. We have endured for thousands of years and will do so again. The Iron Throne is at its most powerful now, with six adult dragon riders and the entire South united under the Conciliator. Are you sure you have to provoke the Queen now? We can still consider this option later when the Crown is not so powerful."

 "Grandfather, thank you for the care, but as I told you, I am already eleven now, and I can easily survive the Wolfswood. My powers have grown significantly, and as you know, I can even spar with you and keep up. I could easily escape any ambush. Without knowing my healing power, no one could subdue me before I could escape. This is the perfect time to implement this plan, as the King will be fed up with the complaints about the problems in the Gift. If he is the Conciliator, he will see the solution in this and won't rescind the contract. With all my observations of him and the small council meetings I've caught, I am almost sure that the King will support any plan that doesn't make the Targaryens appear weak, or at least weaker than the current situation. The entire Kingslanding knows that the Queen's decision has led to this, and the more we complain, the more nobles will hear about it, making the Crown appear foolish. So, I am sure that this plan, coming from his own blood, will be something he wants to use. He will not punish House Stark more than with a slap on the wrist, and any punishment for me for disrespecting the Queen will be worth it when I see my bitch of a grandmother's face as she realizes she royally messed up and her bastard grandson got one over her."

 Grandfather nodded gravely at me, understanding that I would not back down from the decision. "It always astounds me how you can connect with your animals from such a distance. Anyway, I have warned you. Let us hope your conclusions are correct."

The Great Hall of Winterfell was a grand and imposing space, its stone walls adorned with the banners of the noble houses of the North. A roaring fire blazed in the massive hearth at one end of the hall, casting flickering shadows across the room and providing warmth against the chill that permeated even the thickest stone walls. Heavy wooden tables, laden with maps and goblets of strong Northern ale, were arranged in a semi-circle around a raised dais where the lord of Winterfell, Lord Stark, presided. The dais had four seats, all occupied by my grandfather, my two uncles, and myself. Uncle Bennard had a frown and kept looking at me as if I would vanish if he glared hard enough. No matter what, I couldn't charm or befriend him, and no wonder he had been kept out of the loop about my role today when my grandfather informed his heir, uncle Rickon.

The hall was filled with the low hum of conversation, the deep voices of the Northern lords mingling with the crackle of the fire. I could feel eyes on me as the lords questioned each other why there was an eleven-year-old bastard seated during the meeting, though no one dared voice it to my grandfather. The only lords who didn't frown or question my presence were Lord Theomore Manderly and Lord Reed. Even I felt uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. These men were hardy and robust, their faces weathered by harsh winters and their bodies honed by a life of toil and battle. They wore thick furs and woolen cloaks, their attire practical and unadorned, save for the sigils of their houses emblazoned proudly on their chests.

 Lord Stark, my grandfather, seated in a high-backed wooden chair draped with the direwolf banner of House Stark, called the meeting to order with a firm but measured voice. His presence commanded respect, and the room fell silent as he stood to address the assembly.

"Thank you all for coming," he began, his gaze sweeping across the gathered lords. "We face many challenges in these dark times, and it is more important than ever that we stand united. I must also thank everyone as you have all followed my instruction of informing the King about the problems outside our borders."

"Lord Stark, don't patronize us," Lord Karstark grumbled. "We all know there was something more in the works for you to order such a ludicrous thing. The King will not change the rules as it was the Queen who made them. They will never acknowledge the mistake, as it would be a huge black spot on their rule. Our only hope is that Prince Aemon will understand the damage done and change the law enacted by King Jaehaerys when he ascends to the throne." Lord Karstark looked at me as he mentioned Prince Aemon, trying to gauge my reaction, but he found nothing.

 Lord Umber, tall and broad-shouldered with a thick beard, scowled. "I am nearer to the Wall than anyone else and have important news to share. There has been an increasing number of defectors in the Watch, mostly people sent as punishment from the south by the King. These deserters are a blight. They break their sacred oaths and bring shame upon the Watch. They must be hunted down and brought to justice."

 "Aye," agreed Lady Mormont, fierce and resolute. "We cannot allow them to destabilize our lands. We must support the Night's Watch in tracking and capturing defectors. Moreover, many have joined the Wildlings and gained support by defeating them. Wildlings love nothing more than corrupting a man of the Night's Watch and watching brothers fight each other. The influx of smallfolk from New Gift and Old Gift to our lands has been mainly due to the Night's Watch's inability to protect them from such defectors. The increasing population has been both a curse and a blessing."

Every lord was grave, and anger was visible on each face about the oathbreakers daring to act on their lands.

 "Lord Umber, Lady Mormont, these problems all stem from the fact that the Night's Watch is overworked by the New Gift and their inability to manage such a large amount of land. Everything we do to hunt down the defectors will be a bandage to the problem, not the cure. The cure could only be the return of our stolen fertile land. Lord Karstark is correct that there is more to the plan than you lot wasting gold by sending messengers and letters constantly. However, Lord Karstark, you are wrong if you think that any future king will change the rules established by the current king. No king will dare, as they will grow up hearing the legend of King Jaehaerys the Wise, the Conciliator, and the Good King. They will believe he could do no wrong and nothing will change. Fortunately, the answer came from a surprising source—my own grandson, Daemon Snow, who had a very good idea on how to reclaim the New Gift. The agreement has already been reached with Lord Commander Ryswell and will be signed after this meeting."

 I observed the lords' reactions as my grandfather named me the source of the idea, to see which lords were against me from the start. My guesses were correct. Manderly and Reed, knowing my intelligence and skills, never looked doubtful. However, the frowns on the faces of Karstark, Umber, and Glover were expected. Karstark and Umber are the most affected, and any agreement without their input will be questioned by them. Bolton, on the other hand, was looking at me like juicy meat, trying to figure out how to use me for his purposes. If my guess was correct, he expects me to be another Greystark, which is an awfully wrong guess on his part.

"Lord Stark, respectfully, I would like to ask one thing," Lord Dustin said calmly. "Was it wise to enact a plan proposed by a five-year-old child? It has been nearly six years since we began voicing our complaints to the King."

 Everyone became grave as Lord Dustin questioned Lord Stark. Despite the tension in the room, no one could protest against the question due to Lord Dustin's impeccable reputation as both a warrior and a lord. Observing him, I could see how a son raised by this man could become Roddy the Ruin during the Dance of the Dragons.

 Lord Stark smiled at Lord Dustin. "As always, you ask the pertinent question, my dear friend. Daemon has always been special, a genius beyond comparison. I recognized this when he was four. His ideas have already proven to be effective. I am not foolish enough to enact a plan bordering on treason that could cost the North so much based solely on the say-so of a child without proof of his ideas. Lord Manderly and Lord Reed will inform you of the results of his ideas."

 "As you all have heard, the trade fleet was a roaring success," Lord Manderly said with happiness. "Out of 50 ships, 29 returned carrying goods that allowed us to recover the costs of the entire fleet and brought huge profits. Moreover, my son has established trade with many of the Free Cities and mapped out a faster route than simply going along the coast. A new food grain called rice was obtained and given to Lord Reed to try and grow in the swamps of the North. This entire movement was developed by Lord Stark, but the idea came from Daemon Snow. He was the one who suggested looking for rice grains in Yi-Ti specifically. He used his funds to pay for the fleet, and the navigation technique he developed helped the sailors immensely in avoiding pirates and bad weather."

Lord Reed nodded in agreement. "The rice has been successfully grown in the swamps after some trial and error. This will be a huge boost to our food reserves. Moreover, Daemon has proven to be exceedingly brave as he successfully thwarted a bandit ambush on the way to the Neck. He even had his first kill that day and later hunted down a lizard lion, a rite of passage to adulthood in the Neck. So, I have no complaints regarding the origin of the plan if Lord Stark approves it," Lord Reed finished with absolute loyalty to the Stark in Winterfell.

"Roderick, I hope you are satisfied as to why I decided to go forward with a plan from my grandson. We, the Starks, have always been capable of handling responsibilities from a young age; our history proves it. So I will allow Daemon to explain his plan to you," Lord Stark concluded.

 Every eye in the hall concentrated on me, and I felt nervous for a second. However, over the last eleven years, my talent for learning had allowed me to pick up many social skills by observing Lord Stark holding court or meetings. It all came together as I started to explain the plan. Even though the plan would be executed regardless of the major lords' opposition, I did not want to make it difficult for my grandfather by showing poor presentation.

 "Lord Stark, Uncles," I stood up from my chair and bowed, "and my Lords, the ownership of the land is given to the Night's Watch by the crown. We, as loyal subjects, couldn't take back ownership without it being treason. The Night's Watch can use the land as it sees fit as they are not under the power of the Iron Throne. The Night's Watch isn't utilizing the land as it should be, and it is wasted in their hands. They used to rent the land to smallfolk as all the lords do with their lands, but since the protection is weak, the smallfolk have fled from there. In the history of the Seven Kingdoms, no lord has ever rented land from others; only a landed person could be noble. The idea is to rent out the entire New Gift from the Night's Watch for a small annual fee in taxes and the continued aid from House Stark. The contract is called a lease, and it couldn't be ended without both parties agreeing to end it. As such, the Iron Throne couldn't do anything to the Night's Watch without starting a war with them and being termed a new Maegor. I am sure my grandfather will be even happier for a solution to his constant headache from the North's complaints and appearing as an inefficient King."

The lords looked perplexed, never having heard of such a scheme, even from Essos.

 "HAHAHA!" Lord Umber's laughter echoed through the hall. "That is a very intelligent move. If someone asked if it is treason, then it is not treason, and if someone asks, 'isn't it treason,' then it is treason. The land is still owned by the Night's Watch, but we, who lost the lands, could get the benefits and use of our lands back for a small fee. I wish I could see the face of the Good Queen when she hears about this. It was at Last Hearth that she promised lands to the Night's Watch, and I advised her it was foolish to increase their work, but she was not convinced by a Giant Man whose talents lie on the battlefield."

 I smiled wolfishly. "I, too, wish to see her face when she realizes that the idea came from her first grandson, whom she abandoned and didn't even care to hold, even once, when I survived battling death for two weeks. But, Lord Umber, you misunderstood me."

 "What did I misunderstand?" Lord Umber grumbled, his face showing no trace of mirth.

 "You said those who lost the lands, which unfortunately includes you and Lord Karstark. But this plan will not be effective unless it is done by House Stark itself. As such, the lease is between House Stark and the Night's Watch directly for the entire New Gift and will be under the direct control of Winterfell. The Iron Throne will not tolerate such a method from small houses. Only a Great House can be successful without the Iron Throne punishing harshly. In fact, the King will realize that House Stark is making a sacrifice by taking the responsibility of the New Gift, as the Night's Watch could always rent out the lands to anyone, and I am sure the King will not be happy if some Essosi slaver or pirate decides to make a port in the New Gift. Moreover, I am sure when my grandmother hears about this, she will be enraged with me more than anything, and any punishment will be upon me rather than House Stark or the North."

 I was expecting a very vocal non-acceptance from Umber, but I was surprised.

 "NO! I WILL NOT HAVE A BASTARD SAYING WHAT I CAN AND CANNOT DO AND HAVING MY LANDS STOLEN AGAIN!" Lord Karstark yelled.

"I agree," Lord Bolton's silky voice rose in support. "We were robbed once by the King, and now even the Starks are doing this as our reward for loyalty."

"Silence!" My grandfather's cold voice echoed, and there was a presence that silenced everyone. I looked at him carefully, as even I didn't want to speak. Something told my instincts to hide or flee. I looked around, and no lords dared to meet the cold eyes of my grandfather. The only ones who dared were me and my elder uncle.

 "Lord Karstark, I will forgive you this once because of our kinship for insulting my grandson when he has done more for the prosperity of the North in his decade of life than you have in your four decades of life. There was nothing for you to protest as the contract has already been signed by the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and the only pending signature is mine. This meeting was a courtesy by me to inform all of you of House Stark's dealings with the Night's Watch. We have no need for your permission to use our gold for renting some lands. Lord Bolton, I didn't rob anything from any of the northern lords, as they have had no ownership of the lands for many years. I will decide which lords are entrusted with what lands, and you have fallen to the bottom of the list."

 I observed as Lord Bolton swallowed hard, trying to hide his panic.

 "I apologize, My Lord Stark. My own feelings for the injustice suffered by the northmen blinded me to the true reason for your actions—the prosperity and safety of the North."

 "Let it not be repeated again, Lord Bolton," my grandfather said with a chilling tone. He continued in a less severe tone, "This move has great risk, and House Stark has decided to not endanger others while the benefit will be felt by the entire North. Let us discuss matters other than the Night's Watch."

Everyone nodded at the implicit order, and the meeting diverted to more mundane matters that made me warg into my animals to escape the monotony of it.

Authors Note: Well, lease agreements are introduced to 7 kingdoms by Daemon for going against the spirit of the order of Iron Throne.   I hope not everyone guessed that. 

Next 3 Chapters: A small King's landing Arc where we see more of the lovely Targaryen family drama and the butterfly effect of happenings of this chapter.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Second Son

The Spring Prince

Kings Landing

78AC

Baelon Targaryen stood near his beloved brother Aemon, providing him with silent support and strength, while Jaehaerys Targaryen, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, held his first grandchild for the first time. Well, the first grandchild the King had personally held or seen, he thought, remembering his bastard nephew in the North. There was a happiness in the King's face that Baelon had seldom seen before, and he wondered whether his own future child would make the King as happy as this.

 "Aemon, have you decided on a name for the girl?" the King asked. Baelon could see the gears already turning in his father's eyes, envisioning a future role for the girl, just as he had done with his own numerous children.

 Baelon looked at his brother Aemon and saw the worry still etched on his face. Baelon had tried to ease his brother's tension and fear as his sister-in-law Jocelyn became pregnant and neared her birthing date, but even he couldn't calm his brother. The number of flights on Caraxes, the number of training swords, and straw statues broken were too damn high. It was as if the current Aemon had been replaced by the broken, haunted boy who had returned from the North. At that time, Baelon couldn't understand how Aemon had changed so much by losing someone, but now, seeing his dear sister-wife Alyssa with a small baby bump, he could understand. If something happened to her, he would be lost and devastated too.

 "I don't have a name, Father. I was quite worried about this and didn't think of any names," Aemon replied.

 "Well, the baby looks healthy and is our Queen-to-be. Let her have a queen's name," his mother, the Queen, said.

 Aemon thought for a few moments and declared, "Rhaenys. Her name will be Rhaenys Targaryen, after the first queen of Westeros."

Everyone nodded in agreement, and Baelon concurred with his mother and brother that it was the only worthy name of a queen that was acceptable. The King would, of course, not allow anyone to be named Visenya.

 "Maester, let the ravens be sent. Let the realm know that our house has grown and the next generation is born. Send an invitation for a tourney in one moon. Now everyone, let us leave so that the babe and the mother can rest," the King ordered.

 His father carefully placed Rhaenys in the crib and turned to leave, knowing that his order would be followed immediately. As the others left, Baelon looked at his brother, who was still gazing at his daughter with a forlorn expression. He understood that his brother needed him and decided against leaving with the rest of the family. He walked towards Aemon and stopped behind him, looking at the girl resting and the wet nurse standing at the side of the room, head bowed and making herself as invisible as possible.

 "What is it, Baelon?" Aemon asked.

 Baelon scoffed and said, "You know what it is, brother. Why are you looking at the babe like a lost dragonling? You have not taken the babe in your hands till now. Why, brother?"

Aemon sighed and looked at him. "Brother, it has been ten years since I lost my first love. Even now, thinking about her feels like a sword piercing my heart. Seeing Baby Rhaenys for the first time, I couldn't see her; my mind only saw my first baby, my Daemon. I have not contacted him for ten years. I have not even asked about him from you or the King. I know you both keep an eye on him. I want to ride Caraxes and take him for my own, but I can't, brother. The day I held him for the first time was happiness beyond anything. Only when you take your first child can you know it. When I heard of my Lyarra's death with him in my hand, the rage and sorrow were like nothing else. Even now, I am sure only the presence of mind of Lord Stark to take him from my hands and my own mind being frozen by pain is the reason he is still alive and not a splatter on the walls of Winterfell. Even now, I don't know whether I will smother him in a hug or let Caraxes feed on him if I visit Winterfell. So, for the last ten years, I have avoided him, and I will avoid him for the rest of my life. I put myself in whores and alcohol for two years to forget Lyarra and my son. Then, even when that was not enough, I put myself in the yard and my duties as the Crown Prince. When I married Jocelyn, I forgot Lyarra in her. Now I will forget my son by doting on my daughter. I have no other choice."

 Baelon looked at his brother with pity and sadness. "Don't worry, brother. I am here for you to pick up the pieces. For your information, he has grown to be large for his age and is the life of Winterfell. He is doted on by Lord Stark like he is his own son. The sum of dragons you promised is sent every year annually and was even increased last year by me."

 "Thank you, brother. I don't know what I would do without you, but don't ever tell me about him again, even when I share my grief. That is an order, brother. I don't want to hear about him and bring up my painful memories again or regret the life I have missed with him," Aemon finished as he turned to look at his daughter.

 Baelon looked at his brother carefully to determine whether he truly meant the order or not. Surprisingly, his brother meant it.

 "As you command, Prince Aemon," Baelon replied with a slight bow and turned to leave the room at the dismissal.

 The door was guarded by a Kingsguard knight, but surprisingly, it was Ser Ryam, their father's personal Kingsguard.

 "Prince Baelon," the knight bowed and said, "the King has requested your presence after you were excused from Prince Aemon's side."

 Baelon swallowed a scowl hearing that and nodded at the knight. He started walking towards the King's Solar. He had hoped that the King missed that he had stayed behind against the King's order, but as usual, his King didn't miss anything. Now, the King was calling his personal spy that he kept on his firstborn son and heir. Baelon still didn't understand how the King molded him into the role of spymaster of House Targaryen. Baelon had attended every lesson with Aemon, even the lessons with their father. Later on, his King started personal lessons for him alone. At first, the personal lessons the King taught were very interesting for the second son. He got his King's valuable time alone, and he was beyond happy, so he absorbed everything like an obedient, honorable prince. His father had spent many such personal lessons with every child. Everyone else thought that the loving father was spending time with his children, but Baelon understood that it was training them for different roles assigned by the King in his plan for House Targaryen. He was sure that Vaegon only wanted to become a maester because of the King's influence, even if the reason still eludes him. He still blamed his father for the instant love Aemon had for Northern woman, which was only because of the lessons the King had given to the Crown Prince. He still hadn't understood the reason why the King taught the Crown Prince about romanticized northern tales, Legendary Winter Kings of House Stark, and ancient fights with gremlins and snarks so much. He thought that his role was to support Aemon in anything, but he only understood his true purpose on the day the raven from the North reached the King ten years ago.

 Flashback:

As ten-year-old Baelon entered the King's solar, he knew he was in trouble. The King was absolutely furious. Baelon couldn't see his loving father anywhere, only an enraged monarch.

 "Baelon, tell me why I am hearing about your foolish brother's love for the Stark girl for the first time when she is going to give birth to a bastard. Why didn't you tell your King and father about the foolishness Aemon and you did when we visited the North almost ten moons ago? I know Aemon couldn't escape the eyes on him without your help. Tell me now," the King's enraged voice snapped.

 "Your Grace, I am your son and under your authority, but I am loyal to my brother Aemon first and foremost. I will follow him and his orders even above your own, father. I apologize for it, and you can punish me for it, but I care not," Baelon said passionately, his face resolute.

 The King sighed tiredly and said, "Well, I expected as much from you, but you are only a ten-year-old boy. I would advise you to never repeat that sentence to anyone else. It is treason you are speaking, but since it is from my own son to his elder brother and my heir, I will forgive it. But there will be a punishment for it, and I am sorry that you must learn this lesson as a punishment, Baelon. It would have come later without such dire circumstances, but needs must."

 Baelon looked at his father with fear, wondering what lesson he must learn now, a lesson he would never forget in his life.

 "Baelon, your brother has gotten the Stark girl with child, and the babe will already be born now. The raven was sent to ask for my permission for your brother to marry the girl."

 Baelon looked at his father hopefully, but that hope was destroyed in moments.

 "I will, of course, deny it, as House Targaryen can't afford its heir marrying a Northern bastard girl who has already birthed a child. The realm will never accept it now, and it is a fight I do not want to undertake. If you had confessed to me about this affair in the preceding ten moons, I could have done something about it. I would have legitimized the girl and allowed the marriage as a method to join the still isolated North to our house. I would have sold it as a way of civilising the brutish northmen to The Realm and Faith and they would have accepted it. I could have sold it to the people as an eternal romantic tale, but now everything is lost. Even if the girl survives childbirth, she is now seen as the older seductress who got into bed with the young, innocent thirteen-year-old Crown Prince. My first grandchild will be a bastard and lost to me."

 Baelon looked at his father in shock. He and Aemon had thought their father would be enraged at the affair with a bastard girl. Seeing the shock, the King continued.

 "What? It seems to me that you have not really listened to my personal lessons. There is a reason I influenced Prince Aemon's lessons with Northern roots and romanticized Northern heroes. I wanted a Northern marriage for him. I wanted him, after his ascension, to truly unite the realm and the North. I united the South under House Targaryen's banner; that was my purpose. I placated the Faith and made peace with them. I couldn't be the one making friends with the North; it was my successor's purpose, but now it's ruined. Let's not waste time over spilled wine. Now, your purpose was to support your brother, not in his foolishness, but for his well-being. You were to report to me any foolishness done by him so that I could handle it without dire consequences. In plain words, you were to spy on your brother only for me and later manage my own spy network and be the invisible master of whispers for your brother."

 Baelon looked at his father with pure disbelief. He had never caught on to the King's plans. The King always asked about his brother when they met, but he never thought it was deliberate spying. His mind churned in disbelief, sadness and finally rage. Rage at being used as a spy against his brother and rage at the deception when the King is to be  honourable and wise. Ignoring his various feelings that must have shown in his face, the King continued, further enraging him.

 "Now, spying is for later, I guess. Baelon, my son, you have brought upon yourself this punishment. As much as I gathered, Aemon was in love, and we become foolish when we are in love, especially us Targaryens. Indirectly, you could have prevented this disaster. You could have gifted your brother the happiness he deserves if only you had told me about this. In a way, I am also responsible. My outward support for the faith may have made him and yourself believe I would not support him. The guilt you feel when you see Aemon and know he will suffer heartbreak is your punishment. I pray that he recovers swiftly and that sacrificing his happiness was worth preserving your own peace of mind by remaining loyal to your brother above all else. I am used to the guilt that has been with me for my many, many sacrifices. May The Fourteen give you strength to bear it, my son."

End

Baelon, lost in thought, finally reached the King's Solar. He entered after gaining permission and bowed.

 "Your Grace, you called for me," Baelon said. Since the meeting a decade ago, he had refrained from addressing the king as "father" even when they were alone. With trained eyes opened to the deviousness of the King almost 10 years ago and years of close association, Baelon recognized that Jaehaerys Targaryen's public persona was mostly a performance, a mummer's role. The only genuine aspects seemed to be his role as a brother to Alysanne Targaryen and his position as a Dragonlord of House Targaryen. He was almost sure that the king only married his mother because the king's sister asked him to. At times over the past ten years, Baelon even speculated that the king didn't harbor true hatred for his uncle Maegor. The only visible resentment emerged when Maegor's name was mentioned or alluded to; otherwise, the reaction mirrored his elder brother's response to his son Daemon. Like Aemon, the king preferred to ignore any references to their supposed objects of disdain and Baelon knew Aemon himself didn't know whether he loved or hated his son.

 In Baelon's eyes, the only role that seemed almost authentic was the role of The King. Even the role of a father to his children fell short. Baelon often pondered whether the king's lack of a positive father figure had significantly impacted his ability to be a father himself. Almost invariably, the king approached even his children like a king with his vassal lords.

 The king looked at Baelon expectantly. Seeing no reply from him, The King snapped, "Well, spit it out, boy. How is he? Do I need to make plans for Caraxes suddenly flying to Winterfell, and having the boy in the court, or my heir being a kinslayer? What is it now?"

 Baelon sighed knowing that the King's question was from a place of concern for the image of House Targaryen and not the worry of sanity of his son. Baelon knew that something had broken in Aemon when he returned from the North and it took his utmost skill to manipulate Aemon to do anything overtly damaging to their house's image. Baelon hated himself that he has to use the skills he picked up from the King to do so.

 "Nothing, Your Grace. You have nothing to worry about. There is no change. My brother has decided that his new distraction will be Rhaenys herself and continue with his own responsibilities. He has ordered me never to share anything about Daemon with him after I shared some tidings today." Baelon replied.

 The King sighed in relief. "It seems that you have done your job well, Baelon. I am proud of you, my son. At least I am happy I have actually avoided my father's mistake with his own children. Aemon being the heir knew your worth and consider you almost his equal and consider your words very carefully. My own elder brother Aegon didn't consider his siblings his equals. He himself was Maegor's heir and ignored his sister-wife and elder sisters' advice to wait before starting his rebellion. Maegor had just finished the fight against the Faith and the lords who rebelled against our house when Aegon followed the same foolish lords' advice to rebel. Even now, I wonder what madness possessed my elder brother to start a fight against the Black Dread…."

Baelon felt nothing at the praise from the King and he knew that it was nothing but an manipulation. Baleon saw the king lost in his thoughts regarding his own brother and the Black Dread. He wondered whether it would be better had Aegon be King after Maegor committed suicide or whether Jaehaerys would have done anything treacherous to become a King.  Suddenly he saw the King having a thought and looking at him carefully.

 "Baelon the Brave," The King mocked, "you hit the snout of Balerion in your childish exuberance. You ride Vhagar, the greatest dragon alive after Balerion and the Cannibal. Tell me, would you fight against a Dragonlord who rides Balerion the Black Dread?"

 Baelon looked sharply at the unexpected lesson. He didn't answer quickly and thought about it. Balerion was still enormous compared to other dragons, but Vhagar was his trusty companion. So he replied, "Vhagar is the closest in size, and Balerion is older and weaker now. It would be a close fight if the dragonrider is inexperienced, and assured suicide by dragon if the dragonrider is experienced."

 The king looked at him for a moment in pity, and his face showed some regret. But the expression vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his teaching demeanor.

 "Your calculation is correct only if the older dragon were not Balerion. As long as he can fly, currently there is no dragon that could kill him. I'm not sure, even with Vermithor and Caraxes joined with Vhagar, Balerion could be killed. The moment a fight happens, his blood will blaze with rage and only end with the enemy's death. The dragonrider doesn't matter. What you must understand is that appearances are deceiving, even in such well-known matters. As a spymaster, you must discern the lords who try to deceive your brother for their own purposes and deal with them, above all you must not loose his trust. My own brother Aegon never believed in Rhaena and lost his life to Balerion ignoring her advice."

 "Yes, Your Grace," Baelon accepted the wisdom offered, though he personally believed Vhagar would prevail as of now with him as its rider. The king looked at him sharply, as if sensing a hint of disagreement.

"Well," the King started, "I got sidetracked from the actual reason I called you here. Our spies in Winterfell have sent a message. It seems that my grandson takes after me in intelligence. He has shown wit beyond his years. He proposed a solution for the problem of the deterioration of the New Gift. He proposed to Lord Stark that they take the entire land on lease, another name for renting, from the Night's Watch for a nominal amount. The contract they are going to sign is perpetual, stipulating that unless both parties agree otherwise, the land remains with the Starks. In return, the Starks will continue to support the Night's Watch with additional resources. This is the essence of the contract."

 Baelon gaped at the sheer audacity of the contract. At first glance, it appeared to comply with all of the Crown's orders, but upon closer inspection, it clearly violated the intent behind those orders. If scrutinized for substance rather than form, it amounted to plain treason disguised as a lease agreement or whatever the new name for renting is. Effectively, the land now belonged to House Stark again, allowing them to rule as they pleased.

The King looked at his son and pondered the dilemma. After some moments, he sighed and said, "There is nothing we can do without making the status quo continue, but I don't want that.  The only action we can take is to impose a penalty on House Stark for disobeying the spirit of the Crown's orders. The Night's Watch has existed for 8000 years, beyond the reach of the politics of kings. I will not interfere with their decisions. If they wish to give away their lands, they are free to do so, as long as the King's Peace is maintained there. There were no complaints from the northern lords before your mother's, frankly, foolish decision. Now, I have doubts regarding the true origin of this plot. It seems to be a strategic move to weaken both the North and the Night's Watch.  I have never visited the place and genuinely believed it would strengthen them, so along with your mothers forcefulness and my own belief I allowed it. Previously, all we had to endure from the North was a raven twice a year from the Watch requesting men and resources. Now, we receive dozens of complaints from all northern lords about Wildling raids, the Night's Watch failing as lords of the land, and many other grievances. I would prefer things return to their previous state, but the Crown's decision cannot be undone, so I endured it during previous years. Now, a perfect solution has been handed to us on a silver platter. I will not question or stop the solution, and I will manage my wife's and my Hand's outrage."

Baelon nodded pensively. "Your Grace, I agree with you. The amount of headache and time lost discussing the same issue has been humungous, but what about the thinly veiled treason? This will be seen as a weakness of the Crown. Other lords may exploit it for their own gain."

The King nodded in agreement. "That is correct. I cannot be seen as acquiescing to this strong-arming by my vassal lord. However, I have a solution and a perfect use for this situation that will increase our own standing. We will not inform the Small Council of this matter. Let us observe who brings it up for discussion. If they have kept an eye on Winterfell, where a claimant to the throne currently resides with plans regarding him, they will be exposed when they bring this matter to the Small Council. I am certain they will suggest punishment for my grandson and House Stark, and propose voiding the contract. This is where you come in, Baelon. You will ensure that Aemon opposes any moves against this contract and the Starks. Let him oppose it, and I will present it to the realm as his own gesture toward a son he abandoned for ten years. This will prevent the Crown from appearing weak, and diminish any grumbling among the Valyrians and First Men about abandoning our own blood."

Baelon looked at the King with respect. He had always recognized the intelligence behind the kingly facade, but the cunning required to devise such a plan to turn a potential weakness into a strategic advantage was unparalleled.

 "Of course, Your Grace. I will ensure that Aemon opposes any recommendations against the Starks and Daemon in this matter," Baelon replied confidently.

 The King nodded, trusting Baelon to enforce the order. "Baelon, it is also time to establish contact with your nephew. After this matter is discussed in the Small Council, send a letter to him. Present yourself as the loving Brave uncle eager to connect with his daring nephew. Find out how much he resents the father who abandoned him and how he views the Royal Family. Make sure he understands that House Stark has escaped repercussions, other than increased taxes, as a gift from his father. Now, if there is nothing else, you are dismissed," the King ordered.

 Baelon bowed respectfully and left the room, already strategizing on how to influence Aemon, despite the order to never discuss Daemon with him.

 Two weeks later

Baleon was standing at the court and being the perfect prince of house Targaryen. All the nearby Lords had started to appear before court for the Tourney and offer their congrats to his his brother Prince Aemon. The court was welcoming the Baratheons and some of the Stormlords. The pure happiness and prideful boasting regarding Rhaenys by Boremund Baratheon was bigger than necessary. The man was the son of a previous Queen, half-brother to current King and Queen, uncle to next King and brother to next queen, so his niece becoming a Queen is not that big of a matter when, his entire relation is Royalty. The only way he could be more close to the throne is if his future son married Rhaneys and becomes King-Consort. 

King Jaehaerys welcomed his brother with all the requisite formalities and received congratulations with graceful decorum. Despite Aemon's informal betrothal to Jocelyn before falling in love with Lyarra, he knew his brother still cared for and liked Jocelyn. The Baratheons were furious when news of Aemon fathering a bastard with the Stark girl and seeking marriage to her, thus spurning Jocelyn, leaked as usual within the Red Keep. Their anger reached new heights as Aemon acted as a drunken, lovesick sad fool who only cared about flights and fights to forget the said dead love for almost two years without courting Lady Jocelyn. It was considered a miracle when Aemon cleaned up his act and became the responsible crown prince he is now. The entire affair delayed Aemon's marriage to Jocelyn by at least two years. Baelon knew the Baratheons were still resentful that Aemon had not rescinded the lifelong annual stipend of dragons awarded to Daemon or he is being groomed by a Great House such as House Stark.

Baelon had already received news that the Grand Maester Elysar had been informed of the Stark Contract directly from the Citadel. He still didn't understand why the Winterfell maester reported that it was his nephew who proposed the idea. His sole responsibility was to collect taxes for the crown and report business contracts to the Citadel; the originator of the idea was irrelevant to him. Baelon suspected that the maesters, or someone manipulating them, were keeping a close watch on the Stark bastard. He anticipated that today's council meeting would be quite entertaining.

Baelon has already warned his brother that morning about the council meeting and Stark's contract being brought up.

Flashback:

Aemon gently rocked Rhaenys in his arms when Baelon found him.

 "Brother," Baelon called softly.

 Aemon looked up, his expression a mix of confusion and curiosity. "Is it already time for the council meeting?"

 "No, brother," Baelon replied gently. "The meeting is after we receive your wife's family. The Baratheons have entered King's Landing. We'll be needed in the Throne Room soon."

 "I'll be there to receive them," Aemon said, setting Rhaenys down in her crib with care.

Baelon looked at Aemon and resolved that he needed to play the role of the loving brother who disobeyed orders for Aemon's own good now.

"Aemon, brother dearest, I need to warn you about something," Baelon started delicately, but in a serious voice.

Aemon studied his brother's face, noticing a hint of panic underlying his seriousness, reminiscent of the times they were caught in their childhood pranks by the King. He waited until Aemon finished tucking Rhaenys into her crib and then nodded for Baelon to continue.

 "Brother, Two weeks ago, I learned about a contract that, at first glance, seems to comply with all of the Crown's orders," Baelon began carefully, "but in reality, it undermines our mother's directive regarding the New Gift to the Night's Watch. It effectively returns the New Gift back to House Stark's control, rented at a nominal rate annually, perpetually."

Aemon's expression turned incredulous, his brows furrowing deeply. "The audacity of House Stark... They are known for their honor, yet this is blatant treason and disobedience." he muttered.

 "Yes, brother. Lord Benjen seems to have orchestrated this to circumvent the Crown's intentions," Baelon continued, his voice tinged with concern. "As you know The Night's Watch has been deteriorating further, and Northern lords are flooding us with complaints. The Starks has proposed this solution for that problem but it is blatant disregard to our mother. This cannot go unpunished."

 Aemon frowned deeply. "Why did you wait until now to inform me? You mentioned you learned it two weeks ago."

 Baelon hesitated briefly, then confessed, "Because, Aemon, the idea for this contract came from Daemon Snow."

 Aemon's shock was palpable. "Daemon? He's only what? ten years old! How the hell could he have suggested something like this?"

Baelon nodded, a smirk playing on his face. "Well, it seems my nephew may not bear my name, but he has certainly inherited my brains, not your foolishness." He said it with pride, aiming to lighten the mood and reassure Aemon. A jest seemed necessary in such serious times.

Aemon scoffed, but Baelon could see his brother's shoulders relaxing, the tension easing and for the first time Aemon's face doesn't show sadness or rage thinking about Dameon. 

Baelon continued as he wants to plant the idea of a gift to Daemon from the abandoned father.

"By all things I heard, he is a prodigy in anything he puts his mind too. Nothing is hard for him, so I think that this is not impossible for him. This situation actually doesn't affect us, it is actually good for the realm and especially us as this will end the Great Complaints of the North, but we will never allow it as it disregards the Queens judgement and will. The only thing that affects us is the apparent weakness of the Crown, if the Lords became aware of it."

  Baelon looked at his brother carefully as he continued and a slyness entered the voice.

"No one actually cares about the North or Nights watch, so I decided to not to report it. I don't want the first message ever received by my nephew from his father's family to be a punishment when he actually did incredible thing for the realm. It will be unnecessarily cruel when my nephew opens the first message or contact form us hoping for a positive message or Gift for the missed namesdays, and receives scorn and wrongful judgement. But it seems that the maesters are excessively interested in this matter, as the maester of Winterfell not only reported the contract to Citadel, but also that Daemon was responsible for it and not Lord Stark. Our own Grand Maester Elysar was informed and he will tell it this today's meeting. He and Septon Barth has even invited our mother for today's meeting."

Aemon absorbed the information in silence, then turned to his Valonqar, his right hand, and spoke firmly. "I see their strategy—to garner support for whatever they propose. Our mother hasn't fully recovered from childbirth, yet they would inconvenience her for their agenda. Naturally, she will be furious at this disrespect and will not admit to any wrongdoing. I will not allow this to proceed. Whatever their intentions are, it will not be done. Brother, will you stand with me on this?"

Aemon looked at Baelon, seeking his unwavering support.

Baelon smiled and said, "Of course, brother. My support will always be with you. My fealty is yours forever." and He meant every word too. Though the King may think that he spies on Aemon, on King's behalf, ever since his childhood folly that cost Aemon his love, his first priority had always been his brother. Baelon would protect Aemon, even from himself and he knew a loving Aemon will never ever punish someone for doing good, especially his own blood. After all, Aemon always supported and encouraged him when he surpassed him in anything even if he was The Second Son.

Authors Note:

Next chapter- the council meeting that will change Seven Kingdoms as a whole.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

To discuss chapters and future chapters!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: The Burdens of Love

Small Council

The Spring Prince

 Baelon was waiting outside the chambers for Aemon to come and enter with him, as he didn't have an official seat on the Small Council. His position as Master of Whisperers was only known to the King. Aemon had included him in the meetings a couple of years ago, and he was there to advise and assist both him and the King if needed. He smiled and nodded at Aemon when he entered the corridor leading to the chambers. Aemon had gone to settle the Baratheons, as he was related to them through marriage and couldn't be handed over to servants like the rest of the nobles who deserved a room in the Red Keep.

 Aemon's face was calm, but Baelon could see small embers of rage in his eyes, reminding him of the two years he had overworked to ensure Aemon's anger didn't cause too much damage to House Targaryen or Aemon himself. He prayed that it would not turn into dragonfire in this meeting and that his plan would actually work.

 As Baelon entered the chamber after his brother, the King, who was already seated, looked at him sharply, glanced quickly at Aemon, and returned his gaze to Baelon in inquiry. Baelon understood the question, nodded slightly, and saw a small relief appear on the King's face.

 Baelon looked at the King in deep thought. It seemed that he had underestimated the King's need for a calm North, or perhaps even the King was finally fed up with the constant complaints from the northern lords. Baelon cursed whoever had suggested to the Northern Lords that complaining was an option. As the protector of the realm, the King couldn't simply dismiss their endless complaints. There had been no ravens from the North to the Crown until six years ago. Now, the combined ravens and messengers received from the North were more than what the Crown had received from all the other lords combined since the Conquest.

 Moreover, such constant complaints without a solution questioned the King's competence to rule. Even now, King Jaehaerys was considered the wisest and most able ruler the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. Every complaint was an arrow aimed at that image created by the King and House Targaryen. Baelon knew that it was a weakness the King was eager to compensate for, and he was sure that the King would have reversed the Queen's order within a year, citing any vague reason, just to save his image as the Good King.

Baelon bowed to the King and Queen and took his assigned seat. His place was on the right-hand side of his brother, who sat on the right-hand side of the King. The table was rectangular in shape, with the King seated at the head on a raised platform and all members along the longer sides. The opposite side of the King was always kept free, as there was no one equal to sit there. The Queen sat on the left-hand side, opposite the heir. The Hand of the King, Septon Barth, sat after the Queen.

 The meeting began as usual, and Baelon observed the Grand Maester and the Septon. Both were tense, but there was a hidden pleasure in their posture and faces. At his side, Aemon moved around in his cushioned seat with uneasiness. His posture became more tense as the meeting progressed, and only the family could identify a tense dragon.

Finally, before the King could call the meeting to a close, the Grand Maester Elysar started speaking, "Your Grace, there is a grave matter of importance that has come to the attention of the Citadel and, through them, to me."

 Baelon saw the King scrutinize the Maester and then nod for him to continue.

 The Maester bowed his head and continued, "It's treason, Your Graces. House Stark has violated the Queen's edicts and effectively taken back both the Lands of New Gift and Brandon's Gift. They have strong-armed the Night's Watch into a contract of lease that is not worth the piece of paper it is written on."

 "What?" the Queen snapped. She looked pale and thin, with dark circles under her eyes that added to her haunting beauty. It was clear she had not fully recovered from the death of her brother Gaemon. Baelon swallowed a scowl, realizing that the Maester and Septon had specifically requested the Queen for this meeting. It seemed that Septon Barth was using the personal relationship he shared with the Queen for his own selfish purposes. A small rage erupted at the blatant manipulation and disregard for the Queen's health by her supposed friends. As the Maester explained the contract of lease, the rest of the members were silent, although they were very much surprised to hear about the cunning trickery done by the so-called honourable Starks.

 Baelon saw Aemon tensing further, gripping the hilt of Aegon's knife, his fist tightening. Baelon slowly moved to the edge of his chair and tensed his legs, ready to move at a moment's notice to stop Lord Commander Ser Gyles Morrigen, who stood behind the King. The Lord Commander participated in the meeting by guarding the King, and Baelon knew that if Aemon bared steel in the King's presence, the Lord Commander would pre-emptively even strike the Crown Prince.

  "What? How dare they violate my order. Lord Benjen even violated his own ancestor's order. He was very disrespectful when I visited last, and I forgave him at the time because of the lustful bastard girl's death. He should be punished, my King," the Queen finished, looking directly at the King.

 Baelon was shocked by his mother's tactlessness and wondered if she had fully recovered mentally after the loss of her child. He saw Aemon freeze in his seat, his hands trembling around the knife, and even the King looked at the Queen in surprise.

 Septon Barth, who was not looking at Aemon and missed the lurking danger, started talking. "Your Graces, there is more distressing news regarding this. The Maester informed me, as he was afraid to inform you directly, my King, my Queen. The Maester at Winterfell reported that the idea and the major terms were suggested by the bastard son of Prince Aemon. The Maester even reported that when the northern lords questioned the boy's loyalty, the bastard boy said he was very happy to get one over on his supposed kind and loving 'Old Lady' who didn't even once pick her own firstborn grandchild. This entire situation is treason, Your Graces."

 "Yes, I agree," the Queen supported, saying, "Now, my King, what should be the punishment for the bastard boy and the Starks?"

 The King was silent, merely observing the council. His eyes slowly shifted to Aemon and Baelon.

 "Your Grace," Maester Elysar said before anyone could reply, "if I may say so, such trickery and treason should be punished severely. Let Lord Benjen join the Night's Watch, and let the heir be summoned to the court to learn loyalty to oaths, receive knighthood, and do penance. As for the bastard boy, he is only ten and already so full of trickery. There is no telling what horrors and trickery  he would accomplish once he is fully grown. He  is a threat to the true-born royal family. It would be better that he is gelded and sent to the Night's Watch, or he should join the Faith."

Baelon looked at the Grand Maester as if he were a fool. With such an open move, he understood why the King used the situation to identify who was working against his goals and who was responsible for advising his mother about giving more lands to the Night's Watch. It seemed that millennia of failure to influence the North had led the Citadel and the Faith to use his family's authority and power to enforce their will on the First Men. Baelon didn't even need to look at his King and brother to know that they were both furious, though for different reasons. Aemon was still silent, his pose and mood very similar to Caraxes before he hunted his prey. Queen Alysanne nodded when the suggestion for the Starks' punishment was mentioned, but she looked hesitant about her grandson's punishment.

 "Yes, Your Graces, I agree with the Maester," Septon Barth said. "Even after the Conquest, the North behaves as if they are still not part of the realm. Teaching the heir southern ways of chivalry should be beneficial for the realm. I couldn't agree more with the bastard's punishment. He must not be allowed to grow into power. He is the firstborn son of the Crown Prince, even if he is a bastard, and the Starks are already looking for dragon eggs by cavorting with Braavosi. With a dragon, even the firstborn bastard son will have a claim to the throne. Bastards are known to be greedy and cunning little beasts. The bastard is already showing his trickery and hatred. The Seven teach us that bastards are born in sin and lust, Your Graces, and they have greed and lust themselves. The boy must be punished to learn the righteous path of the Seven so he can control his lust and desire for power, unlike his bastard mother who whored herself to sedu—"

Smash!

Baelon jumped to defend Aemon from the Lord Commander's sword, but it was unnecessary. Even with his concentration on his brother, Aemon was almost a blur. The chair behind him moved meters back as Aemon stood up, hitting the table with one hand and throwing the Valyrian steel knife at the Hand of the King. The knife embedded itself halfway in the table between the index and middle finger of the Septon, who had kept his hands on the table while spouting his beliefs. The knife hilt trembled from the force of the throw. The Septon withdrew his hand in sheer fright, his hands shaking with fear. The Grand Maester looked at the Crown Prince as if seeing him for the first time. The Queen, who had seemed uneasy as the Septon kept blaming the bastard and suggesting punishments, looked at Aemon as if seeing a Ghost from the past. The only calm person was the King. He observed the Crown Prince and the Septon as if they were the most interesting things he had seen recently.

 "Shut the fuck up!!" Aemon's cold voice whispered, though it echoed loudly in the silence. The sound of the still-trembling Valyrian steel knife sent a chill down even Baelon's spine. "I will only say this once. The next person who insults My Lyarra will lose their tongue. The one after that will lose their tongue and be made to eat it. The one after that will be fed to Caraxes in front of their families after making them eat their own tongue. And even then, if anyone is foolish enough to insult My Lyarra and my son in front of me again, I will only feed him to Caraxes after ensuring he watches his castle, house, or wherever the fuck he is from, become another Harrenhal. Do I make myself clear, Maester, Septon?"

Even though the threat was not directed at him personally, Baelon was momentarily afraid. He glanced around. The Septon looked as if he had seen the Stranger himself. The Maester seemed on the brink of a heart failure from fright. The Queen was speechless, gazing at her elder son as if seeing him truly for the first time. The most intriguing reaction was the King's. For the first time outside of his personal teachings of magic, Baelon saw the King's mask crack. The facade of the King shattered, and Baelon glimpsed the same gleam of excitement and pride in his magical skill that the King had shown when teaching Valyrian magics to him shown towards Aemon now. It was fleeting, but Baelon finally saw the madness that had led the King to declare rebellion against the rider of Balerion the Black Dread with only decades-old dragons at his side. Then, the King's mask returned, and he regarded Aemon with a cold, unreadable face, his thoughts a mystery.

 "Yes, My Prince," both the Maester and Septon bowed their heads lower, whispering fearfully.

 Aemon's fury remained unabated as he commanded, "Spread the words I have spoken around the court. They apply to everyone." The Maester and Septon nodded in agreement. Aemon, still searching for any dissent to quash, continued, "And there shall be no punishment for my son or House Stark. As the Master of Laws of the Realm and the Crown Prince, I declare it so. I have not bestowed anything upon my bloodline thus far, nor upon my family. This shall be his reward, a gift earned through his own wit. In fact, it would be fitting for my son to be appointed as the Overlord of the Gifts."

 Baelon closed his eyes and cursed Aemon for issuing a judgment without the King's consent. The moment Aemon encroached upon the King's authority, Baelon knew the situation would spiral out of control. The King would never tolerate even his own heir appropriating the Crown's authority and power. Even the Maester and Septon looked to the King with hope, knowing that he despised being pressured like this more than anything, and the only ones who could pressure him like this were his own sisters, and no one else.

 "Enough, Aemon," the King's voice reverberated through the chamber. "You have not ascended to the throne yet to issue such judgments. I am the King on the Iron Throne, not you, Aemon. Do not presume to use my authority again."

 Aemon snarled in rage, ready to retort, but the calm, burning gaze of the King forced him to rein in his emotions and adopt a facade of forced calmness.

 "I apologize, Your Grace," Aemon said through gritted teeth, "My emotions got better of me, My King," bowing deeply and remaining bowed as the King continued to stare at his heir in silence.

Baelon could see Aemon's hand beginning to tremble in suppressed rage, and he quickly placed his own hand over Aemon's fist, hidden beneath the table, to calm him.

 "Apology accepted. You may rise and take your seat, and let us continue this discussion like the civilized individuals we are," the King declared. Aemon straightened, nodded, and took his place.

 "But before we proceed," the King continued, a glint in his eyes, "just now you issued a threat to the realm. Are you truly willing to carry out that punishment if someone insults Lady Lyarra? What if it's the Baratheons? Even then, are you still willing to uphold your threat, Aemon? And what if it's the Faith of the Seven? Answer me."

 "I am your son, Father," Aemon replied with steely resolve. "You have taught me well. I will not make a threat that I am not prepared to carry out. If the Baratheons are foolish enough to defy my warning in my presence, I will burn down Storm's End. And if it is the Faith, then perhaps I will finish what my Great Uncle King Maegor the Cruel started, so that the message may sink in."

 The Septon and the Queen gasped audibly, while Baelon himself barely restrained himself from striking Aemon behind the head at the foolishness of provoking the King by mentioning King Maegor.

Baelon looked at the King in panic. Aemon knew how much it enraged him when Maegor was mentioned, and anyone who did so would face dire consequences. Aemon was well aware of this, and Baelon understood just how resolute his brother was.

 A furious expression briefly flashed across the King's face, but he swiftly regained his composure.

"I see that you are prepared to follow through with your threat. Good. Never make a threat unless you are prepared to carry it out, and never issue an order that you do not expect to be obeyed," the King remarked calmly. The Maester gasped audibly at the blanket permission granted by the conciliatory King to destroy anyone who defied the Prince's orders.

 Ignoring the reactions, the King continued with a smirk, "Now, you have passed judgment without my approval, utilizing my authority. What will you do if I were to order the boy to be gelded, as suggested by the Maester? Tell me, my heir."

 Aemon fixed a sharp gaze on the King and smirked while replying in High Valyrian, "Then I suppose you will have to attempt it yourself, Father, as anyone else will be fed to Caraxes. Perhaps you'll even have a chance to carry out your order with Vermithor, but I wouldn't bet on it. You've grown older and only ride the dragon every other month now, whereas I train and fly against Vhagar almost daily."

Baelon looked at his brother and saw the smirk, a smug, prideful smile that only a dragonrider could have about their dragon. Everyone in the room, except the Queen, looked shocked at the implicit threat issued against their King. The Lord Commander even half-sheathed his sword, but the King snorted and began laughing.

After a few moments, the King's laughter subsided, and he smirked at his son. "Well, then it's fortunate that I don't intend to issue such an order. You won't have to discover that you're still the foolish boy who once tried to tame the fiercest young dragon as his mount rather than claiming the  older and already ridden dragons. My dear son, even though I don't ride as often as I'd like, I remain the skilled dragonrider who decided to face Balerion The Black Dread and King Maegor in his prime. That skill will not diminish until the day I die."

 Baelon grinned at the response, and even Aemon smiled and nodded his acceptance.

 The King's demeanor shifted from merriment to seriousness. "Now, moving on. Maester, My Queen, Barth, my friend," he addressed each in turn, "you all recommended punishments for House Stark and for my grandson. Maester, you are a learned man, yet all I heard were punishments and your poetic descriptions of their treason. Similarly, Barth, earlier you sounded more like a Septon preaching for the smallfolkes than the Hand of the King. We are not here for a sermon on bastardy or lust. Even now, all I hear are complaints and punishments only. Over the past years, none of you have provided a solution to the problem you yourselves created."

"Problem, Your Grace?" the Maester cautiously inquired.

 "Yes, the problem of the New Gift, Maester," the King responded sternly. "A problem created by you and the Septon when you proposed it to the Queen without even consulting the lord of the family that has ruled that land for 8,000 years. A foolish suggestion indeed, or have you forgotten the endless letters and complaints we received?" The room grimaced collectively, recalling the mountain of paperwork and grievances.

 Continuing, the King stated firmly, "Therefore, I will not annul this agreement, which technically I cannot do since it was signed by the Night's Watch, not under my authority. The contract can only be terminated by mutual consent, and I cannot dictate terms to the Night's Watch. It is their land, and they have the right to lease it as they see fit. Moreover, it is preferable for the realm that they lease it to the Starks rather than to some Essosi slaver for resources or any other dubious purposes. House Stark has not violated any laws nor breached the King's peace in securing this land or disregarded any of my orders. They have acted within their rights to contract, and I will not penalize them for it. Henceforth, the Starks shall be responsible for the New Gift and will handle any complaints from the Lords of North concerning wildlings, food shortages, or Night's Watch activities."

 With that, the King concluded calmly. Everyone in the room nodded in agreement, acknowledging the King's judgment and the clear resolution to the problem.

"Your Grace, that is a splendid idea about the lands and the contract. What is to be done to the boy? After all, he insulted Her Grace, the Good Queen, and your own wife. Such disrespect at least needs some whipping, Your Grace," the Maester said with a sly smile.

 Baelon looked at the king and saw he was annoyed that the matter had not been dropped. Aemon was again enraged and said, "Maester, my father has already issued the order, there shall be no punishment. I have also ordered it, there shall be no punishment. Why are you still bringing it up now?"

 "My Prince, that judgment was clearly for the trickery with the contract. This is an insult to the Queen, your own mother," Baelon observed the king, noting his growing annoyance and irritation whenever the queen was mentioned.

 "If my son has actually insulted her, then she deserves it for being tactless and insulting his dead mother, my love, before her body had even cooled under her castle, her birthplace, and then not even picking up her first grandchild at least once," Aemon snapped back.

 The queen winced at the admonishment from her son. Baelon continued observing the king, knowing he would be enraged if his sister was disparaged even by their own son.

 "Aemon," the King snapped, "Beware of your words. This is your mother, and moreover, my own sister you are talking about."

 "I am minding my words, father, because she is my mother. I will defend my love as you are defending your own and there will be no whipping for her son." Aemon replied firmly.

The King looked closely at Prince Aemon and said, "I understand your defense of your love and your son. I, too, love just as you do. Don't worry, my son, there will be no punishment since we do not know the actual truth beyond hearsay. You do not have to defend your son from me; after all, he is your son, which means he is my grandson. More than that, I have kept an eye on him more closely than you have ever done before, so don't be the sudden caring father now, for your own selfish desire to please a dead woman. I love you, my son. You are my own blood, and I love all my children and grandchildren, even Daemon Snow, even if he may not bear my name, he still has my Bloodddd….

Baelon suddenly looked at the King, who had stopped advising or chastising his heir. The King halted speaking when he uttered the word "blood," and his slow whispering caught everyone's attention with worry and slight fear. His face remained calm, but his eyes gleamed as thoughts turned in the King's mind. Baelon sensed something deeper, a truth rarely seen up close. Whatever thought gripped the King when he mentioned "blood" seemed to enrage him. Baelon could see even the legendary mask of calmness of King Jaehaerys begin to falter. The role of Dragonlord of House Targaryen was emerging, and Baelon could see that the epithet of the King's dragon, The Bronze Fury, matched his demeanor.

After several tense moments of silence,

The King's voice carried tension and fury as he called out, "Prince Aemon Targaryen, you shall remain silent until I call upon you. This is an order from your father, the head and Dragonlord of House Targaryen. Do you understand?"

 Surprised, Aemon replied, "Yes, Your Grace," and bowed.

 Nodding in acceptance and with a bewildering demeanor, the rest of the council looked at the King.

 The King turned to the Maester, whose seat shook with the intensity of the King's gaze.

"Maester, you have served us loyally for 20 years. You have saved many lives dear to me. Your counsel is valuable. Tell me again, what punishment did you recommend for Daemon Snow, my grandson, for his treason and insult to his queen?" The King asked in a charming tone that Baelon recognized as false.

 The Maester, surprised by the King's change of heart, replied gleefully, "My King, I recommended gelding, joining the Night's Watch, and whipping. Both are suitable punishments."

The King scrutinized the Maester for a moment, and Baelon almost felt pity for him.

"I see. Maester, if I were to order this, who would carry out the order? He is thousands of miles away in the North. Do you think Lord Stark would obey an order to geld him? From all reports, Lord Stark loves Daemon like a son. Daemon has helped The North improve and you think Lord Stark will just carry out my order? What will happen when they hide him in the vastness of the North and force my hand. What will happen when my own son join their resistance as he has just said that he will defend him with dragonfire. What solution do you propose for this?" The King inquired.

 The Maester looked at the King as if he were an idiot. "Your Grace, the Starks are oath-bound to follow your orders. If they do not, it is rebellion, and you have loyal lords and a dragon to enforce your will. Prince Aemon may have said he will defend his son, but we all know he harbors disdain for the bastard. He will not defy his own King and father."

 Aemon snarled and began to rise from his seat, but Baelon quickly pulled him down and tightened his grip. When Aemon looked at him, Baelon shook his head and nodded towards the King. Aemon glanced at the King and realization dawned upon him.

"So, you recommend spilling my grandson's blood? You recommend harming my blood? The blood of House Targaryen, your sworn royal family. How dare you sit in my castle and my council and recommend  gelding my grandson? How did you even have the audacity to think of harming my blood? The Blood of the Dragon shall not be judged by lesser men or even gods. Only the Blood of the Dragon can judge another of the Blood. You are either incompetent or an enemy to the Seven Kingdoms to suggest such a solution that will foment rebellion from my own son and heir. What madness and foolishness possessed you to think you could manipulate my queen so that I would punish my own blood? How dare you try to use my queen for your selfish desires," the King finished in a deadly whisper. Baelon had never seen his king so enraged.

 "Your Grace, it's not like that," the Maester immediately protested against the harsh accusations.

 "Silence!" the King snapped. "Do you take me for a fool, thinking you could use me to influence the realm for your agendas? Do you believe you can make your selfish desires for the realm a reality by using my throne, my authority, and power? I see through your deep hatred against the North, evident in your original suggestion for harsher laws and your crown jewel suggestion for spreading your influence and weakening them, taking their fertile lands."

"Your Grace, we are innocent. This was a mistake, and we have no hatred against the North. We are all one realm under your crown," Septon Barth tried to defend against the accusation.

 The King scoffed and said, "No, I can clearly see now that the Citadel and the Faith have clear influence over you. Their animosity towards the North has colored your decisions. The Faith couldn't conquer the North and failed to convert them; they hold no sway there. It was only by my father's order that the North began accepting Southern maesters appointed by the Citadel for tax collection purposes. After that, the North gradually stopped sending eligible candidates to be trained, finding it increasingly costly. Your use of our authority to fulfill your selfish desires disgusts and enrages me. It seems that your years-long proximity to us has led you to believe you are as close to the blood of the dragon as the Royalty themselves. This mistaken belief must be corrected immediately, so that no one again will be foolish enough to think themselves equal to royalty."

The King took a long breath to calm his rage, and after a moment continued, "Septon Barth, you are dismissed from the position of Hand of the King. You have become biased against the First Men, and the man I appointed 20 years ago would never advise such foolish suggestions. Whether due to incompetence or deliberate weakening of the crown, both are dangerous. Therefore, you are removed from the council. You may return to the Starry Sept and deliver your sermons there, not in this council."

"Brother, no. Septon Barth has served us for many years, and he is our friend. You shall not dismiss him from the court. He is also my personal septon," the Queen interrupted.

 The King looked at the Queen and nodded. "Aye, Septon Barth, you may stay in the court. However, you will not be my Hand any longer. Now, Maester, you are found guilty of incompetence and willful intention to harm my blood. You are also found guilty of deliberately trying to incite one of my loyal Lord Paramounts to rebel against the crown. You are dismissed from the position of Grand Maester. You will not be appointed as a maester in any other holdfasts. Instead, you will remain in the Citadel, performing the duties of an acolyte for the rest of your life and die in that post."

 Everyone blanched at the harsh punishment. Baelon saw the maester's face go from shock to anger in seconds.

"No, Your Grace, you can't do this!" the maester yelled in anger and fear. "The Citadel and the council of Arch-Maesters decide on the Grand Maester and the appointment of maesters to different holdfasts. This has been the tradition for centuries. The king has no right to change this tradition. I will not be disgraced and dismissed by the Ki…" The maester suddenly stopped, remembering he was sitting in front of a decisive King who hated weakness and disobedience.

 The King looked at the maester as though he were dragon dung under his boots."I see you remember where you are sitting. It seems that the kingdoms need a reminder that I am not my weak father, who supported his friends' whims. I am Jaehaerys Targaryen, the rider of Bronze Fury. You will follow the above orders as they stand. But before that, you shall be punished."

 "The Citadel is ordered to send a new Grand Maester within one moon. You will send the raven yourself, stating your disgrace and new position as the lowest acolyte. From this moment on, your senior assistant will perform your duties. If the maester is not present before the court within one moon to take up the position of Grand Maester, you will send the raven again. If he is not present within 15 days after that, there shall be no more ravens. The next message will be carried by Vhagar."

 "From today, the Iron Throne shall not pay for any maester appointed to castles for recording business, calculating taxes, or for tax collection purposes if the maester is used by the lord of the castle for any other matter. Even if a small advice is asked, the lord of the castle shall be liable for the upkeep and salary of the maester. The rule implemented by my father saying that every keep must have a maester to do the taxes is hereby rescinded.  The Iron Throne shall only pay for the days when tax calculations are actually done. If the lord has paid additional sum for their service, he may ask for any other replacement as he sees fit. Lords may punish maesters for disloyalty or incompetence if they can prove the charge. The maester sent by House Targaryen to the North is only to be used for tax collection purpose and all other expense of stay will be by citadel itself or the lords as mentioned above. If lords need a maester, they are to follow the methods used before Aegon's Conquest."

The Maesters face paled in absolute fear hearing the harsh sentencing.

"Now for your personal punishment: you shall be gelded and whipped, the same punishment you gleefully suggested for a 10-year-old boy, before the court for your crimes. You shall be my message to those in my realm who want to use my authority and power."

 As the King finished, Baelon saw the maester become numb with fear and disbelief.

 "Your Grace," Aemon asked, "the maester's intention was against my son. Let me personally whip the man. There is a saying among the Starks, their way is the old way, and those who sentence people should also swing the sword to carry out the deed. If you cannot do that, then the man does not deserve to die. Let me be your representative and stay true to that saying."

 The King looked at Aemon carefully and nodded. "Prince Aemon, you shall be my Hand from today onwards, and Baelon, you will be the new Master of Laws. Let this council meeting be adjourned, and let us call the court for the maester's punishment."

 Baelon bowed in deference and accepted the honor after his brother. The Small Council dispersed, and Baelon went with the King to his Solar.

 "Your Grace, thank you for the honor, but what about my role as Spymaster?" Baelon asked.

 The King sighed tiredly and said, "Appoint and train your second for the duties of Master of Laws. Delegate as much as you can. The Spymaster is your first priority."

 Baelon nodded and then asked something that had been on his mind. "Your Grace, why did you dismiss your friend Septon Barth too? It was the maester who suggested such harsh punishment."

 The King looked disappointed at Baelon. "I am the King, Baelon, and I have no friends—only people who will help me achieve my goals. Septon Barth was an important piece a decade ago, but he had long overstayed his welcome. His influence over my sister and younger children is becoming overbearing."

Baelon nodded understandingly and went back to his room for resting  before the public whipping and prepare to handle the fallout on Aemon's behalf.

Looking forward to the reactions, comment....

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: A Game of Thrones II

78AC

The Spring Prince

Baelon sat in the royal box, watching knights joust. The arrogance and pride of these knights were remarkable. Baelon knew he was also an arrogant warrior, but he acknowledged that he had never been in a war or even a life-or-death fight. In fact, for almost 30 years, there had not been a war in the realm. The realm was at peace except for some skirmishes with the Dornish. According to the old knights Baelon had spoken with, men had forgotten the horror of bloodshed and were now itching for a fight. As his king once said, a bored mind is the demon's workshop.

This was the last day of the tourney, and Baelon was looking forward to its end. The court had been very active since Aemon whipped the Grand Maester for suggesting harm to his bastard son. The lords who followed the Seven were confused about whether to protest Aemon's actions or support him as it was the king's will. Aemon, as usual, was the epitome of a charming, responsible prince. He influenced lords, swooned ladies, and, as the king said ten years ago, was the innocent boy who fell into the wiles of northern beauty and magic. Even now, the court and lords believed a version of events that suited their preferences. For some, Aemon was the tragic hero who lost his first true love and later rose from the ashes of debauchery and sadness by his destined true love, Jocelyn Baratheon. For others, he was the gullible one they needed as king, having proven to be fallible even by a poor, uncivilized northern bastard. Whatever the version, Aemon was the hero, and the nobles loved that he was the crown prince.

Baelon was pleased that his spies were spreading rumors of Aemon's strong defense of his son against punishment. Even Aemon's word-for-word threat had been spread, but Baelon believed that most people thought it was only uttered under duress. The nobles could only see the charming prince, not the hidden madness ready to be unleashed in a moment of rage. Baelon had personally warned three lords who insulted the Stark girl about the consequences if his brother heard it. Though sternly reprimanded, he didn't think they truly believed such a threat could come from Aemon, who was so charismatic and friendly.

Baelon had been closely watching the Baratheons and the Stormlords. They entered King's Landing with joy and pride but were now seething behind the scenes. They were frustrated beyond belief at Aemon's declaration in the small council and enraged by rumors that Aemon said he would fight against the king if ordered to harm Daemon. Baelon had personally diverted Aemon from overhearing anything from those lords many times, and he was glad the tourney would be over after tonight's feast. He missed spending time with his beloved Alyssa and caring for her during her pregnancy.

Over the last two weeks, he often wondered why the king was indulging Aemon so much. More than anyone, the king knew how volatile Aemon was, and the carefully woven story spread by their agents was the only reason the realm didn't suspect madness in his elder brother. Even though the king had never mentioned bringing his bastard grandson south, Baelon knew the king was unhappy that such an intelligent child couldn't be nurtured for the betterment of House Targaryen and the Iron Throne. The king, above all, valued competence, and the child showed great potential and even before everything the King was for some reason very interested in his first grandson. Baelon knew the king would continue to indulge Aemon until he showed any incompetence. The only explanation for the king's indulgence was that he didn't want to give voice to the rumours of madness in the crown prince, which could be used by the Faith against the Targaryens due to their hatred of incest. If such rumours arose, it would weaken the Doctrine of Exceptionalism that the king had forced out of the Faith in his younger days.

 Baelon knew that even with him being the rider of Vhagar, had he ever dared to utter a threat against the Bronze Fury even in jest, his punishment would be truly painful. Baelon was the only one truly thankful that the king chose to dismiss Aemon's threat like an older dragon indulging its drakes in play-fighting. He wasn't sure whether, even with Vhagar, they could beat the Old King. He was almost certain that the king had some hidden magical tricks to disrupt rogue dragon riders that he had not yet taught him in their magical lessons.

 Baelon came out of his thoughts and clapped as Prince Aemon won the final joust and crowned his wife as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Baelon was sure that if Rhaenys were present, she would be the one crowned, for all his faults, Aemon loved fiercely. Baelon was already preparing himself to play the role of the stern uncle, ensuring that her father's spoiling would not lead to a useless, spoiled brat of an heiress.

Baelon bowed to the King, seated at the center of the Royal Box, signaling his intention to leave and accompany Aemon to their chambers. He reached Aemon just as his brother had changed from his armor into casual clothes, preparing to head to the Red Keep. The procession was getting ready so that the people could admire their beloved Crown Prince.

 Aemon looked at him as Baelon reached him. "Baelon, join me in the procession. Let the small folk see and admire their dashing princes."

 "Of course, my prince," Baelon replied. "I will join you, but don't blame me later for taking away the cheers and admiration of the people as I am more handsome and dashing than you, brother. And congratulations on your well-deserved win. Jocelyn will be happy after the events of two weeks ago."

 Aemon frowned and sighed tiredly. "Aye, you have the right of it. I really practiced hard last moon to make it up to her. It is not possible for me to do nothing when my Lyarra is insulted."

 "You don't have to explain it to me, brother. I understand. If anyone insulted Alyssa, there would be blood."

 The procession started as they mounted their horses and began waving and smiling at the crowd. Baelon rode side by side with his brother throughout the entire procession. He noticed the same admiration from the smallfolk as he had seen from the nobles. Aemon was beloved by the people of King's Landing. He had spent more gold in the two years he had returned heartbroken from North than in the previous eight combined. The drunken fights, horse racing, bets, and even taking a four-year-old kid to greet Caraxes were the stuff of legends among the smallfolk. Aemon had found an outlet for his violence on the criminals during those two years, especially anyone who hurt a woman. People still praised the kind prince who saved them. They also empathized with his loss of a young love to childbirth, as many of them had experienced the pain of losing loved ones in childbirth. Many of the smallfolkes even agreed with the Aemon's hatred for his child as they value a alive working woman more than a babe in need of care.

 Finally, it was over, and they entered the Red Keep. After leaving their horses with the stable keepers, they retreated to Maegor's Holdfast to freshen up and prepare for the feast later.

Baelon was standing with his brother, discussing changes in the Citadel with Lord Lannister. It was after the feast and the first dance. Aemon had started the dance with Jocelyn as the celebration was for their child, and later others joined in. Baelon had danced with Alyssa, his mother, and his sisters. The lords were getting drunk on wine, and the sounds of chatter and laughter filled the air. Baelon and Aemon stood to the side, watching the merrymaking, when Lord Lannister joined them for the discussion.

 The lords were not happy that House Targaryen had withdrawn its payment to the maesters, but they were pleased that they could now dismiss maesters and request another or send their preferred loyal family members to be trained. They stood near a pillar of the great hall while the dance continued in the middle of the hall to rousing music.

 The Stormlords were near the next pillar, talking among themselves. Baelon observed them and, with his lip-reading skills, understood they were complaining but couldn't identify the topic. Baelon was sure they wouldn't be foolish enough to insult Aemon's paramour in this public setting and on such a happy occasion.

 Lord Lannister left them, bowing, and Aemon cursed. "That prideful cat."

 Aemon's unwelcoming face made the approaching lords turn away.

 "Brother, control your annoyance. He will be your Warden of the West and a loyal subject," Baelon tried to appease.

Aemon sighed. "Aye, you have the right of it. This is a night of celebration. Let's go to the high table and invite our little sisters, Saera and Viserra, for a dance before Mother loses her temper with them. They look bored, and that is dangerous."

 Baelon grinned and nodded. Both started to walk toward the high table, passing near the Stormlords. They moved along the edge of the dance floor and near the pillars to avoid disturbing the dancers.

 As they walked, Baelon heard a lord saying, "I am telling you now, Lord Baratheon, you ha---- -- -----  your brother-in-law never brings the bastard to the south. He is a threat to Princess Rhaenys and your sister. This is our chance to have a Baratheon Queen—---------a woman of the Stormlands ruling the entire Seven Kingdoms. The first to do so, from a native of this land and not of V-------. But the Crown Prince insults her and the Stormlands with his strong defense of the boy. The love the prince has for his son is clear, as he himself whipped the maester who suggested punishing him."

 Baelon knew that if he heard the broken speech through the noise, Aemon could hear it too. He cursed the gods—after weeks of work to keep Aemon from hearing such words, everything was now ruined at the last minute. Baelon looked at Aemon and saw darkness entering his eyes as his hand tightened on the Valyrian Steel knife of the Heir, one of the only public weapons allowed in the hall before the King other than Kingsguard's swords and his own Dark Sister. Their walking speed had reduced, and Aemon was listening carefully, trying to catch every word. Baelon looked at the lord to see who it was and to hear more.

 It was Lord Connington, the second most powerful lord of the Stormlands after House Baratheon.

 The dance was at its climax, and the applause was imminent. Aemon put a hand on Baelon's shoulder to stop him from making any noise and moved to the shadows at the edge of the walls.

 The broken speech continued, "Do you actually believe a 10-year-old boy could come up with such trickery? Or are the northern lords such stupid barbarians that they couldn't think of it for years? I don't know what to believe. Lord Baratheon, surely you will be made Hand after Prince Aemon ascends. It is the least he could do after the years of insults to you and the Stormlands—"

 The dance ended, and the audience applauded, making it too noisy for Baelon to hear anything.

 "-the prince values his paramour's culture more. I heard it was he who suggested he should whip the maester—a crown prince following a barbarian culture that should be rooted out of the civilized world. It has been 10 years since the bastard died, and Lady Jocelyn is one of the most beautiful ladies in the realm. I wonder how much more beautiful the Stark bitch looked—"

 The applause and songs stopped, and a sudden silence enveloped Baelon and Aemon. They could hear Lord Connington's speech very clearly, even louder than before as he raised his voice due to the clapping.

 "—THAT THE PRINCE STILL LOVES HIS BASTARD GIRL'S MEMORY OR WHAT MAGIC THE WHORE ENSNARED THE PRINCE WITH FOR HIM TO  EVEN LOVE THE BASTARD CHILD LEFT BEHIND."

 Baelon closed his eyes in absolute failure for a moment, then opened them. He was Baelon Targaryen, and he would be there for his brother now.

 Aemon rushed at Lord Connington, his hand on the Heir's VS Dagger. A punch echoed as Aemon's fist smashed into the Lord's lower back, sending him crashing into another lord, both of them falling to the ground. The other Stormlords were enraged and many even raised their hands to attack but stopped when they saw it was the Crown Prince.

 The next song started playing in the background as Aemon drew Dark Sister from Baelon's hip. Baelon had reattached the sword after the initial round of dancing. Seeing the famed sword of Visenya, which was hungry for blood, the Storm-lords began protesting. Baelon could see the commotion was attracting attention when Aemon took out his VS dagger with his left hand and clashed the blades together. The distinctive piercing sound of Valyrian Steel meeting Valyrian Steel echoed, and the music stopped abruptly. Before the clamour could rise, his brother roared,

 "Silence!"

Aemon moved toward Lord Connington, who, seeing the prince, fell to his knees, yelling apologies. Aemon returned Dark Sister to Baelon and, holding the knife, walked in front of the kneeling lord.

 "You will lose your tongue now," Aemon's cold whisper cut through the silence in the hall.

 Then Lord Boremund stepped in front of the kneeling lord, trying to placate the prince, and the Stormlords also yelled apologies. The crowd had already gathered around them when the king's order came.

"Silence! What is the meaning of this? Come stand before me and I will settle this."

 The crowd retreated, and Baelon, along with Aemon and the Stormlords, walked to the center. The King was sitting in a raised throne-like chair. Aemon bowed, and Lord Connington went to his knees.

 "Your Grace, Lord Connington has disobeyed my order, and he will lose his tongue now as I promised," Aemon said.

 Baelon saw Lord Connington looking at Lord Boremund, pleading. He saw his half-uncle sighing and gathering his thoughts.

 "Your Grace, please forgive Lord Connington on behalf of me. He was deep in his cups, and he has already apologized on his knees. Moreover, no one saw the Crown Prince nearby, and Lord Connington was loose with his wits," Lord Baratheon pleaded with a bow.

 King Jaehaerys looked at the lords and his son Aemon. Even before the King replied Baelon knew the answer.

 "I am not the one to forgive. My heir, the Crown Prince, The Hand of the King has issued an order to the realm as his right, which only I can rescind, and I have not done so. Hence, the order is binding on everyone. He has used his power to make an order and declared the punishment if it is disobeyed. He is the one now who has the responsibility to forgive or punish," the King finished sternly.

 The Baratheon Lord fidgeted and turned towards his brother. Baelon wondered whether Lord Baratheon will next turn to their familial relation to get forgiveness for his principal bannerman.

 "Prince Aemon, please forgive my foolish bannerman. I am your brother-in-law and uncle; please do it as a favor for me," Lord Baratheon requested.

 Prince Aemon looked at his uncle and replied in a cold voice, "I can't forgive Lord Connington's words. He insulted me inside my own home. I cannot forgive and forget, and it's my responsibility to carry out the threat I issued."

 Lord Baratheon sighed in defeat but tried one last time and bowed to the King. "My King, we didn't know Prince Aemon was near. The prince's order was not to insult him in his presence. How could Lord Connington be liable when he didn't see or know the prince was within hearing distance? This is injustice, Your Grace. Please disallow the punishment, as the order has been followed to the letter."

 Baelon sighed as he saw his uncle making another mistake. He could see that his king and brother, previously only annoyed at their relative, were now turning angry. This was the consequence of not voiding the Starks' contract and not punishing harshly for creative reading of the law. Baelon knew that his uncle was in for a humiliation and that punishment would be swift so that no other lord would attempt their own interpretation of the Law.  The fact that it was even King's own half-brother who attempted such a move have enraged The King and Baelon knew that the king will establish the fact that no one is equal to his immediate blood, the members of House Targaryen.

"Boremund, my brother," the king started amicably, "I don't understand one thing. Why are you still defending your bannerman when he has also insulted House Baratheon? You should be grateful that my son, your brother-in-law, is ordering swift punishment."

 Lord Baratheon and the entire viewing court sputtered in confusion.

 "What? I don't understand, Your Grace. He was complaining about bastards and nothing else. The origin of my house's founder being a bastard is only a rumor. There was no insult aimed at me," Lord Baratheon replied, trying to remain polite.

"Ah, Brother," the king began, "it seems that your father, my stepfather, actually achieved his foolish goal to distance from the royal family. When the people of the realm were trying to be as close to Aegon the Dragon as possible, your father was ashamed of his grandfather Orys Baratheon being the bastard brother of the Conqueror and tried to destroy any mention of my great uncle as the brother of the Conqueror. Rogar, being my appointed Protector of the Realm and Hand of the King during my minority, allowed him to do so and turn it into a rumor. Even though he was ashamed of the connection between the royal family and Orys, Rogar wanted to be close to the throne, so he married my mother for a secure reign in the Stormlands. I thought that he would have at least taught his heir the truth and confirmed their origins, but it seems that my assumption was wrong. Even though his own grandson was a prideful fool who couldn't bear the supposed shame, House Targaryen has not forgotten its most loyal relative and supporter. House Targaryen has honored Orys by making him Hand of the King, Master of War, and by giving him a queen for a wife and a kingdom as dowry. We will always reward loyalty and service beyond belief."

 Lord Boremund was speechless and bowed his head. "Your Grace, I apologize for my continued defense of my bannerman. It seems that he also insulted my illustrious great-grandfather."

 "It is not a problem, Brother," the king replied with a smirk. "Even though you have withdrawn the last defense, I will pass judgment on the point you have raised. Let no one ever say House Targaryen has rejected someone justice. Even if the order was to never insult them in Aemon's presence, Lord Connington insulted my grandson and his mother under my roof after eating my food and drinking my wine, where we are celebrating the birth of said grandson's half-sister. More than that he disrespected Prince Aemon by ignoring his orders. Aemon has every right to carry out the punishment. If anyone still believes that this is not justice, then I have a simple solution for your worries: you can use your right to Trial by Combat, and I am sure Dark Sister is thirsty as she has not shed any blood in defense of House Targaryen for several years now."

Baelon immediately bowed and took Dark Sister out and went to one knee and bowed by pining the tip to the floor.

"I stand ready you grace." Baelon said in respect and making sure the Lord Connington or Baratheon will not invoke Trial by Combat in fear.

"As I said your grace, I withdraw all my objections and I have no need of calling for Trial by Combat." Lord Baratheon said immediately.

"This is not fair." Lord Connington yelled suddenly. "How are we to know Prince Aemon was nearby.  We are the lords of the realm and how could we control our mouth against disparaging the lesser men when it is so common and intuitive."

The King looked at the lord sharply and had a kind smile.

"If anyone feels similar to Lord Connington then I have a simple solution for your worries: you can simply refrain from mentioning my grandson and his mother, the Stark girl, in King's Landing or any place where Prince Aemon is known to be present."

Baelon swallowed a snort of laughter at the King's suggestion.

"Aemon, time is getting late and we still want to celebrate. Take the lord outside and take his tongue. There shall be no blood in my hall. My loyal lords must dance and make merry here," the king ordered.

Baelon nodded at the guards, and they took Lord Connington by the shoulders and dragged him outside. As Baelon and his brother started walking away, the king added, "Aemon, make sure he doesn't die of blood loss or drowning in blood. Now, let the music begin."

Baelon and Aemon reached the doors just as the music was about to start. Aemon clapped his hands for attention and snarled, "The next person will lose their tongue, and I will feed it to them."

Baelon was almost certain that everyone would follow the king's solution from now on.

Authors Note: An entertaining time for the nobles of the court and small repercussion for not outright cancelling the starks contract and punishing them.   Next chapter : we are back to Daemon and his reaction to events in Kingslanding.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: The Lull

Winterfell

78AC

Dameon Snow

 I was sitting before the heart tree in Winterfell's Godswood, contemplating the things I had just seen. It had been a month since the tourney for my half-sister was held, and rumors regarding Aemon's actions had reached Winterfell. I was astonished that my father had fought so hard to prevent my punishment and had even threatened those who insulted me. After bleeding quite a bit and expending hours of practice, I could finally see the entire event using the weirwood network. There was some blockage initially, but my persistence and additional bleeding to power the weirwood overcame whatever blood magic protection left by my Great-Great-Uncle Maegor that tried to block me from scrying the Red Keep and the events there.  I wonder why I have felt no such thing while using my warged birds.

 It was truly astounding what guilt could do to a man. Aemon was so enveloped in guilt for abandoning me that he would even defend me against dragons, all the while harboring enough hatred to kill me. What a bipolar behavior, and I wondered why the Old King still entertained my father. According to everything I knew from stories and what I could overhear from King's Landing itself, the king was pragmatic to the core and hard-ass enough to even disinherit Aemon and make Baelon his heir. My guess, based on gossip from both the smallfolk of King's Landing and the nobles, was that Aemon was the people's beloved prince. From what I could gather, in the two years he was essentially living among them—fighting, drinking, whoring, and killing any criminal he could get his hands on—he had charmed anyone he met and become a trusted friend among the nobles.

 Both versions of my parents' affair made Aemon the perfect choice for heir. In one, he was the tragic lover, a foolish knight who fell for a seduction attempt, which made the nobles love him as someone they could manipulate, unlike King Jaehaerys. In the other version, my father knew the seduction and used it to have a child with Stark blood, ensuring he might have a puppet lord in the future after causing some accidents. I laughed hard the first time I heard the second one.

 "So, is it true, my prince?" The voice of Brandon interrupted my thoughts. I groaned at hearing him call me prince again. After the lesson I learned in the swamp, being unconscious and leaving my body unprotected, I always made sure there was protection when using such abilities outside. Brandon had turned into such a fanatic that he even called me prince when we were alone.

 "What have I told you, Brandon? Do not call me prince again. It is an order now. I am a bastard, and I don't want the closer scrutiny we will have here since the lease contract to find anything of importance."

 Brandon tried to protest, but I raised my hand to stop him. "I am telling you now, Brandon. Stop it, or I will banish you from my presence."

Brandon looked chastised and nodded his acceptance.

I sighed tiredly, knowing that more chastisement would be needed in the future. "As for your question, yes, it is true. King Jaehaerys has declared that only the blood of the dragon will judge another of the blood, and will be even applicable to me even if I am a bastard. Aemon also made the threat and even whipped the Grand Maester for wishing to spill the blood of the dragon and trying to start a civil war."

Brandon nodded gravely. "It is the least they could do after abandoning you."

"It is of no problem, Brandon. As you know, I could achieve whatever I wished with my own work and not have it handed down to me."

"I thank the old gods that you grew up here, and even the animals are blessed now," Brandon said.

I grinned and nodded, knowing that farm animals, after careful feeding of my diluted blood, had been improving themselves. Every generation was slightly bigger, hardier to cold, and produced more than before, whether it was wool, milk, or meat when they were slaughtered. This led to a great question I had been pondering for quite some time.

What will happen to the people who consume it? Will their children be more than them? By the third generation, where will they be? Peak human level without even doing anything or a supersoldier level? I was clearly itching to find out, but the only opportunity was Cregan as of now. Even then, his mother had not improved significantly, but I was sure my little cousin Cregan would have additional benefits, as my grandfather made sure Lady Stark would survive the birthing bed by giving more than required.

It also led to a question my grandfather asked, which I hadn't considered in all my plans for the future—a very big mistake on my part.

What will be the abilities of my children?

Luckily, it is all hypothetical as of now, and my guess, which is usually correct, is that they will inherit the already modified body as a base, even though it may not be as developed as my own, and my own ability to adapt and heal will be inherited. Lucky bastards, I cursed, as they wouldn't have to suffer the pains I did to develop from a base human. I am almost sure that the learning talent itself will not be inherited, but they will be prodigies in something that will come very easily for them.

I was going to climb the tree where my own pet eagles had made their nest to check on the eaglets. This was one of my personal experiments. The breeding pair had been fed my blood from their young days and trained by me to fly faster and longer without any rest, to fight more, and to eat more. Now they had three eaglets, and all of them had survived. They were bigger than any eaglets I had seen, and they were developing faster. From their behavior, I could see that they were more intelligent too. They realized that I was their true caretaker and bonded with me immediately. The moment the warg bond happened, I also knew that this was different from all the others. All other animals were just tools in view and discarded easily. I needed special eagles to send to Essos and, for the first time, observe the players there.

I was almost in the middle of the tree when I heard yelling from behind.

"There you are, Daemon," the loud, cheerful voice of the four-year-old Cregan interrupted me from the entrance to the godswood.

I groaned as I closed my eyes. For some reason, Cregan admired me very much. I was the exotic-looking person near his age and an elder brother figure. I knew it would bite me in the ass when one night I caught him wandering and decided to tell him some fairy tales. Then I had to go and indulge him with stories almost every day. I quickly ran out of stories and had to start telling him about Harry Potter. Now, even Harry Potter was finished, I started Lord of the Rings and going very slowly so that I will not have to start another story, but he tries to get me to tell the remaining story everytime.

I knew I had to keep the eaglets from the exciting hands of my cousin and dropped myself from the tree.

My knees didn't even buckle from my landing as my body had adapted to falls from larger heights. I didn't know how Daenerys or Jon rode the dragons bareback without the fear of falling and dying. I would not get on a dragon even with a saddle when I knew I couldn't at least survive a fall. I had been diligently increasing the height from which I could jump, and even now, I was nowhere near the top of the trees in my parkour attempts. At least I could almost complete 500 meters of running before I usually slipped and fell down.

Cregan looked at me with wonder as I casually walked towards him from the jump without even stumbling.

"Daemon, you have to teach me that," Cregan said with enthusiasm as he ran towards me.

"As I have said to you, Lord Stark, Daemon is here to continue the balance of his story, but not to teach you jumping. You have to be older to learn such things," Aethan said as he entered the godswood with a grin aimed at me.

I narrowed my eyes, and he grinned harder.

Cregan pouted, hearing that he had to be older to learn such things.

"Aethan is correct, which is a wonder in itself, Cregan. So, what was the important story you couldn't wait for and wanted to disturb my training?"

Cregan pouted again, but then he grinned. "Please, Daemon, tell me what happened after the Steward-Prince tried to take the One Ring. I can't wait anymore."

It was only later that day that my grandfather had time to meet with me. I was summoned to the Lord's Solar to report the happenings in King's Landing.

"Daemon, you are a welcome sight for my sore eyes. The amount of work you have generated for me is truly huge, my son," Grandfather said tiredly.

I grinned mischievously. "Well, at least you don't have to worry about the king's decision. I finally managed to overcome whatever block Maegor put in place and scry the meeting. It took several tries to correctly guess the day, but I succeeded."

"So, the rumors are true then. Your father did try to protect you. Interesting," Grandfather said curiously.

"No, he didn't protect me. He was trying to appease his own guilt for disregarding his beloved Lyarra's son. He is a walking, talking bag of contradictions, and I suspect he is half mad," I said derisively.

My grandfather scoffed at that. "You don't know him, Daemon. He can never be mad when he is so charming. He is still that, by all reports, even though for two years after your birth there were rumors of a drunken prince who gambled and whored like a dying man. But his rise to Master of Laws is not something done impulsively by the king. I must advise you to never disparage the royal family outside the North and give arrows to our enemies to point at you. Why should you antagonize them when the king himself has acknowledged you as his bastard grandson and atleast care for you enough to punish the people asking for grave punishment?"

I scoffed, "The Old King has no love for me and doesn't care for me. You didn't see the meeting, Grandfather. The king was only angry that someone dared to think to harm the blood of the dragon. Moreover, he was mad that they tried to use his beloved wife, who has not yet recovered from the death of Prince Gaemon. As for my father, let's agree to disagree. I don't care enough to debate about him. Anyway, at the end of the day I am unpunished and our plan worked. The King preserved  his image as The Good King while  our acquisition of new gift is written off as a gift to his grandson.  The North will have some increased taxes for the next decade, and the king has proclaimed his blood is greater than everyone else's and that no one could judge his acknowledged blood other than the blood of the dragon."

 Suddenly, I smiled mischievously and continued, "That means I am beyond your authority and you couldn't punish me at all, Grandfather."

Lord Stark snorted, "If you think you are beyond my reach, you are in for a rude awakening. We old folks always know how to make a lesson stick."

"Well, it is good that I don't have any time for mischief that would lead to punishment then. My training is more important. I have almost reached the middle of the hot lake, and I can only stay there a little time before my body starts burning and I have to swim upwards," I said.

My grandfather's face showed displeasure at my harsh training, a major argument between us. "Daemon, take it easy, please. There is no need for such torture when you could gradually increase your abilities. You have said that you will live for a long time and the Long Night is still a hundred years away."

"As I have told you, there is no torture or pain when I can control my body and make it not feel the full pain by concentrating hard. I cannot depend on the visions; they change by my interference. Septon Barth was to be Hand till his death, but he has been dismissed. Similarly, what happens if the Others attack next winter?"

"Even then, be careful, Daemon," my grandfather warned. "You have to be in full health to fight in the first place. By the way you train, even with your godly abilities, I am afraid of losing you too."

I smiled at his concern. "Do not worry, Grandfather. I will be perfectly fine, and no amount of training could harm me permanently."

And it is true too. The limitless potential is truly a cheat, and my own healing has increased by all the training it gets put under. If my own wish was to have twenty percent of Wolverine's powers, it has developed to atleast twenty-five by now, which is, tremendous growth, as Wolverine has survived even nuclear bombs in hours.

"Can I be excused, Grandfather? I have to sleep after all," I said, as tiredness enveloped me.

Grandfather dismissed me with a wave of his hand. "Daemon, how do the Others' attacks start in your vision?" he asked suddenly as I reached the door.

"Well, it starts with the wildlings coming together for protection and fleeing as they lose entire villages," I answered, turning back to look at my grandfather. I saw him grimacing at my answer, and suddenly my heart started beating rapidly.

"What is it?" I hissed as panic enveloped me as doomsday scenario of Others coming to kill everyone early flashed in my mind.

"There have been troubling reports of wildlings coming together beyond the Wall and attacking the remaining settlements in the Gift more than before. The frustrating thing is, they are not retreating; they remain hiding in the Gift and mountains. Earlier, we couldn't do anything as they were not in our control, but since the Gift is now ours, we will have to do some hunting. I am planning to send Rickon with enough men to hunt down the wildlings."

I sighed in relief. "It is just normal wildlings. Nothing to worry about, Grandfather. If it were the Others becoming more active, they wouldn't stop at the Gift; they would keep coming south to escape in fear."

Grandfather nodded in acceptance and dismissed me again.

79 AC

Lord Benjen Stark

Benjen Stark was contemplating several things while watching his grandson Daemon make a mockery of all the soldiers. Daemon's swordsmanship had increased tremendously, and his enhanced physical abilities made it a cakewalk for him.

He still couldn't believe the things his grandson had achieved thus far. Benjen had been lauded as the greatest Lord Stark for increasing food reserves, introducing new grain, boosting trade, and even building a fleet. But the truth was, everything was inspired or suggested by his grandson. Lord Stark could still hear the smallfolk whisper about blessings from the Old Gods when he was not near. And who could blame them?

Daemon's blood and ideas about cleanliness had made a difference as significant as the Wall itself for the health of folks in Winterfell and Wintertown. He still couldn't believe the improvement in even farm animals.

"Daemon is too good. I want to be like him, Grandfather," the voice of his other grandson interrupted his thoughts.

"So, you have again escaped the lesson with your uncle Bennard, Cregan. Why must you be so troublesome?" he asked tiredly.

Cregan just grinned at his grandfather and said, "As I said, I want to be like Daemon, and Uncle Bennard is such a boring man. It is very easy to escape with the help of my little friends."

Stark looked at the younger grandson curiously, as Cregan had no friends as of now. No heirs were fostered, and his friends were just Aethan and Daemon. He looked again and saw Cregan trying to be nonchalant as if he had uttered something to be kept secret.

Stark's face became stern, and he asked, "Little friends? Who are they, and why are they helping you to escape?"

Cregan pouted, knowing it would be impossible to say nothing. "It is the cats. They love me and allow me to see through their eyes. I use their senses to escape and hide."

Stark's eyes widened as no one knew Cregan had developed warging at such a young age and with such power. Daemon grew into the power by training, but Cregan could already warg multiple animals. "Why have you not informed me, your father, or even Daemon about this?" Stark asked curiously.

Cregan looked down in worry and embarrassment. "I sort of saw some meetings between you and my father talking about how magic should be a secret, and even in Daemon's story, magic is a secret. So, I didn't inform you. I am sorry, Grandfather."

Lord Stark looked at his grandson and sighed. "It seems you are also just like Daemon, exploring the unknown too early. Come on, let me tell you the basics of warging, and later Daemon can train you personally."

It had been almost one month since Cregan's ability was discovered, and now Benjen Stark was dealing with the temper tantrums of both his grandsons. He sighed in tiredness, remembering the argument he had with Daemon, who was adamant about going with Rickon to the Wall to deal with the wildlings in the Gift. Even though Daemon's argument of being almost invincible compared to the wildlings was correct, Benjen couldn't allow a 12-year-old to go to a battlefield.

Cregan's temper tantrum was because his teachings had been stopped as he was busier now due to his heir being sent away.

"Grandfather, you should not deny me this. This is a chance for me to further train and to see where I stand regarding my abilities," Daemon said.

"Daemon, I told you already, you will not go to a battle until you are at least 16, an adult. This is not negotiable," Benjen Stark snapped.

"Grandfather, please, I feel something awful is going to happen. You must send me too, and I could scout better than any others. You know about my warging ability," Daemon said.

Benjen Stark looked at his grandson carefully and concluded that the warning was just a trick to see whether he would agree or not and nothing serious.

"Grandfather, you must continue the lessons. It is unfair that you stopped just because Father has to go and hunt some stupid wildlings," Cregan yelled.

He arrived at a solution. "Stop it. There shall be no more arguments from either of you. I have ordered what will happen, and it will happen so. In fact, Daemon, you will start teaching Cregan everything I have taught you."

"What?" Daemon yelled. "You want me to babysit?"

Cregan looked happy at the prospect of learning from Daemon but spluttered when he called him a baby.

"No. I want you to teach him the lessons I taught you in the Stark Vaults."

"Ah, I see. I will do as you say, Grandfather." Daemon nodded grudgingly knowing that no amount of tantrum will change his mind.

Benjen sighed in relief and prayed that Rickon would return soon after hunting the wildlings.

The Gift

Months Later

 The Crowkiller

It had been months since their warband was allowed south of the Wall through Nightfort by one of the brothers of the Night's Watch. It took all his control not to kill the Night's Watchman on the spot. He loved killing crows more than even fucking a woman, but orders were orders, and even he was afraid of the leader of almost 7,000 wildling warriors with spies even in the Night's Watch. He hated crows more than anyone in the world from the first crow he killed at the age of 10 when he saw the crow coming out of his mothers hut after killing her.

The leader was adamant that he must not be called King beyond the Wall, but only a normal clan leader. As far as Crowkiller was concerned, he would have followed the leader even to the Lands of Always Winter. But lately, as he rose in position, he came to know that the majority of the plans were made by a fucking crow. A betrayer of their oaths, more than that, he was an aged crow and was not named by anyone.

He knew there were more traitors in the Watch, as it was another brother who opened the gates of Nightfort, which no wildling knew about. His job was to harass and kill the kneelers and steal whatever they could throughout the Gift. The warband was very happy with the loot and women they stole. The majority of the women didn't survive their hospitality.

It was nighttime, and they rested around a fire when a brother of the Night's Watch arrived on horseback. How he knew them or why he was there was a mystery.

"Crowkiller, you have new orders from the Leader."

Crowkiller looked furious at that. "What is it?"

"Heir Stark and a force of 200 mounted soldiers have arrived at the Wall for hunting you and other free folk in the Gift. You are to join with other raiders and arrive at Queenscrown the day after tomorrow morning. The sentries will be dealt with, and you are to kill every single Stark man there, including Heir Stark."

"Well, Crowkiller has become rather old. Stark Slayer has a nice ring to it." He said while wondering when and where other raiders entered and why he doesn't see anything about them till now.

Authors Note: while we wait for heir stark to arrive at the wall, let us see what some other players  are up to in;

 Chapter 14 : A Game of Magic.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: A Game of Magic

Oldtown

78AC

Otto Hightower

Otto Hightower was diligently reading a tome on the history of the Reach by an Archmaester when his father's trusted guard approached his room. Even though he was only eleven namedays old, everyone acknowledged his intelligence and cleverness. He had even been offered a place as a maester, but he denied it, knowing he was meant for greater things than serving foolish lords who couldn't even read and write. It was nighttime, and he knew it must be something of importance to summon him at this hour.

 He was quite surprised when he was informed to meet in the lower tower made from Black Stone by his lord father, and not in the solar as usual. The guard escorted him down the stairs, and even with his knightly training, he was panting by the time he reached the lower tower.

"My lord, you must go alone from here; only the lords are allowed beyond this point," the guard said.

"Thank you for escorting me, Ser Alan," Otto replied.

 He had seen the ordinary door many times and thought it was an abandoned area in the lower tower while the nobles lived in the upper tower and the servants in the middle portions. He approached the door and pushed it open; surprisingly, it moved smoothly and silently. He raised his lantern to spread the light and see around the room, but the light didn't spread as he expected. As he stepped into the room, the door closed automatically, making him jump as the moonlight from outside vanished completely. A chill enveloped his body, and his breath became harder. He wondered if the loyal guard he knew from birth had turned traitor and ambushed him, as there was no sign of his father.

"Otto! Come," a voice echoed from the front, and a light suddenly appeared meters in front of him from an open door.

 He knew his father's voice and trusted him, so he walked forward. The new room he entered was surprisingly not dark. There were lights from the flaming torches in the middle of the four walls. He quickly identified that the light was not from the torches themselves but reflected using obsidian or dragonglass. It was the light passing through that material that was not absorbed by the black stone. He looked around and saw many murals painted on the black stone, though he couldn't identify anything. Even with his thirst for knowledge, he couldn't concentrate on the murals as the black stone attracted him. There was something beautiful about it, and he wanted to learn its secrets. The Stones enchanted him like nothing else in his short life. He walked towards the nearest wall to touch the black stones, to smell it, to lay his head on it and feel it.

 "Snap out of it, little brother," his brother's voice snapped as he slapped Otto on the back of his head.

 The sudden pain cleared his thoughts, and he had a panic-stricken face. He looked around and saw his father with an understanding smile.

 "What... what is this, Father?" Otto whimpered, fear evident in his voice.

 "What are our words, Otto, since Uthor of the High Tower built this tower and started our house? What is the name of our ancestral sword?" his father asked.

 Otto looked at his father in bewilderment, as even any knight knew of Hightower and their words in the Reach.

 "We light the way, and the sword is a Valyrian steel sword called Vigilance," Otto replied with pride.

 "Aye, we light the way," Lord Hightower said. "To light the way, first there must be darkness, and you just saw the darkness."

 Otto's eyes widened in surprise as he registered the truth.

 "That is... I don't know what to say. What is this darkness? What is this Black Stone?"

 His father sighed. "Unfortunately, no one knows what this stone is or where it comes from. Maesters say that it was here before we built the Hightower, but not the true origin of this structure. The only thing that is passed down from father to son is that we must light the way for mankind to enlightenment."

 "Enlightenment? Father? Like the truth of the Faith of the Seven?" Otto asked.

 His father scoffed. "Not the enlightenment of the Faith, Otto. You have shown exceptional intelligence in learning by seeing the truth of things, and you even saw the truth that the maesters are nothing more than one of our tools, which is why you rejected the Archmaester's proposal for you to join them. You have learned the Faith and seen the workings of the Starry Sept, but you didn't recognize that the Faith is also nothing more than a tool like the Citadel for spreading enlightenment."

 "I... I can't believe it. This can't be true!" Otto whispered. He was a follower of the New Gods, and this sacrilege was something he expected from oafish Stormlanders and wildlings in the North, not the Lord of Hightower.

 "Well, then let me educate you on the truth. You see this black stone, don't you? This is something that pervades throughout the world from its strategic positions on the map and corrupts everything near it," Lord Hightower continued. "Something that can't be seen or heard, just felt by accomplishing or seeing the outcome—magic. That is our purpose, Otto. To eradicate magic from Westeros so that this black stone couldn't be effective and unleash untold horrors. It is our duty to enlighten the way for our fellow man to the horrors of magic and to stop its usage. From the first Hightower to me, we have done everything to accomplish this. The Citadel was started for the study of science and to prevent the spread of magic by offering a confirmed path to knowledge. We avoided endless war with the Gardener Kings and joined as their vassal when we understood that unleashing the horrors of war and conquest was not something to be done to prevent future horrors. We invited the Faith of the Seven when the Andals came and gave patronage as they were deadly afraid of magic after being under its mercy from shadowbinders, Essosi sorcerers, and the ever-expanding Valyrian empire of magic. We abandoned the First Men traditions which had a ritualistic nature to use the Faith to spread the message that magic is evil. We even bent the knee to the Conqueror so that we could slowly spread our influence to the entire Seven Kingdoms from behind the king, just like we did in the Reach behind the Gardener Kings. We were near success in at least spreading the maesters throughout the Seven Kingdoms when the FUCKING Septon Barth couldn't keep his prejudice for the Old Gods and a bastard in check. Decades of hard work and influence on the royal family gone and the blood of thousands of the Faith wasted because of lack of patience..." Lord Hightower started muttering curses angrily too fast for him to understand.

 Otto was entranced by the secret history of their house and influence but jumped in fright as his father finished yelling about Septon Barth and his angry mutterings. Even himself who knew the  Hightowers was the Greatest House in the realm, especially in the Reach, never knew that they served such a high purpose.  They may not be the Kings anymore for millennia, but they were the unnamed Kings of the Oldtown and their influence was almost equal to the Gardner kings.

 "Father," Otto slowly tried to interrupt the angry muttering of his father.

 "Don't, Otto. Father is very angry. Let him vent it at least," his brother sighed in tiredness.

 "What happened, brother? " Otto inquired.

 "News has arrived from the Citadel, Otto. The Grand Maester has been punished harshly and the Hand is dismissed from his post for suggesting harsh punishments for the North and the northern bastard of Prince Aemon who suggested a way to get the Gift back to the Starks even when following the orders of the Iron Throne."

 Otto looked puzzled hearing that. "How in the name of New Gods they achieved that?"

 "Well, the bastard suggested a lease contract, a contract where all rights to the land are transferred to the tenant except for ownership. The Starks rented the entire New Gift from the Night's Watch in perpetuity," Hobert said.

 "That is devious, brother," Otto said in admiration of the cleverness shown. He frowned and continued, "Truly, only a bastard born of sin could envision such trickery."

 Hobert laughed hearing the reply.

 "Whatever the method," his father interrupted, who finally calmed enough, "they have won and gotten away with it too. The fools tried even using the bedridden queen to get their way, and even I know that the king will not be happy if his beloved sister is touched. The true surprise was Prince Aemon; his stupidity for blaming the child for the girl's death and his hate towards was such a good thing for us as the North, a place where magic still lingers, will be long away from the remaining magic users of the royal family. Now we must start another round of the game."

 "Magic users of the royal family?" Otto asked, perplexed. "According to history, only the cursed Queen Visenya practiced sorcery, and she never taught it to the current king or Aenys's line. King Maegor didn't have children to pass down any sorcery he knew."

 Father looked at him as if he were an imbecile, and Otto withered under that look.

"Otto, you have seen the dragons. What do you think allows them to fly and spit fire? What allows the Targaryens to bond with them and control them? This is the greatest blatant use of magic Westeros has seen since the Age of Heroes. It seems you still have many things to learn beyond what the maesters and books can teach before your part begins," his father said with tiredness.

 "I apologize, Father. I understand I have much more to learn," Otto said with utmost respect. "But I have a question, Father. The king and queen have been here many times, and no horrors have been unleashed yet by the black stone. If dragons themselves were here, and unaffected, how can we know the black stone still has the power of ancient times?"

 "Oh, Otto, the dragons have only been here for a short time. If you want to see the horrors unleashed by the Black Stone, you only have to look at the Ironborn. The horrors they unleashed just a hundred years ago in the name of their cursed Iron Price will be enough to answer your doubts. This is just the influence of the Seastone Chair, a throne made from black stone. Every man and even woman believes in treating others as thralls, which is nothing but slavery."

 "I see," Otto replied after careful consideration. "I understand, Father. What must I do?"

 "You are to be squired under Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard. Your intelligence and cleverness will be noted by the court. Even now, your talents in administration have been spread by Redwyne among the court. You will be the new lead to the court as the maesters will be under scrutiny, and House Hightower will not be implicated because of two zealots who couldn't control their prejudices. At least in this generation, it is time to remove all of our overt influence in both the Citadel and the Faith."

"I will not disappoint you, Father," Otto nodded and bowed in obeisance.

Harlan Pike

79AC

 Harlan Pike stood at the prow of his ship, the salty wind whipping his long hair around his face. The sea, his true home, stretched endlessly before him, the horizon a thin line separating the turbulent waters from the stormy sky. Behind him, his men moved with purpose, securing the loot they'd taken from the soft-bellied merchants of Essos and the pirates of the Stepstones. His heart swelled with pride and satisfaction; his first raid as a captain had been particularly fruitful.

 "Harlan, you have started your true journey and proven yourself as an Ironborn captain. This is the day we have been waiting for," one of the Drowned Priests who raised him said.

 He turned away from the whispers and declared, "Well, I am the son of the sea and twice drowned. Let the Greenlanders tremble at the sound of my exploits."  

He again turned to the alluring sound of the sea.

As long as he could remember, he could read the sea and winds like no one else. The sea whispered to him about the boats sailing on it. He could sense approaching storms even before the winds began to hit the sails. He could swim in the sea at the age of three without anyone needing to teach him. He was a lowly bastard left to die on Naga's Hill when the Drowned Priests found him. In their belief, they saw him as the answer to their prayers to the Drowned God for a solution to the tyranny of the Dragonlords who subjugated the Ironmen from the air.

 The Drowned Priests became more enamored with him when he drowned at the age of three and started to swim to the shore. Whispers of him being of the Hoare bloodline spread among the priests, and even the place they found him was said to be a sign from the gods that he was meant to be the Iron King.

 He thought it was all nonsense until that day ten years ago when a Drowned Priest, a Greyjoy, decided he must die. They were anchored near shore for the night, and everyone was resting and deep in their cups when the priest smashed his head from behind and dragged him to the shore to drown him as a sacrifice for Greyjoy prosperity. The man held him over his shoulder while descending from the ship, and Harlan was teetering between consciousness and unconsciousness.

He later swore to the priests who questioned him that he heard the Greyjoy whispering maddeningly

 "Must Kill at all costs. Should be drowned, the Drowned God commands it, should kill him for Greyjoy's to pay the Iron Price. Kill him. Drown him."

  The man threw him into the seawater. The moment he touched the water, he felt his lethargy dissipate and an energy surge into him. He heard whispers and a sinister laughter that sent chills down his spine. As the man landed in the sea, Harlan suddenly moved and struck him in the groin.

 "Bastard!" the Greyjoy screamed, pulling out a knife.

 Harlan was only seven, and he knew fighting a fully grown man was certain death, so he jumped backward into the sea and started swimming as the retreating waves carried him away from the shore. The Greyjoy, being an adult, just ran and jumped toward him, landing on him. They both started drowning as the waves bobbed them up and down. While holding Harlan from behind with his left hand, the Greyjoy used his right hand to stab at Harlan's face. Seeing death approaching, Harlan grabbed the knife with both hands. His palms bled as the knife's edge cut into them. Blood mingled with seawater as the knife neared his face. He moved his head at the last moment, slowing the knife with his hold. Still, the sharp edge pierced through his left eye and stayed there.

 Pain enveloped his side, and darkness consumed his left eye. The additional pain jolted him while he felt the Greyjoy struggling for breath as the sea carried them away. Blood loss made him faint, and he laughed hard, thinking he was going to die. Anger enveloped him along with seawater burning his lungs. The Greyjoy, knowing he had achieved his goal, took his left hand around from Harlan and started swimming upwards. Suddenly, Harlan turned and used his right hand to grab the knife's hilt and pulled it from his left eye.

 "Drowned God, give me strength," he yelled in his mind and started swimming upwards.

 A haunting laughter was heard as he was almost sure he heard a reply,

 'With immense pleasure.'

 He felt something push him, rapidly gaining on the Greyjoy. As he neared the Greyjoy's legs, he grabbed them and used the knife to stab him repeatedly, not caring where he pierced. By the tenth stab, he lost consciousness, welcoming death with a smile, knowing the Greyjoy was dead.

 He gained consciousness two days later in the captain's cabin of the ship.

 "Harlan, the twice-drowned, the Drowned God has blessed you twice. You are the leader we have been waiting for since Black Harren was burned by the cursed Black Dread," the priest said.

 Pain enveloped his entire body as he tried to sit up in bed.

 "How?" he hissed in pain.

 "How, you ask?" the priest laughed madly. "The greatest message from the Drowned God. You can feel him, can't you? Every Drowned Priest can feel him somewhat—a nudge here, a small whisper there—but you are different from the moment of your birth. Something whispers to you secrets of the sea more than even the most faithful Drowned Priest. It was the Drowned God who saved you.

He sent The Kraken to save you."

79 AC

Braavos

 The grand hall of the Iron Bank was a testament to its power and wealth. Opulent tapestries and gleaming chandeliers cast a golden glow over the assembled keyholders. The room hummed with hushed conversations and the shuffling of parchment, a prelude to the serious matters at hand. The high ceilings, adorned with intricate frescoes depicting the bank's storied history, added to the air of solemnity.

 At the head of the long, polished table sat Bessaro Reyaan, the First Keyholder, his presence commanding respect. The other keyholders, a mix of merchants, nobles, and shadowy figures, settled into their seats, their faces reflecting a blend of curiosity and apprehension. The Reyaan family had held the title of First Keyholder of the Iron Bank since its founding, passing the role from father to son.

 Reyaan raised a hand, calling for silence. "We are gathered here today to discuss matters of great importance," he began, his voice steady and authoritative. "Our bank's interests are vast and varied, but recent developments demand our immediate attention. It has come to my attention that recent events from the thrice damned Valyrians kingdom has made many of you tempted with taking the matters into your hands. This meeting is to officially state my orders."

 "And pray tell, what matter requires such a meeting?" one of his thorns said slyly.

 Bessaro looked at the thorn and scoffed internally at the prideful fool who thought himself powerful. "It seems you have not kept up to date with the matters. The second voyage of the North has also been a success, and they returned with untold wealth. Moreover, the North has made a move in the game of thrones and won. They managed to steal the Gift back from the Night's Watch and now have even more work and their old food granary back. This will affect our plans for trading with them. More importantly, the fact that the Iron Throne allowed it without punishing the Starks is startling. We must rethink whether the Starks are still viable when the King is friendly with them," Bessaro said with condescension.

 "What do we care about the king's relationship with his vassals? We started trading with the Starks because they are nearer and for the profits and the supposed method of travel that allows them to avoid storms and pirates. The fact that we still haven't learned their secrets or confirmed that such a method exists is what matters. We need to learn the method for the continued growth of Braavos as a free city," the thorn replied haughtily.

 "Everything comes back to the Targaryen bastard," another keyholder snarled. "Those damn Valyrians have to go and be intelligent enough to invent the method and even introduce a new form of renting too."

 "Daemon Snow? How are you sure it was his method? Leasing is an intriguing idea that anyone who saw the smallfolk of Westeros could come up with, but sailing is something else. According to our sources, the first time he even saw the sea was when the first voyage started," another keyholder asked.

 Knowing that if not interrupted, his valuable time would be lost, Reyaan interjected, "It doesn't matter where the method originated. We shall endeavor to get the secret and be friendly with the North as needed. Even without that, it is the most profitable trade agreement we have with anyone. We will not jeopardize that unless we are a hundred percent sure of the method and their workings.  Is that clear enough for everyone?"  Seeing the nods he finished, "Dismissed."

Reyaan didn't wait for the others to disperse. He stood up and left through the back entrance of the room. He went to his office and activated the secret door to his true home: the House of Black and White.

Reyaan was a name he took when he founded the Iron Bank and Braavos all those years ago; it was the most used face of their guild. But now, he had to attend a more important meeting—a gathering of the elders of the Faceless Men, the men who originated from the slave pits of Valyria.

 Reyaan, the first Faceless Man, was approached by the so-called Many-Faced God, not knowing it was just a demon sent by the Great Enemy to continue the sufferings of people on this planet. The growth of Valyria, with its dragonriders and magic, was a game-changer in the ongoing cold war between the Red Demon R'hllor and the Others in the North. The Valyrians could have ended the war by obliterating both factions in their expansion plans, so the Great Enemy had sent the demon. The demon found the perfect method of infiltration: the slaves, so abused they had almost lost their minds and will to live, were just breathing dolls. The demon chose to bond with a man without identity and appeared as the Many-Faced God granting him death. The nameless slave, seeking death, agreed wholeheartedly to the pact, and the first Faceless Man was born when the demon possessed the body, consuming his soul while retaining the memories.

 Centuries among the slaves and even the Valyrian sorcerers made it possible for him to engineer the Doom. He had to sacrifice ten of his most powerful faces to enact it. It was quite spectacular, if he said so himself, to watch the Doom from Braavos.

It was truly ironic that the Fourteen Flames themselves smashed down the arrogant Valyrians, who were nothing but shepherds before the Valyrian Gods started playing with them. The demon was still afraid, though, that despite accessing different sorcerers, the knowledge of the Valyrian gods themselves remained elusive. He couldn't understand anything regarding the Valyrian gods, and only when he wore the face of the sorcerer could he remember what they were. Unfortunately, he had to sacrifice every face of a sorcerer in the Doom.

  The Doom was the greatest treat for the Great Enemy, who became a sloth in the feeding of misery and sufferings. Millions died in Valyria, hundreds of powerful dragons perished, and the Century of Blood that followed was truly a good dessert for the Great Enemy. The fact that there was no other outside power to challenge the Others and the Red Demon R'hllor, who were already fed a few sparks of the Great Enemy, was just a good aftertaste that would feed the Great Enemy for centuries more.

 The demon then corrupted many others into the Faceless Men cult, and every Faceless Man became an extension of his will and powers. It was in this way that the Faceless Men knew when someone failed and the body was destroyed.  Even though he couldn't form a new powerful pact like the original one, The demon could make a incomplete bond when his followers become fanatic enough and becomes no one.  This make him have access to any memories or skills of all the Faceless Men and peruse them as he pleased.

 The current meeting was between the longest-lasting Faceless Men, even the demon himself couldn't split his mind enough to contact everyone over the large distance  at once. So, the meeting was needed to share memories and discuss how to proceed in achieving their goal of maintaining the status quo and ensuring that the sufferings fed to the Great Enemy increased or remained the same.  Eventhough the elders ten only knew to  grant the death and do his biddings.

His thoughts came to a halt when the elder 10 entered the room and settled in their chairs. Even with them being an incomplete extension to him, with them physically close he could feel the connection more than ever.

 "Let the meeting begin. Start with your reports," Reyaan said to the second one sitting to his right.

 "First one, I must apologize as there is no progress with the dragon eggs we acquired from that foolish girl. Even fed with much Valyrian blood, they do not hatch. The more blood they consume, the stonier they become. Even our agents in Asshai couldn't find any clues regarding how to hatch the eggs. Fire and blood failed, and that was our final hope as we thought maybe The Targaryens were arrogant enough to announce their secret as their house words."

 First One snorted hearing that.  He was already surveying the connection checking for any lies or omissions, which is not possible since no one had ever rebelled against their belief in him, The Many Faced God. Having almost all the members from Essos where slavery is itched in their very souls itself, is very good for maintaining fanatic loyalty.

 "Second one, don't be naïve. It seems we are at the end of our road with that strategy. Our goal of preserving the status quo and maintaining magic use at a reasonable level still awaits all the while granting the gift of death as per the will of Many-Faced-God. Let the eggs be stored in our secret vault if there is no other avenue to pursue. Even now, Balerion the Black Dread is sleeping his way to death from the fight he had with the monsters in Valyria. As long as he is dead, there is nothing to fear from the Targaryens, and all other dragons will perish with time since we have made sure of it."

 "There are still years left for that happy occasion of the last of the creatures that saw the cursed Valyria die, First One. There is another avenue yet to be explored about hatching the eggs."

"What is it?" First one looked intrigued.

 "Daemon Snow. The bastard of the North. He is of blood, and we have relations with the Starks. We could invite them and make him our sacrifice for fire and blood. Then maybe the eggs will hatch," the second one said.

 First One looked intrigued. "No, that would be a waste of a perfect match to ignite wars in Westeros if needed. Maybe the eggs will hatch in his hands, and we could always use it to trigger a war there if the need arises. Moreover, the boy is intelligent, and we could still benefit from our association with the Starks, and even then, fifth one has not yet learned the secret of their navigation. Am I right?"

 The fifth one looked surprised at First One's knowledge, not knowing there was a direct linkage of minds between them.

 "You are, as always, correct, First One. No amount of coercion, money, or threats made them say it. I even took a face to spy upon them, but they grew agitated by something and became tight-lipped as time went on."

 "Interesting. Very interesting," First One said. "Also, Prince Aemon has even challenged the king in protection of Daemon, and harming him would start a war. I am confident in killing every dragonrider on the ground, but our own survival and mission would be jeopardized. We should remain in the shadows for now and not pull the sleeping dragons tail."

 The rest of them nodded in acceptance.

 "First One," another underling said, " Finally the Red Demon has become content in playing with his little followers and sacrifices again. The sacrifices has gone down significantly after the trouble in Volantis Red Temple eight years ago. Whatever damaged him was something significant since the number of sacrifices was so high and there was no vision or any overt signs of power from him to his red priests for almost 3 years after the event. There have been no new movements from him."

 "I also report the same from beyond the Wall. The Others are also content, slowly adding soldiers to their army, similar to the Red God manipulating millions of followers for himself. The Night's King is, as always, unseen, and even I couldn't venture to the Lands of Always Winter."

"Good, very good. The main threats for our goals are of Ice and Fire, and they both remain in equilibrium with each other. So, as long as they remain as it is, it will be of no consequence for us. What about the rest of them?"

 "There have been stirrings in the Shadowlands beyond Asshai, and every other Entity just exists as it is. There is no change in any of them," the seventh replied.

"That is good, as we are free to concentrate here and in Westeros. There is something in the air that I am sure will trouble us. The changes happening in the world are more than what they should be. You shall be vigilant against any overt use of magic. You have all your orders." Reyaan ended the meeting.

The Crowkiller.

 Finally, after all the waiting, the day had come. Well, the night had come. Crowkiller thought as he stood on the edge of the encampment, watching as the moonlight reflected off the snowy landscape. The Stark forces and their soldiers were trapped in Queenscrown by an unexpected summer snowstorm, their spirits as frozen as the landscape around them. The wildling leader felt a thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

 The plan had been simple yet brutal. His scouts had ambushed the Stark scouts, catching them off guard. But even then, it became evident that these were not ordinary men. The skirmish had cost him eleven men to take down just five Stark scouts. They were faster and more aware than anyone he had ever faced. A grin spread across his face as he considered this. If the scouts were this good, how much better must a Stark be? He could already imagine the envy of his fellow wildlings when he returned as the Starkslayer.

 As his men descended upon the Stark encampment, chaos erupted. The night was filled with the sounds of clashing steel, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh commands of captains trying to rally their men. Crowkiller observed from behind, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. His men were falling to the ferocity of the Stark soldiers; it was costing the wildlings many lives, but he cares not as he has a thousand lives to spare against the Stark's two hundred.

 In the midst of the fray, he spotted a man clad in armor bearing the emblem of a snarling direwolf. The Stark was cutting through his brothers like a scythe through wheat. Crowkiller's eyes narrowed as he watched the Stark fight. Suddenly, The Crow attempted to stab the Stark from behind. Fury surged through Crowkiller's veins. This was his kill, his glory. But his anger turned to surprise when the Stark dodged the attack with a fluid grace and turned, swinging his sword in a deadly arc. The crow was skilled, managing to skip backward just in time, but not before the Stark's sword slashed through his nose, leaving a bloody gash.

 Crowkiller cackled with glee, his excitement mounting. He moved forward, pushing through the throng of fighters. His men were overwhelming the soldiers in front of the Stark and the crow, creating a clear path to his prey.

 "Damn you to the seven hells and curse the old gods! How are you fighting and moving when you and your men should be under the effects of the poison?"  The Crow shouted, his voice a mix of frustration and curiosity. "It shouldn't kill you, but it should weaken you. Yet your army fights as if untouched!"

The Stark heir, breathing heavily yet standing resolute, smirked at the Night's Watch Men. "Wouldn't you like to know, betrayer?" His voice dripped with disdain. "First, you betrayed the oath you swore to the king, and now you've betrayed the oath to the Night's Watch by colluding with this scum. It is time to pay the price."

"Well, it will not be today," Crowkiller retorted, his eyes gleaming with malevolence. "I need him alive for now, Stark. Crowkiller has become an old name. Killing you will make me rise in the army of the King Beyond the Wall."

 The Stark's eyes widened at the mention of the King Beyond the Wall. But his surprise quickly turned to fury. "What are you waiting for, winter? Let's dance," the Stark snarled, raising his sword and charging forward.

 Crowkiller tried to parry the attack, but the Stark was faster than anyone he had ever faced. Without the advantage of ambush or arrows, Crowkiller found himself outmatched. The Stark's strikes were precise and relentless, each blow driving the wildling leader back. Crowkiller realized too late that he had underestimated his opponent.  The last thing he thought before the sword neared his neck was he should have waited more for the Stark to tire or injured and regretting the fact that some other fucker would become The Starkslayer.

Authors Note:  A chapter to establish the wider magic users and their own games..  yes the doom is caused by the Great Enemy's messenger a Demon who made a pact with a slave...  every many faced god servant is half extension of that demon, even thought the fanatic don't know it. 

Otto hightower learning the basics and origin of a OC harlan Pike..

Also a small cliffhanger.....   wait for   Chapter 15 : Burdens of Love II

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: The Burdens of Love II

Daemon Snow

79AC

I felt the cold, Northern air kiss my cheeks as I stood in the sparring yard, facing my uncle Bennard Stark. The sun was high, casting long shadows over the packed dirt and the wooden training dummies that lined the perimeter. My heart pounded in my chest, not from fear, but from the thrill of the challenge that lay before me. Uncle Bennard was renowned as the greatest fighter in the North, perhaps even all of Westeros, and today, for the first time, I would face him in a duel.

Uncle Rickon had often sung praises of my skills, boasting to anyone who would listen that I would one day become the greatest warrior the North had ever seen. It was his constant prodding and encouragement that had led to this moment. Uncle Bennard had nothing to his name except his marriage to the Karstarks and the reputation as a great warrior. It made him angry when Uncle Rickon praised me so much and after he left to fight the wildlings, when soldiers started whispering during training, Uncle Bennard snapped and called me to a spar. I had spent the last two years honing my agility and flexibility, preparing for the day I would stand across from Uncle Bennard, who had never shown me anything but scorn.

 The sparring yard was filled with onlookers – guards, servants, and my friends, all eager to witness the spectacle. Uncle Bennard's cold blue eyes met mine, and for a moment, the world around us faded away. He moved first, a blur of steel aimed at my stomach. I dodged the slash, moving with the fluid grace I had seen in the old tales of Braavosi water dancers, pulling a move straight out of the stories of the great warriors of old.  We clashed in a furious meeting of swords, and after only a few minutes, I understood why Bennard held his title—not because of his Stark name, but because of his unmatched skill. I have observed Uncle for years and my talent steal has picked up enough, others believed I was a natural prodigy. Yet, even now, I found myself depending on my inhuman speed and reflexes to defend myself because of the skill gap. My talent steal was working overtime to increase my proficiency in Swordfighting due to the actual serious practice with a master Swordsman. Rest of the people I spar with always hold back and I didn't have to use my enhanced speed that much with them.  

 I could see anger rise in my uncle's eyes as he struggled to beat me as easily as he expected and the spar continued on. My speed only increased, and I decided to lay a trap, knowing his anger at me would cloud his judgment. I stumbled as I stepped back, and his sword swung toward my neck. Even with a sparring sword, the force behind it would leave a mark. But I was ready. Since he had never warmed to me or contained his scorn, I decided to defeat him soundly.

 As the sword neared my neck, I pulled a Nero from Matrix and bend backwards. As I stood with my body bend at knees and entire upper body parallel to the earth I saw the sword going above me. My left hand touched the earth, pushing upwards and I used my leg muscles to jump forward. Even before my uncle's sword finished the slash or uncle could reverse his slash, my explosive speed allowed me to appear inside his reach. During the jump my left hand drew a knife from my hip, while dropped the sword from my right hand. My speed was too much for him; as he couldn't even stop the momentum of the previous swing at my neck, my knife was at his throat while right hand pushed  his sword hand further to his left making him stumble.  The onlookers stared at me as if I were an Other—no one had ever seen such moves in the sparring yard.

"Aha, Uncle Bennard," I said, breathing hard but steady. "It seems you underestimate me so much that I could do this."

 I spoke loudly, offering him a way to save face. Even he understood the gesture, though the barely restrained fury in his eyes was unmistakable.

 The applause that followed was thunderous, a chorus of cheers and clapping that filled the yard. But the celebration was short-lived.

 Before anything of note could happen, we were interrupted by Brandon my sworn sword.

"My Lords " he said, bowing slightly. "Both of your presence is requested by Lord Stark."

 It was unusual for my grandfather to summon us together. Usually, he would meet with us individually, dispensing his wisdom and guidance. I glanced at Uncle Bennard, seeking some clue as to what this might be about, but he merely shook his head and frowned.

"Perhaps it's news of Uncle Rickon from the Wall," I said hopefully. Uncle Rickon's absence weighed heavily on me as I couldn't keep an eye on him as my own 3 eagles are not quite ready to survive near The Wall. He had been more than a mentor; he was a friend and confidant. "Maybe he will return early so that I don't have to teach Cregan anymore. It is quite tiresome to teach someone."

Uncle Bennard gave a noncommittal grunt, as he threw the wooden sword to the nearest soldier. We followed Brandon through the corridors of Winterfell, the ancient stones echoing with our footsteps.

We entered the Solar, where my grandfather, Lord Stark, sat upon his seat. His face was a mask of stern resolve, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes that I had never seen before.

"Father," Uncle Bennard said, bowing his head. "You summoned us?"

Grandfather nodded, his gaze heavy upon us. "I have received grave news," he began, his voice steady but filled with a weight that seemed to press upon all of us. "Rickon is dead."

 The words hit me like a blow to the chest. The world tilted, and for a moment, I could hardly breathe. Uncle Rickon, one of my greatest support after my grandfather, was dead—along with my own plans. Anger at the stupid loss of a competent man nearly made me shout at my grandfather, who had banned me from going with my uncle. Surely, if I had been there, he would have survived. I looked to Uncle Bennard—the traitor who would one day contest Cregan's claim. His face had gone pale, his fists clenched at his sides. I could see anger and sadness warring within him. Seeing that, I wondered why I felt no sadness for the loss of my uncle, who had loved me and treated me fairly.

"How?" Uncle Bennard asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

 Grandfather's eyes were filled with pain. "He died at Queenscrown during a night raid by the wildlings," he said. "The incursion was far greater in number than we had been led to believe. The reports spoke of scattered bands, no more than four hundred in total. But there were a thousand of them. Rickon and his men fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and ambushed in the night during a harsh summer snowstorm. The wildlings, who know even harsher climates, were not affected as our men were."

Uncle Bennard couldn't reply and a silence enveloped the solar.

There was a knock that broke the silence and My aunt Giliane Stark entered the Solar after gaining permission. She smiled at me, and I tried to smile back, but couldn't. She frowned, seeing my face. After she became friendly with me, our kinship deepened, especially after Cregan was born and began to talk. The tales I told him and his growing affection for me influenced her, and I could say she genuinely cared for me. I felt sympathy, knowing she would lose her smile immediately.

 I listened as Grandfather explained what had happened. I heard the disbelief and the sounds of crying. I went near Aunt Giliane and tried to take her hands in mine to console her, but Uncle Bennard beat me to it.

 "I will escort my sister-in-law to my wife, so they can mourn together, Father," Uncle Bennard said, bowing, his face showing suppressed sorrow.

 "Grandfather, what is to be done now? Are you going to call the banners?" I asked tiredly, carefully keeping any trace of "I told you so" out of my voice.

 He scrutinized me, searching for something, and I noticed he looked far older than he had the day before. The loss of a second child had affected him deeply.

 "Not now, Daemon," he replied. "Today is for mourning. I must break this news to my heir, Cregan. Come with me; he may find it easier to handle with you there."

I nodded in understanding.

Next Day

Uncle Bennard said "I will go to the Wall, I will take Rickon's place and the Stark men and command the Umber, Karstark and Mormont men you have summoned to the wall."

 "No," Grandfather said, shaking his head. "You are needed here, Bennard. We will send a contingent of our best men, and I, as Lord Stark, will lead them. The Gift will be secured."

I looked at my grandfather, feeling a surge of resolve. "I will also come with you." I said.

There was a stunned silence, followed by a murmur of disapproval. Grandfather's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. "No, you are too young. You are needed here, to continue your training and to prepare for the responsibilities that will one day be yours. Moreover, Cregan needs you now."

"But I am ready," I insisted. "I have trained hard, and I have the skills. Let me honor Uncle Rickon by continuing his work and killing every single wildling."

 Grandfather's gaze softened, but he remained firm. "You have a brave heart," he said. "But your place is here, with your family. There will be other ways for you to honor Rickon's memory."

 I felt a wave of frustration but knew better than to argue further. Grandfather's word was law, and I would have to find another way to go with the 1500 men army.

"Father, he is young, but I am not. Why should I not be gone, while you stay here and rule. My brother is dead and my sword seek vengeance. I am the best sword in the north even if someone believes otherwise." Uncle Bennard said angrily.

 Grandfather's eyes flashed with pain. "Because I cannot bear the loss of you too," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

 "I cannot see another of my sons die while I live. I will not suffer through it. I am the Warden of the North. It is my duty to protect it. I will scour even beyond the Wall, to the lands of always winter if need be, but I will kill every last one of them. This is my final order, and you both will follow it."  My grandfather snapped with fury.

 My uncle looked cowed for a moment, but he stood angrily.

 "If it so Lord Stark, then I will follow your orders as a loyal son should."  He bowed and left.

 Seeing the storm in my grandfather's eyes, I left as well, swallowing my frustration without further argument.

I stood with Cregan in the Godswood, alongside my grandfather.

 "Grandfather, why must you go as well? Please, don't go," Cregan whimpered, sadness evident on his face.

 "I must do this, Cregan. You are the heir now, and when you are Lord of Winterfell, you will understand. Our lives are not the most important thing here. I will come back, Cregan, after avenging your father. Daemon will teach you the secrets of House Stark and train you in his abilities. Uncle Bennard will guide you on how to be a Lord Stark and manage Winterfell and the North."

 Cregan nodded, trying not to cry, though his understanding was tinged with sorrow.

 I looked at him, feeling pity for the loss he suffered at such a young age. The complete lack of sadness in myself made me panic—I wasn't a psychopath or a sociopath in my old life. I had felt sadness at the passing of my relatives, but now there was nothing. Only bitterness and an empty feeling as my plans were ruined. I shook my head, trying to clear these thoughts.

 "Daemon," my grandfather said, looking at me. "You know what to teach him, how to train his magical abilities. There's no need to awaken his greenseer abilities since we already have one. Be there for him."

"Of course, Grandfather. Be careful and stay safe," I said as he hugged me.

Near Moles Town

Weeks later

Benjen Stark

Ever since his son was killed in an ambush by wildlings, he had been filled with anger. Anger was something he could control, letting it simmer in the background until he could unleash it upon the murderers. But the sadness—that was something else entirely. Outliving two of his children had left a gaping wound in his heart. Only the duties of leading this army allowed him to momentarily forget the pain. That was why he didn't want either Bennard or Daemon with him. He couldn't bear it if anything happened to them.

 As they set up camp for the night, he oversaw the preparations, watching as the soldiers followed orders from the overseers. He had been proud of his son and the 200 soldiers who fought alongside him. Their families had been rewarded generously, for even when ambushed by 1,000 wildlings in the dead of night, they had killed 500 of them. He would find out how the Night's Watch had failed so catastrophically with the information, and he would make sure they suffered for it along with the wildlings who killed his heir. His 1,500-man army had been joined by 500 soldiers each from the Umbers and Karstarks, along with 250 Mormonts. The lords themselves led the armies, eager for revenge against the wildlings and fighting directly under him. He had already sent a letter informing The King of his heir's death and mustering small force to deal with the Wildlings.

 His thoughts were interrupted by a scuffle behind him, and he turned to see Lady Mormont dragging her eldest daughter, Lyra Mormont. At first, he thought it was none of his concern, until he noticed that her right hand was gripping the arm of his grandson, Daemon Snow, who was supposed to be safely at Winterfell. Daemon looked outraged by Lady Mormont's treatment, clearly holding back from retaliating, or stopping the dragging altogether. As the realization of Daemon's presence here sank in, he felt a wave of hopelessness and rage building within him.

 "For the sake of the Old Gods, woman, don't drag me like a criminal. You just had to ask, and I would have come with you," Daemon snapped.

 "Silence. Let Lord Stark deal with you and my girl," Lady Mormont snapped back.

 For a moment, Benjen thought Lady Mormont had caught Daemon and her daughter in a compromising position, but upon careful observation, he saw no indication of anything inappropriate.

 "Lord Stark," Lady Mormont bowed to him. He nodded in acknowledgment. "I must apologize for my daughter's actions. She helped your grandson infiltrate the army and become a part of it. I don't know the details of how or when, but I caught them and brought them to you. I will, of course, defer the punishment for my daughter to you, as she assisted him in defying your orders."

 Benjen closed his eyes and sighed in exhaustion before donning the mask of Lord Stark. He avoided looking at Daemon, knowing that seeing his grandson's face might weaken his resolve.

 "Aethan!" he shouted for his aide and foster son, who was with him in the army. Aethan, who was directing soldiers as they set up his tent, looked surprised at the angry call but quickly composed himself and walked over.

 "Grandfather, Aethan had nothing to do with me being here. I didn't inform him of my plans because I knew you would have ordered him to notify you if anything like this happened," Daemon said with a hint of smugness.

 Benjen heard Daemon's words and ignored them, focusing on the approaching Aethan. When Aethan saw Daemon, he looked genuinely surprised, confirming Daemon's truthfulness.

 Aethan, seeing Benjen's furious expression and the guilty look on Daemon's face, immediately bowed. "Lord Stark, you must believe me, I had no part in whatever Daemon has done now."

 Benjen, despite his anger, nearly laughed as memories of similar situations at Winterfell flashed through his mind. He sighed wistfully, the fleeting happiness abruptly ending as his thoughts lingered on his son's laughter during those better times.

 He finally turned to look at Daemon. His grandson's hair was hidden by a helmet, and he was dressed as usual, without any armor. He was dirty, the only sign of his harsh journey. Though Benjen and his soldiers were weary and tired, Daemon seemed as energetic as ever, his eyes filled with determination and a cold indifference that hid any other emotions or worry about being sent back to Winterfell.

 And Benjen understood....

He realized that if he didn't allow Daemon to be part of this army, he would lose him entirely. Whatever love Daemon had for him would be forgotten, and Daemon would do what he wanted anyway. He understood that of all his orders till now was followed only because they aligned with Daemon's goals. From the time Daemon was four and the R'hllor incident, He always knew he couldn't tame Daemon and mold him to an obedient son in the usual fashion of nobility, but he thought he would have enough time till he come of age at 16 until he has to worry about such disobedience.

 "Lord Stark," the voice of Lord Umber shook him from his thoughts. Benjen noticed that his angry shouting had attracted the attention of both lords and many soldiers. The Umber and Karstark men seemed to enjoy the break from the monotony of marching, but he could see that the Stark men were happier. The Stark household guards seemed energized, as if their worry about the coming battles had vanished just by Daemon's presence. Benjen understood—they were relieved to have the God-blessed boy with them, someone who could heal any injuries, and they would be furious if he sent Daemon back.

 "Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, there is nothing to worry about. Go and settle your men. The rest of you, return to your duties," Lord Stark ordered.

 As the others dispersed, Benjen turned to Lady Mormont. "Lady Mormont, take your daughter with you. I will decide on any punishment after speaking with my errant grandson."

 Benjen turned to Daemon and placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him to his newly erected tent. Aethan followed them inside, while the guards moved far enough away to avoid overhearing anything.

 "Daemon, when and how did you arrive here? Did you actually steal a horse from Winterfell to reach us? Where is Brandon, your sworn sword? Is he here?" Benjen asked.

 "I arrived after you left Last Hearth, grandfather. I am no thief and have no need for a horse. I ran here ofcourse.  Why waste a perfect opportunity to train my sprinting speed and stamina. It took me seven days of running to catch up to you, and I asked Lyra for help to blend in and a small place in her tent for sleeping as I am quite fed up with sleeping in the open while my Eagles guard me. I left

Brandon in Winterfell and I ordered Brandon to guard Cregan as he would guard me," Daemon replied.

 "Impressive," Benjen said, genuinely surprised. "Your stamina and speed are quite extraordinary and it is very good that you didn't steal a horse from my stables."

Daemon shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I had time. I could have been faster if needed, but I was carrying these added weights." He revealed weighted metal guards on his hands, legs, upper body and a metal neck guard by moving his baggy clothes aside. They looked like vambraces and greaves, but Benjen knew no sane warrior would wear such thick and heavy protection if they wanted to move quickly.

 Benjen was astonished at the sight. He had never been able to make Daemon stop wearing added weights in his daily life. It was incredible to see Daemon even swimming with them.

 "I see that you won't follow my command to return, so you will be allowed to join as my page, but only if you lose the weights for the rest of the time. A battlefield is no place for training, and you should be free of burdens. Your punishment starts now: you will be on latrine duty every day we camp, and you will sleep with the lower-ranked Stark soldiers in the open, with no amenities of the lords available to you. And you can start now by cleaning this," Benjen finished, untying his sword from his back and throwing Ice at Daemon's face with surprising speed.

 Daemon tried to protest the punishment order immediately and only his almost inhuman reflexes allowed him to catch Ice before it broke his nose.

Benjen's face was still a mask of cold rage while Dameon grumbled as he started to unsheathe Ice to clean it by cloth.

 Benjen watched as he heard the whispers by Daemon all the while Aethan laughed from the side who started smirking when the punishement started.

 "Ic… Valyrian steel… stupid… making me… old…" Daemon mumbled, putting the sword down on the ground to fetch cleaning materials from a corner of the tent.

 Suddenly, Benjen moved quickly, grabbed the sword, and slashed vertically across Daemon's back. Daemon yelled in surprise, rolled forward, and landed on his back, staring at his attacker. Benjen made another swift move and slashed again, the tip of Ice slicing through the vambraces on Daemon's arms. Though Daemon moved back faster than expected, the length of Ice still made contact possible as per his wish.

 "What the fuck?" Daemon yelled, somersaulting backward with a hand stand and splitting his legs  making it parallel to the ground to avoid Benjen's next slash aimed at his greaves.

 Benjen stopped knowing that he will not make contact again as Daemon has overcome the surprise nature of his attack and adjusted to length advantage of Ice.

 Daemon sat back and panted.

Daemon sat back, panting. "What the hell, grandfather? Why are you trying to kill me?" Daemon snapped.

 "Kill you? Never," Benjen replied with smug satisfaction. "You were moving too slow in following my first order to leave the weights behind, so I thought I'd help you remove them." He pointed the sword tip toward the broken pieces of metal scattered around the tent as Daemon had trying dodge from his attacks.

 Benjen saw Daemon realizing as he gaped at the broken metal and touched his back looking for any wounds and finding none.  He looked at his hand and he saw a small scratch and blood leaking but it was already half healed. 

 Benjen laughed heartily seeing the usually over-confident grandson opening and closing his mouth several times as he tried to find words.

 "You just had to say it!  And I would have dropped it immediately. For the Old God's sake, you could have killed me! It was Valyrian steel—you could have wounded me deeply!" Daemon yelled in outrage.

 "Oh, shut it, Daemon. If I had harmed you, there's nothing to worry about—you always say you'll heal by tomorrow morning. You know Ice is an extension of my hand, and any worthy warrior wielding Valyrian steel, who know their secrets, has that advantage if they really know how to use it, which I have taught you. Ice is not any ordinary sword, it is an extension of my hand and It will only cut where I want." Benjen said, still grinning like a madman.

 "I have nothing to say," Daemon muttered. He quickly unlocked the greaves and threw them into the corner of the tent, not wanting his mad grandfather to dismember his legs.

 Benjen only laughed at that. "the piece looking similar to The Neck Guard too." He said.

Benjen saw Daemon tensing.

 "I will not do that, Grandfather. This is not for training, this is actually a neck guard."

Benjen was really surprised hearing that and looked puzzled.

 "A Complete Beheading is not something I could heal from Grandfather. I am not a fool who doesn't protect his vulnerability. Any sword except Valyrian Steel will be stopped by this and even if somehow pierce it and hit my flesh, it will only be a wound I could heal from."  Daemon said.

 "I understand," Benjen said, "Now, get to cleaning."

 Benjen started laughing again as he left the tent, leaving Daemon to clean the sword.

 "Curse him," Daemon whispered. He sighed in disappointment, realizing he would have to follow the punishments for now. Though he had planned to delegate or bribe the first Stark man he saw to do his latrine duty for him, Daemon decided not to risk seeing what madness his grandfather would attempt if he actually didn't do it.

 "Well, Daemon, I'd say that's one way to make sure you follow orders." Aethan said with a smug grin, "and how was the road?"

Author's Note: Well, it was heavily implied that Rickon will die. Here its earlier than canon and even escape from 1000 men ambush is not that easy.

And yes, you read it right, Valyrian Steel is more than rust resistant and something that will go through almost anything. If you know how to use its estoric aspects and if you are a warrior of moderate skill, you become good.

Good becomes great

Great becomes prodigy

Prodigy becomes legendary

Legendary becomes once in a lifetime.

So, the numbers are;

Stark:1500

Karstark:500

Umber:500

Mormont:250

 Next:  Chapter 16 : 'Under the walls of Nightfort' :  first full scale battle I have ever written.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Under the walls of Nightfort.

The Wall

Daemon Snow

 As I approached the Wall, despite trying to be nonchalant, a sense of awe gripped me, taking my breath away. I had seen it before through the eyes of my birds and while my mind drifting beyond the bounds of my  body as I tapped into the powers of the greenseer. Those visions had given me glimpses of the Wall—its immense height, its unyielding presence stretching across the northern horizon, a barrier between the known world and the savage wilds beyond. But nothing, not even the experience of seeing the wall in a TV screen, or even the bird's eye view from warging, could have prepared me for the sheer awe at the enormity of the wall I could feel as I gazed up and saw the wall piercing the sky from the courtyard of Castle Black.

The Wall was a wonder of this world, a testament to the might and paranoia of The Builder regarding the one Other who could have survived at that time. Rising over seven hundred feet into the sky, its sheer scale was overwhelming. My eyes traced the line of the Wall, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see, vanishing into the misty distance. The surface, smooth from a distance, was rough and jagged up close, a mass of ice that seemed to drink in the light of the sun and reflect it back with a cold, blue radiance.  As we entered the Courtyard, I actually felt cold for the first time in this life.  My own adaptations and Stark blood had given me sufficient Cold resistance that I could always wear the lowest amount of woollen clothes. I never felt the bone chilling cold as described in the books but as I stood under the Wall I could feel the chill slowly crawling through my body and taking hold of my bones.

Up close, the Wall was more than just an enormous barrier. It was ancient, built by hands long dead, its history etched into every icy crevice and shadowed niche. I could see where the ice had shifted and settled over the centuries, where repairs had been made with great blocks of frozen water, adding to the Wall's uneven texture. Each section told a story, whispered tales of battles fought, wildlings repelled, and men who had stood watch here for lifetimes beyond counting. It was a living thing, this Wall—ancient and enduring, a force of nature as much as a creation of man. I knew there was no way the Wall could have stood for eight thousand years without magic. Grandfather had taught me that it was the Stark in Winterfell who controlled the Wall's magical defence. As long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, the Wall would stand.

Even now, with my novice magic sensing, I could feel a strong bond between the Lord Commander and the Wall, as well as between Lord Stark and the Wall. Each brother of the Night's Watch had a connection to it; their oaths powered the magic holding the physical Wall, while the magical defence  was controlled by the Stark in Winterfell. Even with my diluted Stark blood, I could feel a small connection to this monstrosity. I had no way to compare the Wall's current power to the ancient times, as I couldn't use magic sensing in my visions. I wondered if the custom of sacrifices under the Weirwood should be restarted, knowing that even those had been used to power the Wall.

My eyes wandered to Castle Black, nestled at the base of the Wall The castle was a stark contrast to the Wall itself. Where the Wall was grand and awe-inspiring, Castle Black was utilitarian, built for function rather than beauty. Its wooden palisades and stone towers were weathered by the relentless northern climate, but they still stood strong, a testament to the resilience of the Night's Watch. The castle was a sprawling, mismatched collection of buildings, each one telling a story of necessity and survival. The armory, the smithy, the stables—each had its place.

I sighed in relief as I saw guest rights being exchanged and we entered Castle Black. I was finally sure I could skive off from the punishment, as Grandfather would be busy with meetings and planning. I had been using my birds to find the remaining wildlings as we marched to Castle Black. The Gift was acres of forested land, neglected and overgrown, perfect for wildlings who knew how to hide. I suspected they had their wargs, for no matter what I did, I couldn't locate the remaining bands of them—only scattered individuals, and no matter what, we couldn't hunt them down one by one. The surprising snow and storms also made it harder for my birds to fly and observe. The result was just scattered groups of men here and there. I had already reported this to Grandfather, and he grew weary of the upcoming campaign.

Meeting

I was tasked by my grandfather to observe and learn as he held the meeting between Lord Commander Ryswell, Lords Umber, Karstark, and Lady Mormont, a maester and other senior rangers. Grandfather's fury simmered beneath the surface as he looked upon the Ranger who led the nights watchmen at Queenscrown, a man I had mentally dubbed Ser Noseless, for he had lost his nose in the same wildling attack.

"I will have the truth, First Ranger," Grandfather demanded, his voice cold and low, yet it cut through the room like a blade. "How did you and only five of your men manage to escape a thousand wildlings while my son perished?"

Ser Noseless straightened, his face as pale as the snow outside. "Lord Stark," he began, "it was Rickon Stark's bravery and skill that allowed us to escape. He alone held back twenty men while I and my five managed to flee on horseback, so we could inform you and Castle Black about the new King-Beyond-the-Wall. The Crowkiller led the attack, shouting at the top of his lungs about this new king and his seven thousand warriors."

I studied Ser Noseless, picturing my uncle standing his ground, fighting valiantly to the end. He had always been a man of honor, a fool who believed in such things. It seemed Grandfather shared that sentiment. I wanted to question how they hadn't known there were a thousand wildlings south of the Wall, but understanding the vastness of the Gift and the New Gift, it wasn't so hard to believe. The wildlings needed only patience and determination to accumulate numbers on this side. If they had wargs, like in the canon timeline, it would be all the easier.

"I see," Grandfather replied, his tone sharp. "The wildlings grow bolder, declaring themselves kings when they don't even have half the tribes united under them. They will regret it. How many are still in the Gift, Lord Commander Ryswell?"

"There are at least five hundred from the group that fought Rickon Stark near Queenscrown." Ryswell answered. "We've received reports of another band near Nightfort itself, who somehow climbed the wall there even with all the patrolling near the Nightfort, numbering about five hundred as well. I was going to command my lead Ranger to take our one thousand men and hunt them down when your raven arrived, informing us your army was at Last Hearth. I will follow your lead, Lord Stark."

The rangers in the room, who seemed ready to protest, fell silent under the harsh glares of the Northmen. It was then that I noticed something peculiar—the three rangers present, including Ser Noseless, were clearly men from the South. Their appearance, their mannerisms—they were not like the typical Northmen. Except for Ser Noseless who was young their hair was grayed, their faces old, lacking the wildness and gruffness of the men of the North. I wondered when they had arrived at this hellish place and why.

Grandfather, ever the calculating lord, raised his hand to silence the room. "Our information was once wrong, and it would be foolish to base our plans on it again and split our forces. The enemy is in our land, and they dared to harm a Stark. I will have my share of blood to quench my thirst for vengeance, and it starts with the army near the Nightfort. I will hunt down every single one of them. The wildlings who took part in the slaughter of my men will fear the day my army reaches them."

Lord Commander Ryswell, looking chastened by the rebuke, lifted his head and said, "I will, of course, support you, Lord Stark. The Ranger who was saved by Rickon will accompany you with a thousand of our men to join your hunt. Let him repay the sacrifice of Rickon and brave Northmen, by hunting down the killers or perishing while doing it."

Grandfather seemed ready to reject the offer, but after a moment's thought, he nodded. "Aye, they may join, as it is your duty to hunt down wildlings."

We were riding down the Wall toward the Nightfort when my birds finally reached the wildling band there. Camps spread out before me, and I immediately realized that the estimate of 500 was far too low. By my count, there were at least 2,000 wildlings gathered there.

It was the third day since we had left the Wall when my birds discovered this truth. Realizing the gravity of the situation, I hurried to inform Grandfather, but he was constantly surrounded by other lords and rangers. Only that night, when we made camp, did I get the chance to speak with him alone.

Grandfather was furious at the intelligence failure.

"Daemon, are you sure of the number?" he asked, his voice taut with restrained anger.

"I am, Grandfather," I replied, meeting his gaze. "All my warged birds are there, and I counted the wildlings. There are at least 2,000 men and women, all warriors, though not well-equipped. They're armed with rusted swords, maces, and pilfered weapons."

Grandfather's expression darkened. "I will inform the rest of the commanders tomorrow that we must prepare to battle 2,000 men, not 500."

"Is that wise, Grandfather?" I asked, hesitation in my voice. "The Night's Watch has failed twice now. Perhaps there's a betrayer among them. Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, but a third time will be enemy action. Should we trust them again? Shall I keep an eye on the Night's Watchmen?"

For a moment, Grandfather looked horrified at the thought of such betrayal within the Watch. He was silent as he thought through and planned how to tackle this new possible threat.

"Even if that's true, Daemon, there are thousand Nights watch men in our army. Who would you keep your eyes on? The eyes you turn away from our known enemy in the open may allow them to flank our position through the forest. Informing my lords and the rangers is not a problem now that we know the wildlings' true numbers before the battle. You said that the wildlings aren't hiding the bulk of their army and we will see the truth of the matter anyway, when we reach there tomorrow evening. By the time of battle we will plan for the increased numbers, so there's no purpose in misleading us like this from the start. It is only a failure of the people to do their jobs properly and not maliciously done so."

"It's not that they're not hiding, Grandfather; there's simply no place to hide there," I replied, understanding his reasoning. "Anyway, I will follow your lead."

Next day night.

The camp was set, and one or two cups of wine along with extra meat were served, as for many, this would be their last meal. Surprisingly, the wine came from the Night's Watch stock. I kept one eye on the wildlings through my warged birds, as Grandfather had tasked me with monitoring any movement through the forest that might suggest an attempt to flank us during tomorrow's battle. To my surprise, there was no such movement.

Both armies were positioned on opposite sides of a vast field, and we could see the lights of their torches flickering in the distance. Both leaders knew there would be no parley; tomorrow, there would be battle. 500 of the rangers, familiar with the land, were used as scouts since we left Castle Black, patrolling our flanks for any ambush from the 500 men reported near Queenscrown or any other wildlings. The Northmen guarded the camp on three sides, with the Wall protecting the fourth.

600 men were rotated every hour to stand guard facing the wildlings fearing sudden attack from them ever since we arrived here in the evening before sunset.

The Northmen and rangers were in high spirits, confident in their numbers against the poorly armed savages. Mocking jeers echoed through the camp as they questioned which fool had planned the wildlings' defence. I scanned the camps and forest near the wildlings through my warged animals, searching for any hidden animals like bears, mammoth or shadocats or even giants that could turn the tide, but found none. It puzzled me. Was it simply their lack of knowledge in counting that kept the wildlings from scattering into the Gift as they usually did when they know we were coming? Perhaps they didn't realize just how outnumbered they were.

It was halfway to the hour of the bat after dinner and wine when Ser Noseless, Lords Karstark, Umber, my grandfather, Lady Mormont, and I were sitting around the fire with Aethan and Lyra, sharing war stories. That's when a horn sounded from the wildlings' side along with rapid movements and noise by jeering and taunts.

I had lost concentration on my birds while listening and eating.

"Daemon," Grandfather called, as they all stood up, preparing to face whatever was coming.

I slipped into my birds and saw the wildlings ready with their substandard weapons, shaking with excitement at the prospect of impending violence.

I opened my eyes to find everyone looking at me.

"Grandfather, the wildlings are ready to attack us. They're shaking with excitement, and they'll attack us tonight. It seems they're waiting for something."

Grandfather frowned, hearing that. "They have no advantage in attacking at night."

"Let them attack; we are ready," Lord Umber yelled with jubilation. "But how do you know?"

"He's a bloody warg!" Ser Noseless shouted in panic. "A sorcerer, a demon!" he continued, his voice rising in fear.

I scoffed at his outburst.

"Shut your trap, you southern incompetent cunt," Lord Umber roared, infuriated by the insult directed at a Stark by a coward who had abandoned Heir Stark.

"Lords, prepare your men for battle," Grandfather ordered. "The wildlings think we'll be easy pickings after our march, but they'll be slaughtered regardless. Prepare!"

"Stark! Stark! Stark!" Umber yelled and the captains who had arrived to check for orders shouted as they left to make ready. Just then, another yelling and sounds of battle were echoed from the forest opposite the Wall.

I, along with Aethan, Grandfather, and Ser Noseless, looked toward the sound as wildlings started charging out of the forest, engaging with the inner guards made by northmen. Fortunately, we were at the centre of the camp, far from the forest, with many soldiers between us and the enemy.

The surprise attack by the wildlings was a success as almost of half of the guards were distracted by the sounds of preparation from the wildling camp.

A group of 20 Night's Watch men came running toward us, calling for the Ranger Ser Noseless, who was their leader for this venture. I scoffed at their panic; these incompetent fools couldn't act without their leader's command, even with the enemy at the doorstep.

All the while, Lord Stark was commanding orders, directing soldiers to where they were most needed. The 2,000 wildlings began their charge toward our front lines, and men rushed to reinforce the shield wall, turning it into a deathbed for any of the poorly armed wildlings who reached there, after charging towards them haphazardly in the moonlight. The gap between the camps allowed some preparation, but there was no time for archers to get there and be ready to loose arrows to the approaching army.

Cries of pain and the sharp scent of blood began to permeate the camp as the battle intensified. After the surprise was over, for every one of our men that fell, two wildlings were cut down on the sides not facing the main wildling army. Somehow, the wildlings had outmanoeuvred the patrolling Night's Watchmen, reaching the camp's borders en masse. This unexpected surge allowed them to overpower the fewer guards stationed there before being stalled by the swift arrival of reinforcements.

My concentration was focused on the battle and my birds view of it when suddenly, my hand moved instinctively to my back, stopping a knife aimed at my spine. My palm resisted the surprisingly sharp edge at first, but as I struggled to prevent the blade from piercing my spine, blood began to flow from my hand ,dripping down the knife to the earth as I had to increase my own strength to stop the push from reaching my spine.  Due to my hand having resistance to the edge of blade from all my cutting of palms to give my blood it took continued use of force for my palm to be pierced by the sharp edge.  I turned towards him all the while holding the knife while Ser Noseless struggled to push the knife in.

"What are you looking at, you fuckers?" Ser Noseless screamed at his 20 subordinates, who were staring in shock at him as he tried to stab me from behind. "Kill this bastard first! He's a fucking warg who alerted the Northmen to the wildlings' preparation and whatever else he may have seen!"

"Ah!!!!"  Suddenly Ser Noseless yelled in pain. I saw his eyes widening in surprise and raising his hand looking at the severed edge near the elbow where the Valyrian Steel has cut cleanly through even the bone all the while I was sprayed by the blood from the elbow as I had turned towards him.

I had felt my own grandfather arriving from sidelines with sword raised to defend me. Even with my enhanced perception I couldn't see Ice moving and severing Ser Noseless's hand at the elbow.

I pried the knife from the dismembered hand and tossed the hand away, rage building within me at the betrayal. I looked at Ser Noseless who was rolling around his back all the while pressing a cloth to the elbow while yelling in pain. I realized that this motherfucker had likely betrayed my uncle too. It seems Starks are most likely to die by betrayal.

Before our guards or the lords could intervene, 10 of Noseless's men raised hidden crossbows and fired at me. Before I could dodge, I felt a sudden movement and push from my side, and I fell sideways as the sound of arrows hitting flesh filled the air.

Horror engulfed me as I prayed to the Old Gods that it wasn't Grandfather, but when I turned to look, my worst fears were confirmed.

"Nooooooo!" I yelled as I saw my grandfather falling backward, seven arrows embedded in various parts of his body. One had even nicked his neck, severing an artery and causing blood to pour out.

My hand moved on its own as the knife of Ser Noseless embedded itself to hilt inside the left eye of the leading Crossbowmen making others freeze for moments in shock of swift retribution.

Before the other 9 men could reload, the guards and lords fell upon them, swiftly cutting them down.

I immediately kneeled beside my grandfather, shaking him gently. His eyes were wide with shock, and I could see he wouldn't survive under normal circumstances. Looking around, I saw Lords Umber, Karstark, Lady Mormont, and Aethan standing a meter away, giving me a moment alone with him in his final moments.

I placed my bleeding hand over my grandfather's mouth, but only a few drops of blood fell inside as the wound in my hand had already clotted. Desperate, I reached for Ice, intending to make a larger cut. I picked it up, gripping the edge of the blade, and prepared to slice my palm when strong hands suddenly grasped both the sword and my right hand.

"No..." Grandfather coughed, his voice weak but firm. "No, Daemon," he repeated, coughing again and spitting blood. His voice was barely a whisper, heard only by me. "If you do that now, everyone will know your abilities, and it won't save me. Daemon... one of the arrows has pierced my lung. Even your blood can't heal me this time. Save your strength for the battle."

"No, you won't die today. We have too many plans. I can do this," I snapped, overpowering his hold.

"Aethan!" my grandfather called out with sudden strength. "Hold Daemon. Stop him."

Aethan moved quickly, gripping my arms with surprising strength. "As you command, Lord Stark," he said.

I snarled, ready to break his hands if necessary, when a sharp slap struck my face.

"I said no, Daemon," Grandfather insisted, the exertion making him cough blood again. His bloody hand cupped my cheek, forcing me to bow so he could see my face. His blood smeared on my skin, but the indifference I had developed toward blood, from sharing it, kept me from feeling nauseous.

"Daemon," he continued, "my grandson... no, my son. I'm sorry you have to see this, to go through this. I've always loved you as if you were my own, and you almost made me forget I lost my dear daughter. You are the best of her, and I'm glad I could protect you, unlike my son and daughter. Don't pretend you don't care for others. Do you really want to spend centuries alone, becoming a loveless monster?"

I was stunned by his deathbed confession, numb as my plans crumbled before my eyes. The easy life I had envisioned till atleast 120 AC was over. A man who treated me as his own son was dying, and even with my abilities, I couldn't save him. I would have survived such huge wounds, but my grandfather couldn't.

He coughed again, blood splattering from his lips.

"Dameon, Here, give it only to Cregan and teach him about the Stark duties, protect him Daemon." Father whimpered while taking my hand putting it on the edge of Ice. My hand brushed against the sharpness of the blade, and blood flowed from both our wounds onto the steel.

I grasped the sword and nodded in acceptance.

"Promise me, Daemon... promise me," he urged, coughing once more.

"I promise, Grandfather... no, Father," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

A smile of true peace crossed his face, one I had never seen before. "I love you, Dae..." His voice faltered, and his hand slipped from mine, falling lifelessly to the ground.

For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, reality sank in....

"NOOOOO…" I yelled again as I almost cracked my throat by the volume and Ice fell on the ground as my strength left me making me sit on my ass in the snow.

Aethan and the other lords shouted something, but their words were meaningless to me. The sounds of battle echoed around us, yet all of it felt distant, irrelevant. I knew I would outlive them all, destined to be alone for centuries, and now I had lost one of the pillars I had relied on so heavily in this life. A man who loved me as a son, and yet, all I could think about was the loss of his protection and how my plans were unravelling, not the loss of the man himself. I cursed myself in that moment for my selfishness, even as I knew it was necessary. Rage enveloped me again, now directed inward—for my failure to save him and for the traitors who caused this.

"AHHH!" I screamed, slamming my right hand into the ground in pure fury. Ice lay beside me, faintly glowing. I struck the ground again, and after the third hit, I froze as something caught my eye. There, on the Valyrian steel, was a single, clear drop of water. The fires around us reflected through it, casting rainbow colors. I knew it shouldn't be there. It was then I realized that my eyes were watering. Swiping a hand across my face, I found teardrops on my palm.

 "Tears?" I murmured in absolute shock.

For a moment, my rage vanished, replaced by bewilderment. It returned swiftly, more intense than before.

"Why am I so affected by him calling me son?" I yelled to the heavens. 'Why am I feeling this? Why am I feeling so much rage at his death when I have the next Lord Stark in my pockets?' The question echoed in the silence of my mind.

"I'm not supposed to care. I accepted the fact that my life as a caring family man was over long ago, and yet I care. What does this mean? Why am I feeling like this? I know they will die someday, and I will outlive them all. I accepted that, but why now? Why am I crying, but still unable to feel sorrow when I see my grandfather—no, my father—lying dead? What is happening to me?" My voice snarled against the cacophony of the battle and cries.

The answer came from one of the few people I realized I actually cared for, not just for their talent or position.

"Even with all the words you like to say, Daemon, he loved you, and you loved him. You're crying because you loved him enough that your control over your emotions has shattered. The indifferent mask you always had for others from the first moment I saw you had finally shattered. You do love others, like all humans in this cursed world, even though you pretend not to. Even the greatest monsters love something in this world. He knew that from the beginning and understood it, Daemon," Aethan said softly from my side.

I accepted that I loved people in this life too, and I cursed myself that he had to die for me to realize that. I sat there on the bloodied ground and cried my heart out, not caring for anything else.

Omniscient POV

Aethan Reed knew Daemon was devastated, but feelings had to be set aside. He watched as Daemon sat beside Lord Stark's body, still crying. His face cycled from sorrow to hateful rage, a stark contrast that mirrored the twisted faces of the weirwood trees. The tears on Daemon's blood-streaked face mixed with the crimson, eerily resembling the red sap of the ancient trees.

Lord Umber, consumed by fury, had just killed another Night's Watchman who attacked them. The soldiers who had reached their position fought off the attackers, but the northern men were now fighting on both sides, the initial surprise assault by the rangers having claimed the lives of many of their own. Umber, seething, moved towards Daemon, intending to pull him away, but Aethan stopped him with a firm hand.

"No, Lord Umber. He might attack you, not recognizing friend from foe in his state."

"Reed, you have to get Snow out of here. The situation is spiralling out of control. The damned rangers have betrayed us. We're outnumbered, surrounded inside and out. Lord Stark is dead, and I will not see another one of Stark bloodline die in front of me. You must retreat now with him, and I'll find a way to fight our way out."

Aethan nodded in acceptance but before he could anything more, the battlefield fell into a sudden, eerie silence as a scream, primal and filled with unimaginable anguish, pierced through the cacophony of battle. Aethan Reed's heart skipped a beat, and he froze in place, his body betraying him as the terror clawed at his insides. Even the bloodthirsty Umber, who moments ago was a whirlwind of rage and steel, stood paralyzed, eyes wide with confusion and fear. It wasn't just them—every soldier, every Night's Watchman, and every wildling within a 500-meter radius felt it, their instincts screaming at them to flee, which their bodies refused to obey.

The air around them seemed to thicken, becoming suffocating, and even in the biting cold of the North, sweat began to bead on their foreheads. Breathing became a struggle, each gasp of air feeling like a desperate fight for survival. Aethan's mind raced, struggling to comprehend the source of the terror that had gripped them all. He knew that voice, that presence—it was Daemon. But this wasn't the Daemon he knew. The calm, composed young man he considered a brother was gone, replaced by something far more terrifying.

He saw Lord Umber's eyes widen in confusion as he wrestled with his instinct to move and kill the frozen Night's Watchmen. Aethan tried to shield himself with his own presence. As a warg, Aethan was aware that all wargs emitted an aura that calmed animals; it was something; a presence, that every warg uses instinctually, especially around horses. One of the first lessons he learned as a warg was never to enter the mind of a human—it could drive you mad. Since the aura could never influence people as even the most powerful warg, had an aura too weak to do so, Aethan wondered whether Daemon had become the greatest warg since the Age of Heroes. Any normal man will have trouble increasing his warging and presence beyond a limit, making sure humans never felt this, yet here was Daemon, doing the impossible by freezing hundreds of people at once.

"I have no limits, Aethan. I can increase any ability as long as I work hard enough."

That boast, which Aethan had once dismissed as mere bravado, now rang in his mind. Aethan wondered just how much time Dameon had spend training, as even he lost count how many animals or hours Dameon spent using his greenseer abilities to watch various events through weirwood.

To exert such fear in his surroundings, Daemon's hatred and rage must have flooded his presence, transforming it into a monstrous killing intent. The sheer scale of it, left Aethan in awe of his brother-in-all-but-blood's magical prowess.

It was this awe that allowed Aethan to break free from the paralyzing hold. He slapped Lord Umber to snap him out of it, and together they turned to see Daemon holding Ice in one hand, clutching an arrow in the other—a stray shaft that might have struck Lord Stark's body. With a roar, Daemon hurled the arrow back at its origin, and Aethan followed its path as it embedded itself in the neck of a wildling archer who had likely aimed at Daemon's half silver hair.

Umber, the other Northmen—and even the nearby enemies—understood immediately that Daemon was the source of their fear. Aethan saw tears streaming down Daemon's face, but there was no sorrow, only murderous rage. Daemon blinked and he wiped his eyes with the back of the hand, looking at the tears in his hands in surprise for a moment.

And the rage becomes an inferno and Daemon moved with a roar of anger.

And with that rage, the fires around the camp flared. The small flames grew into towering bonfires, their heat and light so intense that night turned to day. As Daemon tightened his grip on Ice and approached the first Night's Watchman in his path, Ice ignited with blood-red fire, turning the camp as hot as the Dornish deserts in a heartbeat before shifting to a cold blue fire. The blue flame flickered like ordinary fire, but it radiated no heat—it consumed it. An unnatural chill spread through the camp, as though winter itself had descended down on them, making everyone's breath visible in the air. The sudden drop in temperature, even as the flames continued to burn with the height of a giant, caused the fighting to cease in the camp. The once unbearable heat gave way to a spine-chilling cold that triggered everyone's fear.

Aethan, who had witnessed ancient battlegrounds of the epic wars of the Age of Heroes in his visions, withstood the immense pressure, perhaps because of his bond with Daemon. He realized that Daemon's killing intent had overflowed, and the Ice had amplified it with powers accessible only to those of Stark blood, making everyone in the entire camp to freeze in terror.

The frozen wildlings, who had seen enraged giants, scanned with their eyes for a giant in their midst. The Northmen, who had witnessed dragons, looked to the sky in terror, expecting death to descend upon them.

But there was neither a giant, nor a dragon. There was only Daemon Snow.

The greatsword, as tall as the person wielding it, moved so swiftly it was invisible to the naked eye. Only the aftermath of its deadly arc was visible—a Night's Watchman's head flying through the air before crashing into the face of a frozen wildling, snapping him out of his terror. The wildling stared in horror at the severed head lying on the ground before him, then let out a panicked scream that shattered the stillness.

"STARK!" Kill the traitors! Umber's roar echoed across the battlefield, powerful enough to nearly shake the nearby Wall. He charged after Daemon, slaying a treacherous Night's Watchman who stood paralysed in his way.

"STARK! STARK! STARK!" The cries spread like wildfire among the northmen, snapping them out of their paralysing fear and stupor. Even those unaware of what had happened at the center of the camp felt the palpable panic of their frozen enemies and immediately launched into the attack to exploit the advantage. Within moments, hundreds of traitors lay dead, struck down by the Northmen who were the first to break free from the paralyzing fear that had gripped their bodies.

Daemon was a silent, relentless force of death as he tore through the camp, cutting down every black-clad man in sight. There was no shouting, no grunts of effort—only the whistling of air as Valyrian steel sliced through flesh, sending limbs and heads flying. Any Crow who saw the blue flames and the cold aura that accompanied them tried to flee, but Daemon moved faster than even a charging knight.

Aethan had always known Daemon was faster and stronger than any ordinary man, but he hadn't realized just how much his powers and constant training had elevated him. The lethality was only increased by the Valyrian steel, which moved like a artists brush he had seen in White Harbour once.

Only difference was Daemon was not painting a picture on canvas; he was painting himself in blood. Killing was his only focus—there was no wasted movements, no words of triumph or condemnation when men tried to defend themselves, just annihilating anyone wearing the Black. He darted among the men, dodging and weaving with surefooted ease, showing the results of hours of parkour in godswood and the trees. Above him, birds circled, and Aethan realized Daemon was using their vision to guide his movements so that no friend was harmed in his rampage.

As Daemon picked up speed, he became a blur to all those who watched him. The only evidence of his passage was the split body parts flying in every direction and the death left in his wake.

Aethan remained still, guarding Lord Stark's body, with two soldiers flanking him as he had ordered. By this time, nearly all the traitors in their midst were dead, and those who weren't were desperately trying to escape into the forest.

Nearing the shield wall that guarded the camp from the 2000 wildlings, Daemon leaped over the column guards, using the shoulder of a Northman in the middle of the ranks as a springboard. His momentum carried him over the entire contingent, landing him atop a wildling who was hacking at the shield wall in search of a gap. Even before the wildling could react, Daemon's greatsword, Ice, flashed, and a head flew over the shield wall. He jumped again, his powerful kick shattering the wildling's shoulder, and landed amidst the enemy, fifty meters from the Stark shield wall.

Before the wildlings could even comprehend the fiery terror and freezing dread in their midst, Daemon tightened his grip on the flaming sword, spun 360 degrees, while extending Ice and holding it parallel to ground. The enhanced strength and reach of Ice cleaved through men as if they were nothing.  A wildling had tried to slash at Dameon's right side, but the attack never reached him. The wildling was already bisected in the spinning attack by the time the mace reached anywhere near Daemon's body.

Daemon cackled as the wildlings around him descended into panic, their fear fuelled by the sight of his inhuman strength and the impossibility of a flaming sword that radiated coldness like the Wall itself. Nearly a dozen men had fallen in a single rotation, the long blade of Ice cleaving through two wildlings at once when they stood close together in the chaotic mob. Even those further away recoiled in terror, retreating several steps from the sword that burned with an unnatural fire, the cold it exuded seeping into their very bones.

Then, the wildlings made the greatest mistake they could have in that situation—they moved away from Daemon, their terror evident as they screamed and scrambled to escape the flaming sword. Their haphazard retreat created large gaps in their already disorganized mob, a vulnerability the Stark shield wall was quick to exploit.

Seeing the wildlings in the center faltering, the Stark soldiers began to press the attack with their spears, taking advantage of the distraction caused by Daemon's fiery onslaught. It was at this moment that Lord Umber arrived, his booming voice cutting through the chaos and taking control of men.

"Stark men, our enemies are dying by the dozens, slain by a boy! He's shown more courage than you lot, leaping into the midst of our foes and creating a red mist of death!" Umber shouted, his voice filled with both awe and determination as he watched blood still spraying from the bodies Daemon had bisected in his deadly spin. He marvelled at how the blood flowed freely, even when the flames should have cauterized the wounds.

Energized by Umber's words, the soldiers let out a rallying cry. "Stark! Stark! Winterfell! Winterfell!" they yelled, their spirits lifted by the sight of the carnage wrought by Daemon.

"Push for two steps, you bastards! Push and then retreat—let the swordsmen attack!" Umber bellowed as he snatched a shield from a nearby soldier, throwing his weight against it to shove the enemy back. The entire Stark front line surged forward, driving the wildlings off balance. As the wildlings stumbled and fell back, the shields pulled away, allowing the swordsmen from back to charge and engage in the melee.

Daemon pressed forward, gripping Ice with his right hand while taking his knife in another. He advanced on a wildling wielding a crude wooden club with a stone tip. The wildling barely began his attack when Ice flashed through the air, slicing through his neck. Daemon followed with a powerful kick to the man's stomach, sending his lifeless body crashing into three more wildlings, who toppled backward, causing further chaos.

From that moment on, Daemon was an unstoppable force, cutting through the panicking wildling line like a knife through butter. His speed was blinding, his movements a blur as he bisected men, severed limbs, and parried any strike aimed from his left by the knife. The occasional blow that glanced off his body was shrugged off, his durability and enhanced healing rendering the wounds non-threatening.

His speed allowed him to plough through the wildlings so much that by the time anyone from side or behind could slash at his back, he was past their reach. The scattered mob nature of wildling army made it possible he could move forward without any problem. His eagles were keeping their entire eyes on him from air and when he was going to be swarmed by some brave fools from the side or back, he just rotated 360 degree in his feet keeping Ice parallel to the ground, making short work of the wildlings trying to flank him. The only reason they were not able to stab him from behind was his own speed and their fear due to his inhuman feats they just witnessed.

The wildlings screamed in terror as they saw an inhuman boy with a grin and white-black hair turned red by the blood spilled by him.  Adding to the blood was the fire sword. Fire has always been a terror for man from the ancient times and when it is used against him, they always try to avoid it.  But there was no refuge for the rapidly retreating wildlings.

Heads, hands, torsos—Daemon's blade cut through them all, scattering body parts and creating a red mist of blood that began to rise around him. The wildlings' will to fight was broken, replaced by a desperate urge to flee. Daemon reached the far side of the mob, his eagles showing him from above the red mist that had formed in his wake in the mob of men, resembling a man cleaved in two.

By then, Umber and the soldiers had reached the halfway point of the battlefield. Umber grinned with an insane gleam in his eyes as he saw the red mist slowly settling to the ground in almost a straight line in the middle of the battlefield. A invisible line made by dead bodies and the still falling red mist by the passing of Daemon.  As it cleared, a figure emerged at the end, standing at the end of a clear path through the wildling lines, holding the Stark sword, Ice. For Umber, it was a scene straight out of the stories from the Age of Heroes, he used to like when he was younger;

Daemon stood there, bathed from head to toe in blood and gore, with entrails draped around his neck like some macabre trophy. His silver half of the hair was now a mixture of red and black, stained by the blood of his enemies.

As Daemon looked up, he saw the Northmen advancing, nearly reaching the halfway mark. He noticed the wildlings fleeing towards the forest on the left side of the field, trying to escape, and he knew the battle was already won.

But Daemon was not finished. He started moving again, cutting down anyone in his path. It was the hour of the eel when the fighting finally ended, with the Northmen victorious and the birth of a  legend.

Aethan watched as Daemon approached Lord Stark's body. As his face came into view, Lord Karstark, the Mormonts, and the soldiers nearby saw a continuous clear track of running tears under the eyes in the red painted face. Blood was still dripping down Daemon's body and he was still crying when he finally reached near the body and collapsed in exhaustion.

Authors note:  Happy Halloween everyone !!

Also yeah, that happened. I feel like I am some Lannister stan like GRRM or a Targaryen stan that killed off starks every chapter.  But sorry, this is Planetos and death is around every corner.    Daemon being an unstoppable force is a one off here for now. he will of course reach there, but the feats of killing hundreds here is because of rage along with hysterical strength and the specially made Valyrian Steel Sword Ice boosting him along with physical advantage of its length and sharpness.  If it was a regular sword, the edge would have given away, along with getting stuck in one of the dead body.

Kudos to anyone who can identify from where i got inspiration for  the scene of Daemon asking why this rage....

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: The Red Death

Daemon Snow

I woke with a gasp, instantly moving to crouch, ready to attack anyone who made a move. It only took two heartbeats before pain flared through me, forcing a groan as I collapsed on my ass to the stone floor. My body was a wreck. As I looked around, I realized I was in a good room, nothing like Castle Black.

I connected with my bonded birds and, through their eyes, I saw Last Hearth from different viewpoints.

I tried to stand, but pain immediately flooded me. My entire body was swollen one big bruise. My memory stirred, bringing the last few moments to the forefront, and sadness enveloped me once again. Still, there was a twisted sense of satisfaction, a pleasure in the slaughter I had wreaked afterward. I glanced down at my hands—they were still stained red. Whoever cleaned me had barely managed to scrape away the blood

Making the pain less with my control, I got up and sat on the bed, grabbing the water pot and drinking it all.

I sighed, thinking over what had happened that night. I wanted to blame myself for incompetence, but I knew deep down it wasn't my fault. There hadn't been any Night's Watch rebellion in the canon timeline, and my birds had been monitoring the Wildling army, helping us prepare. None of us suspected the treachery of the Night's Watch collaborating with the Wildlings. I couldn't even use my greenseer abilities to check on my uncle—I had too little time and no idea of the exact day to search the weirwood network. At the end of the day 1000 men ambush against 200 only had one outcome and there was no chance for betrayal to be the reason for my uncle's death, so I never bothered to see his death.

My eyes still watered, remembering my grandfather's death. The pain was still fresh, gnawing at my insides like a festering wound, and I wondered how I could feel such agony now, when I barely felt anything for my uncle's death earlier in Winterfell. The disparity haunted me, leading me to comb through my memories in search of any inconsistency. Was someone manipulating my mind, bending my emotions to their will? But I found nothing out of the ordinary—only the strange clarity of my mind's version of Winterfell, pieced together by the likeness of Dragonstone. The vision was more vivid than ever, with the distinct outline of the Weirwood tree becoming clearer. A dragon had begun to form at the center, right where the Godswood stood in the real Winterfell.

Whatever happened that night had changed me. My mind had sharpened, expanded, and in that moment, I understood why I hadn't felt sadness before. It was my own doing.

My own ability to control my body and mind. It is through which I reduced the pain earlier, it is a part of my limitless potential wish. I was adamant not being a family man from the moment I was born here and suffering the pain of death of loved ones from my childhood, that the control aspect made it possible to hinder any feelings unconsciously. But the death of my grandfather was too much for it and it broke that control, flooding me with sorrow and rage that I had never allowed myself to feel before. I sighed, the exhaustion seeping into my bones, as my healing overworked to mend the spilt muscles and even hairline fractures in my bones.

The door to my room creaked open, and Aethan Reed stepped inside. His face was etched with sorrow as he spoke softly, "Daemon, I'm sorry for your loss. Lord Stark was a good man and a greater Lord of the North."

I nodded, though my mind was too clouded with fatigue and frustration to fully absorb his words. "What happened after I fainted? And why the hell are we here at Last Hearth instead of Castle Black, killing those traitors?" I asked while grabbing the plate of food from Aethan's hands. It was piled high with enough food to feed three grown men, as Aethan knew how much I needed after using my abilities. Sustenance was key to healing my battered and broken body.

"The wildlings and Night's Watchmen were routed, but almost a thousand of them escaped," Aethan began. "Of our men, only 800 Stark soldiers survived, along with 200 from Mormont, and 100 each from the Umbers and Karstarks. The betrayal of the rangers cost us dearly. After you fainted, the lords argued over who should lead and when to strike the Night's Watch or chase the wildlings. I made them see reason—that marching on Castle Black with so few men and many injured, not knowing where loyalties lay, was foolish. So, we retreated here."

I frowned at the thought of the wildlings still being alive, slipping away under the cover of night. "I see. We need information and confirmation. What happened to Ser Noseless? Is he still breathing?"

Aethan grimaced. "Yes, he's in the dungeons, but no amount of torture has made him talk. He grins, satisfied with himself, and keeps boasting about killing two Starks. One of our men lost control and beat him until he was unconscious. The healer says he's barely alive—he'll last a day at most. I managed to stop Lord Umber from killing him outright after you fainted and even took command of the remaining Stark men, making him our prisoner."

I raised an eyebrow, impressed. Aethan was only a young heir, with none of his own men nearby, yet he had managed to hold sway over the two lords, even the fierce Umber. "How the hell did you manage to get Lord Umber to hold back when he was after blood?"

Aethan smiled faintly. "Well, Daemon, it's only you who ignores my advice. We crannogmen are the bog devils, the ultimate survivors. Our loyalty to Winterfell has never been questioned, and in matters of survival against bigger and better foes, the Reed's words are always heeded. The Stark men follow me because I was fostered at Winterfell and spent years under Lord Stark's roof."

I processed what I heard and could only scoff in reply.

"You never told me why the Reeds are so loyal to Winterfell. The Starks conquered you, married the daughter of your Swamp King for your abilities. I know why the Mormonts and Manderlys are loyal—Mormont was saved from the Ironborn in a wrestling match, and we gave the Manderlys land when they fled the Reach. But the Reeds were conquered like everyone else."

Aethan chuckled, "And you'll never find out. But you can always try your luck through the weirwoods to glimpse the past."

I waved his teasing comment away. "Let's focus on the present. What do we know about the enemy? And why did so many Night's Watchmen turn traitor? My hands are itching to kill more of them," I snarled.

Aethan sighed at my anger and behaviour.

Aethan sighed at my frustration. "I asked around some of the surviving Night's Watchmen. They were surprisingly talkative. I've pieced together a theory. It starts with the man you insulted and discarded as irrelevant—Ser Noseless. He's the eldest son of Ser Lucamore Strong, the Kingsguard who was gelded and sent to the Wall in 73 AC for marrying three women and fathering many children, all labelled bastards by the Queen."

I gaped. "Lucamore the Lusty? The hero of that awful song that made the entire realm laugh? How in the name of the Seven did he manage to turn so many Night's Watchmen against their vows?"

Aethan shook his head, his expression stern. "This is your problem, Daemon. You underestimate people because you believe nothing can truly harm you. But that's dangerous. For all his flaws, Ser Lucamore was a Kingsguard, and his martial skills reflect that."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, "From what I've gathered, resentment against the King and the Night's Watch had been festering for years. The men sent here by royal command already felt bitterness toward their fate, and one of them had been stoking those flames for the last decade. The issue was, they lacked a true leader—someone capable of giving them hope, of uniting them in their desire for escape and rebellion. That's where Lucamore came in. He and his sons were recruited, and with his reputation as a skilled warrior, he quickly usurped leadership. The men were eager to follow a Kingsguard, even a disgraced one."

I narrowed my eyes, processing this unexpected revelation. "And the wildlings?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.

Aethan nodded grimly. "They were already in contact with the rebellious group. Lucamore simply suborned them, offering strength and benefits that they have not seen in decades. As he defeated the leaders of various wildling tribes, more and more fell under his control, especially when he killed any rival who dared to challenge him. This is all the information I've confirmed from the prisoners,"

I was flabbergasted by the information and wondered what happened to Lucamore in canon.

"This is the how, Aethan. Now why?" I asked.

Aethan grimaced, clearly uncomfortable. "Unfortunately, I don't know the full motive with certainty. But I managed to scry on a meeting between two brothers, and from what I overheard, I can guess the motive. It was plain, honest revenge."

"Revenge?" I exclaimed, baffled. "Revenge against who? The North has done nothing to them."

Aethan hesitated before answering. "Against your grandfather." Seeing my confusion, he quickly added, "The King."

I paused, processing the implications and I could guess their plans immediately.

It was a bold and audacious plan, one built on arrogance and the assumption of things happening exactly as they want.

"That was a risky move on their part, but I can see why they'd do it. Returning the Gift to capable hands forced them to act before their chances of success vanished completely. But even then, killing Lord Stark and his heir might not be enough to drag a dragonrider from the South to defend the Wall. Even if they come, they won't venture beyond the Wall with an army unless they have their dragon. All this, just to separate a Targaryen from his dragon and kill them," I said.

"Well, you missed something else, Daemon," Aethan replied. "Ser Lucamore was a Kingsguard, privy to the inner workings of the realm. He knew about your plan to frustrate the king with constant complaints, and he likely concluded that it was an attempt by the North to tarnish the image of the 'good king.' Or maybe he overheard the king himself interpreting it that way. Ser Lucamore knew the North despised the Targaryens, and he intended to exploit that. He also knew Bennard Stark would become regent, and that Bennard would stop at nothing to hunt down the wildlings who had slaughtered his family.

There was already a plan in motion for Lucamore to become the Lord Commander. As the leader of the Night's Watch, Ser Lucamore could stay in the shadows, manipulate events, and become Bennard Stark's greatest ally in his quest for vengeance. From there, he could deepen Bennard's hatred for the Targaryens, perhaps by pointing out that the Targaryens had deliberately weakened the North. He might even suggest luring the king or his sons north under the pretense of fighting the wildlings, only to have them killed when they ventured beyond the Wall. If the North grew angry enough, they could declare independence—and Lucamore knew that anger was already festering."

I was taken aback by his words. "That's foolishness. Northmen betraying their sworn king without just cause?"

Aethan grimaced. "Yes, it is foolishness from our point of view, but for a southern knight who violated one of the highest oaths? Not really, Daemon. Strong managed to corral the wildlings, even when their hatred for the Night's Watch is legendary. From Lucamore's point of view, why couldn't he recruit a Stark for a plan that would make them kings again? After all, the North was never truly conquered, and the current king and queen have only worsened things with their arrogance. For all he knows, we're just biding our time. We still keep our distance from the South. And don't forget the Company of the Rose—a sellsword army led by a Stark bastard. They're one of the greatest companies in Essos, waiting for the call of a Stark king. They could have gathered untold knowledge on how to fight dragons from their time there."

I scoffed. "That's a lot of assumptions for this Lucamore to make, especially regarding the Northmen's honor and loyalty to their vows."

Aethan nodded in agreement. "But you have to remember this, Daemon—a traitor and a liar always believes that others are just like them, just waiting for the most beneficial opportunity to show it."

I nodded sharply at Aethan. "That's indeed true. When did you get to be such a wiseass? Well, anyway, I suppose I should walk and eat now, or we'll never end this conversation. After that, let's make sure I personally welcome Ser Noseless back to the land of the living from his deathbed and see whether your guesses are correct."

Aethan looked worried. "Are you sure, Daemon? Even though he's guarded only by Stark men under my orders, word may spread."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take after my own performance that day. No one would believe I'm just a normal man anymore," I said, shrugging off his concern.

When Ser Noseless finally woke up, it took me only fifteen minutes to break his will. He quickly realized he would heal and survive for a long time, thanks to my abilities. He called me a demon, the very representation of the Seven Hells, and other ridiculous names—all while I laughed at his overdramatic yelling.

The information he gave me was valuable, and I ended the torture by taking his other hand as well.

Meeting in Great hall

Even though the Great Hall was half the size of Winterfell's, it could easily pack in hundreds of soldiers. At least 200 Stark men and some of Mormont and Karstark men were present, which irritated the Umber Guardsmen as they struggled to control the other soldiers.

I entered the Great Hall of the Umbers with Aethan Reed amidst shouting between lords and Lady Mormont. I noticed Lyra standing on the sidelines, observing the chaos. The place near the Lords near the horizontal great table was filled with soldiers of rank, and others stood in silent vigil on the side of the room and near my grandfather's body, paying their respects to my grandfather.

His body had been cleaned and prepared with oils so it could reach Winterfell without decomposing. My eyes watered at the sight of him lying on a wooden structure used to move his body from the cart that carried him. Crushing my sadness, I approached the corpse.

The soldiers seemed to grow more cheerful as I walked forward, although some pointed at my head—my hair was still red, despite bathing twice since I woke. The blood had been washed away, but the redness remained. I reached my grandfather's body and bowed, kissing his forehead. I stood straight, gripping Ice, which had rested on his chest. For some reason, the scene of grandfather lying with the sword held in his chest, reminded me of Sean Bean's river funeral in Lord of the Rings.

Everyone in the hall was surprised, their attention drawn by the movement of Ice in the midst of their arguments. I saw Karstark's eyes narrow with anger as he noticed I had taken the sword, but, fortunately for him, he said nothing at that moment.

"Daemon Snow, it gladdens my heart that you've regained consciousness and suffered no injuries," Lady Mormont said. "It was as if you were possessed by the old gods themselves with the skill and speed you showed that day."

Before I could respond, a snide voice cut in—Lord Karstark. "Yes, it was the gods' grace that you were unharmed by your foolish actions that night."

The soldiers started grumbling in anger, but Lord Umber's voice boomed before I could say anything.

"Are you mad, Karstark? It was his actions that saved our skins and broke the spirit of our enemies. He was a whirlwind of death that day—the greatest Killer I've ever seen. Cheers for the hero of the Battle of Nightfort! The Stark, the Red Death!"

The soldiers cheered at my new nickname, "The Red Death." I guessed it was because of the red mist and my hair. I sighed inwardly at the new nickname, atleast it was not bad like the whoresbane.

"Lords, my lady," I said, turning to face them, "what are you arguing about? Why haven't our men begun hunting down the scattered enemy?"

"We don't have the numbers to hunt down the entire Gift," Lord Karstark replied. "The Night's Watch is 10,000 strong. How can we trust them when so many of their own men just betrayed us? Lord Umber wants to hunt the wildlings now, but I believe we should return Lord Stark's body to Winterfell and let Regent Stark call the banners. A raven has already been sent informing the North of Lord Stark's passing, and the North will want to pay respects to one of Winterfell's greatest Lord Stark."

I frowned at the lords, my own thoughts getting darker and darker. I knew a funeral must be held, but it was clear they wanted to save their own men and money rather than start the hunt for the wildlings. I am already sure their men are patrolling the roads under their control and carefully guarding the  borders with the Gift. I had no such limits.

"My lords, my lady," I began, my voice hard with rage, "I agree my grandfather was one of the greatest, and the entire North will mourn his loss. But we will lose precious time if we allow the traitors to regroup. They are scattered, and their leader—the noseless bastard—is with us. I've extracted information from him, and he confessed their leader  has a entire castle under their control and men. This man has succeeded in his plan—he killed Lord Stark and his heir, leaving a four-year-old as the next in line. Now, he aims to consolidate his control over the wildlings beyond the Wall. We don't have time to wait for these traitors to escape or betray the Night's Watch again."

"Snow, I want to hunt the vermin as much as you do," Lord Umber said, "but I can't call the banners and go to war without the Regent's order. We are sworn to follow the Starks of Winterfell, and the current Regent is Bennard Stark. You must return with us, and then we can follow you with the banners for war. I don't have the men or resources to protect my own lands while hunting wildlings. My duty is to my people first. I will avenge Lord Stark, but without the full might of Winterfell, this is folly."

I grimaced, knowing there was truth in Lord Umber's words, but I could also see his hesitation—he feared losing his life, his influence, and that the new Regent's Father-in-law, Lord Karstark, was fully behind returning Lord Stark's body to Winterfell.

I looked around, seeing Stark men angry and even the commanders of Umber and Karstark disappointed. The lords expected me to follow their orders and even before waiting to see what I would they were shouting against each other again. I knew that if I stayed silent today I will then have to shed enough northern blood or wait Cregan to be the Lord Stark to ever have a voice in the North again and I was not willing for either choice. Only my performance on the battlefield earned me the right to speak today and I was ready to make it as solid as the Ice.

"My uncle may be the Lord Regent," I started, and the Lords stopped immediately and they looked very much surprised that I said something after they dismissed me, but the stark men who knew me from my birth were looking at me expectedly, "but Lord Stark is Cregan, a six-year-old boy who I consider my own little brother—a boy who lost his father and grandfather to traitors and wildlings. I was raised by two of the greatest men I've ever known—my uncle Rickon and my grandfather, who I consider a father. I will not return to Winterfell until I eradicate every single one who conspired against us. I will only return with the head of the King Beyond the Wall, so that Cregan can sleep peacefully, knowing his father's murderers no longer draw breath. This is my gift to him, and my vengeance. Soldiers, are you with me?"

"Aye!" they roared. "Vengeance for Lord Stark! Vengeance! Vengeance! The Red Death for Traitors!"

"Daemon, cousin, I understand your fury," Lord Karstark began and started walking towards me, "but this is near treason against the Regent. We cannot make such decisions on our own. I must stop you from this foolishness and from taking Ice with you. It must be returned to Winterfell to the Regent, who will decide its fate." He emphasized his point by placing his hand on the sword's hilt.

"Ah!" Lord Karstark yelled and withdrew his hands as the skin where he touched the hilt burned.

"What the fuck?" Umber yelled, "this has not happened with Ice before.  What is this magic."

"What have you done to Ice, boy?" Karstark shouted. "You've despoiled Ice, our ancestral sword, with your sorcery!"

"Enough!" I shouted. "Lord Karstark, your greed for the sword overwhelmed you. I've done nothing to Ice—it finds your blood unworthy of the Stark line. You are not of Stark blood. The sword is now blood-bound to me as its wielder, at least until its need for vengeance is quenched, or Cregan himself takes it from my hand. I'll tell you which will happen first. You will be my messenger. Inform Lord Cregan Stark that I will return with the killers' heads and surrender Ice to him then. The Stark line has been reduced to five members—Lord Cregan, Uncle Bennard, and his two sons. It's time for Bennard to add more to the line with your daughter. I will risk my life to ensure the Starks survive this crisis, and if you try to stop me or the Stark army, I will consider you a co-conspirator to usurp Cregan, to make your grandson the Lord Stark and kill you on the spot."

Lord Karstark, enraged, yelled, "How dare you? I am loyal to the North, boy. You question my honor? My fealty to the Stark?"

"I don't question it—the magic that binds Ice to House Stark questions it. And it wouldn't be the first time House Stark had to purge prideful cadet lines that thought themselves better than their parent house."

"Enough!" Lord Umber bellowed. "You're all under my roof, and this is no time for accusations when our lord lies dead here. Daemon Snow, I know how much Lord Stark's death has affected you—we all saw it." A chill passed through the hall as everyone recalled the slaughter I had wrought. Even now, my silver-red hair drew glances from everyone in the room. "I want to remind you that Lord Karstark is not a traitor, however, the sword has judged. You may do as you wish, but remember, the lives of the soldiers who follow you are your responsibility. Beyond the Wall is no place for the unprepared."

"Aye, Lord Umber," I said. "I will be careful, and thank you for understanding. Lord Karstark, I apologize for my outburst—my emotions are running high."

Karstark nodded stiffly. "I also apologize for interfering in House Stark's internal matters. Your use of Ice is to be judged by House Stark alone. But I still maintain it should be returned to Winterfell, to its rightful lord, Cregan Stark. However, as no one here can touch it, and you will not be traveling to Winterfell now, that seems impossible."

I nodded, accepting the apologies, and turned to leave.

Daemon, what is the plan? Aethan's voice pulled me from my thoughts. We were in the tent that Lord Stark's men had prepared for me, the canvas heavy with the scent of wet earth and iron. I was seated, slowly cleaning Ice—a way to steady my mind, to understand the strange bond that now pulsed between the blade and me. My father had taught me much about the magic behind Valyrian steel, about how a true warrior could bond with it, making it an extension of their very self. Feed the blade some blood, kill your first foe, and it would forever be like an extension to your arms—sharp, swift, and deadly. I expected it when I bled on Ice and killed my enemies, but this bond was more.

I know Ice was a custom made, using the Ice sword a remnant of Long Night times, bonded to the Stark Line.  But even my father couldn't light the cold fire like I did and cause similar scenes of that night.

Daemon. Aethan's voice broke through again, more urgent now.

I looked up. Aethan stood there, flanked by five army captains and Lyra Mormont, the fierce warrior sent by Lady Mormont herself. She had bought almost all remaining Bear Island's soldiers to assist me. All eyes were on me, waiting.

"The plan is simple," I said, setting Ice down beside me. "We know Stonedoor remains loyal to the traitor beyond the Wall. Five hundred men garrisoned there, and scattered across the Gift, another seven hundred wildlings and Night's Watch deserters. I'll take Stonedoor myself and kill every last one of the traitors before they can cause more harm to the North or the Watch."

There were nods of grim approval from the captains, but I continued before they could voice their thoughts. "We've captured Ser Noseless and his five lackeys. They'll be delivered to Castle Black. The truth will be extracted before the Lord Commander itself, and I'll behead the traitor in front of a weirwood, feeding his blood to the Old Gods."

"The most crucial thing is how to find the scattered army and  The Old Gods have already blessed me by sending sign. Come and see." I said with a serene tone.

I stepped outside and pointed to the trees. Every single one had birds perched on its branches, watching the army with careful vigilance. Despite the noise of the camp, there was no panic, just a quiet and steady focus. Twenty of those birds were under my control, ones I had warged into when I awoke. They had been flying tirelessly after I fed them enough blood, along with my own eagles.

In addition to the birds, I had also warged into three wolves, who were essential in tracking down the hiding traitors. The only way I could locate these birds and wolves was by using the Weirwood to scry the present, a breakthrough I had only recently achieved. Even then, it took me hours to find enough eyes and nearly broke my mind to bond with them. The migraine from establishing these new connections still lingered.

Aethan, already aware of my abilities, showed no surprise, but the captains and Lyra Mormont were visibly astonished. Lyra even whispered, "Skinchanger."

"I, along with Lyra and the Mormont men, will head to the Stonedoor to deal with the traitors there," I announced. "The five of you captains will divide our forces into six equal battalions. Aethan will lead the last one. The messenger birds will guide you to the scum who dared to spill Northern blood. Cleanse the North of their depravity and meet at the Night's Watch in ten days—fifteen at the latest. If they surrender, accept their submission. The birds will then lead you to the nearest weirwood, where you will behead them and feed the weirwood their blood. The Night's Watch traitors have weakened the Wall's magic by breaking their oaths. Their blood will restore the magic to what it was when they first swore their vows."

The captains looked at me as if I were a madman, ranting about magic and ancient gods, but they couldn't deny it—not after what they had witnessed at the Battle of the Nightfort.

"My lord," Lyra Mormont began, her voice uncertain, "I'm not sure the soldiers will be able to accomplish all this within such a limited time and still be ready to go beyond the Wall. They will be tired, and they'll need rest."

I smiled knowingly. "Do not worry, Lyra. The old gods will provide the strength needed for this task, for they will it to be so. You shall see the results."

I turned to the group. "Let's rest tonight and set out tomorrow morning to begin our missions."

The captains gaped but nodded, aware of the rumors surrounding me—and of the improved health of everyone in Winterfell and the surrounding lands.

Stonedoor

The wind howled through the ancient trees, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and death. The castle stood at the edge of the world, an outpost of the Night's Watch that had long since fallen into shadow. Its once-proud walls now harbored traitors, men who had forsaken their oaths for greed and cruelty.

Daemon stood beneath the towering weirwood, its crimson leaves whispering secrets only he could hear. The face carved into the trunk seemed to watch him, its eyes following his every move as he prepared for what was to come. He could feel the gaze of the Old Gods coursing through him. The traitors in the castle had no idea what was coming for them.

"Snow," Lyra called as she joined me in observing the castle gate. The gate had been hastily repaired, as there was usually no need for such defenses south of the Wall.

"Lyra," I replied. "Ready your men. I can see ten guards at the gate and along the wooden palisade. I'll open it for you."

For a moment, Lyra looked skeptical, but she remembered the display of my abilities that night. She nodded. We were 500 meters away, hidden behind the trees.

We moved forward slowly, stopping at the edge of the treeline, 200 meters from the gate. From this distance, we could see the guards armed with bows, standing watch in patient silence.

I nodded at Lyra, and she nodded in agreement.

Without a sound, I broke into a sprint toward the gate. I was halfway there before the guards registered what was happening. I had expected them to laugh at the sight of a lone soldier charging, but my reputation must have spread, for instead of laughing, they panicked and fired their arrows. I saw ten arrows flying toward me, three of which were on target.

Still running, I unsheathed Ice from my back, pushing my speed even faster. One arrow flew harmlessly behind me. The other two came straight for my chest, but I cut them from the air with Ice. Before they could reload, I was within 50 meters of the gate. My leg muscles tensed in anticipation, and I front flipped.

I soared just over the gate  and was upside down mid-air, when I reached above the gate. Using every ounce of my strength and momentum, I brought Ice down in a powerful arc, cleaving the crossguard and splitting the gate's middle clean in half. I landed in the courtyard, rolling smoothly to absorb the impact and slow my momentum.

I dashed beneath the palisade, slashing the gate with two swift strikes before kicking it open, the pieces flying in all directions. Running alongside the wooden palisade, I sliced through the supports, causing it to collapse as I moved. The guards couldn't shoot at me while I stayed beneath the wooden structure. When I reached the end, I turned and ran back, seeing five men who had fallen while trying to arm themselves. They were too slow, and all five were dead within moments.

By now, the commotion had roused the rest of the castle. I finished off the remaining five guards near the gate and was already halfway to the castle proper when the first Mormont soldier entered through the shattered gate. The traitors inside were unprepared, groggy from sleep as they scrambled to arm themselves.

I ignited my sword, its flames casting a flickering glow, and kicked down the entrance door, ready to bring the traitors to justice.

Author's Note: The lords want to kill the traitors, but not overstep and call the banners. Daemon is unleashed on the traitors, who just wants plain honest revenge. Something everyone in planetos wants to have.  Next chapter: Bennard has sent a special letter to the king and a kingslanding chapter which was supposed to be only 1000 words and balance to the north but became 3800 words somehow.. i blame targaryen family drama!!

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

Chapter Text

 Chapter 18:  King Jaehaerys 'The Wise'  Targaryen  

79 AC

King's Landing

Baelon Targaryen

It had been nearly two years since the infamous tourney of Princess Rhaenys, an event that sent shockwaves through the realm. The repercussions were still felt, with the Citadel particularly outraged by the Iron Throne's new orders, which diminished their influence over the lords of Westeros. Yet, their complaints were swiftly silenced by a single visit from Baelon himself, flying on Vhagar as the Iron Throne's official representative. Confiscating two of their prized dragonglass candles and all the Valyrian tomes on magic had felt like bullying in Baelon's eyes, but the King had been adamant.

At least one benefit had come from his brother, Vaegon, who had joined the Citadel before the turmoil began. The archmaesters had been arrogant enough to flaunt their knowledge of Valyrian history and magic in front of a Targaryen prince, because of the Royal family's notorious loss of ancient knowledge after the Doom. Baelon was certain that Vaegon's innocent thirst for learning had helped deflect their suspicions, as they failed to notice the contingency laid out by the King. Baelon was satisfied the overt issues with the Citadel were now behind them, especially with Lord Hightower's support of the Throne, allowing him to return to King's Landing in time for the birth of his son, Prince Viserys, that same year.

Both the King and his brother Aemon were thrilled with the birth of Viserys, already planning to wed him to Rhaenys, ensuring a Targaryen would remain King Consort. However, Aemon had made it clear after Viserys' birth that he would not risk having another child himself, fearing for Jocelyn's life after a difficult labor. Despite Jocelyn's attempts to persuade him otherwise, Aemon remained firm, insisting that she take moon tea to prevent any future pregnancies. Baelon knew the King wasn't pleased with this decision but had accepted it reluctantly, content in the knowledge that Baelon had a healthy son and would likely have more children in the future.

Small Council meeting.

Baelon was surprised to find two letters from Winterfell on the agenda of the Small Council meeting. He had sent two letters to Winterfell himself after recent events, addressed to his bastard nephew, but had received no reply. The lack of response from a mere bastard, a snub to a prince and rider of Vhagar, had enraged him. However, the King had ordered him to let it go. The King was happy that there have been no complaints from north since then and it surprised everyone now when the Grandmaester revealed the letter with the snarling direwolf seal of House Stark.

"Prince Baelon, read the first letter," the King ordered.

Baelon broke the seal and began to read aloud:

To King Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm

Your Grace,

It is with deep sorrow that I write to inform you of my father, Lord Benjen Stark's death. He was ambushed by traitors within the Night's Watch and 2,500 wildlings while leading an army to avenge my elder brother. Witnesses say my father moved to shield my bastard nephew from arrows, saving his life. Upon realising what happened, Snow became mad with grief, took our ancestral sword Ice without permission or any right to it and went on a mad slaughter of our enemies. The use of Ice at that time could be forgiven, but he has ignored the commands of Lord Karstark, Lord Umber and swore revenge on the King beyond the wall and took the Stark army and Ice with him, which is unforgivable as they must obey my commands, as I am regent.

I humbly ask your permission for punishing your grandson for Usurpation of Stark men and using  our ancestral sword without Lord Stark's permission.

Lord Bennard Stark

Regent for Cregan Stark

Warden of the North.

"Lord Benjen is also dead?" Aemon whispered, a look of sorrow crossing his face.

"I am sorry, brother. I know you had a good relationship with Lord Stark," Baelon said, trying to console him, though his mind raced to make sense of his nephew's involvement. Baelon noticed the king deep in thought, likely considering the consequences of this death.

"Well, it seems the gods have decided to punish House Stark for their trickery, even after the King was gracious enough to forgive them. Even House Stark cannot escape the consequences of violating the King's laws," Lord Manfred Redwyne, the Master of Ships, remarked snidely.

Baelon scoffed. "Lord Redwyne, the gods had nothing to do with this. This is the work of men. Betrayal and treachery are not the victim's fault. If the gods intended punishment, it would have been my nephew who fell, as this was his idea in the first place."

Aemon snarled in response, but before he could say anything, the king interrupted. "Enough. There is another letter from Winterfell. Read it aloud, and let us see what my errant bastard grandson has done to be accused of usurpation."

Baelon nodded and began to read the second letter.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men

Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Protector of the Realm

My King,

It has come to my attention that my co-regent, my brother-in-law, has hastily sent a letter requesting punishment for your grandson, Daemon Snow, over the use of a large sword and for hunting down traitors to the crown with loyal Stark men. I am writing to plead his case and not allow Lord Bennard's foolishness, driven by sorrow and anger, to cloud your judgment. He wrongly blames Daemon, a 12-year-old boy, for the death of Lord Benjen Stark, just as he has blamed him for the death of his beloved sister for all these years.

In fact, Daemon should be recognized, for according to the reports we have received, it was only because he picked up Ice, making it burn and went on to kill hundreds with it like a hero from the Age of Heroes, that our decimated army turned to victory. Nearly 1,200 Northmen survived, while 3,000 of the enemy were slain, even as 1,000 Night's Watch traitors attacked us during the night, with wildlings ambushing from the sidelines. Despite this, the North lost 1,500 proud warriors. Lord Karstark and Lord Umber had no right to command men sworn to Winterfell, and they chose to follow a Stark to avenge my husband and father-in-law.

I plead that you hear this and absolve Daemon. He has promised to return with the head of the King Beyond the Wall as a gift for my son, Cregan Stark.

Your loyal vassal,

Lady Giliane Stark (née Glover)

Lady of Winterfell

Co-Regent of Cregan Stark.

"This doesn't make any sense, Your Grace," Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, said. "Lord Bennard's letter made no mention of a co-regent or the true actions of Daemon Snow. And what does she mean by a 'burning sword' and a boy killing hundreds with it?"

Baelon noticed the air of disbelief among the council, save for his family.

"The Stark sword is a greatsword, nearly my height, called Ice—and it is Valyrian steel," Prince Aemon explained.

"There are tricks in Essos that allow a sword to be set aflame. Perhaps my nephew used one of those tricks to burn the ambushers," Baelon speculated.

Lord Lyman furrowed his brow, but the king responded with a thoughtful look. "You missed the crux of the matter, Lord Lyman. Both the mother and the uncle are vying for regency of Cregan Stark. The uncle believes he is the only rightful choice, while Lady Stark knows it will be difficult for her to be the sole regent as long as an adult Stark lives."

Baelon spoke up. "So, what shall be our reply, Your Grace? Does my nephew deserve punishment for his apparent heroic actions—or, as Lord Bennard claims, usurpation?"

The king pondered the question, then turned to Aemon. Baelon immediately felt a sense of unease as an unsettling thought crossed his mind.

"Prince Aemon," the king commanded, his voice cold and firm with the ever present Kingly Mask that Baelon almost considers the true face of the King, "you shall leave for Winterfell tomorrow on Caraxes to pay the crown's respects to Lords Benjen and Rickard Stark. You shall also investigate the truth of the matter and determine whether Lord Benjen left any instructions regarding Cregan's regency. If there is proof, follow it to the letter; otherwise, let the mother and uncle share the regency. The haste and vagueness in Lord Bennard's letter, along with his request for punishment without explanation, give me pause regarding the long regency. You will also decide the matter of Daemon once the truth is revealed."

Baelon watched as disbelief washed over Aemon's face, slowly transforming into anger.

"My king, I have duties here. Baelon is the Master of Laws; let him fly with Vhagar and handle this matter. I do not wish to return to Winterfell, where only painful memories await me," Aemon said respectfully, and Baelon sighed in relief. His brother had managed to conceal his anger and sadness while offering a reasonable excuse.

"Yes, my king," Baelon added quickly, "it would be an honor to oversee this legal matter. Vhagar is far larger and faster, enabling me to reach Winterfell sooner." Baelon tried to support his brother, but even before finishing he could see carefully hidden anger and disappointment in King's face.

"Prince Aemon," the king said sternly, "Baelon may be the Master of Laws, but he has no authority to enact any law without my leave. You, however, are the Crown Prince and Hand of the King. Only you have the authority to handle this matter. This is not a request; it is an order."

Baelon sighed inwardly, knowing defeat.

Aemon, his rage carefully hidden, bowed respectfully. "Of course, my king. I am your loyal heir, first and foremost."

The king scrutinized his brother for several heartbeats, then declared, "This council is dismissed."

Baelon noticed that the other masters had several topics they wished to discuss, but no one dared speak, sensing the king's tense mood.

As the council rose to leave, the king called after them. "Prince Aemon, Baelon—come with me to the Dragonpit. It has been too long since we flew together."

Baelon saw Aemon tense further and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Brother, let's enjoy the flight.

Knowing he couldn't refuse the king, Aemon nodded.

"Sers, dragonhandlers—everyone—evacuate the Dragonpit. Let us spend time with our own dragons and the unclaimed ones. Alone," the king ordered as they reached the inner courtyard of the enormous Dragonpit.

Baelon swallowed hard, sensing that whatever was about to happen would be painful for both him and Aemon. He understood now—the king brought them here so no one could overhear what was about to be said.

"Come, sons," the king commanded, walking briskly through the cavernous halls as though he knew every turn by heart.

As the king veered away from the usual path leading to Vermithor and the other dragons, Baelon initially thought, maybe, The King, had lost his way. But soon, it became clear—they weren't heading toward their own dragons at all. They were walking toward the Black Dread. Baelon glanced at Aemon, noticing his brother's growing impatience with the king's dismissive attitude.

The vast cave loomed before them, darker than any other in the pit. A low, rumbling vibration from the very ground beneath them and the increased heat, signalled the presence of the greatest living dragon, Balerion the Black Dread.

Though bonded to Vhagar, the second-largest war dragon, Baelon couldn't suppress a shiver as they entered the cave. The Black Dread's malevolent eyes watched them, glowing in the shadow. It left him awestruck—and terrified—when the king approached Balerion without a hint of fear, whispering in Valyrian as he patted the dragon's snout. Both Baelon and Aemon exchanged disbelieving glances. Balerion allowed their father to come this close, but they had never been granted such proximity, even as children except for his foolishness once.

"Father—" Aemon began, but the king ignored him, still whispering to the Black Dread.

When the king turned around, Balerion's massive head loomed behind him, so large that Baelon could barely see his father, as though the king were nothing more than a tooth in the dragon's mouth. Baelon felt Balerion's gaze bore into him, rooting him to the spot—a primal terror only those who have faced a dragon understand. It surprised Baelon and his brother that they felt terror similar to that non-dragonriders probably feel before a dragon.

"Aemon, you will never repeat something like this again. If you dare to question my order on such an important matter and try to escape from your duties, then I will have to reconsider who my heir should be." The King said.

Baelon's shock came not from the words, but from the way the king delivered them. There was no anger, no disappointment—just cold indifference. For the first time, Baelon felt like he was seeing Jaehaerys Targaryen without the mask of a King.

Baelon saw Aemon begin to recover from his shock, his expression hardening as he prepared to step forward and argue. But before he could make the mistake, Baelon acted swiftly, gripping Aemon's right hand in a vice-like hold. Aemon jerked back, glaring at his brother in confusion. Baelon quickly shook his head and nodded toward Balerion.

The Black Dread, who had been resting his massive head on the ground, was now rising. In one fluid, silent motion, Balerion's face loomed above the King casting a massive shadow over the king. The sheer size of the dragon, combined with the eerie stillness—no growl, no sound of movement—sent a chill down Baelon's spine. It was as if the great beast had become one with the very darkness of the cave, its ancient eyes unblinking, watching everything. The absence of noise made the presence of the Black Dread more terrifying than any other Dragons.

Aemon gulped, his earlier anger replaced by fear. "Father, please... That place haunts me. I lost her there, to him. I don't know what I'll do if I see Daemon again. Please, understand—"

"Oh, for the sake of your mother, shut up Aemon and get over it." The King snapped, his voice echoing with passion and anger.

"It has been 12 years since that bastard girl died in childbirth and you are still blaming my grandson for it like an imbecile Andal lord that I have to suffer for the last several decades. You are my elder son, Prince Aemon Targaryen, my Heir, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and moreover a Dragonlord. Act like it."

Baelon was lost for words by the raw fury in the Kings words and he saw Aemon gaping like a fish in land, his eyes travelling from the King  to the towering presence of the Black Dread.  Before Aemon could say anything, The King continued;

"For 12 years, I have indulged your idiosyncrasies and I will not do it for one more day. You will get over your… your, your  whatever it is and will do as I ordered regarding Winterfell and Daemon. You can't hide from this anymore, if you want to rule this Kingdom and be the King after me. If you can't, then abdicate your title—and that of Rhaenys — and not be a headache for me anymore."

Baelon still had a firm grip on Aemon, but he knew it was no longer necessary. Aemon was paralyzed, both in awe and terror, beneath Balerion's gaze.

"Father... I... I..." Aemon stammered, his voice strained and broken, a vulnerability in him that Baelon had not seen in years. The sound of his brother's voice cracking ignited a fire in Baelon's chest—a burning fury toward their King. How could the king force this upon Aemon, when he knew the pain that place held?

But then Aemon lowered himself, slowly and deliberately, to one knee. "I will do as you ordered, Father. I will not escape from my responsibilities," he said, his voice steadier now, but the defeat in it was evident for everyone.

Baelon stood stiffly beside him, every muscle tense. His heart raced, and he could feel his bond with Vhagar becoming taut as his own fury roused the old war dragon. Fury coursed through his veins, hidden beneath the surface, but it was there—a rage so deep that Baelon wondered if the king could sense it. And for a fleeting moment, he was certain that Balerion, the Black Dread, did. The dragon's fiery eyes, fixed upon Baelon, seemed to burn through him, searing into his soul for just an instant.

And…

For a single heartbeat, Baelon's mind was filled with a single haunting vision.

He saw a lone dragon, its scales black as night, unleashing all its fury upon Harrenhal, the largest and most fearsome castle in the realm. The night sky was illuminated by the beast's fire and Harrenhal, a fortress so vast it dwarfed even Balerion and Vhagar combined, stood defiant against the onslaught—but only for a moment.

The enchanted stone walls, said to be protected by sorcery, began to tremble under the relentless assault of dragonflame. The heat was unimaginable, turning stone to slag, Baelon could almost hear the crackling of the stones as they shattered, see the molten rivers of rock pouring down the once-mighty battlements. The towers of Harrenhal, which had loomed like giants over the land, crumbled and collapsed into themselves as if they were no more than kindling before a bonfire.

The dragon's fire raged with such intensity that even the magical protections woven into the stone faltered and disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. In the distance, Baelon could almost hear the desperate screams of men, their voices lost beneath the roar of flames and the terrible, earth-shaking bellows of the Black Dread.

And Baelon lost all his rage.

The king had a curious yet threatening glint in his eyes.

"Baelon, Aemon, let me be clear with you both today: if you ever think of betraying me by attempting to usurp my throne before my natural death, believing that Vhaghar and Caraxes can overcome my Vermithor, know that you will face the full fury of the Black Dread."

For the first time since entering the cave, a low growl emanated from the Great Dragon, as if in approval of the king's words, making Baelon tremble with terror. Aemon gaped in pure disbelief, as if the very thought was a foreign concept to him.

"Father, what? What in the name of Doom are you talking about? Betraying my father and my liege? How could you even think of me like that?" Aemon said, outrage clear in his voice. "And how could you even consider Baelon might betray you? He has worked harder than anyone else, yet you never acknowledge him in front of me. How could you?"

Baelon closed his eyes in defeat, knowing the truth of the matter: he would always stand by Aemon's side. The king scrutinized his eldest son, searching for any trace of insincerity, but ultimately sighed, defeated.

"You are a fool, Aemon, if you believe Baelon's loyalty to his king surpasses his love for his brother. I lost his loyalty and love a long time ago," the king said, a hint of sadness in his gaze as he looked at his second son.

Aemon turned to Baelon in surprise, his eyes widening. Baelon could only nod in response.

Aemon's expression brightened, a pure smile breaking through the tension and reminding Baelon of their happier times before their fateful journey to the North. "Thank you, Valanquor!" Aemon exclaimed, before turning back to their father. "But even then, Father, it's still insulting for you to even consider it. How could you?"

The king sighed wearily, closing his eyes briefly before turning to Balerion. He unsheathed Blackfyre from the scabbard at his hip, the smoky steel reflecting the flickering torchlight around them.

With a silent command, he gestured for his sons to follow as he moved sideways along the enormous dragon's body, his left hand raised as he searched for something among Balerion's scaled hide.

"Aemon, it doesn't matter whether one is a father, son, brother, or uncle; first and foremost, we are Dragonlords, bound by the blood of Old Valyria, where might makes right. I know this from experience; my own uncle's family caused the death of my elder brothers. Rage is in our blood, and when we burn, it is with fire that cannot be smothered until our enemies are reduced to ashes. There's a reason the forty in Valyria sent off their deaths by dragonfire. You burn as brightly as any of us, Aemon, and I understand where foolishness may lead in dire circumstances. I want to curtail any such foolishness before such thoughts even enter your minds."

The king finished speaking just as he reached the spot he sought. He turned and passed the torch to Aemon.

"Perhaps King Maegor should have done something like this for my own foolish elder brother before he faced the Black Dread," the king added with a grunt, seizing the hilt of Blackfyre with both hands and driving the sword into the dragon's side with a forceful stab.

Both Baelon and Aemon immediately panicked as their king attacked the greatest dragon in existence. They glanced nervously at Balerion's head, bracing for fire, but instead were met with a sound that resonated as a mix of pain and relief.

Aemon drew closer, fire in hand, and Baelon gasped at the sight of black pus oozing from the wound, thick, smoking blood pooling on the ground. The area around the sword's piercing was marred by healed stab wounds, while decayed, pus-filled scales marred other spots.

"Baelon, come. Use Dark Sister and shave off the decayed scales and flesh," the king commanded.

"Yes, your grace." Baelon acquiesced, drawing Dark Sister from its sheath, the blade's unsheathing causing Balerion to glance back at them, a small fire flickering in his open throat.

"Lykiri, Balerion," the king said, stabbing Blackfyre into another spot. "He is only helping, my son Baelon, rider of Vhaghar."

Balerion emitted a sound Baelon interpreted as a snort, the fire in his throat momentarily dimming.

Baelon exchanged glances with his brother, a look of clear wonder etched on his face, while Aemon shrugged in surprise. He returned the gesture and began working on the decaying scales within reach, his strength required to pierce the tough, resistant hide even with Valyrian steel.

It took them hours of effort to finish, and eventually, the king passed Blackfyre to Aemon, resting against Balerion's head while Aemon took over the task.

Both Aemon and Baelon were soaked in sweat, the heat of the dragon and the weight of their labor pressing down upon them.

The king nodded in approval as they stepped back from the Black Dread.

Baelon exhaled in relief as they exited the stifling heat of the Great Dragon's lair, the burden of the king's and dragon's scrutiny lifting.

"And Aemon," the king continued, "when you find my wayward bastard grandson, tell him he shall not humiliate a Prince of the Blood by ignoring his letters again, especially not a Dragonlord. Warn him that he will be burned if he pulls the dragon's tail one too many times, and remind him he has lost his greatest protector since he lost Lord Stark. I don't think Regent Bennard will value Daemon's ideas or defend him as much. Also, Aemon, ensure that Daemon's actions are not judged by Bennard or yourself, and reward him for his service, if the second letter proves truthful. After all, it hasn't even been two years since I announced House Targaryen's generosity and rewards for services to the realm and our own house."

"I understand, Father," Aemon replied, discomfort evident as the reminder loomed over him—he would soon visit Winterfell and see his son after twelve long years.

Authors Note:  This was supposed to be a short 1000 word Kingslanding session, but the targ family drama got out of hand... it would be in next chapter we return to The Wall and with our hero Daemon Snow!!

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: The Arrival

I stood in the solar of Lord Commander Ryswell along with the maester and other lords of the castles along the Wall. Most of the lords were furious with me for destroying Stonedoor in my quest to kill every traitor.

"Lord Commander, are we really entertaining this bastard? He is neither a Stark nor a Targaryen, and he destroyed one of our castles along with its members. If they were traitors, it was our duty to punish them, not this boy's. He should be punished, and his army banished from our lands," one of the lords spat.

"Oh, shut up, whoever you are," I said in irritation. "I didn't attack the Night's Watch. I killed traitors and oathbreakers. I killed the bastards who dared to kill Lord Stark and his heir. I'd gladly do it again. Ser Noseless told you the truth, confessed everything, and yet you still blame me. No wonder they were able to gather so much support right under your collective noses."

The other lord bristled at my insult.

"Silence," Lord Commander Ryswell ordered. "This is my solar, and there shall be no more arguments. Daemon Snow is correct. He has helped us more than once, and now he has directly helped us again. It's time we hunted down the army and the traitor hiding as the so-called King Beyond the Wall. Benjen Stark was right when he said King Jaehaerys turned the Night's Watch into a penal colony by sending traitors and oathbreakers here. This Ser Lucamore Strong, once a Kingsguard, one of the best warriors, used his prowess to fight the gathering wildlings and defeat their leaders for power. No one has ever had the audacity to do such a thing in the Watch's history. But what was the motive, Snow? Did he tell you that? We never reached that part in our inquiry."

I snarled thinking about the traitor and his foolhardy plan from the beginning to take over the Night's Watch and rule the lands beyond the wall.

"What motive does a traitor like Lucamore the Lusty have?" I continued. "Revenge, of course. Revenge against the king, my grandfather. Ser Noseless is one of his bastards, and their plan was always to escape beyond the Wall. They assumed the king or his sons would come, but dragons don't cross the Wall. They must lead the army from a horse top themselves and what is a dragonrider without a dragon? Just another man. Poor Lucamore couldn't foresee our alliance to reclaim the New Gift and make it prosper. His whole plan hinged on it being abandoned. So, He had to act earlier than planned."

"Fucking Targaryens," Lord Commander Ryswell snarled. "First he send Maegor's Kingsguard, and now his own. Both rebelled against us and caused trouble for the North. This will not be tolerated. An example must be made. The Watch's honor is at stake. This is the second time a Stark has lost his life due to treachery from the Watch. I will do everything in my power to ensure there is no third time. I will personally send the head of Ser Noseless to the king with a message for the entire South to hear: Any oathbreakers and criminals sent here will be scrutinized and watched for years, and no criminal will hold any position of authority when there are those who voluntarily joined. Rest assured, the wildling army will never cross the Wall again, and we will defeat them when they appear."

"What? You're not coming to hunt them down with my army?" I asked, surprised that the Lord Commander would now decide to hide behind the Wall.

"Unfortunately, I can't, Snow. According to the traitor, they are seven thousand strong. What if there are more? We would be in enemy territory, and I can't afford to lose more men carelessly," Lord Ryswell explained, and the other lords nodded in agreement.

"Cowards," I snarled. "Then you will wait forever, as I will personally go with my men and kill every single one of them."

Protests erupted from the other lords, but the Lord Commander's stern gaze was locked on mine. He knew that if he didn't let me go, his own life might be in danger and I would may just cause another slaughter to go beyond the wall.

"Silence," he ordered. "Our duty is to stop wildlings from coming into the North, not to stop Northmen from going beyond the Wall. I will allow you and your men to go."

I accepted the proposal and we parted to rest before the execution of the traitors, which I insisted doing and by beheading in front of a weirwood.

I felt the direct connection between the weirwood and the Wall as its roots drank in the blood of Ser Noseless after I beheaded him and hung his body upside down on the trunk of the tree. The ancient system made by the builder with the help of Children of the Forest was still efficient. The damages caused by the broken oath of Nights Watch slowly mended by their own life's blood.

"Is this necessary?" Lord Commander Ryswell asked as he approached."  Aye, Lord Commander," I replied. "A message must be sent to any new recruits and even the wildlings themselves." I kept my face cold, mimicking the cold mask I had learned from my grandfather—the typical Stark sternness.

The Lord Commander grimaced but continued. "My rangers—those we can trust—have returned with news. Seven thousand men have gathered at the Fist of the First Men. My ranger managed to

escape without alerting them. They haven't heard of their army's defeat on this side of the Wall and are preparing to move south. By now, they may have already started their march. This is the only knowledge I could give you. I will also provide you with additional supplies.

I thought for a moment, but without seeing the land for myself, I couldn't foresee any problems, so I agreed.

"Snow, I have a letter from Regent Stark, ordering me not to let you and your men cross the Wall. You are to return to Winterfell immediately while your army stays here under your captains' command to scour the Gift."

I snorted. "We both know that's not going to happen. The Gift is already secure."

"Aye, I've heard about it. Your birds leading your army to the wildlings hiding and scattered after the Battle of Nightfort. It's been a long time since any Northman used their warging so openly," Lord Commander Ryswell said.

I neither confirmed nor denied it.

Lord Ryswell snorted. "Aye, well keep your secrets. Almost every person who heard the old stories will know it. Maybe try to keep it down, You wouldn't want the Targaryens hear about it and realizing that their dragons, is also a beast at the end of the day."

I nodded, accepting the advice offered in good faith. As I walked back to the tents, my mind wandered to the traitors who started this mess. Perhaps beyond the Wall, I might even find a direwolf cub—one for myself and maybe one for Cregan, too. He'd love it, and it might help him cope with the loss of both his father and grandfather.

Omniscient POV

The time spent flying to Winterfell had been good for Aemon. It had been a long time since he last flew so much, and this time, he was able to enjoy the sights rather than trying to escape from memories or his own responsibilities. After taking in the scenery, he began to reflect on his actions over the last decade, and what he found left him dissatisfied. Even with his selfish nature, the loyalty Baelon showed him, made him want to be worthy of it. Baelon had gone so far as to defy their father, the king, all for him. For the first time, Aemon realized how much he had taken for granted.

Perhaps it was this realization that led to his introspection during the flight. Or maybe the fear of losing his heirship had straightened his head. Or, possibly, it was the fear of Balerion that tempered his arrogance. Even Baelon had been shocked by the entire encounter beyond belief, and Aemon knew how much Baelon worked with their father.

Aemon could barely contain his mirth when the soldiers on the walls of Winterfell panicked and fled at the sound of the dragon's roar. Yet, despite their fear, he saw several soldiers reach for arrows and spears. At least he could say the men here were infinitely more loyal and brave than those at the Twins, where he had spent a night on his journey north. Though he dismissed the longbows at first, on his second pass above the castle near the walls and towers—while Caraxes swooped and played in the air, trying to spook the remaining soldiers—the bone-white color of some of the bows caught his eye.

"The Weirwood longbows are the finest in the world, my prince," Lyarra's cheeky voice echoed in his mind. "An excellent archer can shoot through thick mail if he has enough strength." Aemon's eye watered slightly as the memories of his love hit him.

"It is said that Brandon Snow, brother to Torrhen Stark, had prepared three special weirwood arrows to kill the Conqueror's dragon and even proposed assassinating the dragon riders at night himself. Fortunately for you, my prince, my own great-grandfather denied him and chose to bend the knee after praying to the old gods." The cheeky voice echoed in Aemon's memory.

Aemon had laughed hard when he first heard that story. After his trip to the Dragonpit with their father, he had to acknowledge that Torrhen Stark was the greatest king at the time of the Conquest. He resisted the temptation to ask "what if"—what if Brandon Snow could succeed. Instead, Torrhen bent the knee and acquired peace, kept his old gods, improved trade, retained almost all of his authority, and didn't lose a single Northman. Aemon shuddered to think what would have happened if the North had followed the Dornish path. He knew even Balerion would struggle to burn the entirety of the North's snow to flush out its lords.

He landed outside Wintertown, and he didn't have to wait long for the escorts to arrive. He frowned, noticing that Regent Bennard Stark wasn't among them.

As he rode through Wintertown, he heard loud whispers:

"Is he the sire of the Blessed Bastard Snow?"

"Is he also blessed by the dragon gods?"

"He must be a great man to sire a god's messenger like Daemon Snow."

"The hair is the same as half of Snow's…"

"He's so beautiful," one girl swooned, while the girl next to her scoffed. "Ha, don't be silly. Mark my words, Daemon is already more handsome than this posh southern prince. When he returns from the war, he'll be a man, just like the heroes in the stories. He'll bless us by visiting our brothel."

Aemon ignored the comments, unsure of how he felt. His emotions had been in complete turmoil. Only the fear of Balerion and the prospect of losing his place as heir had given him the strength to fly to Winterfell, to face her and her son again.

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Bennard Stark had felt many things since news of his father's death reached him. Prominent among them was a sense of uselessness and anger. When he heard what his bastard nephew had done, his anger became as tall as the Wall. His own ability with magic was nonexistent, but he wasn't a fool. He understood what his father, his brother, and Daemon had been up to. He could never forgive the bastard for killing his sister, and now his own Lord father was dead, all because of the son of that damned dragon prince.

When Aemon entered the courtyard, he saw Regent Bennard Stark's face, twisted with animosity. Bennard was trying to maintain the legendary Stark composure, but like Aemon, recent events had loosened his control—or perhaps Bennard was still the same spoiled brat who had tried to attack him when he thought he'd lost Lyarra to him. Aemon had laughed it off at the time and simply beat Bennard into submission during their sword fight.

Bennard Stark had maintained the famous Stark mask for days, but seeing the arrogant, casual walk of the dragon prince, and noticing the shadow of Daemon in it, made his anger burn. It was the eyes, though, that truly made him snap. The same color as Daemon's—the ones that had fought their way into Daemon's one eye and ruined his sister's beautiful grey in their son. The same eye that always looked at him with curiosity and mockery, as if he were a bad pun made by some bard.

"My prince, we weren't expecting a dragon—just a raven," Bennard hissed through gritted teeth, his anger barely concealed.

For a moment, Aemon was taken aback by the open rage in Bennard's eyes and the disrespect he was showing.

Roar! Caraxes let out a thunderous roar that shook the courtyard as Aemon's fury reached his dragon. He now understood the reason for Bennard's behavior.

How dare this fool blame me for her death? It was our blasted son who was responsible, and this cunt has the audacity to accuse me to my face. How dare he not even bow when I've been sent on behalf of the Iron Throne itself? Aemon's thoughts boiled with indignation.

Aemon immediately wanted to displace Bennard as regent and make Daemon the regent, just to spite him. But remembering Daemon was only thirteen, he restrained himself. Even if Benjen Stark had appointed Bennard as sole regent, Aemon resolved that he would appoint Gilaine Stark as co-regent. He would have dismissed any punishment for Daemon's actions then and there, but the King's orders, which stated that neither he nor Bennard could make the final decision, stayed his hand.

As the roar of Caraxes echoed through the courtyard, causing everyone to take a knee in deference to the crown prince, as tradition dictates,  Regent Bennard Stark remained standing, glaring angrily at Aemon.

"Bennard, what in the names of the Old Gods are you doing?" came an angry voice—surely Lady Stark—cutting through the tension. Aemon saw a woman and a boy, no larger than a six-year-old, approaching quickly.

The lady was beautiful in the northern way, though nowhere near his Jocelyn, let alone Lyarra, whose face was a mask of anger and fear. But it was the boy's face that made Aemon pause. Ever since entering the town, there had been a lingering sense of grief and anger, and the boy bore the same mask Benjen Stark had worn all those years ago when he and Lyarra were caught after she became pregnant with that demon spawn.

Bennard didn't respond to Lady Stark, nor did he acknowledge her presence, still staring at Aemon, struggling to suppress his emotions.

"My prince, please forgive my regent. He has been under immense pressure and stress ever since my grandfather rejected my uncle from leading the army that went to the Wall, giving the duties of Lord of Winterfell instead. The news of his father's death has taken its toll. Please excuse my uncle's behavior," Cregan said, bowing from Bennard's right, standing two steps behind.

Aemon had to suppress his surprise at the impressive manners of the boy, and he stifled a laugh at what happened next, though a snort escaped him.

Aemon watched as Cregan reached his uncle and punched him behind the knees, forcing Bennard to buckle and fall to the ground on his knees, just like everyone else in the courtyard, except for Cregan.

The harsh voice that came next, eerily similar to Benjen Stark's, snapped Bennard out of his anger and the surprise of being made to kneel by his young nephew.

"Now, uncle, you shall apologize to the prince and welcome him according to tradition," Cregan commanded.

Bennard ground his teeth for a moment but managed to compose himself, putting on a mask of remorse that Aemon immediately recognized.

"My prince, I regret my behavior and am ashamed by it. My own father would have tanned my hide if he were alive now. I apologize. Your surprise arrival, along with the other shocks I've experienced, has clouded my judgment and made me forget my courtesies. I beg your forgiveness for my foolishness. Winterfell is yours, and you are welcome within its walls at any time."

Aemon waited for several heartbeats, considering various harsh punishments, but the current state of House Stark stayed his hand. For all Bennard's stupidity, he had been close with Lyarra, and she would make his afterlife a living hell if he punished Bennard too severely. Sighing, Aemon made his decision

"Lord Bennard, I am in a calm mood after the pleasant flight here, so I will forgive your behavior and chalk it up to the grief-stricken madness of a man who has lost his father and elder brother to traitors. But know that I will never forget this. The gods know I've committed my share of foolishness out of grief when I lost my Lyarra in childbirth. Be warned: one more such incident in my presence, and not only House Stark, but the entire North, will be punished harshly."

Aemon paused, letting his words sink in. "Now, you asked why I am here. I come as crown prince and Hand of the King to convey the Iron Throne's condolences for the loss of one of its most loyal lords paramount and his heir to traitors. I am here to pay my respects to Lord Benjen Stark, who did so much to improve the North for the benefit of all. I had intended to inquire about Lord Benjen's will regarding the regency, if such a document exists, and enforce it. But now, I am half-tempted to appoint Daemon as regent—were he not only thirteen—and remove you from your post, Lord Bennard, regardless of Lord Benjen's wishes, due to your rash behavior just now. The Iron Throne does not desire a regent who makes decisions driven by emotion. It says something when your underage nephew, whom you are regent to, must rein in your feelings."

Aemon could see the Northerners still kneeling, slightly relaxing as his words continued, though they remained tense as he chastised their regent.

"With a heavy heart, I, Prince Aemon Targaryen, Hand of the King, hereby disregard any will Lord Benjen may have left regarding the regency and appoint Lady Gilaine Stark as co-regent to Lord Cregan Stark, alongside Lord Bennard Stark. Furthermore, since Lord Cregan has shown exceptional maturity, he will have the right to contest any decisions made by his regents directly to the Iron Throne in matters of grave importance. Now, let this unpleasantness be over, and I accept the guest rights you have offered."

It was three days after Aemon's arrival when Lords Umber and Karstark, along with their retinues, arrived at Winterfell, bearing Lord Stark's body and confirming the grim news of the "Red Death." Aemon had heard the tales from the first day he was there—how his son had become mad with grief and transformed into a gods-blessed hero. The stories spoke of how Daemon's anger had frozen the entire battlefield, allowing the Northmen to slay the traitors in their midst. They claimed he had killed a thousand men that night and had been so drenched in blood that no other color was left visible on his body.

Aemon had scoffed hard at these tales, knowing no man could accomplish what the gossip suggested. However, the meeting with the lords—alongside the co-regents and Cregan, who was adamant about being present—revealed that there might be some truth to these wild stories.

Aemon dismissed these stories as exaggerations, the desperate fantasies of frightened men trying to rationalize the horrors of war. Yet, as he descended the steps toward the solar, a growing unease gnawed at him. The lords who had witnessed these events weren't men prone to fanciful tales, and their grave expressions suggested they were still struggling to make sense of what they had seen.

As the lords recounted their experiences, Aemon's intrigue deepened. They described how Daemon had wielded fire that radiated both cold and heat, and he saw Lord Bennard's shock while young Cregan wore a wolfish grin. Cregan seemed disturbingly pleased by the slaughter of traitors and wildlings alike. Then they spoke of what happened on the road to Last Hearth—Daemon's near murder of Lord Karstark, his accusations of treason, and how the ancestral Stark sword, Ice, seemed to possess a judging power that Lord Bennard initially rejected.

Lord Karstark's face darkened as he protested his son-in-laws rejection immediately. "The bastard accused me of treason, of conspiring with the enemy. He nearly killed me on the spot, had it not been for Lord Umber's intervention. The Stark sword—Ice—it's as if it has a will of its own, and that mad boy has somehow bent it to his will. The Sword burned my hand, when I tried to lift it. He must be punished severely for taking what was rightfully Lord Bennard's to wield in defense of the North, especially now."

Whatever Lord Karstark expected to gain by pressing the charges of treason and disrespect, the reactions of Crown Prince Aemon and Lord Cregan Stark were not what he anticipated.

Aemon's initial amusement at Daemon's audacity quickly dissipated when he learned that Daemon had openly declared Lord Benjen Stark as his father. A surge of jealousy, something Aemon had seldom felt, rose like a storm in his mind. He was enraged by the notion that Lord Stark had usurped what was rightfully his—Daemon was his son. Only his newfound maturity and introspection kept his rage in check.

Aemon remained silent, observing how the matter would unfold. He watched Lord Bennard, who was agreeing with his father-in-law's complaints, and Cregan, who appeared satisfied when Daemon declared he would gift Cregan the head of the so-called King Beyond the Wall.

Another Kingsguard who betrayed their oath. Aemon decided he will execute any Kingsguard for breaking oath when he become kings.  Aemon had already gathered from his chance encounter with Cregan in the godswood that the boy harbored an unhealthy amount of hero worship for Daemon, similar to Baelon's loyalty to Aemon. Cregan's loyalty was clear—his allegiance lay with his older brother, Daemon.

"I propose that Prince Aemon grant me the authority to punish Daemon," Lord Bennard demanded. "More than that, Daemon has ignored my orders to return Ice while the men remained behind securing the Gift. I received word just before your arrival, Prince Aemon, that he slaughtered every man in a castle, declaring them traitors, and then rode to Castle Black, where he now rests in preparation for the venture beyond the Wall."

"No!" Lady Stark interjected. "Daemon may not have followed tradition, but he is needed to address the threats we face. There's no need for punishment. Lord Benjen himself handed Ice to Daemon with instructions to give it to Cregan. He is only following orders."

"No need?" Bennard snarled. "I am the—"

"Enough," Aemon snapped, silencing the room. "There will be no more bickering in my presence. My own house has two ancestral Valyrian Steel Sword and only the King, the head of House Targaryen decides what to do with them.  Cregan, though underage, is the rightful Lord of Winterfell, and Ice belongs to him by title and by the endowment of the previous wielder. Daemon has wielded something of House Stark's, and Cregan is its head. Let Cregan decide whether Daemon should be punished or not."

Aemon finished speaking and watched as Cregan, despite his youth, considered the matter carefully. Aemon didn't particularly care whether Daemon was punished or not; his primary concern was ensuring that Bennard didn't get his way.

Cregan, despite being just a child, knew deep down that Daemon would never harm him. His last meeting with his grandfather in this very solar echoed in his mind. He remembered Lord Benjen's words:

"Cregan, if you ever find yourself alone, know that Daemon will be there. He is unstoppable, and he will be loyal to us as long as we remain united in our purpose—to face the Long Night."

"My lords," Cregan began, his voice steady, "the last thing my grandfather told me was to trust Daemon and learn from him. He gave Ice to Daemon to deliver to me, and I am confident he will do so. I will be pleased if Ice is returned to me along with the head of this so-called King Beyond the Wall. I trust Daemon to accomplish this, and he may use Ice until he completes the task."

Aemon smirked, noticing the enraged expression on Lord Bennard's face. Bennard and Lord Karstark had no choice but to remain silent, knowing they had been overruled.

Beyond the wall

Daemon Snow.

I opened my eyes, disconnecting from the animal in Winterfell through which Brandon had been keeping me informed. Though Brandon wasn't directly involved in any meetings, Cregan shared details about the situation regarding me with him.

Aethan stood guard by my side. Ever since I crossed beyond the Wall, I've lost the ability to warg while remaining conscious in my own body. My connection to the other side was severed, and it took all of my power along with the weirwoods to warg with any animals I'd left behind.

Aethan glanced at me, curiosity and concern written across his face.

I sighed, collecting my thoughts. "My uncle has royally fucked things up, Aethan. The king sent Aemon on Caraxes to deliver the Iron Throne's condolences and to sort out matters regarding me. But my uncle lost whatever sense he had left the moment he saw Aemon. He disrespected him, and it took Cregan stepping in to diffuse the situation. Aemon made Aunt Giliane co-regent, but Cregan can challenge any decisions made by the regents directly to the throne. Bennard fought hard to have me punished—accusing me of taking Ice, leading men without permission, and even blaming me for my mother's death in childbirth. In the end, Aemon left the decision to Cregan since he's the head of House Stark."

Aethan burst out laughing at that. "So you got away without punishment again?"

I scoffed. "There was nothing to punish me for in this matter. Allowing these traitors to consolidate their position and spread chaos would be a disaster. Ice accepted me, and Cregan has no use for it at the moment. I'll surrender it to him when I bring him the promised head."

Aethan chuckled. "Really? You'd just surrender such a prize?"

"What?" I snapped, narrowing my eyes. "Do you think I'm a thief? Why would I want this massive chunk of metal, which I can barely control, when I could rightfully claim two of the most famous swords in the world from my paternal family?"

Aethan smirked. "Aye, I've heard His Grace is eager to bestow both Blackfyre and Dark Sister upon you."

I couldn't stop the snort of laughter from escaping. "Indeed," I said, shaking my head.

Then Aethan's expression turned serious. "But, Daemon, do you still feel the same presence observing us?"

"Aye, Aethan. The presence has lingered ever since we left the Wall. It's ancient, something deeply unsettling. My instincts and abilities are working overtime to shield us from whatever it is that's interfering with our meetings."

Aethan's brow furrowed in concern. "That's troubling. I've seen nothing, nor learned anything, that could explain this. There's no Three-Eyed Raven at this point in time, as you've mentioned in your visions. But, while you were warging, I finally found what we've been searching for. One of my birds tracked down a dozen of them, and in three days, we can move them where we need."

A bloodthirsty grin spread across my face as the good news sank in. "It seems, at last, fate smiles upon us, Aethan. Three days, you say? Plenty of time for me to take control and subdue them. That'll be the perfect moment to confront the enemy army. They won't see it coming."

Aethan grinned as well, a wicked smile that showed exactly why Crannogmen earned the name "bog-devils."

4 Days Later

The Wildling camp

I could only grin in satisfaction as I gazed upon the sheer destruction before us. The lifeless eyes of dozens of wildlings wandered aimlessly, searching for their fallen comrades and any remaining valuables. They were so focused on their task that they didn't even notice our army observing them from a mere 500 meters away.

"Daemon, how did you accomplish this?" Lyra asked, awe and respect clear in her voice.

I basked in the admiration, not just from her, but from the soldiers as well, all of them looking at me with a newfound reverence.

"Men of North," I began, my voice steady and commanding. "You followed me to this cursed place out of sheer loyalty and love for the Starks. I don't want to see even one more death of a man sworn to House Stark. You marched with me knowing the enemy numbered seven thousand, while we were only a thousand strong. So, I made a vow: the only lives lost would be theirs, not ours. You can now see the enemy army scattered, dying, their camps trampled."

I grinned, and the soldiers began to stir, sensing something in my words.

"And if you're wondering how that happened, you can see the answer grazing the fields at the far right of the enemy camp" I said.

The soldiers looked at the right and saw something in they have only heard stories about.

"Aye, it was a herd of mammoths that trampled these fools. Now, ride in and finish the job." I continued, "Kill anything that moves—there will be no mercy except for a dozen of them. Also look for the fancy tent in the middle of the camp. I made sure the mammoths left it alone. Inside, you'll find Lucamore the Lusty, dead in his bed. Bring me his head."

The soldiers roared in jubilation, charging forward to finish off whatever remained of the wildling army.

Lyra approached me, her curiosity clear. "How did you control the mammoths? It takes time to tame such large, mature beasts. And what about the traitor? How did you kill Lucamore?"

I smirked, offering no clear answer. "I have my secrets, Lyra. Feel free to try and figure them out."

Her only response was a playful punch to my shoulder.

Lyra turned to Aethan. "You tell me," she pressed, a teasing edge in her voice.

Aethan grinned. "Well, he's Daemon Snow, the god-blessed. He has the power to control the mammoths once I found a herd. As for Lucamore..." He trailed off, shrugging. "I'm not entirely sure how that was handled in the night."

Authors note: so that happened.  Yes. daemon warged and controlled a dozen mammoths and  used them in the night when wildlings were sleeping.  Sometimes u have to fight smarter not harder.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: First Blood

Omniscient POV

Aemon was enthralled by the sight of the sprawling North as he flew to the Wall on Caraxes. Ever since they re-entered the North, Caraxes had been rough and temperamental, influenced by Aemon's own emotions, and the cold didn't help the dragon either. At least the Wolfswood was vast, and the population of wild animals plentiful enough that Caraxes could take out his anger and hunger on some bears and aurochs without taxing House Stark's resources.

Aemon flew over Long Lake, and as always since his journey to the North, his thoughts were full of Daemon and the prospect of meeting him for the first time. Hearing Daemon acknowledge his grandfather as his own father had been an arrow to Aemon's heart, stirring feelings of anger, disdain, and jealousy. Even now, he didn't know what would happen when he finally saw Daemon. The anger dissolved to nothing as he enjoyed the view of the North, its snow-laden mountains, and lakes from the air. Maybe Caraxes would allow Daemon to ride with him after they burned down whatever paltry wildling army Lucamore the Lusty had gathered.  The disgraced knight could beat even Aemon in a spar, but he never intends to even touch the ground before the wildling army is turned to ashes.

"Prince Aemon, welcome to Castle Black," said Lord Commander Ryswell, bowing in respect as Aemon entered the courtyard. The Lord Commander noted the young prince's facial resemblance to Daemon and sensed the same air of arrogance in his posture, though the bastard's was perhaps even higher than that of the dragon-riding crown prince of the realm. Ryswell would have scoffed at that before, but when all his sources spoke of Daemon slaughtering hundreds, a blur of blood and ancient magic wielded with ice, the young bastard indeed had something to be arrogant about.

'What is a man compared to one who's god-blessed and kills before others even draw their swords?' The Lord Commander Ryswell thought swallowing the feelings of fear.

"I can see you are prepared for something. What is it, and why have you not ventured beyond the Wall to kill the enemy king?" Aemon asked, attempting to smother his anger as he thought of his son leading a paltry force against superior numbers in the harsh lands beyond the Wall.

"My prince, the wildlings have no way through other than crossing this Wall. It is far easier for us to kill them here than to hunt them down in their own lands," Lord Ryswell replied.

"So you allowed an army of 1,000 and my son to cross and hunt 7,000 men you yourself were afraid to face without hiding behind a 700-foot wall?" Aemon's temper rose at the thought of his son in such danger.

"My prince, I had no choice but to allow them passage. Even though I hold superior numbers, I don't want to face your son while he wields Ice. You son has actually earned his moniker of 'Red Death' twice over.  The stories of a sword in flames and him being a whirlwind of violence and broken bodies are true. He destroyed an entire castle, venting his wrath upon 500 traitors there. The fire started by his slaughter even melted some portions of The Wall, which was said to be impossible."

"Let us hope they are all well when I catch up to them. I will end this wildling threat immediately. Even snow melts under dragonfire," Aemon replied as Caraxes, who had been lying outside the gates, slowly rose and let out a mighty roar.

Aemon walked back the way he came and climbed into the saddle.

Caraxes looked back at him as if asking what to do. He sent a mental nudge urging the dragon to fly. To maintain their supposed cover of how close a dragon-rider is to their dragon, he called out, "Sōvēs!" in High Valyrian.

Caraxes spread his red wings, and with two powerful flaps, they were half the height of the Wall and hundreds of meters to the south. Aemon almost face-palmed at his dragon's antics, sending a feeling of laughter and an image of reversing their flight and soaring over the Wall.

Yet, for the first time, his dragon outright ignored his order. Caraxes continued flying away from the Wall. Aemon tried to probe the dragon's feelings, but there was only a bone-deep wariness and caution. Deciding to be more forceful, he commanded Caraxes to return to the Wall. They reached the Wall at double its height, but Caraxes moved sideways, beginning to fly west instead. Aemon looked down and understood: his dragon would not cross the Wall's boundary.

He remembered the old tale of how Queen Alysanne's Silverwing refused three times to fly over the Wall. With a sigh of defeat, Aemon ordered Caraxes to return to the Night's Watch.

Upon landing, he met Lord Commander Ryswell, who had been waiting in the courtyard. Aemon guessed the Night's Watch still recalled Silverwing's story.

"How long has it been since my son went beyond the Wall, and is there any chance of catching up with him?"

"No, my prince, it has been six days since Daemon left, and he rejected any scouts. We have rangers stationed near the Wall to report if an army returns, but beyond that, it's not our duty to know their location."

Aemon's temper flared, but he didn't want to cause a scene, knowing the Lord Commander was right.

"I see. Then you will send your fastest rangers to find my son and his men. Though he has inherited the talents of my blood in arms and magic, he's still young to be fighting such numbers in hostile territory. They are to order him to return immediately. Also, arrange for the best tent to be set up outside the gates for myself and my dragon. He is weary and irritable in this cold, and may end up killing your men without my supervision."

Lord Ryswell was angered at the prince's presumption. "I am not under your command an—" he began but was interrupted by the vicious roar of the red-winged beast outside.

Ryswell cursed the thrice-damned abomination of a dragon and its magic as he nodded in reluctant agreement, conceding to Aemon's demands.

Prince Aemon's time at the Wall was dragging on far longer than he anticipated, his patience waning under the relentless cold and monotony. Each day, he tried in vain to push Caraxes to fly over the Wall, but the red dragon remained steadfast, refusing to cross the ancient barrier. Every failed attempt seemed to gnaw at his pride, and his restlessness deepened. He'd taken to training with some guardsmen from House Umber—rough, towering men from Last Hearth who offered solid practice but little in the way of mental relief. They, along with several other men, had been sent north at his request when he passed through Last Hearth, a precaution he'd considered necessary given his uncertain stay.

On the second day, the trouble began. A pair of men from the Night's Watch, desperate and evidently harboring a vendetta against the crown, tried to ambush him, clearly embittered by their grievances with the royal family. Caraxes, sensing the threat almost before Aemon did, swiftly dealt with them, a ferocious roar echoing across Castle Black. The incident left Aemon unsettled—though the two men hadn't been part of the conspiracy of traitors, their loathing had been palpable. The thought lingered, irritating him like a thorn he couldn't remove.

And then came the dreams. For four nights, Aemon was haunted by visions of confronting Daemon, his estranged son, only for his own pride and anger to unleash dire punishments on Daemon. In one such dream, he witnessed Caraxes lashing out, burning Daemon as he defended himself. In another, Daemon—wielding Ice with a mastery of strange, northern magic—defeated Caraxes and turned on him, ending both dragon and rider with cold fury.

It was the seventh night that marked the breaking point. In his dream, Daemon's face was etched with brutal clarity as he slashed through Caraxes with ease using the Great Sword Ice, leaving Aemon defenseless before striking him down. The dream was vivid enough to enrage Caraxes through his bond; the dragon woke in an uncontrollable fury, lashing out and slaughtering two Night's Watch guards by the gate and nearly bringing down part of the castle itself. It took all of Aemon's skill to calm the irate dragon.

At dawn, Lord Commander Ryswell approached him, seething with anger at the carnage but unable to voice his resentment openly. Aemon, exhausted and haunted by his nightmares, merely brushed off Ryswell's anger. He promised to compensate the Night's Watch with resources and ten prisoners from the crown to join their ranks—a gesture that earned him a bitter nod of acceptance from the Lord Commander.

The following morning, Aemon resolved to leave. He could no longer bear the thought of facing Daemon, his visions gnawing at him as much as his son's palpable absence. He gave Ryswell a final message before his departure.

"When my son returns, he is to take the head of the so-called King Beyond the Wall, along with Ice, and escort them directly to Winterfell. No detours, no other adventures."

Ryswell, stiff but resigned, gave a curt nod. "I will inform him, my prince."

Aemon mounted Caraxes, and with a powerful clap of wings, they soared southward, away from the Wall and his son's shadow.

Beyond the wall

Daemon Snow

After the slaughter of the wildlings, I allowed dozens to survive to spread word of my name and our deeds. We were now returning to Castle Black. The head of the traitor was preserved, and the army was in high spirits, as no one had lost their life in this mad quest. During this return journey, I took the time to reflect on my actions since the death of my grandfather. I had been hasty in many things, but looking back, I couldn't see any other way to achieve what I wanted.

"Daemon, why are we circling around?" Lyra asked me, riding beside my position at the front of the army. Aethan was at the rear, and the first line of soldiers was out of earshot due to the noise of marching. Ever since the night I became known as the Red Death, Lyra had been trying to stay close to me. We had been close friends ever since our first meeting at Winterfell, and I trusted her to some extent, but I hadn't revealed my more esoteric abilities. When I first met her in the godswood, I felt an immediate crush on her, but it faded within a week. Looking back now, I realized that my powers' control aspect had likely suppressed the feeling, since I had decided not to develop a crush because it was a weakness.

At first, I hadn't noticed her intentions, consumed as I was by grief and focused on vengeance. But now, with time to process things, I could see she might have developed feelings for me. Her new habit of sticking by my side had become a bit of a headache, as I had to censor what I said when I had discussions with Aethan.

"Lyra, let me ask you something. Why have you been staying so close to me since that night? You've been acting oddly and asking many questions."

Lyra looked guilty for a few seconds, and I couldn't understand why.

"Daemon, I want to apologize to you. It was my fault that you lost your grandfather. If my mother hadn't found us—because of my own carelessness—then Lord Stark wouldn't have had to jump in front of those arrows to save you. I'm so sorry, Daemon. I can see how much it affected you, and I feel guilty for the lengths you went to for revenge," Lyra said in a broken voice.

I was taken aback by her conclusion and could see how deeply it was affecting her. I felt ashamed that I had mistaken her caring and guilt for romantic feelings.

"Lyra, that's the most foolish thing I've ever heard," I said seriously.

"What?" Lyra sputtered, utterly confused.

"Do you think I would have hidden that night even if I hadn't been with my grandfather? We were ambushed by crossbowmen, and they weren't there for me. They were after the lords. You had nothing to do with it, Lyra. You aren't responsible for the traitors' actions. They're the ones responsible, and they've paid the price. That's enough."

Lyra looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded, a smile of relief crossing her face.

"You still haven't answered my question, Daemon," she said after a couple of minutes.

I sighed, knowing Lyra was trustworthy and deserved honesty.

"Prince Aemon Targaryen is at Castle Black, waiting for our arrival—or at least for the riders sent by the Night's Watch with his orders for us to return to the other side immediately. I don't want to see him or face a dragon right now. From what I can tell, his patience is thinning every day, and I don't think he volunteered to come north now, after ignoring me all this time."

Lyra grimaced but nodded in understanding.

"Daemon, how long do you intend to linger here? I'm sure the soldiers won't complain, but if your father or the king learns of it, you'll be in more trouble."

"Don't worry too much, Lyra. I'm still just a bastard, not important enough for them to be overly concerned. And there's another reason for our delay. Aethan and I are looking for something," I said with a grin, but I didn't elaborate. Knowing my dramatic streak, Lyra just scoffed and didn't bother to ask further.

That Night.

The camp was set up for the night, and I was preparing for my own trip. After a long search, my birds had finally spotted my quarry: a pair of direwolves with six pups, likely less than a week old. The wolves were several miles from our path, moving with haste, and I decided to go after them alone.

"Are you sure about this, Daemon?" Aethan asked as I secured a short axe to my belt. Ice was strapped to my back, as I couldn't run or move with it at my hip.

I was silent for a moment before answering. "I'm hesitant to approach fully grown direwolves, Aethan, but this is an opportunity I can't pass up. With my warging and other skills, I should be able to escape if they turn hostile."

Aethan scrutinized me. "Well, I'll keep my eyes on you anyway."

I nodded in thanks.

I sighed in relief as the water satisfied my thirst and calmed my panting from the run. The initial plan was to use my horse, but nighttime posed a major problem. Under the full moon's glow, with my improved night vision, I had no trouble crossing the land on foot. I ate the dried meat and gulped down water to easily replenish my strength, feeling my enhanced body processing the food faster than was normally possible.

Using my warging abilities, I observed the pair of direwolves, 200 meters ahead, just outside a cave through the eyes of an owl. Both direwolves were tense, growling at the cave's entrance and glancing around in vigilance. The male was as large as my horse, with far more muscle on his frame. The female, though shorter, was nearly as tall as my horse back in camp. Between them stood six pups, trying to mimic their parents' growls, though they could barely manage a weak rumble.

I wondered what had them on edge and considered whether they'd already sensed me. Expanding my warging, I scanned the area and detected nine presences. One animal was inside the cave—a bear, from what I could gather through my hesitant prodding. I tensed immediately; even fully grown direwolves would struggle to protect their pups and kill a cave bear simultaneously. As my awareness expanded further, I felt the presence observing me ever since I crossed the wall, growing stronger as I reached out. I fortified my defenses, ensuring it would gather no secrets from my mind.

Deciding that openness was better than stealth, I leapt down from the tree. The male direwolf's head whipped in my direction, and he growled a warning. I withdrew my mind from all my birds and extended it to connect with both direwolves. I projected warmth, kinship, and respect, though they remained wary and continued to growl.

Raising my hands to show they were empty, I cautiously approached. I was halfway there when suddenly, I tripped and fell, feeling something latch onto my left leg from behind.

I looked back and screamed like a little girl for a second as I saw a rotted hand holding my left leg, exerting an unnatural strength for such a thin limb.

"Fuck this shit!" I yelled, using all my strength to kick at the hand with my right leg. Even as the hand broke away from the main body of the wight rising from beneath the snow, it remained firmly grasping my leg, trying to pierce my flesh with sheer strength alone. The grip and sharp bones could have easily pierced a normal man's skin, but my own durability had increased, preventing it from achieving that now.

The snow I walked through was moving and wiggling as wights emerged from the ground. For a moment, I froze as the raw necromantic magic hit my senses like a giant's fist, and my innate learning talent went into overdrive, absorbing information from the wights.

I may have seen many zombies on screens in my previous life, but there was something inherently disturbing about seeing a live one in front of me. I hoped my scream and freezing moment hadn't been caught by Aethan through his birds.

I immediately crawled a couple of meters backward, faster than I thought possible, then jumped back at the end, putting even more distance between me and the wights. I scanned the area for the white walker leading them and spotted an ethereal being of ice observing us from the other side of the clearing through which I had come.

I took two more steps backward, but my concentration on the wights was interrupted by a growl. I glanced back in surprise and realized I had entered the direwolf's lunging range; it was warning me to stay away while tensing its muscles for a leap.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I snarled back at the wolf, flaring my presence with killing intent consciously for the first time to ensure the wolf wouldn't attack me from behind. "These dead fuckers are hunting you and your pack. I'm trying to protect you." The male direwolf looked afraid for a moment and turned its eyes toward the wights, ignoring me.

I saw a hundred wights—made from men and women—eerily observing us with absolute stillness and silence. Even the cold wind of the night had died down, and the creatures of the night had long since fallen silent. The blue light of their eyes was truly chilling, sending a shiver down my spine as I imagined millions of these abominations staring at me before an attack. I immediately shrugged off that vision and readied my axe, preparing to test the abilities of these wights. I thanked my younger self for training my speed so much, knowing I could always escape by running away. I was confident enough in my skills and powers to avoid using Ice immediately and test the wights' capabilities. I would have grabbed two pups and run away if Ice had not been with me.

"Yeah, whatever. This staring is getting boring," I snapped, taking my axe and walking forward. "Let's dance."

It had been only five minutes since my battle with the wights began, and I immediately noticed the differences between these wights and the canon ones.

For one, these wights could heal any damage to their undead bodies—not catastrophic damage like losing a body part, but any slash or blunt force was healing slowly. Luckily they retained every damage they accrued before being turned to a wight. Second, surprisingly, there was coordination among the wights as they attacked from all sides. Only my superior speed allowed me to jump away or escape the traps set by the wights. The third thing I noticed was that each wight had retained the skills they possessed in life. Their attacks weren't just indifferent flails; they had a basic level of skill. Fourth, I learned that decapitation or damaging the heart or brain didn't stop the body from moving.

I had dismembered over a quarter of the wights when The Other moved toward me from the clearing. It was fast, and an ice sword appeared in its hand, adding cryomancy to the list of Other's abilities. It moved with supernatural grace and I transferred the axe to my left hand while my right hand grasped Ice's hilt.

It was faster than even Bennard and I immediately understood that only skilled fighters with experience could actually defeat an Other even with Valyrian Steel in their hands unless they have enhanced body like me. 

The axe met the slash of the ice sword, and the steel shattered like glass. I leaned back to avoid a leftward slash from the ice sword. The returning slash was blocked by the Valyrian steel in Ice, and the Other widened its eyes in pure surprise. Capitalizing on the moment, I extended Ice and stabbed it through the other's stomach. The sword exited through the back, severing its spine, and it fell to the ground with a screech that almost made me deaf.

I took two steps backward, expecting the Other to shatter like in canon, but was surprised to see it not shatter. It yelled in a cold tongue as the gaping hole in its stomach stopped widening. Immediately, all the wights' bodies fell down as I felt enormous magical energy being siphoned to the Other itself.

Curious to see what would happen, I watched as the gaping hole in its stomach slowly closed while the bodies of the wights turned to ashes. Cursing my luck for having wights and others with a small healing factor, I pierced the heart of the other with my Valyrian steel, and surprisingly this time, it shattered like brittle glass. Only my control talent made me not panic as I realised that I have to defeat, possibly millions of wights with healing factor.

I sighed as tiredness enveloped me after the events. I turned back toward the direwolves when suddenly, the presence that had observed me the moment I entered this side of the Wall surged all around me. I felt the cold hands of The Other enveloping my head from behind, and I sensed my mind palace, Winterfell's defenses, shattering like glass as the mind entered my consciousness, trying to subjugate me. I lost control of my physical body as my entire will fought against the invading force. I fell to the ground as the other's hand touched my head, and my grip on Ice's hilt loosened.

I understood that the presence overwhelming me was the Night King, using greenseeing and his own minion to directly attack me from his fortress in the Lands of Always winter. I had only ever felt such an attack in my mind once before, when Balerion The Black Dread invaded my thoughts during my vision. The Night King kept shattering every defense I raised. The hundred-foot black walls of my Winterfell mind palace crumbled as ice and snow began to cover the entire castle. My bonds with my animals severed as my mind cracked under the superior power. The weirwood in the heart of Winterfell started rotting, and the blurry dragon nearby went into hibernation due to the cold.

"No!" I yelled as my mind tried to fight back, but the pressure was overwhelming. My talent grasped many things while I defended myself, but even that wasn't enough to overcome this assault. As my own talent picked the skill of forcing oneself to another beings mind from this assault, using my entire will for a single heartbeat I retaliated, my will slipped into the ancient entity's outer mind, and I felt millions of connections to its consciousness. While I had many animals I used, it was just a drop in the ocean compared to the countless connections the Night King had forged with his subordinates through his mind and body, all interconnected like weirwood network and feeding their powers to it. I understood that the stategy of killing off the head of the snake and the army will crumple will be useless in this world.

 The difference in experience and the bonds of the Night King were immense, and I was immediately repelled backward. That was an opening for the Night King, and I felt my mind shredding under the pressure. The first tower, walls of first keep shattered and I finally understood that this might be the end of my life.

 Then, the Night King made a mistake in his haste to subjugate me.

Just then, I was suddenly pierced by an ice sword from behind. The coldness and pain made my body react, and I regained a flicker of physical control. With immense strain, I tried to grasp Ice. By luck, my hand was not near the hilt but at the sharp Valyrian steel edge. My palm was slashed open, and the pain grounded me further in reality. Blood fell onto the Valyrian steel, and I grasped the sword by its sharp edge. With a yell that defied the power threatening to gain full control of my mind and body, I used the most basic magic I had learned in this life: I ignited my blood, and the sword was engulfed in flames.

The flames of the sword gave me a sudden strength as I grabbed it and rolled on the ground, while slashing with all my strength. I saw my attacker, it was the other shattered earlier that had reformed haphazardly. The Ice went through its hips bisecting it and it caught fire.

For a moment, the Night King—a being of ice for 8,000 years—felt heat and fire and withdrew from controlling my body and mind in reflex. The pressure came back on my mind but it was lessened drastically as one of the connections through which the Night King attacked me directly was cleansed by fire powered by my blood. Only the shattered state of my mind defense gave it any hope for accomplishing it's goal.

Suddenly, an insane idea struck me. I slashed both of my palms open as I crawled toward the fire and lay down among the flames. The fire grew hotter as it fed on my blood.

Again the fire made the Night King withdraw in reflex and it was the only second I needed.

As I lay there, my mind conjured the firewall I had encountered in Balerion's mind around Winterfell in my consciousness. The black walls of Winterfell were remade in seconds, and the outer walls were enveloped in fire. The mind version of Winterfell had been completely buried under ice and snow by that time, but the sudden appearance of the firewall and the loss of direct power from the Night King caused the snow to start melting immediately. I knew the Night King would come back any moment, as he was on the cusp of victory—and I was not wrong.

Overwhelming pressure surged and entered my mind, but this time I was prepared. The firewall made a difference, and having the flaming Ice bonded to me was a huge advantage. As the Night King couldn't overwhelm the fire I copied from Balerion, he retreated, and I knew I had won, only because he didn't have direct contact with me the second time.

I lay in the fire and removed the crystal ice sword that was still pierced in my stomach, throwing it far away. I sensed necromantic energy and ice magic trying to destroy my body from within. With no other choice, I took the still flaming Ice and pierced the spot where the thin ice sword had entered me. I felt nothing as the flesh around was almost killed by frostbite, immediately, the fire cleansed the necromantic and death magic, but Ice, being a ridiculously large sword, left a huge wound in my stomach.

I crawled outside of the fire and lay in the cold snow to cool off from the heat of the flames. The magical nature of the fire had burned me in many areas, even with my enhanced fire resistance. I saw the direwolves approaching me, and I tried to sit up to defend myself if needed, but the movement made me faint from exhaustion.

Authors Note:  Happy New  Year everyone and hope everyone had nice holidays along with whatever festival you have !!

Ah, well that happened and finally daemon and one of his main enemies collide and Nights king lost one other and 100 wights permanently. As I said this will not have just 100k wights and 10 others in this fic and they are interconnected allowing them to do all sorts of things….

Next chapter: Daemon and Aemon faces their liege lords after not following their orders..

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!!

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 21: Protector of The Realm

 80 AC

Beyond the wall

I woke to the sensation of wetness on my face. Groaning, I opened my eyes and was immediately greeted by a direwolf pup licking me repeatedly. The pup had pure black fur and striking green eyes. Flaring my senses, I could feel the bond between us, able to see myself through the direwolf's eyes.

I withdrew and noticed blood droplets around the direwolf's mouth; it had been licking at the wound on my stomach and drinking blood from it. The wound was only half healed, and I groaned as I sat up, feeling the pain. My clothes had been burned in the fire, and the only reason I hadn't died from frostbite was due to the cold resistance I'd developed in my younger years.

I saw another wolf cub, white as a ghost, lying near my foot. It was the runt of the litter, seemingly abandoned by its mother. The mother was nursing the other pups, and the father stood guard over them—and maybe over me, too.

The moment I sat up, the pack began to move away, leaving my direwolf and the runt behind. I extended my senses to the male direwolf and tried to convey visions of safety, food, and shelter. But he growled back in annoyance, and I shrugged.

"Well, I tried." I said as I looked at the black direwolf in my hand.

The black direwolf wagged its tail at me.

"Well, you're a lucky one. You're stuck with me for a long time, Fenrir." The only name I could think of, looking at him, was Fenrir. The direwolf woofed at the name, and I could feel acceptance through our fledgling bond. I could already tell this was unlike my other bonds with animals. There was something more in this bond—I could almost feel a magical thread weaving between us, connecting us. Perhaps it was because my talent had picked up on the Night King's skilled use of this power, but I wondered how much this bond would develop.

"Well, well, Lyra will be angry that she missed this sight, Daemon," Aethan's voice called as he and ten men from Winterfell entered the clearing on their horses. Despite his teasing tone, I could still sense the worry beneath it.

"Lord Snow, what happened? Who did this to you?" one of the men-at-arms asked me, handing over my spare clothes.

"Don't worry, my friend. I've succeeded in my quest." I lifted my black direwolf and held him up, just like Rafiki held young Simba. "This is Fenrir, and after centuries, a direwolf has returned to House Stark."

Feeling my amusement, Fenrir tried to howl majestically, but it came out as a small sound that made me laugh.

Everyone, except Aethan, looked at me as if I were insane, but I could sense the awe and fear through their presence as I extended my senses. After that intense fight with the Night King, I could tell my mental prowess had increased drastically, and now I had a kind of discount empathy sense.

"Get dressed, Daemon; we have to go," Aethan warned, and I nodded in acceptance.

The Wall.

Ever since the battle, every single bond with my animals had been severed, and I'd had to manually reestablish each one as they came to find me. All the birds on this side of the Wall had returned, making it easy to reconnect with them. The problem was that I couldn't sense any of my connections beyond the Wall, and because of that, I had no idea whether Prince Aemon had left or whether he was still waiting for me.

I hardened my mind as we entered the courtyard of Castle Black, scanning for a flash of silver hair. Seeing none, I sighed slightly, easing a tension I hadn't even realized I was holding. The direwolf pups were tied to my body by cloth, both curiously peeking out. They lay nestled against me, wrapped securely, and it was astonishing to see how much they'd grown in just a week—much faster than any dog or wolf.

Lord Ryswell's eyes widened in surprise when he saw the direwolves. He glanced around the army, a series of questions flashing across his face as he realized that our numbers hadn't diminished and there were no injuries among us.

"So, Prince Aemon Targaryen has fled back to the south rather than face me. Is that it?" I said, smirking.

A few gasps sounded at the audacity of my words, but Lord Commander quickly cut in. "Prince Aemon instructed me to order you not to linger here any longer and to proceed directly to Winterfell, as promised by you."

"Ah, don't worry," I replied. "As you can see, Ice is strapped to my back, and Aethan—show them the traitor's head."

With a grimace, Aethan held up the preserved head of the treacherous knight, displaying it for all to see.

"As I said," I continued, "we vanquished the wildling army beyond the Wall without suffering a single injury. The Old Gods have blessed House Stark once again with their fated companions—the direwolves have returned south of the Wall. The black one, Fenrir, is mine, and the white one will belong to my cousin, Lord Cregan Stark."

The Lord Commander grasped the significance of my words, and finally, he spoke. "I offer you guest rights, and perhaps you might enlighten me on how you achieved such an impossible victory."

I ofcourse, accepted the guest rights graciously.

One moon later

Winterfell.

Upon our arrival at Winterfell, we were met with a hero's welcome from the people of Wintertown and the castle. I presented the sword and the traitor's head to Lord Cregan Stark. Cregan, alongside Lady Giliane Stark, welcomed us in the courtyard. I could see Cregan was holding back tears of happiness at the sight of me, though he was doing his best to maintain the Lord Stark Mask of our grandfather.

Cregan was looking at puppies at my feet curiosly and I decided to end the surprise.

After the pleasantries were over, Cregan's gaze fell curiously on the pups at my feet, so I decided it was time to reveal the surprise. I lifted the white pup into my hands—it was already the size of a one-year-old dog—and presented it to Cregan.

"Cregan, little brother, it's time House Stark is reunited with its wolf protectors. Here is the direwolf pup I obtained from beyond the Wall for you. You may name this one, and I have named mine Fenrir."

Everyone looked at the black pup, now larger than the white one. My blood and the bond we shared had accelerated my companion's growth. Seeing the white wolf and feeling the bond, Cregan finally let go of the Stark mask. He lunged forward to hug me, whispering "Thank you" over and over.

It wasn't even the next day before Lord Regent Bennard Stark summoned me to the solar. Though it irked me, I didn't want to start trouble on my first day back, so I decided to present myself.

As I entered the solar, I saw Lord Bennard standing near the fireplace, his back to me. My eyes drifted to the Lord's empty chair, and memories flooded my mind of the countless meetings I'd had with my grandfather in this very room. I sighed, taking a deep breath to control the sadness that enveloped me. My anger had been satiated, but sadness had no cure, save time—or perhaps my control ability to cheat it.

Cregan was sitting with his mother on the chairs along the wall. I looked at them and they shrugged in confusion.

I cleared my throat to break the awkwardness of the room.

"Daemon Snow, you may have escaped punishment due to being the son of a prince and the foolishness of my nephew, but know that you are being watched. You usurped my authority and wielded a sword to which you have no right. Beware—I am not fooled by your intentions, hidden though they may be from my brother and father," Bennard said sternly, still not turning to face me. I was surprised at how my uncle had arrived at such a foolish notion.

"My lord—" Lady Gilaine began, trying to come to my defense, but Bennard turned abruptly and snapped,

"Oh, shut up, Glover! Like everyone else, you too are charmed by this dragonspawn. You have no idea what he has done. The people of the North may praise my father for the improvements he brought—even for restoring Moat Cailin—but the lords know the truth. The ideas came from him," he said, nodding towards me. "For centuries, House Stark has never needed to question the loyalty of the Reeds, Manderlys, or Mormonts. And yet Daemon has impressed their lords and heirs more than Cregan has. He even convinced Reed's heir to go with him beyond the Wall on a reckless mission. Now the smallfolk and the lords praise his military strength and martial prowess, all at the tender age of thirteen. If I didn't know for a fact he had no contact with Targaryens since birth or that he is too prideful to be a puppet, I might even think he was planted here to turn House Stark into a puppet of the dragon throne."

Even I was taken aback by my uncle's rant for a moment, but soon the memories from my previous life hit me, and I started laughing. It began as a snort, but within seconds it grew into an uproarious, uncontrollable laugh.

"Ha…hahahaha!"

"Daemon," Lady Gilaine said, looking shocked at my reaction, while Bennard was, of course, furious at the apparent disrespect.

"Sorry, Uncle, but that's the best joke you've ever told," I said, stifling my laughter. "I have no desire for Winterfell or the North. I have higher purposes in this life than ruling over a gaggle of idiotic lords." I looked at Cregan, who was glancing between his uncle and me, his thoughts racing.

"Cregan, you don't have to worry about anything. You will be Lord of Winterfell when you come of age—I'll make sure of it." I turned back to my uncle with a stern look.

"Thank you, Daemon," Cregan said, hugging Winter, his direwolf, close.

"You may placate them with this boasting, but I will keep my eye on you. And your strutting around Winterfell as a prince is over. I've spoken with Lady Mormont, and you are to foster with House Mormont on Bear Island, since you seem so taken with her daughter," Bennard declared.

My smile faded, realizing that my plans were unraveling even further.

"What?" Lady Glover interrupted. "And you decided this on your own? I am co-regent!"

"Yes, you are co-regent, and of course you can change this, but I wonder how the Mormonts will take it since they were honored to host a son of Winterfell," Bennard replied smoothly.

Both Lady Glover and I saw what Bennard's intentions were. We couldn't reject his order without insulting the Mormonts—especially after the loyalty they had shown to me and House Stark. This was an unofficial punishment, the furthest Bennard could go in removing me from Winterfell, effectively banishing me to the northernmost of the lowly bannermen.

"No!" Cregan shouted, realizing we weren't going to challenge the decision. "You can't send him away from me. I need him here."

"That's not my problem, Cregan. Daemon may stay for a moon's turn, but after that, he is to go to Bear Island with the Mormont heiress. This decision is final." With that, Bennard left the solar.

"Daemon, you can't go! You still have to teach me so many things," Cregan said as soon as the door closed.

"Don't worry, Cregan. I'll find a way to keep teaching you, even from Bear Island," I said, trying to reassure my young cousin.

Four Weeks Later: Godswood

"Cregan, do you understand the plan?" I asked. "You'll warg into this bird at set times, or use it to contact me. I'll warg into my own bird left here, and we'll communicate that way."

Cregan scoffed. "I understand, Daemon. You're repeating it for the tenth time. There are potions made from your blood for a full year. I'm to consume that potion directly every week, and the diluted form with my food and water."

I sighed in exasperation as it was a typical childish response.

"Daemon…you'll come back, right? You won't marry Lyra Mormont and stay there, will you?" Cregan asked, his curiosity piqued. "She's been looking at you…strangely."

I scoffed. "I'm not marrying her, Cregan. Now look after Winter, and she'll look after you, too."

Cregan nodded eagerly before running after the direwolves.

"Brandon, you are to be Lady Gilaine's sworn sword from today until I call you back," I told my silent shadow. Though I had my own birds and animals in Winterfell, a human perspective would be valuable.

Brandon raised his hand as if to protest, but my glare stopped him short. He nodded reluctantly.

I sighed, exhausted by the thought of reworking my plans for the future. At least the silent improvements to cattle and the people of Winterfell would continue, as Bennard wasn't foolish enough to halt the developments begun by his father. I would miss the comforts of Winterfell, but it seemed the Mormonts would be lucky to have me there to help develop their lands.

I looked at the weirwood tree, knowing it would be my last time here for a long while, then walked to the courtyard where Lyra and Lady Mormont waited for me.

80AC

Kingslanding

The Spring Prince

 Baelon waited with the King in the royal solar for his brother to return and report after his journey to Winterfell. He had been anxious the entire time Aemon was in the North and had even used the glass candles to keep an eye on him—nearly getting immolated by Caraxes for his trouble. Sometimes, he cursed the gods for not granting his brother any talent in sorcery.

Aemon entered the solar and bowed to the King as tradition required. The moment Baelon caught Aemon's gaze, he knew his brother had disobeyed one of the King's orders.

"Aemon, come, sit, and tell me which of my orders you chose to ignore. I can see it on your face—you didn't follow my instructions," the King said, sighing in weariness.

"Aemon," Baelon acknowledged, as Aemon sat beside him, facing the King across the table.

"Father, I appointed Bennard and Lady Gilaine as co-regents due to Bennard's disrespect. He's still bitter over my love for his bastard sister and holds a vendetta over it, which clouds his judgment. Here's what happened in Winterfell…" Aemon explained.

Baelon looked at the King and he saw the king contemplating the information.  Baelon could see the subtle shock and a slight fear in the King's face hearing about Daemon's rampage with a Valyrian Steel Sword and pyromancy.

"Aemon, are you certain of this account?" the King asked, his tone grave. "Could it not be an exaggeration from panicked peasants, who mistook Daemon's skills with Valyrian steel for something more? Even among the Old Blood only few know of  the full potential of such weapons unless that power is accidentally awakened."

Baelon grimaced, knowing the King would be displeased that his thirteen-year-old grandson had uncovered one of the secret aspect of Valyrian steel—and wielded a greatsword with the grace and ease of perfectly matched sword, when the size should have been a liability at his age.

"Aye, Father. From what I gathered, Daemon stands nearly five-and-a-half feet tall with enough muscle to make a Baratheon jealous. But even with that to wield a Greatsword like Ice as it is said, he must have activated the bonding aspect of the blade. Even with the usual bonding Valyrian Steel sword had, Ice is more than that. It actually burned Lord Karstark when he tried to take it and deemed his motives suspect.  There is also the matter of Fire spreading coldness after it radiated hotness like the dornish desert for a moment. Everyone agreed that the Ice spread a bone deep cold making everyone freeze in terror."  Aemon said with a grimace.

Baelon could hear the King's mind working hard to grasp the magic involved, as he was certain there was still some knowledge his father had yet to teach him.

"Interesting, very interesting. There must be a reason the Starks retained the name of their original ancestral sword when they commissioned the Valyrian steel from old Valyria," the King said thoughtfully. "But these are just words, Aemon. What made you believe this is the truth? Have you seen Daemon perform such feats with your own eyes?"

Aemon immediately looked guilty, and Baelon understood; for some reason, Aemon had not seen his son on this trip.

"I never saw him, Father. I couldn't get the opportunity. I believe the story because—even without the smallfolk knowing the full tale—Daemon is regarded as a god-gifted child. I inquired further, and they told me that everyone in Winterfell is healthy and that disease has almost been eradicated. They thank Daemon for this, believing he has the power to bless them with healing. I couldn't see him because he went beyond the Wall to hunt down the Lusty Knight, and no matter what I tried, Caraxes wouldn't fly over the Wall."

"Preposterous tales, Brother," Baelon interjected. "There is no magic that could heal that many people for years."

"That's true, Aemon. Perhaps it was just a phase or due to other policies. I'll forgive you for waiting only seven days instead of staying until my grandson returned and completing my order. You've captured the spirit of it, though," the King said thoughtfully. "So why did you attempt to fly over the Wall when even Silverwing wouldn't do it?" he asked curiously.

Baelon was surprised to see the King forgiving Aemon for not actually meeting with Daemon. Observing him, Baelon finally understood why: the King had never truly expected Aemon to accomplish the order as it was given.

Aemon looked ashamed for a moment before replying, "I forgot about that story, Father. Only after I tried the first time did I remember the tale of Silverwing and Mother. Speaking of Mother, where is she? She usually attends these meetings."

"Our mother is with child again, Aemon. It's surprising, especially at her age, but the maester has recommended rest for now." Baelon tried to break the news gently, but Aemon's frown quickly turned to anger, revealing he had failed.

The King wore a mocking smile, as if daring Aemon to speak up.

"Why, Father? Why risk it all for a child who might not survive, like our brothers Gaemon and Valerion?" Aemon asked, struggling to hide his anger.

The King grimaced at the memory of his lost children, but it disappeared quickly. "You are my heir and my eldest living child, so I'll show you the courtesy of answering. After Valerion, the maesters said there would be no more children, that her chances were near impossible at our ages. There are too few Targaryens left in this world, and my eldest son has avoided his duty to sire more children because of the fear of losing them—or his wife—to the birthing bed. I have no such fears. Alysanne has successfully borne twelve children, and I am sure she will be unharmed by the thirteenth too."

Baelon could see Aemon looked guilty under his father's chastisement, but he knew Aemon would never change his mind on this matter.

"May I be excused, Father? I need to meet my darling daughter and Viserys after freshening up," Aemon requested.

"Aye, you are dismissed," the King replied, waving him away.

Baelon wished to accompany his elder brother, but he knew it was impossible for now. As Aemon closed the door behind him, the King sighed wearily.

"Baelon, it seems your brother has recovered somewhat and performed admirably. What has your scrying through the glass candle discovered?" the King asked.

"As you know, my King, Winterfell is shielded against scrying by unknown means. I cannot view anything within the castle or enter the minds of its residents. Daemon is an exception, as our blood relation seems to bypass this protection, but I cannot glean much from his mind—it's protected by an imaginary Winterfell. I attempted it yesterday, and his skill in mental defense has improved drastically. I was almost burned by a new barrier around his mind, a black flame from the firewall that stopped me from even entering. More than that the flames counterattacked me and even followed the link to my mind. Only my bond with Vhagar and my own skill saved me. Later, I tried scrying on the smallfolk in Wintertown, and they all corroborated Aemon's version of events."

Baelon saw the King pale as he shared this information.

"Black flames?" the King asked hesitantly.

Baelon nodded, and for the first time, he saw the King slump in his seat, losing his regal posture, a shadow of sadness crossing his face.

"It seems Fate is a cruel mistress, and is punishing me by making the Targaryen blood sing with greatness in my bastard grandson after it blessed me." The King said and Baleon could see a glint of insanity and mirth in the King's face as the masks crumbled, the same madness that made the king threaten his own sons using Balerion the black dread. Baelon could see the mirth increasing but he couldn't understand the reason. The King snorted and a heartbeat later it was full blown laughter.

A laughter of a man who finally understood a joke that no one else could see.

Baelon paled further and his hands tightened around handles of his chair as his heartbeat increased. Baelon could see that somehow the iron control of the king has vanished and he is seeing the true self of the king.  A man brimming with both greatness and madness.

The King eventually stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes as he glanced at Baelon seated opposite him. A cruel glint entered the King's eyes.

"Ah, Baelon, forgive me, my son. No one has played such a trick on me since I was a child, but it seems the Fourteen Flames wish to punish me in my lifetime, not after my death. And it goes without saying that you will not disclose this lapse of mine to anyone," the King said with a careless smirk.

Baelon nodded immediately, deciding that no one would hear of this from him.

The king accepted this and continued, "Today I curse my own younger self for not approving the marriage request when Aemon sent his letter. I valued my wife and my hands advice and didn't think about the bloodline of my grandchild. It would have been perfect -The bastard girl will still die in the birthing bed and Aemon would be free to marry Jocelyn later. Our house will become more stronger by having a heir with such magical power and by my own teachings to him. But alas, my own arrogance blinded me and now it's too late."

Baelon wondered what would have happened if something like that happened.

"My King, is it truly too late? Daemon is only on the cusp of thirteen, and though we ignored him, House Targaryen has still supported him financially. We could invite him south and begin a relationship. I have many sisters with no suitable matches, which would address the issue of free dragons and prevent lords from seeking dragons through my sisters—or wait until Rhaenys is of age. She could marry her elder brother and he would be the king consort. Of course, he would have to renounce any claim to the Iron Throne before granting him the Targaryen name," Baelon advised.

The King kept silent as he mulled over the idea.

"No, Baelon. It's too dangerous to bring him into our midst now. According to Aemon's tale, Daemon regards Lord Stark as his father, and the carnage he unleashed after Lord Stark's death validates that. He has no love for our family and is highly intelligent. He would immediately know we only called him because he proved himself in battle and because we want to verify the stories of his 'god-blessed' powers."

Baelon nodded in understanding. "Aye my king, he will obviously know the true reason, but what if he desires such a connection. He lost his loving relatives in his grandfather and uncle. There is only Bennard left and he hates daemon. The other is Cregan who is younger than him, so irrelevant. You are his other grandfather, and I am his uncle from other side of the family. It may be helpful to integrate him to house Targaryen through that relation."

The King scrutinized Baelon with a proud smirk. "It's too risky," he said. "The cost may outweigh the benefits he offers us. What if he comes to King's Landing and bonds with Balerion, the Black Dread? And if the stories of his talents are true—if he can heal others and make them whole again—then he would be dangerous to our house. With Balerion fully healed, even I could not contest Daemon's claim should he seek the heirship and the Targaryen name after Aemon. He would make us his puppets, and we would have nothing to make him obey. No fear, no loyalty, and certainly not kinship."

Baelon paled at the thought, understanding the King's reasoning.

"I understand, my King."

"Baelon, keep an eye on him through those near him, but do not enter his mind again. Keep me informed of his sentiments toward our house. If one of my daughters might know the honor of being a dragonrider at the price of Daemon's loyalty, I am willing to pay it. You are dismissed," the King said.

Baelon rose and bowed. "Your Grace."

He left the room without making it obvious he was running away from the king.

Authors Note: Time skips incoming from next chapter!!!!

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!! 

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Peaceful Times.

82 AC

The Spring Prince

Kingslanding.

 Baelon gazed at the tiny bundle of joy cradled in his arms—his second son. The child had come early, but the birth had been surprisingly easy for Alyssa. Even now, the boy bore the unmistakable Targaryen features, and Baelon knew he would steal many hearts when he grew older just like himself and his beloved wife.

He sat alone in the nursery, pondering names to discuss with Alyssa, when Aemon entered. Aemon had just returned from the Stormlands, and it was clear he had hastily cleaned up after dragon riding.

"I hear congratulations are in order, Baelon," Aemon said cheerfully. "A second son! Perhaps now Father can stop snapping at me for not providing a second child—or anything else he can complain about." He laughed as he reached out to take the child.

Baelon handed the baby to Aemon, watching as his elder brother's expression softened. It didn't take long for Baelon to realize that Aemon was lost in thought, likely about his own son.

"Aemon," Baelon said gently, trying to draw him from his stupor.

Aemon carefully returned the baby to Baelon and sighed deeply. "You're a lucky man, Baelon. You can love your boys freely and give them the world. Look at me—I lost my son, Daemon. Maybe it was my own fault, hating him for taking Lyarra from me. Or maybe it was the disdain the Andal lords held for bastards. I love Rhaenys more than anything in this world, but she's not a boy. And I couldn't always be there for her like her mother was." Aemon paused, his voice laced with melancholy. "Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I just flew to Bear Island and brought him home."

Baelon's happiness of having a second son immediately dimmed seeing the sadness in his beloved brother.

"Brother," Baelon said softly, "it's been nearly 15 years since that day. You were barely a man then. Now, your son has built a life for himself in the North. The lords there would beg to host him for the aid he could offer their houses. And when Cregan Stark ascends as Lord of Winterfell, he'll call his cousin back immediately. The King would never allow Daemon to return to the South—it's too dangerous for Rhaenys' position. Dragons are our strength, and Balerion still lies unclaimed in the Dragonpit. I am sorry brother, but I couldn't support you in this and I don't think you can actually meet Daemon, after all you ran away from that meeting two years ago. 

Baelon finished with a hint of reproach.

Aemon grimaced, frowning deeply. "I never told you why I returned to King's Landing after waiting for seven days at that godforsaken wall, did I?"

Baelon raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "No, brother, you didn't."

Aemon exhaled slowly. "It was horrible. I spent seven nights at the Wall, and every night I had nightmares—so vivid they felt like visions. The details changed, but the last days were always the same. My meeting with Daemon would go wrong, and my punishment for him would be harsh. But the last two dreams were the worst. In them, Daemon's words enraged me so much that Caraxes tried to kill him with fire—and he survived. Then Daemon used Ice to kill Caraxes and... me. He beheaded me with Ice." Aemon shuddered. "After those dreams, I decided it was better to withdraw than tempt fate."

Baelon processed the story and his mind went faster trying to decipher whether it was actually a dragon dream or just stupidity conjured by his brother's idiotic mind.

"It's all right, brother," he said, attempting to soothe him. "Avoiding that scenario was wise."

Aemon nodded, but before he could respond, the nursery door burst open. Rhaenys and Viserys tumbled inside, panting heavily, clearly trying to escape their caregivers. They leaned against the door, catching their breaths, oblivious to their fathers' presence.

"I can't believe we did that, Rhaenys," Viserys said, his voice tinged with nervousness. "We should've waited for permission to see our new brother."

"Oh, that would take too long, Vissy," Rhaenys teased. "This way, we can spend more time here without them realizing."

"Oh, is that so?" Aemon's stern voice cut through the room like a blade.

Both children froze at the sound, stiffening visibly. When they turned and saw their fathers' stern faces, their complexions paled.

"There's a reason you weren't allowed to see the baby today," Baelon said, his tone devoid of humor. "I'll explain it later. Ser Redwyne, escort the prince and princess to their rooms."

The silent knight, stationed unobtrusively in the corner, immediately stepped forward, bowed, and led the children out. Baelon turned back to Aemon and noticed a thoughtful expression on his brother's face.

"Brother?" Baelon called out.

Aemon shook his head to clear his thoughts, sighing when he saw Baelon's questioning look. "I was just thinking about the future, Baelon. It could be glorious—Rhaenys as Queen, Viserys as king consort, and your second son as Hand of the King. Our children continuing the golden period started by our Father, expanded by us. You're an excellent father, and moments like this make me realize how many I've missed with Daemon because of my hatred. I want that back."

Baelon shook his head. "Brother, you know that's impossible."

Aemon's gaze lingered on the baby in the cradle. Suddenly, a thought struck him. "Brother," he began hesitantly, "I want to ask something of you."

"I'm yours to command." Baelon replied.

"Let our son and daughter be married. They'll continue the Targaryen line. There's no formal betrothal for Rhaenys yet, but familiarity and our encouragement will lead them to love one another. Even now, Viserys feels like a son to me, and Rhaenys like a daughter to you. Your second son is also my nephew twice over, but I am sure, he will be like a son to me as well. Name him Daemon Targaryen so I can raise a son named Daemon and forget the pain of losing the elder one."

Baelon gasped at the request, shocked. He remembered how Aemon had named his firstborn Daemon simply because it was the only name he knew. A name Baelon himself had promised to use for his son, after his beloved elder brother. Seeing the hope in Aemon's eyes, Baelon relented.

"I have followed you till now and I will follow in this order too, but you shall be the one informing our sister Alyssa that you have named her child after your eldest bastard or after yourself."  Baelon said without any hesitation.

Aemon immediately grimaced knowing he is in for a hard time convincing Alyssa not to turn Meleys' fire on him. 

83 AC

Small Council Meeting

 "My lords, is there anything left to discuss in this meeting?" Prince Aemon asked.

Baelon realized it was time to bring up the foolish Dornish incursion heading for the Stormlands. How the Martell prince thought arriving in ships to attack the Stormlands would succeed—especially when the Iron Throne had five dragonriders—was beyond him. He was sure the king would order him and Aemon to deal with the Dornish fleet. It would be good exercise for their dragons.

Before Baelon could speak, Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, addressed the council.

"Your Grace," Lord Beesbury began, "there is the matter of the North."

The king's gaze sharpened as he nodded for Beesbury to continue.

"The North's tax revenues have stabilized in recent years. Up until 79 AC, they increased every year, but now they've leveled off and even decreased slightly. I suspect the northern lords may be manipulating the accounts and stealing from the crown," Lord Beesbury said.

The King looked at the Grand Maester, a position which still had a seat at small council, but was required to be silent until called upon by other members.

"My king," the Grand Maester replied, "there is no chance of manipulation. The North has refused the maesters' services and banned us from Winterfell, but as per your orders, a maester was sent to oversee tax calculations. According to the latest records, everything is accurate."

"But how is this possible?" Lord Redwyne interjected. "Taxes have steadily increased for the past decade and have now stopped? Lord Rickon was an honorable and loyal lord, but his son... well, we all know the regent lacks his father's loyalty, as demonstrated by his disrespect toward Prince Aemon."

Sensing an argument brewing, Baelon decided to step in.

"My lords, the explanation might be simpler than you think. Lord Rickon was known for his exceptional leadership and ability to foster growth. His passing has clearly caused stagnation. His son lacks the same skills. Furthermore, major projects, such as the repairs at Moat Cailin, have been completed. The policies Lord Rickon implemented are still being followed, but there's been no new development or innovation to drive further growth. The taxes have stabilized as a result."

"Aye," the king said. "Prince Baelon speaks the truth. The maesters have verified that the northern lords are not stealing from the crown. The lack of new ventures supports the idea that the young lord regent is risk-averse and a miser."

"My king, there has been a new development in the north," Lord Redwyne said immediately. "The Mormonts have started shipbuilding and even whaling in the seas. We received the first shipment last month of whale oil and other goods. Whaling has been almost entirely done by the Ibbenese on the other side of the world compared to the Mormonts, and after inquiring, the northmen spoke in revered tones about the Red Death, and his skill in building ships and even whaling in the deep, ice-cold seas, as well as taming a she-bear. I couldn't make them tell the actual name of the Red Death, but I have heard a rumor of a song in the Riverlands called "The Red Death." It talks about the red-haired Tully defeating the Ironborn and bathing himself in blood. The bards have not yet reached King's Landing with that stupid song."

Baelon noticed Aemon grimacing at the mention of The Red Death, though his brother's face betrayed no overt anger or any other emotions.

"Lord Redwyne," Baelon interjected, "there's no need to waste resources investigating this figure. We know who he is. He is my bastard nephew, Daemon Snow. Regent Bennard Stark sent him to Bear Island to be fostered. He earned the name The Red Death after slaughtering wildlings in the Battle of the Nightfort."

The council exchanged surprised glances at this revelation.

"Enough," the king commanded sternly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "This is the Small Council, convened to advise me in governing my kingdom—not to waste time gossiping about a bastard on the other side of the realm.

As I have already made clear, every lord in this kingdom is free to govern their lands as they see fit, provided they pay their taxes and abide by the laws of the crown. Let the Mormonts hunt whales or even krakens if they so choose. The Iron Throne has no interest in their pursuits, so long as they remain loyal and fulfill their obligations of fealty and taxes."

"Aye, Your Grace," both Baelon and Lord Redwyne said in unison, accepting the rebuke with bowed heads.

After the king acknowledged their obeisance, Baelon spoke. "My king," he began, his tone grave, "the Dornish have committed to attacking our coasts by sea. Their ships are said to set sail with the next moon."

Prince Aemon let out a derisive snort at the news. "They're actually attacking us with wooden ships?" he said, incredulous. "Father, allow me to meet them when the time comes. I'll deal with this insult myself."

"My prince," Lord Redwyne interjected, his voice steady but respectful, "your life is far too precious to risk. The royal fleet and my own are prepared to meet the Crown's enemies. Though my sailors have reported increased shipping traffic in the Dornish Sea, there has been no credible word of an attack or declaration of war." He glanced toward Baelon, his expression turning sharp and calculative.

The king sat in deliberation for a moment, his gaze heavy with thought. Finally, he spoke, his tone resolute. "I am the Protector of the Realm. Should they dare attack my kingdom, I will welcome them—not just with my sons, but with Vermithor by my side."

84 AC

The kings solar

Baelon hurried into the solar after receiving permission, his steps brisk. Inside, he found the king seated with his mother, Queen Alysanne, and his brother, Prince Aemon.

"Baelon, I'm glad to see you out of the nursery," his mother greeted, her voice warm yet tinged with exhaustion. Baelon noted the dark circles beneath her eyes and the weariness etched into her regal features. He was certain his own face bore a similar haggardness; the loss of Alyssa Targaryen had left both of them utterly devastated.

"Mother," Baelon said softly, "I'm relieved to find you here." He turned to face the king, his voice gaining urgency. "I've come to ask something that might save my son, Aegon." His gaze shifted between his mother and father before he continued, addressing the king. "My king, let me go to Bear Island and bring your bastard grandson here. He has... abilities. Whether through healing or some unknown cause, people's health improves wherever he is. Please, let me take this chance for the sake of your youngest grandson's life."

Baelon watched his father's face intently, searching for any sign of emotion. The king remained unmoved, his expression stony.

"Aemon," the king said finally, his tone unreadable Baelon grimaced. He understood, his father's plan to shift the burden of saying no to Aemon, but before Aemon could speak, their mother cut in, her voice sharp.

"Baelon, what in the Seven Hells are you talking about?" Alysanne demanded. "Do you honestly believe the tales spun by smallfolk? They've always been prone to fanciful stories, and now you think a bastard is blessed by the gods? We are not blessed by the gods, my son. If we were, I would not have had to give my own sons and daughters to the flames." Her words carried both derision and a deep, lingering sadness.

"It doesn't matter if the stories are true or not, Mother," Baelon snapped back, his tone fierce. "I'm willing to gamble on any chance that might save my son's life!"

Throughout the exchange, the king's attention remained fixed on Aemon, who had stayed silent until now.

"Brother," Baelon called hesitantly, searching for support.

Aemon finally spoke, his voice calm yet resolute. "You don't need to worry about me, Father. Let Baelon go and bring my son here."

Baelon's heart lifted for a moment, but his hope faltered as the king sighed, his exhaustion evident.

"Baelon," the king said, his voice firm but weary, "you know why I've kept him in the North after Lord Stark's death. The maesters and healers have assured me that Aegon is healthy for a babe of his age. Any signs of illness can be treated, and he will recover within moons. I've seen my children at this stage, and they've grown into strong men—just as the two of you are sitting before me now."

My king," Baelon protested, his voice rising with desperation, "this is about my son! We lost Alyssa, and what did the healers say about her? The same assurances!" His voice cracked with emotion. "I would go beyond the Wall itself if there were even a—"

"Baelon," the king hissed sharply, cutting him off. Though his tone remained controlled, it carried the weight of authority, and Baelon felt his body tense instinctively. His muscles locked, and the momentum of his outburst faltered mid-sentence.

"Prince Aemon," the king said, his gaze now shifting to his other son, "your brother is grieving and exhausted from sleepless nights spent beside my grandson. Escort him to his chambers and ensure he rests. He may return to the nursery once he is sufficiently rested. We will discuss seeking miracles when and if they are truly needed."

Baelon opened his mouth to argue, but the king's promise to revisit the matter stayed his words.

He was tired—so tired—and perhaps half an hour of rest would help him marshal his thoughts and prepare a more convincing argument. Perhaps, then, he could find a way to bring Daemon here.

84AC

Bear Island.

Daemon Snow

 "Up, up, up!" the crowd cheered, forming a circle around Jon, a Bear Island guard, and me as we competed in a push-up contest.

"You can do it, Daemon! Come on, it's just the two of us on your back," Lyra teased from her perch on my back.

A low growl rumbled in agreement, and through my bond with Fenrir, I realized my direwolf was siding with her.

"Damn traitor," I hissed under my breath as I lowered myself for another push-up.

Yes, I had introduced bodyweight exercises to Winterfell and now to Bear Island too, but it wasn't doing me any favors at the moment. I was pushing up with my direwolf perched on my shoulder blades, and Lyra, wearing her armor, sitting across my lower back and hips.

"Look, Jon's on his last ones! His arms are shaking, and he doesn't even have anyone on his back," Lyra pointed out with a laugh.

I didn't reply. Even with my enhanced body and stamina, having 250 kilograms of extra weight on me was no joke. Balancing them both without making them topple off added to the challenge. I could feel my abs and back muscles strain as it  tightened again and again to balance both of them in back.

"Daemon! Daemon!" The crowd erupted in cheers as Jon finally collapsed onto his stomach, his arms giving out. I couldn't help but laugh at the sight, but the shaking of my body threw Fenrir off balance. My direwolf slipped from my back, and the sudden shift in weight sent me tumbling down as well, my stomach smacking against the ground with a thud.

I groaned in discomfort for a moment before laughter overtook me. Fenrir, however, was not amused. Using his paws, he smacked me square in the back as if to scold me for making him fall. The force was enough to leave bruises if I'd been a normal man. Luckily, he refrained from using his claws, though I groaned again from the pain.

"As fun as this is, it's time to get to work." Lady Dacey Mormont's stern voice cut through the laughter as she entered the training yard.

Lyra, still seated on my back, quickly scrambled to her feet and stood at attention.

I shoved Fenrir off me with a grunt and rose to my feet, brushing dirt from my clothes.

"Daemon, Lyra, get cleaned up," Lady Dacey ordered.

I was lying in bed, with Lyra hugging me as she slept, her face resting on my chest. Even though the cold didn't bother me, having a warm body to hold was comforting. By now, I only needed two to three hours of sleep to function at my best, but there was almost nothing entertaining to do here apart from using my greensight to glimpse interesting moments from the past. Over time, I had uncovered many secrets and histories that Martin had skipped in canon.

It had been four years since my banishment to Bear Island, and it had turned out to be both a vacation and a productive time. My training in the ocean and the mysterious sensations I felt there, especially as we ventured westward, had been fascinating. However, I never dared to prod too deeply, not wanting to awaken whatever slumbered in the depths. Still, whatever it was, its presence in the west was unmistakable and not to be taken lightly, as I could feel it even from Bear Island. At-least I got the answer why the West of Westeros was left unexplored by every sailor.

It was while searching for fish in the ocean that I first encountered whales and orcas. Whaling had been a practice near Ibben for millennia, but no one had ever realized whales were present on this side of the ocean as well. This discovery led to the Mormonts initiating whaling—a monumental endeavor under my leadership. My relationship with Lord Manderly proved invaluable, as it enabled us to establish a shipbuilding process and construct ships directly on Bear Island. This development also ensured I wasn't confined entirely to the island. Each year, I travelled across the North, recruiting people to Bear Island to support the burgeoning shipping and whaling operations.

My thoughts were brought to a halt by Lyra moving around and trying burrow deeper to my chest in her sleep.  I smiled as I tightened the hold around her.

It has been almost a year since I lost my virginity in this life to Lyra. I had tried to keep my distance and even told her I wouldn't marry or settle down with her, but she was adamant. She assured me that even if a child were to be born, it would carry the Mormont name and not be labelled a bastard, as per tradition. For now, though, she was taking moon tea, ensuring that possibility remained distant.

I have been communicating with Cregan through warging, and he has been progressing rapidly in both talent and lessons. However, the reason for my current sleepless night lies in the latest tidings from King's Landing. My greenseeing, combined with my warging, has revealed potential disruptions to my plans.

I grimaced, reflecting on how I had never expected my own healing ability to be taken seriously enough for my father to report it to the king. Now, my aunt Alyssa has died during childbirth after weeks of fluctuating health, and Baelon has finally recalled the story Aemon shared two years ago.

I am caught in a dilemma. Saving Aegon would undoubtedly alter the Targaryen future, adding another dragonrider to their ranks. More troubling is what I foresaw—the king may see me as a resource to be controlled, a prisoner whose blood could prolong his life. Jaehaerys Targaryen is clever enough to grasp the full potential of my abilities.

This has weighed on me for days, and I can sense Baelon's patience wearing thin. He grows desperate, enough to consider flying north without the king's permission to ensure the survival of his third son, my cousin, Aegon Targaryen.

Jaehaerys is one of the most powerful men in the world, and his only true adversary now is time and old age. What would he do if gifted with a distant grandson whose blood could heal any wound and extend life itself? Both paths before me are fraught with danger and pitfalls. Healing Aegon would confirm my ability and surely trap me in the south, far from the safety of distance and anonymity that have protected me thus far. To lose that would spell disaster for me.

Finally, after nearly an hour of deliberation, I decided what must be done.

Authors Note: Yeah almost 4 year time skip.. This  decade should be more faster than previous one unless my muse hit me like a jackhammer and the targ family drama became too good for me to ignore.

Hit me with what you think daemon has decided. Also  don't have to wait this long for the next one. It should be a faster update. Took some time to decide whether to show the development of bear island and daemon's sea training, but decided to skip showing them.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!! 

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 23: A Diversion in Time

84 AC

The Spring Prince

Bear Island.

Baelon Targaryen's mind was in turmoil as he landed Vhagar on Bear Island. After weeks of struggle, the King had finally relented and agreed to bring Daemon south to save his son. Aegon's health had been gradually declining.

As Baelon surveyed the area, he noticed ten ships docked in the newly built port near Mormont Keep. The people looked up in awe, many shouting in surprise as he flew overhead. However, the Mormont guards were made of sterner stuff. Baelon could see their expressions as they stared at his massive dragon—fear and awe mingling before giving way to respect for its overwhelming power.

Perhaps hunting whales in the oceans has tempered their fear of large creatures? Baelon mused.

He dismounted as a figure—likely Lady Mormont—hurried toward him. The lady bowed deeply before speaking.

"Prince Baelon, forgive me. We did not receive a raven from you and were unprepared for your arrival."

Baelon studied the lady before him. She was neither beautiful nor plain, but there was a certain charm in her broad shoulders and the warrior's confidence she exuded.

"Apologies are unnecessary, Lady Mormont, as I sent no raven to announce my arrival," Baelon replied firmly. "I am here to collect my nephew, Daemon Snow, and escort him to King's Landing. The King requires his service."

As he finished speaking, Baelon noticed Lady Mormont's face pale visibly, a reaction that immediately filled him with unease.

"Please forgive me again, my prince," she said carefully. "Daemon left four days ago on his annual travels. He ventures out to recruit—"

"What?" Baelon snapped, his voice sharp. "Isn't he fostered with you? Why is he out there?"

"My prince," Lady Mormont began cautiously, "Daemon is not someone we can impose strict rules upon. He is perfectly capable of surviving on his own, and his work benefits my house's prosperity.  it must be a long flight for you to arrive here and a storm is coming. Please accept our hospitality and stay the night. Perhaps, if you would share the nature of the service required, we may be able to offer some guidance."

Baelon took a few deep breaths, reigning in his sudden anger.

"I will accept your hospitality and stay the night," he said curtly.

Baelon was escorted to a small room that would pass for a solar in these modest keep by Lady Mormont.

"Your Grace, please inform me of the purpose behind your need for Daemon's presence," Lady Mormont asked politely.

"As you may have heard, my beloved wife died in childbirth, and my third son, Aegon, has been battling Balerion, the God of Death, for the past two moons," Baelon said, his voice heavy with emotion. "I have heard that Daemon is god-blessed or something akin to it. In fact, since his exile here, I've known that the number of deaths from sickness and disease has significantly reduced, even on this island. I need his abilities to save my child."

Despite his best efforts, Baelon could not entirely mask the desperation in his voice.

"Losing a beloved partner and a child is a pain I would not wish upon my worst enemy, my prince," Lady Mormont said softly. "You have my condolences, and I will pray for your third son. While I acknowledge that my people have indeed seen improvements since Daemon's arrival, he has not shared anything about his abilities with me. However, I will summon my daughter Lyra. She is Daemon's closest companion, aside from our lord Cregan and Aethan Reed."

Baelon nodded, appreciating her effort.

A short while later, Lyra entered the solar and bowed deeply.

"My prince," Lyra said.

Baelon waved his hand dismissively, eager to get to the matter at hand.

"Daughter, you are the closest companion of Daemon Snow," Lady Mormont began. "Do you know anything about his abilities or any way he might help save Prince Baelon's third son?"

Baelon noticed Lyra hesitating briefly before sighing in defeat.

"My prince," Lyra began, "I have not asked, and Daemon has not shared the secrets of his abilities. I do not know when he will return or where he has gone. If you seek answers of this nature, I suggest you visit Winterfell and speak with Cregan Stark. According to Daemon, Cregan would know as much as if he had been present himself."

Baelon scrutinized her carefully but saw no hint of deceit. He nodded, acknowledging her advice.

"That is valuable information, Lady Lyra. I thank you for sharing it. When the Mormont ships land in King's Landing with their whale products, they will be exempt from port taxes for five years."

Both mother and daughter looked pleased, and Baelon understood the importance of rewarding service if he hoped for loyalty in the future.

"Thank you, my prince," Lady Mormont said with a respectful nod.

Baelon returned the gesture, acknowledging her gratitude.

As he flew toward Winterfell, Baelon reflected on the two days he had been stranded in the North due to a relentless storm. The shoddy keep on Bear Island had provided little comfort, but at least Vhagar had been content, having hunted and consumed nearly an entire whale during their stay.

Baelon couldn't shake his curiosity about why the Mormonts had pointed him toward Cregan Stark. During his short stay, he had observed something about the Mormonts—they may offer polite words and formal courtesies to those of higher station, but their true allegiance was clear. They acknowledged no king but the one named Stark, and their loyalty to the crown only extended as far as Winterfell's loyalty to it.

His thoughts were interrupted as Winterfell came into view. The sight of the gigantic castle still mesmerized him. It was hard to fathom that the First Men had possessed the power to create such a bastion 8,000 years ago.

Baelon was surprised as he accepted guest rights and the full traditional greeting afforded to him by Bennard Stark. He had not expected such formality, especially since the last time, Bennard had disrespected Prince Aemon.

So, Bennard's issue is with Aemon only, Baelon noted, deciding to keep an eye on Bennard should he become a threat to his brother.

Baelon was escorted to the lord's solar, where he exchanged greetings with Lady Giliane, the co-regent of Cregan Stark.

"My Prince, it is surprising to hear rumors of a giant dragon flying above the northern skies," Bennard said casually. "I was even more surprised to hear that it flew to Bear Island without any warnings from the Crown that a prince would be arriving."

Baelon's shoulders tightened at the implicit question: What the fuck are you doing in our lands?

"Co-Regent Bennard," Baelon replied curtly, "the northern sky also belongs to my house, just like the northern land. I have no need to inform any of my vassals of my arrival."

"Of course, my prince," Lady Giliane interrupted, shooting Bennard a glare to stop him from replying. She continued, "If you inform us of your aim, we will, of course, be glad to assist."

Baelon noticed the condescending smile on Bennard's face as he nodded at the co-regent's words. Deciding to let it go for now, Baelon explained his purpose.

"I was at Bear Island to take my nephew south to heal my third-born son. I had heard rumors, even from Aemon himself, about his supposed abilities. Unfortunately, he left four days before my arrival for his annual tour of the North. I came here to inquire about any techniques that Daemon may have shared with House Stark to improve health," Baelon said.

Baelon noted the irritation on Bennard's face as he mentioned Daemon.

"My prince," Bennard said, "you have been misinformed. It was my father who implemented the system of drinking only boiled water throughout Wintertown and ensuring even the smallfolk bathe at least every other day. Our improvements are due to that—not the bastard."

Baelon grimaced.

"We apologize that we cannot provide the answer you are looking for, my prince," Lady Giliane said.

Baelon sighed in defeat. "I am tired and will be using your hospitality for three days."

Both regents accepted the implicit order.

Winterfell

Cregan Stark.

Cregan Stark was excited as he saw Vhagar from afar, the great dragon flying over Winterfell. The beast was majestic, and he could understand why his ancestor knelt, avoiding the unnecessary spilling of northern blood while securing the benefits of peace.

He had been expecting Vhagar, especially after his brother Daemon informed him of the impending visit.

It saddened him to see his brother still estranged from his father's family. He had tried to convince Daemon to mend fences, but his efforts had been in vain.

In their meeting through their animal bonds, Cregan had asked the golden question.

"Daemon? Why are you avoiding the royal family? You were banned from entering the South, but now you are being invited. You could go and heal the prince yourself and earn great rewards. The king would grant any wish for saving his grandson," Cregan asked hopefully.

"Do you know why I never went south in the last four years—or before that?" Daemon replied. "You think it's because of the king's order, to whom I owe no loyalty? Fear of consequences, if caught? No, Cregan. I never ventured beyond the Neck because I didn't want to visit the South yet. I am not some eager grandchild for the king to command to the South, no matter the rewards or dangers. I will go there when I want to—not for anyone else."

Cregan was surprised by the arrogance in his brother's response.

"Yet you are in Bear Island, by my lord regent's order, Daemon," Cregan snipped back.

Daemon laughed before answering. "Your wit is sharp, Cregan. I am in Bear Island because I will it. I wanted to improve my physical abilities with the help of the ocean, and I wanted to strengthen Bear Island, the most loyal house to House Stark and one of our first defenses against the enemy beyond the Wall."

Cregan's respect for Daemon increased at the foresight displayed, even in such small matters.

"Daemon, what should I do about Prince Baelon? He may try to find you in the North on his dragon," Cregan asked.

Daemon laughed at the absurdity of the idea before replying, "He will not find me. I will ensure he arrives at Winterfell and comes to you asking about my secrets. You can, of course, reject the offer and opportunity, but I suggest you follow my advice to extract benefits from the royal family…"

"Lord Cregan Stark", Baelon called as he entered the private training yard near the godswood.

Cregan was sparring with Daemon's sworn shield, Brandon, but both immediately stopped and turned to face the prince. Cregan offered a slight bow, while the sworn shield gave a deep one.

"My Prince," Cregan said.

As Baelon approached, Cregan studied his face, looking for any resemblance to his cousin. Even with the similarities, it was clear to him that Daemon's handsomeness surpassed even that of most Targaryens.

The prince glanced at the sworn shield standing behind Cregan, prompting Cregan to look at Brandon. Brandon understood the unspoken command and stepped aside, far enough to avoid overhearing but close enough to intervene if necessary.

Baelon's expression turned incredulous, his hand tightening on the hilt of Dark Sister. The audacity of the sworn shield, assuming he would break guest rights—or that Brandon could stop him if he tried—was almost laughable.

"Your Grace, what do you require of me?" Cregan asked.

Baelon sighed, a weariness evident in his tone. "Of course, you know why I am here, and yet you make me repeat myself? I want a cure for my boy, and I don't care what I have to do to obtain it. So I ask you, as the representative of your liege: do you know the secret of Daemon Snow's ability?"

Cregan remained calm under the prince's intense scrutiny and replied evenly, "My Prince, I will not lie to you. I know the secret of my brother's ability, but let me tell you this: force is not something you wish to employ when dealing with my brother. I know of your loyalty and love for Prince Aemon,  I feel the same for Daemon, my elder brother. I will not divulge his secrets, nor do I even know where he is now."

Baelon's grip on Dark Sister tightened, but he restrained himself. Even under the stress and anger, he knew he needed Cregan Stark's cooperation.

"This is your King asking you, yet you would remain silent for a mere bastard with no lands? Are you willing to suffer the consequences?" Baelon demanded.

Cregan smiled faintly. "What consequences? Even my uncle, who has known Daemon since his birth, refuses to believe he is god-blessed because of his hatred for him. So, what could the King—known as the Conciliator—do to the ten-year-old heir of House Stark without tarnishing his own reputation as Good King and appear as honoring the legacy of King Maegor? His Grace would lose his image, as no one in the South would believe Daemon has any gifts. Perhaps the Andals would rejoice in our misfortunes, but as a Valyrian steeped in magic, you should be wary of aligning too closely with the Faith and the Andals."

Baelon was so surprised by the boy's candor that he fell silent for a moment.

He shook his head and replied calmly, his anger vanishing as he realized he was speaking to an unknown player in the game of thrones and not a 10 year old boy.

"Cregan, you are more mature than some of the foolish southern lords in the court. It was unbecoming of a royal prince to get angry, assuming you were refusing simply out of childish loyalty to your brother. Now I know better. We are in a negotiation, and you have a solution for me—and want something in return. What is it?"

Cregan smiled, silently thanking Daemon for almost correctly guessing how Baelon would behave.

"Since Daemon was banished, every year he secretly comes to Winterfell and delivers a potion he created to heal any disease or injury. It is a gift he gave me personally, and I can do with it as I please. I have two doses left. It will, of course, strengthen Prince Aegon if you follow the instructions precisely. Provided, of course, you buy it from me for a price."

Baelon gritted his teeth. "You are selling something your brother gifted you to save your life, to me, to save your so-called brother's cousin—all the while profiting from it? What a tremendous display of loyalty to your so-called brother and even your sworn king. What will Daemon say when he hears about this? Or about the lost opportunity for a reward from the royal family?"

Cregan momentarily appeared struck before answering.

"I am of House Stark, and we ruled these lands for thousands of years, not by gifting miracles freely but by ensuring our house remained strong while others benefited from our strength. My grandfather taught this to Daemon, and he taught it to me. He will understand. If not, I will sacrifice that relationship for my house."

Baelon looked impressed. He could relate, having sacrificed much for his brother and the continued strength of House Targaryen. He nodded, and Cregan continued.

"I want double the amount of tax increased by the Iron Throne due to the Gift leasing incident to be discounted for the next ten years. Also, I want a marriage between our houses during His Grace's reign itself," Cregan stated.

Baelon smirked at the apparent ambition of House Stark. "You are far too ambitious for a ten-year-old boy. You want two things for a single boon?"

"Prince Baelon, I want two things for the two doses. Even then, this is a minor matter for your house. Even with the discount, the Iron Throne will receive more than it did before 70 AC. His Grace has no reason to deny the marriage, as he has already secured both the Baratheons and Arryns. The only remaining relevant Great House is mine. The Tullys and Tyrells are houses raised by the Iron Throne itself and not suitable prospects for a royal marriage. The Lannisters, for all their wealth, are cats more than lions. As for the Ironborn—there is nothing to be said," Cregan finished, his anger flaring at the mention of the Ironborn.

"I see," Baelon said, pondering any counterarguments. The king might sacrifice his grandson rather than acquiesce to vassals' demands, depending on his mood. But Baelon had no such luxury. His son, the last piece of his beloved Alyssa in this world, was in danger. He didn't mind granting such minor terms.

"I agree to this, provided your cure works," Baelon said.

"Oh?" Cregan asked.

"Many healers are trying to restore his health, and the Grand Maester has succeeded in buying time. How do we know it is your dose that works and not a combination of all the cures?" Baelon asked.

"I see," Cregan replied. "Then let us write and sign a pact of our agreement along with my instructions for its usage. Prince Aegon will be a healthy babe and one of the most energetic children if you follow the instructions."

"A pact?" Baelon asked, intrigued.

"Yes, a Pact of Ice and Fire. For healing a prince of the blood and grandson of the king, the reward will be as I said. After your return to King's Landing, stop all other cures and stopgap measures for a day. The maester will warn you of danger to the prince, but the cure will be more effective when the first dose is administered during a health decline. The second dose should be given the next day at the same hour."

Baelon looked helpless as he considered the danger to his son if the medication was stopped. Even though he had seen the improvement in the people of Bear Island through his spies, he hesitated to believe in such a miraculous cure.

"Prince Baelon, look at me. I have never suffered any diseases. The cure will work, but you must stop all other medications. It is far too easy for someone to poison the child and damage our reputation and strength," Cregan said.

Baelon was startled for a moment, then enraged at the suggestion that his son could be poisoned.

After taking a deep breath, Baelon smothered his rage, knowing it was useless here.

"I will be careful. If anyone dares to poison a Targaryen, they will be food for Vhagar. Let's write the agreement and sign the Pact of Ice and Fire."

84 AC

Daemon Snow

I sighed in relief as I fully left my eagle behind, as Cregan and Baelon came to agree on the Pact of Ice and Fire. Even though I had coached Cregan about the various reactions of Baelon, I was paranoid enough to hide just outside the trees of the Godswood. I stayed close enough so I could arrive to save Cregan if Baelon succumbed to madness due to the loss of his sister-wife and the sickness of his son. I started walking through the forest, deep in thought.

In canon, according to my memories, there were many situations where Baelon became an entirely different man after the death of his wife and son. I was paranoid enough about the Targaryens' pride and love for their beloved. I had no guarantee that Baelon would not break guest rights and threaten Cregan for the two doses of potion, which were nothing but my diluted blood mixed with some beneficial herbs.

I had felt proud when Cregan suggested the marriage clause to me for the second boon, and I was surprised that, even in this AU, Cregan's desire for a royal match remained the same.

I was about to start running back to where my Fenrir was when a sudden roar echoed, and a gigantic green head came breaking through the trees, sniffing the air. It was the head of Vhagar, and its one eye was locked on me. For a moment, just like the Night King's presence beyond the Wall, I froze in terror as my muscles coiled in tension, and the snow beneath my feet sank lower due to the pressure from my body.

I tried to sense what the dragon was thinking and whether I should start running when only curiosity brushed against my senses.

"Lykiri, Vhagar," I said as I started walking toward the dragon.

The dragon snorted as I got near, and heat, like the deep waters of a hot spring, hit my body. Seeing no reaction from me to the heat, Vhagar roared at me, and I was almost deafened in the process. Only my own healing ability assured me that I still had my hearing. Sensing no panic from me, the dragon lowered her head to my raised hand. Then and there, I understood that Vhagar could sense that I was the nephew of her rider and the son of a beloved of her rider, and attacking me would make her rider unhappy.

I just scratched the face as I thought about my first contact with a dragon.

Balerion the Black Dread in vision and I was attacked immediately by the monster.

If Vhagar can recognize me, why did Balerion attack me on sight in that magical vision?

Suddenly, Vhagar turned her head and looked at Winterfell, as if someone had called her. As if not caring what happened to me during her takeoff, she took two steps forward and jumped, flapping her bat-like wings.

Only my own reflexes helped me jump sideways, avoiding a painful few days of healing.

Well, even though the targs are not wargs, the bonds of a Targaryen are similar enough that they can contact the dragons from a distance. There goes my final hope of sneaking into the Dragonpit to see Balerion before its death.

11th Moon, 86 AC

Daemon Snow

Bear Island.

I looked upon the little bundle of joy that somehow fell asleep on a creature big enough to swallow her whole.

Fenrir looked at me with a pleading face, silently asking to free his whiskers from the fist of Lyanna Mormont, officially the daughter of Lyra Mormont and a bear in the woods. But just one look at how Fenrir behaved with her was enough for anyone with any sense to see I was her father.

I simply expressed my amusement at Fenrir, and he looked at me in betrayal. The girl was almost one and a half years old, and more energetic than any child I had seen. The answer to my question of whether my own enhanced body would be inherited was answered. Lyanna had shown more strength and intelligence than any child. I was sure she even had some enhanced healing, as there was no disease that affected her for more than a few hours, but I wasn't absolutely sure, as I wasn't insane enough to cut her like I did to myself at age four.

"Daemon, how many times do I have to tell you that Fenrir is not a good bed for our little girl?" Lyra hissed lowly, not to wake the girl.

Fenrir looked at Lyra as if she were a god in disguise. Lyra was amused by the expression as she freed Fenrir from Lyanna.

Fenrir immediately moved away, looked at me with a snarl, and jumped to attack.

I caught the weight and force of the angry wolf, and only my own strength kept me from falling and hitting my head on the floor. I pushed Fenrir away, and he landed on all fours. I could feel the annoyance from him, as I hadn't suffered the punishment he deemed fit.

Fenrir just woofed and walked away.

"Sometimes I wonder whether that is actually a direwolf or a cat," Lyra said to me.

I just laughed in amusement.

"You were in deep thought as I entered," Lyra said after a couple of moments. "What is it?"

I sighed in tiredness as I wondered how to express what I was trying to say to a woman who loved me.

"Lyra, the time has come," I whispered barely.

Lyra looked confused at me before she recognized what I was saying. Both sadness and anger passed across her face.

"But you are still banished from the South, and you are still in fosterage here."

"I am here because I wanted to be. There is much to accomplish, and only seeing my first child till age two has stopped me until now. If I stay here any longer, it will not be possible for me to leave her. I must start my work now. You know the truth about the enemy beyond the Wall and their abilities. I must make sure the Northmen improve, just like the people of Winterfell and Bear Island."

Lyra nodded reluctantly.

Even though I was calm on the outside, I was cursing myself for lying to Lyra. She might believe I was only going to try and improve the people through the usual methods. But the truth was, I was going to pull a Garth Greenhand on the smallfolk. With my looks, even with dyed hair to disguise me, I was warrior incarnate, and seducing noblewomen was easy for me. So, there was nothing to say about the smallfolk. I was going to try and have as many children among them as I could. I could try to spend as much time in the North and improve others, but it would be too little and time consuming.

Sowing wild oats was the best method, as their children would inherit the enhanced physique. Only then would the bulk of the Northmen actually be more powerful by the time of the Second Long Night. I had to stop myself from laughing at the absurdity of it as I registered the fact that this would be a perfect story for a popular smut in my previous life.

It has been a long-debated topic in the Citadel whether the miracle Stark cure that Prince Baelon brought from a young Cregan Stark originated from the bastard son of Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen. Whatever it was, it was effective beyond anything seen by the Citadel, and Prince Aegon grew to be more energetic than even Prince Daemon who was turning out to be quite a rogue. The most important event was the signing of the Pact of Ice and Fire. For a time, the nobles in the court whispered that Prince Baelon had been fleeced by the northern barbarians, but the recovery of Prince Aegon and the health he had over the last six years shut their mouths. This is the first time there has been visible proof of knowledge in medical matters that trumps the Citadel, and it grinds my pride that I had to write this down.

'Grand Maester Allar, it seems to me that your own ignorance and disdain towards magic blinds you to the possibility that the cure may have been magical in nature.' Otto Hightower thought as he read the personal journal of Grand Maester.

Authors note: decided to use Maesters recording to skip time.  87 AC will be over in next chapter. Aegon lives and one of the major change from canon. i had no plan to make aegon live in initial draft, but Baelon knowing about daemon's ability will fight for saving aegon. butterfly effect at its best...

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!! 

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 24: The Schism

86 AC

The Red Keep

Queen Alysanne Targaryen sighed in exhaustion and frustration as she left her daughter Viserra's chambers. Somehow, Viserra had learned that even the aged Lord Manderly was being considered as a potential suitor for her hand. Alysanne was certain her ladies-in-waiting and staff were utterly loyal, yet Viserra had still discovered the matter Septon Barth had suggested to her two days prior. Alysanne might have seriously considered Lord Manderly had it not been for old Theomore's betrayal of her trust. He should have sought her counsel before choosing to support Lord Stark and her grandson's reckless schemes to amass power and wealth.

Whoever had informed Viserra had conveniently omitted her sharp rejection of the idea. As a result, Viserra had attempted to seduce Baelon. The mortified prince dragged a naked Viserra before Alysanne and her royal husband. While her husband was not visibly angry—after all, Viserra had tried to seduce a Targaryen—Alysanne was livid. She understood the deep love Baelon bore for Alyssa and how devastating her loss had been for him. Loss was something Alysanne knew intimately—daughters and sons lost in childbirth left scars that never fully healed.

In hindsight, Alysanne regretted dismissing Aemon's grief over the loss of his love. He had barely been a man then, and she had thought he couldn't possibly be not affected considering the magnitude of loss she and her husband had endured in their youth. Yet, she was proud of the man Aemon had become, having turned his pain into strength. She even knew of his failed attempt to meet his bastard son, thwarted by the distance and the cursed Wall.

As she entered her chambers, she found solace in the presence of her six-year-old daughter, Gael. Her sweet, obedient child was a balm in these trying times, a comforting listener for all her woes—whether about her husband, her sons, or even her bastard grandson. Alysanne couldn't understand why her love for some of her children and grandchildren felt so natural, while for others, it was an effort. Her frown deepened as her wild grandson, Daemon, barged into her chambers, calling out for Gael. Perhaps it was the boy's name that soured her feelings, or perhaps his casual arrogance and his face, which reminded her too much of her accursed uncle.

"Daemon, how many times have I told you not to barge into my room?" she said coldly, satisfied to see the headstrong boy looking at least mildly chastened.

Rhaenys Targaryen grinned as she slipped through the secret door near her chambers, eager to escape her septa and the drudgery of lessons. She had discovered the hidden passage only recently and was determined to explore it fully. Her dress would surely be ruined by cobwebs, but she cared little. Clutching a ball of thread from her sewing lessons, she tied one end to the door handle to mark her way back, should she fail to find another exit.

Exploration was thrilling, but what she loved even more was overhearing the secrets of adults. Her Cousin, Vissy, loved hearing her discoveries, though he was far too timid to venture into the secret passages himself. Dim light filtered through cleverly concealed holes in the walls, designed for spying on the rooms beyond.

Rhaenys was growing tired when her mother's voice reached her ears. Stifling a squeal of excitement, she hurried toward the sound, eager to eavesdrop.

"How could you do this to me, Aemon?" Jocelyn's voice rang with anger. "You swore Daemon would never be allowed south, and now you, the King, and the Queen discuss betrothing him to Viserra, as your idiot brother baelon suggested?"

Rhaenys froze. 'Daemon? But he was already here!'

She pressed her ear to a small hole in the wall, straining to catch every word.

"But that is not happening," Aemon replied. "Viserra is to be betrothed to Lord Cregan Stark, not my son."

Son? Rhaenys felt her heart stop. She had a brother? Wariness and anger surged within her as she jumped to the conclusion that he must be a bastard.

"Because your mother—my half-sister—had the sense to deny it vehemently," Jocelyn retorted. "And you? You didn't even reject the proposal, not once! Is it because it was your precious brother Baelon who suggested it? Does Baelon have more loyalty to your bastard son because the boy saved my nephew Aegon?"

"Enough, wife!" Aemon's voice turned cold, sending a chill down Rhaenys's spine. "Never question my valonquor's loyalty. Baelon would die for me before going against my wishes. He named his second son Daemon in my honor and because I asked it of him."

"Perhaps," Jocelyn said icily. "But that doesn't change the facts. You went north against your promise to me, and now you're discussing a royal marriage for a princess with a bastard. To make it happen, the King would need to legitimize him. Perhaps you truly want Daemon legitimized, and Baelon is your catspaw in this scheme."

"I had no choice, Jocelyn," Aemon snapped. "I didn't want to go north, but I was forced."

Jocelyn snorted in derision. "Forced? The Crown Prince who defied orders whenever it suited him claims he was forced to go north? No, you went for her. For her damned son!"

"No!" Aemon snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding. "I went for Rhaenys."

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Jocelyn's anger faltered, her sharp retort caught in her throat. Aemon took a deep breath, his tone softening as though the admission had drained him.

"I never told you what happened that day when my father sent Baelon and me to the Dragonpit," he began quietly. "This must not leave this room, Jocelyn." He paused, his gaze heavy and burdened. "The King threatened me. He demanded I renounce my inheritance, Rhaenys's inheritance, and any claim to the throne if I refused to go north. He was furious when I said no in the small council, that I ran away from my duties. He made it clear that any rebellion against his orders would have dire consequences—for us all. Do you understand, Jocelyn? The fact that we are dragonlords meant nothing to him in that moment. So tell me—what was I to do? Should I have cast aside our daughter's future?"

Jocelyn's anger ebbed away, replaced by a dawning realization. "No," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Aemon exhaled, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Then you understand why I went north. It wasn't for her. It wasn't for him. It was for our daughter."

Jocelyn reached for him, her hand brushing against his arm.

But Jocelyn, ever sharp, wasn't entirely placated. "Even so," she said, her voice regaining a measure of its edge, "you still allowed Baelon to suggest betrothing Viserra to that bastard."

"Baelon only suggested it because he was furious over Viserra's foolish seduction attempt," Aemon countered. "The King would never allow Daemon Snow to come south, let alone legitimize him. You know that better than anyone."

Jocelyn hesitated, her lips pursed in thought. "Do I?" she said at last. "We're talking about the same King who humiliated his own half-brother, Lord Baratheon, before the entire realm by publicly confirming our great-grandfather Orys's bastardry. This is a man who proclaimed that House Targaryen will reward loyalty greatly, even to bastards. What's stopping him from legitimizing the boy to make a spectacle of it? After all, what greater reward could there be for saving his grandson?"

"Ah, but it was Cregan who traded the cure, not Daemon and it was House Stark who negotiated the deal." Aemon replied. "I don't see why you care about him, when you have not even seen him atleast once and he is banned from the south till called upon. No one is going to support him over my own trueborn daughter."

"You foolish man. You dare ask me this? You don't see why I would hate the living proof of my beloved's love for another girl—a northern heathen at that? A love so strong that you lost your sanity for over two years after the death of that stupid girl!" Jocelyn snapped. Even in her anger, the sadness was evident in her voice.

Rhaenys's eyes began to water as she grew sadder and sadder at her mother's heartbreak, as well as witnessing the first argument between her beloved parents.

Aemon gaped at Jocelyn, processing her words.

"You are jealous? Jealous of a girl who died in childbirth almost eighteen years ago? This is unbelievable," Aemon said.

Jocelyn scoffed, her sadness suddenly vanishing. "What of it? I might have forgotten about her entirely if not for your blasted son. She gave you a son, and as much as I love Rhaenys, she is a girl—not a boy. More than that, your son has got to be some kind of prodigy, some gifted person. I knew he was trouble the moment I first heard whispers of his involvement in the northern fleet and their ventures. The only relief I've had is that, at least, my kinsman Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, is still more renowned and superior in that field. And here you are, still making me take moon tea to prevent me from conceiving again because of your fears, while I want to bear a son for you."

Rhaenys had to cover her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobbing, making sure her parents didn't hear her. Tears streamed down her face as she processed her mother's frustrated words. Anger at her supposed elder brother began to take root in her heart. She vowed to become better than her bastard half-brother.

Aemon remained silent for a time, struggling to find words to appease his wife.

"Jocelyn, Rhaenys is my heir and will be queen after me. I am already training her for that role, along with Baelon. She will claim a dragon next year and she will trained by me and Baelon.  Know this—my father will never summon Daemon here, as he fears anyone laying claim to Balerion, even in the dragon's sickly state. Even if my father does what you fear, I will ensure Rhaenys remains my heir when I become king."

Rhaenys felt a glimmer of relief and gratitude that her father supported her…

Viserys Targaryen was glad to have his cousin Rhaenys as a companion growing up. Even though she often dragged him into trouble, their bond was a lovely one. Rhaenys was vibrant, even during lessons with the septa she hated. But for the last three days, she had been absent-minded and sad. Their parents might not have noticed, but Viserys, who spent so many hours with her, could see it plainly.

They were sitting in the library, reading Valyrian texts, when Viserys decided to break the ice.

"Rhaenys, cousin, what's wrong? Why have you been so sad and angry these last few days?" he asked, fed up with her mood.

Rhaenys looked up from the book she was reading, frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. She glanced around to ensure their conversation wouldn't be overheard.

"Come with me, Viserys. Let's go to the godswood, where no one can overhear us and we can see anyone approaching."

Viserys nodded.

The godswood was beautiful as always. The red leaves of the weirwood provided shade from the sun's heat. Viserys often felt a sense of being watched here, though he dismissed it as his imagination.

"Vissy, you must promise me not to speak of this to Uncle Baelon, my father, or anyone else. Do you know of my brother Daemon?" Rhaenys asked.

Viserys was pleased that Rhaenys considered his brother as her own, even though they were only cousins.

"I'm happy you see my brother as your own, Rhaenys, but what kind of question is this? Of course, I know my brother," Viserys replied, perplexed.

Rhaenys closed her eyes to calm her exasperation.

"Not Daemon Targaryen, you idiot. I'm talking about my elder brother—a bastard my father had with someone in the North, Daemon Snow. I overheard my mother arguing with my father about him being a threat to my status as heir. Father even said that Uncle Baelon named his second son Daemon because he asked him to."

Viserys's eyes widened comically.

"But… but… we've never heard of him before. How could this be possible? And what threat does a bastard from the North pose to us here?"

"I don't know, Vissy. That's why I'm asking you. Is there anyone trustworthy enough to find out without anyone knowing?"

Viserys thought for a moment and brightened.

"I know someone. Ser Otto Hightower has always been helpful to me in the library. Unlike other adults, he doesn't treat me like a child when explaining things."

Rhaenys looked thoughtful.

"Let's see if he knows something. Arrange for him to meet us here tomorrow."

Viserys agreed to do so.

Ser Otto Hightower grimaced as he entered the godswood to meet with the young prince. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why Prince Viserys had asked him to meet in this heathen place of worship. This was not the first godswood Ser Otto had seen, but no other godswood had given him the unsettling sensation of being observed. The foolish heathens in the North might believe it was the Old Gods watching them, but a clever and learned man like Otto knew better. It was vile sorcery—man, not gods—doing the watching.

Otto had once discovered an ancient parchment in the Hightower vaults detailing the magic of greenseers and the dangers they posed. Initially, he had scoffed at the notion of such terrifying power to spy upon important people. But when he visited this godswood, he understood. The warnings about the feeling of being observed, sometimes overwhelming, sometimes absent, made sense now. It terrified him beyond belief when he realized he had no idea who was watching, where they were, or, more disturbingly, when they might be doing so.

After being knighted by Ser Ryam, Otto had ventured back to Oldtown to visit his family and was permitted to come back under the pretext of learning from the Grand Maester himself. Ser Ryam had been persuasive enough to convince the king to allow Otto's extended stay, and the opportunity to meet the young Prince Viserys was merely an added benefit. Otto smiled to himself, knowing he had made a strong impression on the impressionable prince. With his marriage drawing near, Otto was preparing to leave King's Landing, but whatever the prince had to discuss so secretively would surely leave a favorable impression as he departed.

"My prince, I am here as you asked," Otto said as he approached. He found Prince Viserys standing by the weirwood tree. As the prince stepped aside, Otto saw Princess Rhaenys sitting at the tree's roots. Fortunately, the oppressive sensation of being watched was absent.

"Princess Rhaenys, this is a surprise," Otto said, bowing as tradition dictated. He studied the young princess and noticed she seemed troubled.

"Ser Otto," Rhaenys began, her voice firm, "I have to know something, and Prince Viserys has assured me that you are knowledgeable and trustworthy enough to ensure that no one else will hear of this conversation." Otto detected the arrogance typical of a young royal, and it took all his self-control not to scoff or roll his eyes. Whatever had happened, it was clear the princess had shed some of her childish innocence and naivety. Yet she still failed to grasp one fundamental truth about royalty: arrogance and pride only led to foolish actions and made one an easy tool for others more cleverer than you.

Ser Otto bowed again and replied, "I will be honest, Princess, and share whatever I know about the topic you wish to discuss. I am, after all, a humble servant of the royal family."

Princess Rhaenys inclined her head and said, "That you are. I want to know everything about my bastard half-brother, Daemon Snow."

Otto's eyes widened in surprise, though he quickly masked his reaction, suppressing the smirk threatening to form. The Seven have truly blessed me, he thought. Here was an opportunity to influence the future King Consort and Queen of the realm regarding one of the greatest threats to House Hightower's goals. Perhaps he could even persuade them to deal with Daemon for him. Otto's mind burned with anger as he thought of Daemon's knowledge of sorcery, including miracle cures that defied explanation.

"My princess, this is a delicate matter," Otto said, injecting a note of reluctance and feigned panic into his voice. "I must ask for your promise—and your prince's as well—that neither of you will ever reveal that it was I who informed you, especially not to your father."

Rhaenys scoffed. "I already told you that no one will know about this, and yet you ask for a promise from your prince and princess?"

"Apologies, Your Grace," Otto said humbly. "But I know how unpredictable an angered Targaryen can be, especially from the tales of your father and your  bastard elder brother. You might shout my name in anger after learning the truth when you discuss this with Prince Aemon."

"We promise that no one will know of this, Ser Otto," Rhaenys said, and Prince Viserys nodded in agreement.

Otto began his tale. "It all started when a thirteen-year-old Prince Aemon was seduced by a fifteen-year-old bastard daughter of the previous Lord Stark. Prince Aemon fell deeply in love with the girl, enough to ask the king for permission to marry her. However, the girl was punished by the Seven for her lustful ways—she died in childbirth. Your father, enraged and grief-stricken, blamed Daemon Snow for her death. The king proclaimed Daemon banished from the South. Lord Benjen Stark raised Daemon as a trueborn Stark, with all the privileges that entailed."

Otto paused, giving the royal siblings time to absorb the story. He deliberately glanced around, as if uneasy.

"Why are you looking around, Ser Otto?" Prince Viserys asked.

"My prince, I am merely being cautious," Otto replied. "There is a reason you have never heard of Daemon Snow in the Red Keep, not even from servant gossip. Everyone fears Prince Aemon's wrath. He once proclaimed he would personally punish anyone who insulted his love or her son by calling them bastards. He proved his resolve during a tourney held in your honor, Princess Rhaenys. Your uncle, Lord Baratheon, was conversing privately when your father overheard Lord Connington insulting Daemon. Prince Aemon silenced him by cutting out his tongue in full view of the realm. When Lord Baratheon tried to intercede, the king declared that if they feared Aemon overhearing, they should stop speaking Daemon's name altogether."

Rhaenys stared wide-eyed, anger and disbelief warring in her expression. "This happened during a tourney celebrating my birth?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, my princess," Otto replied. "Daemon was a frequent topic of conversation at the time. He had insulted Queen Alysanne by devising a method to reclaim the Gift for the North from the Night's Watch. He has since accomplished remarkable feats, solidifying the North as a powerful base and demonstrating his martial prowess during wildling attacks. The people call him the 'Red Death' for the bloodshed he unleashed against the wildlings when they killed his Stark grandfather. Your grandmother is wise to be wary of him. But the king himself proclaimed he would reward bastards if their service to House Targaryen were remarkable enough."

Otto smiled inwardly as he observed the doubt and fear for the magical abilities of Daemon creeping into the young royals' minds. He continued his carefully crafted narrative about the things happened in the realm due to that bastard.

The Sunset Sea

Harlan Pike watched the Mormont ships as they hunted down a leviathan—a whale. He had to admit they had turned this into an art in a remarkably short time, almost rivaling the Ibbenese he had encountered during his long years of reaving. The Ironborn had initially dismissed rumors of the destitute Mormonts venturing into shipbuilding. But as whispers persisted and several Ironborn ships, disguised as pirates reaving along the northern coast, were lost, the truth became harder to ignore. By the time the Ironborn took the threat seriously, it was too late to sabotage the shipyards at their roots.

Even now, Harlan marveled as the Sea whispered to him of the sheer number of vessels in these waters. The count was far higher than ever before, and the Drowned God was clearly displeased. Harlan Pike, the most powerful Ironborn captain outside the lords of the Iron Islands, had built a fearsome reputation. His exploits and success in raids had attracted many free captains eager to try their luck under his banner. Only the support of the drowned priests and his own cunning had kept him alive this long. The assassins he had sent to meet the Drowned God numbered too many to count. To challenge him now, any Ironborn lord would have to call their banners—something few dared, fearing the scrutiny of the Dragonlords and the end of their golden age.

Being a vassal to the Targaryens had its advantages, particularly when selling stolen goods to the Westerosi markets. For all their pride in the iron price and their ethos of taking what they needed, even the Ironborn traded when it suited them.

Harlan observed the Mormont crew through a Myrish lens, his attention drawn by the constant whispers of the Drowned God urging him to destroy these heathen vessels. Lord Greyjoy himself had issued a challenge, commanding the greatest reaver of the age—Harlan—to put an end to the Mormonts' audacity in Ironborn waters. Between his god and his lord, Harlan had ample reason to act.

Through the lens, Harlan studied the bastard grandson of the King in the North, who barked orders to his crew and even joined in hauling the slain whale aboard. Rumors of the bastard's martial prowess had reached even the Iron Islands, along with that insufferable song, The Red Death. Harlan begrudgingly admitted the northern version of the song was at least tolerable—Daemon Snow had paid the iron price, even in the least exaggerated versions of the tale. Harlan could believe the story; ambushes were often decisive, he should know as his own success stemmed from overwhelming his enemies through ambush and numbers, even without betrayal or a stab in the back and thus that the thousand northmen survival shows the truth of the tale.

What truly enraged the Ironborn, however, was the Riverlands' version of The Red Death. The Tullys had dared to twist the tale, changing wildlings to Ironborn in the legend, attributing the name to their red hair. The insult was unforgivable as they were given their power by Aegon The Dragon.

Harlan's musings were cut short when Daemon Snow turned his head and smiled directly at him. At first, Harlan thought it couldn't be directed at him, but the arrogant smirk and a casual wave left no doubt. Bewildered, Harlan tried to make sense of it. There was no way the bastard could see him, hidden as he was.

"Skinchanger." 

The eerie whisper chilled his spine. He immediately looked up and spotted an eagle circling among the clouds. His gaze dropped back to Daemon, who smirked again, this time with a knowing shrug.

Harlan's instinct was to order an attack, but an overwhelming sense of fear and caution swept over him. The Drowned God's will was clear. He signaled his crew to relay the message to the other ships. With reluctance, Harlan ordered a retreat back toward the Iron Islands.

3rd Moon, 87 AC

Bear Island

It had been several moons since the Ironborn came sniffing around the Mormont boats and retreated when their leader realized I am a skinchanger. Maybe he was afraid that I could skinchange into him and control him. I hadn't started my journey to the North in disguise, as I kept postponing it. The Mormonts are now at a stage where they could maintain the new whaling and shipbuilding efforts without my leadership, but I didn't want to leave Bear Island now.

The only thing missing is having my friends Aethan and Cregan here. Even though we were in contact through warging, I missed them dearly. One of the reasons I delayed going AWOL was the discussion on betrothing Cregan to Viserra. After years of practice, I can now finally enter the Red Keep and look for the specific meeting in my greenseeing using the weirwood in the Godswood. Earlier, I had to manually search through memories, but now it has improved drastically enough that I can will myself to specific words or times. Whatever magic King Maegor had enshrined in the stone didn't keep out Targaryen blood from scrying.

I was delaying my travel, as I didn't want to meet the Targs at all if the marriage happens in Winterfell. Cregan would be devastated, but I didn't want to meet them and show false respect when I had none for them. To disrespect them boldly when I have no dragon is utter foolishness, even for me. Just by staying silent and away from them, I am achieving what I envision.

I was broken from my thoughts by the shouting of Lyra as she called for our daughter, Lyanna.

I looked at the angry and sad face of my paramour and raised an eyebrow in query.

"Lyanna is missing from her room. She has wandered off somewhere, and we have no clue where she is," Lyra said.

"Well, she is more handful than me if that is so. Let's see where Fenrir is, and he could easily find her."

I closed my eyes, even though it wasn't necessary, to connect with my direwolf.

I felt exasperation and wariness as Fenrir immediately showed me what he was seeing.

My two-year-old daughter was wrestling with a cave bear cub. By the looks of it, it was only two to three moons old, yet bigger than Lyanna and stronger too. Still, I could see my daughter laughing as she landed on the overturned bear cub. I was so engrossed in my daughter's antics that Fenrir had to nudge me to notice the humongous cave bear a couple of meters away, watching its cub and my daughter.

Now that I saw the bear, I can see Fenrir was wary and had tensed muscles to intercept if the bear attacked Lyanna.  I left a mental order to continue the vigil and retreated so I could personally arrive at the place.

I opened my eyes and saw a frowning Lyra looking at me impatiently.

"She is with Fenrir in a cave and playing with a bear cub," I said as I started walking toward the location.

"Oh, that's good," Lyra said, her posture relaxing and tension leaving her body.

"The mother bear is watching from a couple of meters away," I said casually.

"What? How are you not running there then?" Lyra exclaimed.

"Don't worry. The bear cub will be bonded with her, and the mother knows it. Also, the bears in these forests know to fear Fenrir by now. He is standing guard quite near Lyanna."

"Well, let's hope you are correct. If something happens to her, it will be very painful days ahead for you."

The Skagosi Rebellion of 87 AC was nothing but a brief event for the people of the South. Even Prince Aemon waved away any concern when he heard it was his son, Daemon Snow, who was leading the armies of the North. Lord Cregan Stark, in his idiocy, had gifted the bastard his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Ice, for the duration of the campaign. Furthermore, this is assumed to have been the final straw for Regent Bennard Stark and the true reason for the War of the Wolves in 91 AC, as Cregan went to the Iron Throne to make Daemon the leader of the northern army and went as a squire for the duration of the campaign.

It was known that Daemon was not on Bear Island at the time the banners were called and that he joined Cregan alone in Winterfell. It is speculated that Daemon and Lord Cregan had a secret way of contacting each other, but there is no way of knowing the truth. All the lords of the North were eager to answer the call, as all of them hated the Skagosi and their cannibalistic ways. The war, if it could be called that, lasted eight moons, and by the end of it, the three lordly houses of Crowl, Stane, and Magnar were ended in the male line. The ancient cruelty of the Starks was evident as their daughters were given as brides to a Karstark, Umber, and Dustin, respectively. It is said that they were happy to accept the lordship but not the daughters, but no one was foolish enough to protest against the It is said that Daemon Snow volunteered to oversee the growth of the land, just like he did on Bear Island, along with the gold granted by Winterfell. There were grumbles in the Small Council as the North assembled another fleet on the eastern shores, but The King Jaehaerys dismissed any voices of protest.

"Wooden ships burn faster than even stone castles. Winterfell has paid taxes for the building of ships. They will pay the tax for trade done by them. Let them do it."

Even though no one has confirmed it, Maesters has speculated that King Jaehaerys was always impartial regarding his bastard grandson and looking back it explains what he did later in his reign along with the consequences of such actions.

Excerpts from The Bastard King. Chapter 2: Years in Exile. Written by Maester Theon in 200AC  

Authors note: 87 AC is over and daemon participated in another battle.  Also decided to tease things as we are reaching the first chapter I have ever written on this story…  by my calculation by chapter 33 it will be 100 AC.

Looking forward to the reactions, comments and discussions!!! 

My Discord

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 25: War of the Wolves

90 AC

Bear Island

Daemon  Snow.

I looked at the bustling small town near Bear Keep as I arrived at Bear Island. The port had developed once again, attracting people from the North seeking greater opportunities. The Mormonts were already known for selling their whale products along the entire west coast, except for Dorne. These products were in high demand in both the Reach and the Westerlands, where the wealthy paid exorbitant prices for them. Even the quarrelsome mountain clans near the shores of the Bay of Ice had begun trading with the Mormonts. Their offerings included fish, grains, and even fierce mounts.

I had to personally handle negotiations, as the mountain clans only respected a Stark—or someone with Stark blood. Finding a few wargs to scout for ships and avoid Ironborn ambushes had been an unexpected blessing.

As I entered the keep silently, I noticed new defenses made from reinforced metal. Fenrir, who had stayed behind to watch over the only acknowledged child of mine—and because having a warhorse-sized direwolf would draw too much attention—had already sensed my arrival. Joy radiated through our bond. My initial plan was to sneak into Lyra's room unnoticed, but it was thwarted by my own daughter.

"Stop right there, thief! You've been caught by the mighty she-bear of Bear Island!" A cute voice rang out from behind, accompanied by a light poke at my back.

I turned slowly, only to find my almost six-year-old daughter standing there. The bear cub she used to play with had grown to the size of a small man. I could sense the warg bond between them; the bear's heightened senses had sniffed me out. Looking at my daughter, I was utterly floored by her sheer cuteness. Thankfully, she resembled her mother more, but traces of my inhuman beauty were budding within her. Her silky hair, flawless skin, and the way she stood with a sword in hand spoke volumes. No child, not even with training, should have such a poised stance. Clearly, my children had inherited my accelerated learning abilities.

I wondered how much more extraordinary the children I had fathered over the past two years would become. I had left money for their upbringing and paired each with an animal to watch over them. Breaking ordinary animals to serve such purposes had been straightforward, and I checked on them every few weeks using my greenseeing abilities. My own bloodline resonated strongly when seeking power through the weirwoods, making it easy to monitor them all.

It was cruel, I admitted, to repeat what my own father had done to me. But the situation demanded planting the seeds now. The wights, after all, had been amassing an army for eight millennia, along with having more powers. Raising the collective strength of humanity in Westeros was the only way to eliminate the Others.

Lyanna stood before me, holding a large knife that served as a short sword in her small hands. Despite her wariness, the bear beside her—aware of the true predator here—was visibly hesitant to attack. Scenarios flashed through my mind as I considered how to handle this. She was only six, and though I could see a rudimentary stance in her posture, challenging a grown man was foolish. Likely, she felt confident because the bear was with her. Still, she needed to understand that far greater threats existed in the world.

Before I could teach her a small lesson in caution, she frowned and attempted to stab my thigh. Her strength wasn't enough to pierce my durability, and the sheer surprise on her face made me laugh.

"So, you're the defender of this castle, little lady?" I asked with amusement. Lyanna, still trying to stab me, huffed in frustration.

"This is not possible!" she exclaimed, her face scrunching up in thought before a mischievous smirk appeared. "Thief, surrender now, or my teddy will kill you and eat you!"

I was impressed that she hadn't taken her eyes off me despite her bold claim. "Oh? Is that so, little lady? But look at her—she's afraid of me and isn't attacking," I said, pointing at the bear while projecting a calming presence toward it.

Lyanna looked confused and glanced at her bonded bear. That was my opening.

Within seconds, I disarmed her, sending the sword clattering to the ground, and scooped her up into my arms. "Don't you remember me, Lyanna? It's only been two years," I said, holding her tightly.

The girl protested, punching me with surprising strength—more than any child her age should have. Fenrir appeared from behind me, drawing Lyanna's attention. She stopped struggling and grinned.

"You're defeated, thief! Now is the time to run! My bear may be lazy, but my direwolf will defeat you and eat you!" she declared confidently.

I raised an eyebrow, realizing she was referring to Fenrir. Her lack of fear in my arms surprised me. Perhaps she instinctively recognized I meant her no harm, or maybe she sensed the calming aura I had directed toward the bear.

Feigning betrayal, I turned to Fenrir. "Traitor! When did you abandon me to join this little lady?"

Lyanna's smirk faltered, replaced by apprehension. "What? Your wolf? You're Daemon Snow—the Stark everyone talks about? Are you my father? I overheard people whispering, but my mother wouldn't tell me anything except that my father was a bear in the woods."

Her innocent, pleading expression broke my resolve to remain distant. With a defeated sigh, I nodded.

A squeal of happiness erupted from the little girl as she hugged me tightly. Smiling peacefully, I carried her toward Lyra's room.

I lay in a cuddle after two rounds of coupling with Lyra. Sex had almost become a chore for me, but having it with someone you genuinely like was an entirely different experience. It was surprisingly more satisfying than anything I'd felt in a long time. Lyra was asleep beside me, but my mind was restless, lost in thought.

I had lost almost a year dealing with the Skagosi rebellion and their development, but it had been necessary. With the advantage of my prior experience developing Bear Island, and thanks to having enough money and manpower, the initial stages of Skagos's development had taken only six months. The three lords of Skagos respected and feared me, though it was clear they didn't appreciate my overall authority. They tolerated it only because I had decreed that I would remain in control until I deemed the development self-sustainable.

After those six months, I had grown weary of the task and decided to gamble. If the lords followed my orders and methods, the island would thrive. If not—well, that would become Cregan's headache, not mine.

My thoughts were interrupted by hurried knocking on the door. I sighed, reluctantly getting up.

Pulling on a pair of pants and a shirt, I opened the door to find Lady Dacey Mormont herself standing there.

Before I could ask a question, she whispered urgently, "Come with me."

I shrugged, following her without further inquiry.

She led me to her solar. As I stepped inside, I was surprised to see my cousin Cregan there, along with Winter. No one else was present.

I hadn't contacted him in weeks, but I couldn't imagine why he would be here unless the foolishness of canon Bennard had repeated itself in this world.

Cregan stood as soon as he saw me and closed the distance to embrace me tightly.

I was stunned for a moment before awkwardly patting his back.

When he released me, I observed him carefully. He looked weary, as if he had endured a harsh journey to get here. Though still a head shorter than me, he carried himself like a seasoned warrior. I knew his physical prowess was exceptional, heightened by the abilities I had shared with him.

"I'm glad to find you here, Daemon," Cregan said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "My uncle has lost his wits. He planned to assassinate me to hold onto his authority. The same hypocrite who warned me about you is now betraying me."

His cold fury was palpable. The ancestral greatsword Ice leaned against the wall of the solar, emanating an almost tangible chill that seemed to mirror Cregan's temper.

"I see," I said calmly. "What happened, and how did you discover this?"

"I have the same control over Winterfell that our grandfather had. Nothing happens there without my knowledge," Cregan replied pointedly. I understood that he had learned this through the cats and rats that roamed the castle. "I fled in the night after sending my mother, my sister Sara Snow, and Brandon to the Glovers, accompanied by trusted guards."

"Well then," I said, leaning back slightly, "what do you plan to do, Cregan? This is your moment to decide how you will rule the North. You have three choices, and I've taught you enough to know them without my guidance."

Cregan looked thoughtful before he spoke. "I will not use subterfuge, nor will I rely on you to kill my uncle. You've proven yourself as a battle commander twice now—it's my time to take up that mantle."

Turning toward Lady Dacey, he continued, "My lady, I need your raven and your raven master. I am going to call the banners and summon them to Winterfell. I'll ask for your forces, Lord Glover's, and the mountain clans to muster with me. Let the other lords decide for themselves where their loyalties lie."

Lady Dacey looked as though she wanted to protest, but before she could speak, I interjected.

"A bold move, brother. You'll have my support, and I'm certain the majority of the lords will stand with you. You've already impressed them during the campaign against the Skagosi."

Cregan looked momentarily relieved before nodding in thanks.

Winterfell

Bennard Stark

He looked at the letter delivered by raven from Bear Island.

To the North,

It is with regret that I must inform you that my uncle Bennard has lost his wits and decided to usurp my rightful position as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I was forced to leave Winterfell before I found myself compelled to strike down my own men should they act against me. As such, I call my banners to Winterfell. Every lord is commanded to attend with their army in four months and pledge fealty to me. Let the North itself bear witness and put an end to my uncle's madness.

Lord Cregan Stark

Bennard Stark's hands trembled as he read the letter. His blasted nephew, who had slipped away from Winterfell just after his sixteenth name day, had now reappeared on Bear Island.

"Of course, it's there," Bennard muttered under his breath. "Cregan ran like a masterless dog to that bastard."

He hadn't wanted this. Never in his life had Bennard imagined himself trying to usurp the rightful Lord of Winterfell. But the events of the Skagosi rebellion had changed everything. They had proven, to his mind, that Cregan would always remain a puppet to the bastard dragon on Bear Island.

Bennard had even offered his apologies at the tombs of his father and brother for what he now intended to do. The plan had been simple—take Cregan on a hunt, make him swear before the gods that he would take the black upon their return, and thus ensure the stability of House Stark and the North.

It wasn't ambition that drove Bennard but necessity. He told himself it was for the future of the North and House Stark.

Now, just as Cregan had done, Bennard prepared to call his banners. He was confident that the powerful lords, like the Boltons and Karstarks, would support him. They had been the most vocal in their anger toward the bastard dragon, who had somehow ignored their lands entirely in his travels and assistance.

Bennard knew he had other advantages as well. The men-at-arms of Winterfell had not abandoned their posts and still followed his commands, just as they did for years now. He  decided to spread word that Cregan had promised to take the black before the gods. Now, Cregan's flight from Winterfell would be seen as breaking that sacred vow.

Every move Bennard made was calculated to secure his claim. After all he needed a legitimate reason to be recognized as the rightful Lord of Winterfell.

4 moons later.

Outskirts of Winterfell

Daemon Snow

I looked at the assembled armies and already knew that, except for the Karstarks and Boltons, everyone intended to bend the knee to Cregan. There were murmurs about my influence over the Lord of Winterfell, but loyalty to the true line of succession from my grandfather was deeply ingrained in the northern lords. Cregan would have to fail spectacularly to lose that loyalty, and he had done nothing of the sort.

Nearly half the lords, those who could think for themselves, recognized the wisdom of granting me Ice and command during the Skagosi rebellion. It wasn't due to my influence or my bloodthirsty nature as rumours whispered about me. It was a matter of practicality: using the best resource for the task—nothing more, nothing less.

I shook my head as I entered the command tent late. The lords were grumbling among themselves, and Lord Bolton regarded me warily. Even I was surprised that Bolton decided to follow Cregan. Before arriving at Winterfell, he had planned to side with Bennard, but the overwhelming support of the other lords—along with my presence—likely stayed his hand. Cregan had already warned everyone to be wary of the Boltons, informing them that Bolton had pledged his allegiance to Bennard until his arrival at Winterfell. I had laughed hard when intelligent lords like Manderly and Dustin realized Cregan had anticipated their every move.

I shook my head as I entered the command tent late. I walked as the lords grumble among themselves while Lord Bolton looked wary of me.  it was a surprise even for me how lord bolton decided to folloe cregan as I saw he was planning to side with bennard before arriving at winterfell. maybe the overwhelming support of lords except for the karstarks and my own presence stayed his hand.  Cregan has already contacted everyone else and warned to be wary of boltons informing them that bolton said that he will bend the knee to bennard till he arribed in winterfelll.  I had laughed hard as the intelligent ones like lord Manderly,  dustin  realised that the lord of winterfell knew their moves even before them.

Cregan stood at the center of the table, with my dear friend Aethan Reed to his left. I took the place on his right. My reunion with Aethan was bittersweet and we had reminisced our various adventures. Though we were still thick as thieves, I couldn't ignore that he looked like he was in his early twenties now. The lack of my blood had evidently returned his aging to resume.

"Lord Stark, when are we storming Winterfell and dragging the traitor out?" Roderick Dustin asked with a mad grin. Though he looked to be in his thirties, the man's love of fighting and bloodshed was as strong as ever—something I had witnessed firsthand during the Skagosi rebellion.

The others began voicing their opinions until Cregan raised his hand to silence them.

"Enough. There will be no storming of Winterfell or unnecessary fighting. Have you all forgotten? This is my home and my men. I will call my treasonous uncle for a parley. I intend to resolve this with as little bloodshed as possible."

Though many looked disappointed at the lack of promised bloodshed, they all nodded in agreement as no one wanted to stay in the  tent for extra time as both Fenrir and Winter looked feral while they observed every single lord.

The parley spot was chosen just outside the arrow range of Winterfell. Cregan was accompanied by the lords, myself, and his direwolf. Bennard arrived with Lord Karstark, the captain of Winterfell's men-at-arms, and a few other senior men at arms of Winterfell. All men who personally know me and half of them was with me in war against the wildlings.  They all looked at me in reverence and I could feel no fear from them.

Before I could needle my uncle, he snapped at Cregan, completely ignoring me and refusing to even look in my direction.

'At least he knows his weaknesses.' I thought as I saw Lord Karstark glaring at me and Cregan.

"Nephew, surrender now and take the black as you should. I do not wish to spill the blood of those trying to take Winterfell—my people."

Cregan scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is that the excuse you've concocted to usurp me? Pitiful, uncle. Aside from your traitorous allies, no other lords support your claim. It's a testament to the folly of this endeavor. The men who initially pledged themselves to your cause saw sense before the battle even began and joined my side. Yet here you are, hiding behind the walls of my home."

He straightened, his voice hard and commanding. "Surrender now, and I will show mercy. You and Lord Karstark will take the black. My cousin will remain my heir until I have a child of my own, and Lord Karstark's line will retain their lands under a loyal branch. No further bloodshed is needed."

Cregan's sharp gaze flicked to Karstark. "This is your chance as well, my lord."

Bennard merely shook his head in silent disappointment, while Karstark snarled, defiance etched into his features.

"Nephew," Bennard began, his tone patronizing, "it seems you've failed to grasp reality. One man on the walls of Winterfell is worth ten on open ground. This castle is impregnable. You do not have the numbers to breach it. That the men who know us both follow me only proves why I should be Lord of Winterfell."

Cregan smirked, a cold, confident expression. He turned to the captain standing by his side.

"Captain Arthos, have you followed my orders?"

Without hesitation, Arthos knelt, followed by the Winterfell guards, their collective submission leaving Bennard and Karstark visibly stunned.

"Yes, my lord," Arthos confirmed. "I personally spoke to every soldier and gave them a choice—between you and Lord Bennard. The majority didn't hesitate to choose you, and the rest followed once they heard that Daemon Snow is marching with you. No man who accompanied him beyond the Wall would dare stand against him."

Bennard looked like he was about to die of a heart attack. His teeth grinding was so intense that I could hear the sound even above the winds.

"Well, well, dear uncle, it seems you are not just a fool but a blind fool living in an imaginary world," I said to needle him.

Bennard snarled as he finally looked at me. His hand rested on the sword hilt, but he wasn't far gone enough to break a parley. Too bad, I whispered.

"Uncle, it seems there shall be no need for needless bloodshed. I can see that you genuinely believe I am not worthy of these lands. You are surprised beyond reason by the men-at-arms of Winterfell honoring their vows to me as they should. I don't want to spill a single drop of good northern blood by storming the castle or when my men inside turn against the Karstarks. Let us end this like the First Men, in the old ways. A one-on-one duel against me. If I lose, you can be Lord of Winterfell."

Bennard's face lit up with the hope he needed, and he agreed. The other lords protested, but a growl from Winter stopped them in their tracks.

Vows were exchanged, and I felt proud that Cregan had cleverly avoided saying what he would do when he won.

I had tried to dissuade Cregan from this, but he was adamant. I had sparred with him for the last four months, and I had to admit that unless Bennard had suddenly become Ser Arthur reborn, Cregan would win—especially since he had bonded with Ice.

We entered Winterfell as the Karstark men were disarmed. The training yard of Winterfell was cleared for the fight, and the surroundings were full of viewers.

The fight started, and I immediately realized one thing: Bennard had become weaker due to age and lack of practice, while Cregan was in the prime of his life and enhanced by my own blood from the time he was in the womb. The only people who could be more powerful would be my own children and maybe Lyra, due to consuming more than just my blood for years now, I thought with a grin.

I felt a harsh poke to my ribs from an elbow on my side, where Aethan was standing.

"Do you really want to increase the rumors of your bloodthirst by grinning like a loon while your cousin and uncle fight for their lives and the fate of the North? Get out of your head and enjoy the fight as Cregan wins."

I grimaced as I felt eyes on me and quickly cleared my grin to make a serious face. I saw both Starks panting from the exertion at the furious pace of slashing, parrying, and dodging.

I observed the viewers, and many lords and men, except for Mormonts, Umber, and Karstark, were whispering in wonder at the speed of the fight. They were gaping at the almost inhuman speed of Cregan and the skill, along with the speed of Bennard, as they fought against each other.

"This is spectacular. I want to cross swords with Lord Cregan after this," Dustin murmured with a grin of pure wonder.

I could see many warriors, who knew fighting like the back of their hand, looking at me and the fight in awe. They all had heard of the Red Death. They could see that the people who knew me personally were not surprised by the speed of the fight between Cregan and Bennard.  And they only had one logical conclusion to reach.

I was just more...

I grimaced at all the wonder, awe, and even fear they aimed at me and Cregan. Maybe I should have played the entire Skaggosi rebellion differently. It still amazes me that the foolish skagosi lords, after the first one, claimed their rival was just incompetent in executing the Old God's order and followed the dream from the Old Gods of where and how to attack in open ambush instead of focusing on their strengths. The fools who would have hidden in their mountain caves were eager to follow the way to win shown by the Old Gods. And thus, the men of the North hadn't seen me unleashed during that rebellion because it was the arrows and ambushes that won the rebellion for us.

No wonder there as I know otherwise the idiots should have followed my advice in the first place and implement my plans to develop the islands by building ships for whaling and even trade, just like I did for Bear Island. Instead, the arrogant fools spat on my help and tried to kill me. It was just luck for me that a trade ship under the Karstark banner, going to Eastwatch, almost crashed into Skagos. It took me only ten minutes to kill everyone on that ship and later start a rumor that the Skagosi had killed a northern ship in rebellion against House Stark.

Envoys were sent and killed by wild unicorns, but that was enough for the North to bay for blood. Old hatreds on both sides don't die so easily. At least I made Cregan pay double for whatever the men would have earned in their lifetime after the rebellion, for their valuable service to the North. The fact that they were killed by me was irrelevant.

The yelling of the men broke my thoughts as I registered the fact that Cregan had his sword at the neck of Uncle Bennard. I wondered what he would do in this world.

"Uncle, you have been defeated," Cregan kicked the sword away from Bennard. "Surrender now, so the North can see you admit defeat." Cregan yelled above the cries of the crowd baying for blood.

I looked at my uncle and felt only pity. The man could have been lord of a keep, as my plans for the North restarted under Cregan, but hatred can lead even the loyal and mighty to fall. For some reason, I felt I had to really take this lesson to heart myself.

"I surrender, and I will take the Black!" Bennard yelled as he fell to the ground in defeat, exhausted from blood loss from various cuts.

"You and my cousins are sentenced to the Wall for betrayal." Cregan snapped and withdraw Ice from the neck of Bennard

"No!" Bennard yelled in despair and continued murmuring something  about his sons.

"Daemon shall be my heir until I have a child of my own," Cregan continued, louder than before. "Lord Karstark and his two sons shall take the Black, and Alys Karstark will be my ward. She will marry a loyal lord who shall take the name Karstark."

The Karstarks looked enraged, but they knew they were defeated and must pay the price of betrayal. Cregan finished and turned to walk back to us

It happened in seconds as the defeated Bennard jumped to his feet, kicking the air and leaping toward Cregan's back with a knife. I felt anger envelop me even before my own feelings reached me and realized that Fenrir's emotions were overwhelming me, making me look through my bond with him.

The direwolf had been lounging near the Mormonts on the side and would have seen Bennard preparing for the attack. The moment I connected, I saw myself biting Bennard's hand holding the knife. Bennard was still mid-air in his jump. The armor on the hand crumbled under my teeth, and the iron taste of blood hit my tongue. My sharp hearing caught the sound of his legs breaking as his brother had already bitten his legs. The two opposite forces had broken the man in half, making his legs scream in agony. I immediately shook myself free from the bond and saw Fenrir spit the arm to the ground while a leg landed on the ground from Winter's mouth. Even before anyone could do anything, Fenrir's teeth sank into Bennard's neck, ending his misery.

Even Cregan looked nauseous at the end of our uncle as the blood splashed on him.

Everyone was stunned into silence until I broke it shortly with a loud laugh. Everyone looked  stunned at me and I shrugged,

"Well, my sorry excuse of an uncle has just proven all the shit he was peddling about the strength of the North, weak Cregan, and other things was just that—absolute shit and excuses for hiding his power-hungry nature. I am actually glad my grandfather is not here to see this failure of a son. Let this be a lesson to all traitors: betrayal shall be punished most harshly, and we have a strong Lord Stark in my dear brother Cregan here," my voice echoed around Winterfell in the silence.

Applause erupted along with the shouting:

"Cregan! Cregan! Stark! The Red Death! The Red Death! Winterfell!"

Authors note: I had spend much time thinking should I kill bennard or just make him take the wall and live…. But this came to me as I was writing and I felt it was good and appropriate.

Also if anyone think this is being speed run, the thing is I never planned to writing this period and every normal war like this is almost boring because of daemon's presence.   Thus two battles like skagossi rebellion and war of the wolves is over in two chapters.  

see you in chapter 26: A wolf in south !!

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 26: A Wolf in South.

90 AC

Kingslanding.

Cregan Stark looked at the bustling port as their ship, The Red Death, sailed toward its assigned docking area. The ship was directly under House Stark's control, though it was based in White Harbor for the time being. Lord Theomore Manderly and Aethan Reed were accompanying him on this journey to King's Landing.

Typically, when a new Lord Paramount is sworn in, they appear before the Iron Throne to pledge fealty to their liege—except for the North. Usually, it was a representative from House Manderly who swore fealty on behalf of the Lord Stark, with a message sent via raven to formalize the pledge. But this time, King Jaehaerys had sent a royal summons, commanding Cregan Stark to King's Landing to swear his allegiance in person and to discuss various matters.

Daemon, who had been settling in at Winterfell with him after the armies and lords had dispersed, had been surprised by the king's decision to honor the Pact of Ice and Fire so fastly. Cregan, however, was skeptical. He doubted Daemon's interpretation, believing the king's invitation was about a future arrangement—perhaps a marriage alliance for one of his future daughters that will marry one the kings grandsons. After all, giving a daughter to a Lord Paramount, whose future children might eventually rule, was far riskier than marrying a daughter off to a lesser lord with heirs aplenty.

He still remembers the conversation they had in the Lord's solar.

"I don't see the king offering a daughters hand to me. daemon. It may be that the king want to negotiate for future generation. It would be too dangerous as a daughter could claim a dragon just like Princess Alyssa and even our childrenmayhave the ability to bond with dragons". Cregan said.

Daemon nodded. "Don't bother guessing. I assure you, if you marry Viserra, your children will have the capability to bond with dragons. They will be just like me and will have an even better bond with their dragons due to our warging abilities. That is the reason you are being summoned. Viserra is not betrothed to anyone, despite many vying for her hand. After careful deliberation, it was the king who made the decision. He wants to ensure your loyalty never wavers from the Iron Throne and the rightful king. The king also seeks to curb my influence in the North by tying the North closer to the crown."

Cregan gaped at Daemon, realizing that he had spies in King's Landing.

"How? You have spies in King's Landing? How do you pay them? The money you hold with my house hasn't been touched by you at all!"

"Oh, Cregan, why would I need to pay myself?" Daemon smirked. "I can warg and use the weirwood tree there to scry with my greenseeing whenever I wish. And honestly, I'm a little jealous of you—you get to marry a beauty like Viserra."

Cregan blushed, still a boy in matters of romance. He had never ventured to brothels or indulged in the many offers presented to him.

"I still don't understand why you stopped me from becoming a greenseer. Anyway, tell me about Viserra. Will she be a headache for me?" Cregan asked seriously as he wished to have a good marriage and be a Lord Stark that will make his grandfather proud.

"I have told you, cregan, only one powerful greenseer at a time and the risk is too high with no additional benefits. Anyway, I have the perfect plan to make you the most eligible bachelor in Westeros infront of her—well, apart from me." Daemon grinned mischievously. "You should order Lord Theomore to accompany you, no matter what. Say you need his expertise or something along those lines."

Cregan raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"What do you mean?", cregan asked incredulously

"Well, let this be a test to your observational abilities and not be blinded by the beauty of Viserra. If you become enraptured my aunt will eat you alive. You are yet a boy in the matters of women using their viles to get what they want. You must atleast visit the brothel once to atleast make sure that you could put the cold Stark mask even when you are surrounded by seduction incarnates. You will do this in wintertown and when you reach white harbour. I don't care whether you fuck or not, but you must desensitize yourself."

And densinsitize, he did, very thoroughly.

Cregan was shaken from his thoughts by Lord Theomore.

"My lord, I still cannot believe the direwolves are back in House Stark's hands after centuries," Lord Theomore said, glancing at Winter.

The direwolf was far smaller than the monstrous Fenrir, but Winter was already nearly shoulder-height to a grown man. Theomore noted the direwolf's unease about the journey by sea, though the creature looked calm and placid. Still, he had not forgotten how both direwolves had torn a traitor in two when Cregan was threatened.

Cregan smiled and rubbed the direwolf's head.

"For that, I am thankful to Daemon. He ventured beyond the Wall and even risked leaving the army to find these pups for us," Aethan said, speaking from Cregan's other side.

"Lord Reed, I'm happy that at least you ventured beyond the Neck, unlike your father," Lord Manderly remarked.

Aethan merely smiled. "Yes, my fostering with Lord Stark made it possible."

As the ship docked at the port, they were hailed by one of the port officers. Sailing for mere travel was costly, but they carried trade goods to offset the expense.

Cregan remained silent as the ship's captain explained their cargo. The officer jotted something down, and the formality was complete.

"My lord, let us disembark and head to the city," Aethan said. "The captain will handle the rest. We're not needed here."

Lord Manderly nodded in agreement, and Cregan followed. As they stepped onto the pier, Winter leaped down with them.

The appearance of the direwolf caused a commotion. Someone screamed in fright, and a group of port guards approached briskly, their hands resting on their half-unsheathed swords.

Before Cregan could use his lordly voice to restore order, another voice shouted over the chaos.

"Enough of this commotion! It's just Lord Stark, a guest of His Grace the King."

Cregan turned to see a man in pristine armor with a flowing white cloak—a Kingsguard. The man was flanked by ten guards and quickly recognized as Ser Ryam Redwyne.

Cregan and his retinue approached, stopping a few paces away from the Kingsguard.

"Lord Stark, welcome to King's Landing," Ser Ryam greeted him. "I am Ser Ryam Redwyne, sent by His Grace to escort you and your retinue to the Red Keep. Rooms have been prepared for you and five others. However, your men are not permitted to carry swords outside their quarters." Ser Ryam's gaze lingered on the hilt of Ice and the large direwolf.

"You are permitted to carry Ice, as ancestral swords are allowed. But I must ask—is the wolf tame?"

Cregan regarded him silently for a moment before snorting. "A direwolf is never truly tamed, Ser Ryam. It becomes our friend. Winter here is calm as long as no one threatens him or those he favors."

Ser Ryam's expression turned stern for a moment. "The wolf is permitted as long as you take responsibility for its actions. No one is to harm you or your companions, so the wolf is welcome as long as you—or someone who can command it—are present."

"Then only myself and Aethan Reed can manage Winter," Cregan replied. "If the wolf is not with me, he will be with my dear friend Aethan here."

Ser Ryam nodded. "Then let us not delay. The royal family awaits you. You are to be presented before the Iron Throne for the swearing-in ceremony at noon. You have limited time to prepare. Your men can carry your belongings, and servants at the Red Keep will assist you."

Cregan nodded and followed as they proceeded toward the city.

Viserra Targaryen

She didn't know whether to cry or laugh at her situation. She and the entire royal family, along with the court, were assembled at the Iron Throne for the Stark to swear fealty. She hadn't seen her future betrothed up close till now, even when they were escorted in to the Red Keep. The presence of a rather huge wolf made her ignore everything else when she spied upon them at that time.

She was nineteen years old and yet had never experienced true freedom. Her father, in his paranoia, had banned any of his daughters from claiming a dragon. Oh, she knew there was no blatant order to that effect, but the ways her family stopped her, Saera, and even Gael from meeting any unclaimed dragons were evidence enough. Saera had even attempted to claim a dragon before her banishment to the Faith and eventual escape to Lys, but that too had been thwarted.

What truly made her hate her parents was the hypocrisy of allowing Rhaenys to claim a dragon before her marriage to Viserys. Rhaenys had claimed Meleys last year, and Viserra knew that neither Viserys nor Daemon was pleased about losing the chance to claim their mother's dragon. Only Baleon their father allowing Rhaneys to claim Meleys, by bending over to Aemon's words as usual, stopped them from throwing a tantrum Viserra knew the deep friendship between Viserys and Rhaenys had strained because of it, and if some careful words from their "loving aunt" had needled them, it was only for their own good.

Viserra knew the king only permitted Rhaenys to claim the dragon because she was the heir to Crown Prince Aemon and because of the influence of both Aemon and Baelon. Her father, who had once threatened his sons with Balerion for disagreeing with him, had grown calmer and weaker in his old age. His apparent will to enforce his aims on House Targaryen as a whole had diminished. This was evident from their last conversation—the last one she considered ever having with her father. She had decided she had lost him after that because he had enforced his will upon her like a King and only a King.

One year ago…

"Why, Father? What makes Rhaenys so special that you allowed her a dragon? Why not me?"

Her father looked tired, but the disappointment in his expression was evident.

"Why, you ask? Rhaenys is my heir's heiress. She needs a dragon to rule as the queen of this kingdom, not as a puppet to her husband, even if he is a son of House Targaryen. Rhaenys has a blessed bastard brother who has been strengthening one of the largest kingdoms for decades. Only an experienced dragonrider as Queen would make him reconsider ever attempting to claim the throne, if the desire strike him later. Why allow a weakness when we can ensure our strength?"

Viserra was surprised by the thoughtfulness of the King and his legacy.

"And it is not my fault that you failed to impress your brothers—or even Viserys, for that matter—enough to allow you to marry into House Targaryen and thus claim a dragon. You are to be married to Lord Cregan Stark. The Starks are Daemon's only support, and I must sever that bond. That will ensure that no Lords from the past North will think of making Daemon a king, even if my grandson is not interested."

Viserra gaped at her father. This was something she had never considered and then she was angry.

"Father, what are you talking about? Who in their right mind would support a bastard over the legitimate heirs? The North is distant, and even they are not foolish enough to fight the entire South in addition to dragonriders. Daemon has not even ventured a day in the South, and you fear his shadow, sacrificing my happiness and my rights? This is not Maegor Targaryen with Balerion!"

She snarled in anger but immediately froze upon uttering the hated name in front of the king.

She fearfully looked at her father, expecting cruel words or punishment. Instead, she was surprised when the king, for once, did not look ready to burn anyone with Vermithor for merely mentioning Maegor's name.

"You are absolutely correct, my daughter," the king said, and she wondered why she felt as though he was proud of her. "For all your airheadness and the games you play with weak men, there is some cunning in you. I am sacrificing your happiness and rights for the good of our house. I am glad you recognize that.

And no, Daemon Snow is not Maegor with Balerion. If he were, I would feel reassured, as we would know exactly what he is capable of. But now, I have no idea what abilities my grandson possesses or how to defend against him if he chooses violence. I truly considered legitimizing him and marrying him to Rhaenys to end all these worries, but the cost of that would outweigh the benefits. So here I am, yet again, sacrificing one of my children for the good of the house."

Viserra just snorted at the apparent reason spouted by the king.

"What cost and benefit? You're just prideful that the child you abandoned is becoming important enough for you to want him back. You're afraid of the future of our house deviating from the path you designed through Aemon and Baelon. Daemon is unpredictable and not under the influence of our house or our lessons."

"Well, well, now I'm really impressed by you, Viserra," her father said with mirth. "You've spent much time pondering this during your house arrest for attempting to seduce Baelon."

"Aye, many such thoughts crossed my mind," Viserra retorted.

"Daughter, for your sacrifice and in recognition of your cunning, I will acknowledge your children as princes and princesses of the realm," the king said.

Viserra was confused. "I thought any children and grandchildren of the king were princes and princesses."

"No," the king replied with a smile. "Only the male line has that right. Any female who marries outside retains her birth title, but her children are only Lords or Ladies."

Viserra looked thoughtful for a moment. She didn't know why she asked the next question or why it included that particular name. Perhaps it was because Rhaenys had been giggling about the Sea Snake's accomplishments that morning. Or perhaps it was fate.

"So, for example, if Rhaenys married outside the family—say to Corlys Velaryon—then their children would be Lords and Ladies unless Rhaenys became queen or the king acknowledged them as princes and princesses. Is that correct, Father?"

The moment she finished her question, she realized her mistake. The king's gentle smile vanished, replaced by a cold, rage-filled expression. His eyes glinted with fury and even a hint of madness. This was the reaction she expected when she mentioned her cursed grand uncle Maegor not for this trivial question.

"Viserra, you are dismissed. You will inform me of any such plans involving my sons or even Rhaenys. Do you understand?"

The tone was harsh, unlike any before, and she could only accept the order and flee from the solar.

That conversation had happened over a year ago, and Viserra had spent much time pondering what had made her father so angry. Shameful as it was to admit, it took a spy from her mother's side—her little sister Gael—to tell her about their mothers' complaints about their father's apparent dislike of the Sea Snake.

Viserra was glad she finally understood it, and now she could have her own form of revenge on Rhaenys, the king, and her foolish elder brothers. Rhaenys had a crush on the handsome older man, and Viserra had used every opportunity to turn that small crush into a deep infatuation.

Rhaenys had Aemon in her grasp, and Viserra knew that the naïve Aemon would ensure Rhaenys could marry whomever she desired. The fact that the Baratheons and Velaryons were also related to her through their shared grandmother, Alyssa Velaryon, only worked in her favor. The best part? She would be out of the capital when it all finally happened, entirely blameless in the scheme.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the herald called out names as they entered.

Viserra's anger at her parents surged when she saw Theomore Manderly for the first time.

Her mother dared to marry her off to this fat, ugly, old man? She glared at her mother, who looked genuinely surprised at the appearance of her old friend. Her mother must have felt the weight of her glare, as guilt flickered across her face for a moment before vanishing.

Only the herald's loud announcement of "Cregan Stark and his wolf, Winter" pulled Viserra's attention away.

The first thing that struck her was that this was no boy—it was a man. There was nothing boyish about the fully grown figure standing tall before her. His posture radiated confidence, bordering on arrogance, a silent declaration of his strength.

Her gaze traveled to the massive wolf beside him, and she froze. The wolf's piercing eyes were locked on her, almost as though it understood her every thought. There was an intelligence in the beast's gaze that she had seen only in dragons.

As Cregan approached the throne, Viserra was finally able to get a clearer look at him, and she couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief as the swearing-in ceremony began.

At least he was comely,—perhaps even handsome, in his own way and more importantly, younger than her, allowing her to wrap him around her desires. Maybe being the princess of Winterfell will be better than being cooped as wife of Baelon or any other Targaryen without any personal power or choice. No one would be above her station in the North and only the Lord of Winterfell have any perceived power to order her around. The jealous Lords in the court whispered that the Starks are still King in all but name in the North and may be being a Queen in all but name will be what she needed.

Cregan Stark

Cregan sat in the king's hall with Lord Manderly. We had both been invited by the king for a meeting.

Cregan knew the purpose of the gathering was to discuss the betrothal, and he knew there was no escaping it, even though he had no desire for escaping it. Viserra was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. Even Winter couldn't sense any trouble from her.

The king, Princes Aemon and Baelon, along with the queen sitting in the table opposite him.

"Lord Stark, I assume you have an idea of why you were summoned to King's Landing," Prince Baelon said.

Cregan was surprised it was Baelon who started the dialogue when all others were elder in age and position. He also noticed the slight nod from the king, signalling that the discussion should begin.

"I will be honest, my prince," Cregan said. "I never thought I would be considered to fulfill our pact. In fact, it was Daemon who correctly guessed that I would fulfill it, and that I was being considered for Princess Viserra's hand. And, as usual, he was right." He said this pointedly, observing their reactions. He missed Winter's presence, as the warg bond would help him truly understand their feelings. But there was no way the king would accept a dangerous wolf in such an enclosed space.

The king looked indifferent, but it was Aemon and the queen who reacted the most—Aemon with interest and the queen with a slight frown and a glare at him.

"It seems the tales of my grandson's talents have not been exaggerated," the king said. "I wonder how he knew of the events unfolding here?"

"I too wonder the same, Your Grace," Cregan replied cooly.

"I see," the king said. "And how is my grandson faring? Has he settled down with a wife? I've heard you've been using him for so long, even declaring him heir until you have children."

Cregan nodded. "Aye, Your Grace. There is no one else with enough Stark blood, and I know he will make a fantastic ruler, should that time come. Daemon, however, will not settle down. He is a free spirit, sowing his wild oats. He likes to travel, and staying in one place bores him now."

The queen snorted in derision. "No wonder. Bastards are, after all, lustful beings. Lord Stark, I wonder whether you've ever considered that Daemon might want your position. He's quite near being in the position of a powerful lord of the realm, and you've even declared him heir. It would only take an accident to make it so. When he was born and was a minor, so many were in line for the position of Lord of Winterfell, and look at his position now."

Cregan noticed Prince Aemon's face contorting with rage, but a hand from Prince Baelon silenced him. The king looked tired but intrigued by how Cregan would respond. However, it was Lord Manderly's reaction that surprised him.

Manderly looked at the queen as though seeing her for the first time, bewildered, before anger appeared on his face quickly morphing into indifference.

"Ah, well, I'm grateful for your concern, Your Grace," Cregan replied pointedly. "But I know your grandson better than all, except maybe Aethan Reed. He doesn't thirst after the North or any lordship for that matter. He doesn't want to be tied down to any one place, and he has higher callings. Also, my queen, it is not in our hands whether we live or die. It was the time for my grandfather and father, but it was betrayal that caused my uncle's line to lose their position. I also don't know if you've realized this, but it's the same number of relevant people ahead of him in his paternal line as well."

Manderly looked momentarily afraid at the sheer gall of his liege lord.

"Are you threatening my house, Lord Stark?" Alysanne asked, her voice tinged with barely hidden anger. "And you've somehow mistaken the numbers. My daughters Visserra and Gael are there too."

"Of course not, my queen," Cregan said calmly. "I'm merely pointing out the similarities between our houses and how the Old Gods could curse us at any point. I didn't include your youngest daughters. I don't think I'd want to leave the North and my home to become king consort if such an unfortunate event were to come to pass. And I've heard the hateful rumors about Princess Gael that have been spread. No lords from the South will support her unless they marry her and usurp her authority. Should the Princess Gael finds in such an unfortunate position being the sole member alive, the only one with Targaryen blood capable of reigning and silencing all those ambitious lords is my brother. Even then, I sincerely pray that such a moment never comes to pass, as he will hate it with all his heart."

"Such pessimistic words from a young mind," the king interjected before anyone could say anything further. "My queen, I'm sure our grandson will not do anything dishonourable, and such a wise man as Cregan would discover any deceit you fear. Lord Stark, I would caution you to use your words carefully. You came close to speaking treason. Still, I understand where those words came from. We both suffered the deaths of our beloved family at a young age, and now betrayal from someone who should support and love us with all their heart."

"Aye, my king," Cregan said, bowing his head. "I apologize to you and to my queen for my words. It's difficult to swallow the disparagement against someone who taught me so much and supported me so much, even if it was my queen and the grandmother of the person in question."

Queen Alysanne remained silent, merely nodding.

"Baelon," the king said, turning to his son, "I see how you granted two great boons to Lord Stark when you went to procure a cure for my grandson. Also, Lord Stark, isn't it presumptuous of you to consider yourself the groom for my dear daughter even before the offer is made? I could change my mind at any point, and no one would find dishonor in it. It's just rumors—no one, not even the small council, knows the truth. So tell me, why should you be honored to have my daughter as your wife?"

Cregan looked thoughtful for a moment before answering.

"Your Grace, it's true that it was presumptuous of me to say so. It was just my own reckless thoughts and desires since seeing the lovely princess. There's no shame for House Stark in a broken betrothal, as it's not known to anyone. It is your order, my king, that I will follow. But as I told Prince Baelon all those years ago, House Stark is the most apt choice for Princess Viserra's hand—unless, of course, Prince Baelon suddenly wishes to remarry. I am a proven warrior, and any threats to our position have been handled in the last three wars in the North. His grace's grandson will be the Lord of Winterfell and the future Warden, loyal to his cousin sitting on the Iron Throne. More than that, his grace wishes to honor the Pact between our houses."

King jaeaherys scrutnised cregan for some time before speaking.

"At least you're more observant and clever than some foolish petitions for her hand I've heard about," the king murmured. "Lord Stark, let us begin the discussion. The marriage should be held in two moons' time in King's Landing, and I'm sure that's enough time for you to court my daughter. We can discuss dowry and other details later."

Cregan hesitated for a moment before sighing.

"Your Grace, I am ready to marry in two moons' time, but I wish to marry in the Godswood, and my brother Daemon to officiate the ceremony. The northern lords would be angered if I married in a sept, as it would give credence to my traitorous uncle's words. Please allow me to send a raven to Winterfell to tell him to come here with your permission of course."

"No," the king said sternly.

"Your Grace?" Cregan asked hesitantly.

"My grandson is banished from the South, and I will not revoke that order now," the king replied. "I'm sure Lord Manderly or Lord Reed could officiate the marriage."

"My king, it's not about the knowledge of officiating," Cregan said earnestly. "I want Daemon to be there. He is the closest thing I have to a father figure now, and I don't want to marry without him being present."

the queen scoffed at that and asked,

"You would reject the hand of a princess, my beautiful Viserra, and the order of your king, along with the boons of marrying royalty, for a bastard?"

"Aye, I would gladly reject the beauty and the boons for my brother, Your Grace," Cregan replied. "But never an order from my king. But this is not an order from my king. If it were, please make it so, my king, and I will follow it." Cregan said, looking at the king. There was no emotion in his face, and Aemon could see the cold Stark mask.

Even without any outward expression of anger or sadness, everyone understood that the order would be followed without question, but it would be remembered forever.

"No, it's not an order. This is a discussion, not a command from me," the king said. "You raise some valid points, the northern lords are indeed prickly. Why make a problem when they are so eager to follow you now?" The king sighed. "The realm wants to celebrate the marriage of the princess, and they would be happy to come to King's Landing. Ignoring them is not something I'm willing to do. So, tell me, Lord Stark, what would you suggest to overcome this?"

Cregan knew the king already had a solution and was testing him.

"My king, our marriage could be held at Winterfell, and all the northern lords would gladly participate. The realm may not like traveling there, but there's no need for that, as Princess Visserra is not Princess Rhaenys, and she's not third in line to the Iron Throne. A celebratory tourney can be held here, announcing our betrothal to the realm. The realm can participate, and House Targaryen can attend the marriage in Winterfell easily, as you are all dragonriders. This will also give me time to properly court the Princess."

The king looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding.

"Close to what I had in mind, Lord Stark. Let us continue the discussion and get it over with," the king said, sighing.

2 days later.

Family Dinner hall.

Rhaenys Targaryen

She looked to her left, where her mother was sitting and overseeing the courses. It was a private family dinner gathering, with an addition of Cregan Stark. An unofficial way to introduce the royal family, as they were to be kin by marriage. Rhaenys noticed the calm mask her mother projected, but she could see the wariness and anger in her face. Jocelyn had tried to stop the coming betrothal, knowing Cregan would never go against Daemon, since Cregan had been influenced by the bastard since childhood. Rhaenys had even heard her mother complain that this was just a way of handing over Viserra to Daemon and he will influence her to his side.

Rhaenys had tried to defend her aunt. Viserra was the first one to congratulate her for claiming Meleys, even when the king denied herself a dragon. It was her aunt who had helped her immensely, introducing her to the Sea Snake and explaining that sometimes small fancies turn into infatuation and later into love. She had tried to see Viserys in that position, as her father wanted, but she could never see Viserys standing against the vultures to defend her claim the way the Sea Snake would if he had married her. It was the childhood impression of beating Daemon at even a single thing that sparked her small infatuation with the legendary Sea Snake. The stupid bards loved to sing about the Red Death, the development of the North by introducing grains and new techniques, and even god-blessed healing. There were almost a dozen catchy songs spread by the bards, and she wondered whether someone had spent a fortune making them sing it at every occasion.

Rhaenys looked at Lord Stark, who was handsome and a warrior to boot. She wondered whether her bastard brother would be similar. She had heard that Daemon's half-black, half-silver hair was famous, just like his heterochromatic eyes. She continued eating, still unsure whether to make Corlys her husband. She was undecided and still thinking over it.

She saw Viserys smiling as she talked with Cregan while they ate, and the general mood in the room was good. Cregan answered many questions from her father and uncle about the supposed rebellions and how they were handled. She didn't know whether Cregan's handling of the issues was good or not, but her father seemed impressed.

As the conversation between her father and Cregan came to a lull, her cousin Daemon decided to ask a question.

"So, where is the wolf? Has it killed anyone or is it just giant puppy without bite?" Daemon asked casually, and Rhaenys almost scolded her younger cousin for his lack of respect and aggressive tone.

Luckily, Rhaenys noticed her uncle keeping an eye on the conversation, and Cregan looked unbothered by the question, though he glanced at Daemon with curiosity.

"Aye, the wolf has killed many people. The last one was my uncle, when he tried to kill me from behind after surrendering. Though I can't take all the credit, it was Fenrir who finished him. But my prince, you didn't say your name? Are you the prince whose life was saved by my cure?" Cregan asked.

Rhaenys could feel a headache coming, knowing Daemon was already a wild child, and only his harsh training kept him from making trouble.

"Fenrir? There's another one?" Daemon said. "Also, no, I am not Aegon. I am Prince Daemon Targaryen."

"Ah! ha!" Cregan exclaimed with a smile. "The prince named after my brother, Daemon Snow. You have a hard legacy to live up to, my prince. I don't envy you."

Rhaenys could hear the silence as the entire conversation around the table died. She knew the only reason Daemon hadn't exploded was the sheer shock of it.

"What? I'm not named after some northern bastard and Who the fuck is this Daemon Snow?" Daemon yelled, hitting the table in anger. The utensils and food flew off the table, making a ruckus.

"Enough!" The king snapped, and Daemon immediately stopped yelling.

Everyone looked at Cregan and Daemon in surprise or blamed him for the outburst.

"I regret mentioning that, your grace. I didn't know that Prince Daemon was not aware of his elder cousin in the north."

Rhaenys could see that Cregan had a sheepish grin on his face, as if he hadn't meant to provoke Prince Daemon, but she understood it had been done deliberately.

Both Baelon and Aemon sighed, knowing it would take time before Daemon calmed down, and that there would be days of suffering from his yelling and temper tantrums. Rhaenys could see that daemon has noticed the lack of surprise on her and viserys face and there would be days full of headache for her in the future. Atleast she knows to escape it by going to Meleys and Corlys.

Authors note: yeah no one wanted to infrom the kid rouge prince that the world believes he is namesake for aemon's bastard…. Well daemon is only 7-8 years and perfect age to throw a legendary temper tantrums…. 

My Discord

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 27: The Dichotomy of Love and Hate

90 AC

Kingslanding

Cregan Stark

It had been one week since he arrived in the capital, and the betrothal had been announced, with a tourney set to celebrate the occasion in two moons. The sheer number of jealous murmurs he had heard through Winter made him laugh—so many people envious of his royal marriage. Many still couldn't comprehend why the king had agreed to such a match. Whispers spread that the Starks had hoodwinked the Targaryens: first, the Crown Prince falling for a northern bastard; then, no real punishment for violating the Queen's orders and taking The Gift back; and now, a royal marriage. The rumors of the cure he had provided for Aegon only grew stronger with each passing day.

Only disbelief and wariness toward heathen ways prevented people from approaching him for a miracle cure. Some believed it worked only on babes. Whatever they believed it was getting harder not to find the enjoyment in their bluster.

During daytime for the last week, he had spent time courting Viserra, and surprisingly, he liked her—just as she seemed to like him. Winter could sense that Viserra disliked most of her elders and had been engaging in something nefarious. Only the contempt and mockery he felt through winter had kept him from taking offense when Viserra insulted the northern fleet and its trading success in front of Rhaenys, comparing it unfavorably to the Sea Snake's ventures. Why Viserra went on to list the various family lines through which Corlys  is related to the royal family and especially Rhaenys was a mystery to him.

Aethan Reed had also reported seeing Corlys Velaryon spending much time with Rhaenys, discussing great voyages and the supposed greatness and lineage of House Targaryen and Velaryon.

"Aethan, why do you look so surprised by Rhaenys and Corlys?" Cregan has asked as he could see no reason for him to care about the Royal Families marriages.

"Lord Stark, you know about the Targaryens' power of dragon dreams and our own version of green dreams?" Aethan asked.

"Aye, Daemon has taught me about it—how the future is shown through visions that are difficult to understand," Cregan said.

"Well, Daemon, as always, is blessed in this as well. He has seen many things. I don't know how much he has shared with me or even you, but he once said Corlys would marry Rhaenys. However, the Rhaenys in his vision was older than our princess. I thought it was unlikely, and even Daemon was confused about how it would come to pass. But now, it is happening—just as he foresaw," Aethan said, a strange gleam in his green eyes.

Cregan processed this, his eyes widening as a thought struck him. My father… my grandfather? How did that happen if he could dream so much?

"Ah. That is because he has never foreseen the Starks' path, and whatever he could see would change drastically because of his presence. Even so, he foresaw Bennard's betrayal long ago. That was the true reason he was never as close to his children as he was to you—notwithstanding that his children followed their father's footsteps in hating Daemon."

Cregan frowned before a memory hit him and he started laughing. "You are correct. He knew. Daemon knew about the betrayal long ago— when our uncle banished him to Bear Island. Uncle accused Daemon of harboring betrayal, and I still remember the nameless expression Daemon had then… and the laughter that followed."

"Typical Daemon," Aethan said with a shrug.

By nightfall, Aethan excused himself to his room, leaving Cregan alone with his thoughts.

Lying on his bed, Cregan wondered what else Daemon had foreseen and why he had not shared any of it with him. Perhaps that was why, when he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of Winterfell—of his younger days when Daemon used to tell him epic stories.

Cregan!

He dreamed happily, as he remembers the story and how exciting it was for him, but the story was interrupted—by Daemon. Older, as he had last seen him before his journey to King's Landing and not the younger version that should be telling the story.

Awareness and fear gripped Cregan as he realized Daemon was dreamwalking, peering into his mind.

"Daemon… How is this possible? Should I be worried about any others and why now?"

"Oh? It is easy, my dear brother," Daemon replied. "You are in my paternal home, and I am in my maternal home. Isn't it interesting that both have protections against this type of magic, yet I can breach them because of my blood? Even then, this shouldn't be possible for anyone else. The Starks and the Targaryens have stronger defenses in their mind, but our bond allows me to connect to you. The inherent protections would take care of anyone else."

Cregan calmed as the fear of outside control vanished.

"Why are you contacting me like this?" he asked. "I thought we agreed not to communicate at all—someone might see me talking to an animal or thin air."

Daemon scrutinized Cregan before speaking.

"What the fuck are you doing, cousin? Why didn't you follow the King's word and marry in King's Landing? You have no business dragging me into the middle of the Targaryen family affairs."

Cregan was surprised—he had thought Daemon clever enough to guess his reasoning. But like all things Targaryen, his brother is highly irrational and he had lost patience to think through.

"No business? So you don't want to attend my wedding? Why shouldn't I have the elder of my family officiate my marriage?" Cregan snapped.

"Oh, is that so? Then we could have held a northern ceremony in the godswood at Winterfell after the southern function. That's not the true reason. Answer me now," Daemon demanded coldly. The dream world trembled with rising emotions.

"You're too clever, Daemon, but not clever enough when it comes to the Targaryens. Have you ever thought about why you act so irrationally when making decisions regarding your paternal family? I want you to reconnect with them. You still have a father, a grandfather, an uncle—you still have a chance to be part of their lives, while I have no one. The old gods denied me a family, but you? You could have made them call you back to the South themselves, made them welcome you into the family. Why are you running from them?" Cregan shouted.

"Oh? You think I'm a coward who flees confrontation?" Daemon's voice was sharp. "I didn't want to meet them without knowing I could escape—even from dragons—if need be. I refuse to feign love or respect when I have none. But, my dear brother, the time for running is over. I was planning to return south anyway. I have plans to enact, dragons to tame… and perhaps even princesses to seduce."

"What?!" Cregan asked, shocked. He could see that Daemon has ignored his first question, but the answer was pure arrogance that he has never seen anywhere else. Even the king is not this arrogant or indifferent. "Daemon, you're banished from the South. The King proclaimed it to me just this week! Why are you taking such a risk?"

"Oh, don't worry, Cregan," Daemon said with a dismissive wave. "I won't be going as myself. I'll dye my hair black or shave it off entirely. It wasn't vanity that made me write that song about my half-black, half-silver hair—it was so the bards would make it famous. I'll travel as a bard, let the people hear my divine voice."

Cregan cringed, remembering the first time Daemon had ever sung—it had been horrendous, so much so that even Fenrir had attacked him. But, as always, by spending time with dozens of bards, Daemon had somehow turned his talent around.

"Daemon… Are you sure you want to go as a bard? Your talent will make you stand out."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. I know how to blend in—I've watched people do it all my life. Anyway, it's too late to change your wedding now, and I'll be attending, regardless of who else does. It's happening far earlier than I expected, but at least it'll be entertaining to needle my grandmother if she actually comes," Daemon said with a grin.

Cregan looked thoughtful before asking, "So what's her issue with you, Daemon? Is she that entrenched in the Faith of the Seven?"

"Not at all, brother. The truth is, at the end of the day, there's a little madness in every single one of us. The only thing that restrains it is the fear of consequences, the leashes we place upon ourselves. Alysanne Targaryen is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she has no leash to hide her madness. Hers is the madness of partiality—of loving too fiercely and believing her opinions to be infallible. When she loves someone, it is absolute. And when she does not? It is pure indifference and neglect.

She has been like this since her youth. She loved her brother Jaehaerys more than anyone else and supported him in usurping her nieces' claim. She adored Saera so much that she still dreams of bringing her back, but she disliked Viserra enough that she would have betrothed her to Theomore Manderly had he not given his full support to House Stark and my ventures. She cherished Daella, yet her daughter is an Arryn, and the queen has never visited her—not even once.

Likewise, she decided to hate me—whether for my bastardry or for my mother, whom she sees as a seductress who led her 'innocent' crown prince astray. This is my best guess as to why she behaves the way she does."

Cregan was bewildered. "That's… some deep thinking. And now that you mention it, it makes sense in hindsight. So that was why you asked me to bring old Theomore himself to King's Landing? That explains the relief Viserra felt when she first saw me—and Theomore—when we were introduced at court. Winter is always a blessing to have with me;  as it lets me sense others' feelings."

"Aye, you are correct, Cregan. And you should worship me for my benevolence in helping you with Viserra," Daemon said with a smug grin.

Cregan scoffed. "That's irrelevant, brother. She would have fallen for me anyway—I'm the handsome one between us."

Daemon merely smirked in mockery. "Anyway, now that you recognize my wisdom and my plans within plans, you should promise not to meddle any further with the Targaryens for my so-called benefit."

Cregan nodded with a sheepish grin.

"The night is still young," Daemon continued. "Tell me all about my paternal side—especially Princess Gael and my half-sister. Tell me what you've sensed through Winter's eyes. I've seen their interactions, whether through warging or greenseeing, but having Winter's perspective will be useful for my future plans."

Cregan sighed, knowing this would take a while.

"So…" he began.

3 Moons Later

Daemon Snow

Winterfell

'Fuck it. Having a little brother sucks'.

I was sitting on the sidelines of the training yard, observing the men train while lost in my thoughts.

I watched the men-at-arms and could tell they had plateaued in their physical development. Even they seemed to sense something was wrong—many had stopped training altogether, focusing only on honing their sword skills under Brandon's careful eye. My own mood was mercurial, burdened by the fact that I now had to deal with my paternal family, far ahead of my plans.

Cregan had arrived at Winterfell two weeks ago, and I knew the Targaryens would soon fly north for the marriage, while Viserra's belongings were being sent ahead. Cregan had already informed me that Aemon, Rhaenys, and the Queen would be attending the wedding—Aemon to give Viserra away in the King's stead, and Rhaenys, apparently close to Viserra, wanting to fly Meleys as part of her training.

But what puzzled me was why my sister was coming here at all when, according to Cregan, she despised me. From what he had gathered through Viserra, it stemmed from her mother's influence and the arguments Aemon had with her about me.

That had left me speechless then.

My father hadn't seen me since I was two weeks old, yet this woman still found a reason to hate me. Or maybe it was plain jealousy—jealousy over my mother? Or maybe it was the fact that I am a male and Aemon had stopped having children with only Rhaenys.  I had seen many meetings when The King snipped at Aemon for having no more children.  I was sure that the king had extended the same care and love to Jocelyn too.  Or maybe it was something else, afterall there is no need for a good reason for hating someone.   Shit happens.

I frowned as I noticed two men laughing while sparring, their half-hearted efforts grating on my nerves. A sudden urge to punch something surged within me. But even I understood that when progress became stagnant, it was hard to train with the same intensity and the training will become boring. The laugh and fun mood was the result of that boredom.

Then, an idea struck me.

For years, I had trained my body by wrestling with Fenrir. Fighting a direwolf who could kill with a single swipe of his paw had been painful—at first. Until I healed. Adapted. Became stronger. Even Fenrir had grown more lethal from those bouts, sharpening his instincts alongside my own.

And so, the answer to their boredom became clear: Wrestling.

What better way to improve than by forcing two men to overpower each other, with the winner earning a prize? And I'd get to hit something in the process.

I would set some rules—no breaking bones, no eye-gouging. Anything else could be healed.

Rising from the bench, I stretched my arms, feeling the weight of my decision settle over me. The moment I stood, the men around me tensed, their eyes flickering with unease as they sensed my shifting mood.

"Proud warriors of Winterfell, I've just had a brilliant idea to strengthen our bodies and escape this tedious boredom." I grinned.

Immediately, I saw the worry etch itself across every face in the yard.

I just grinned.

Omniscient POV.

Queen Alysanne had to swallow her laughter as the young Tully boy attempted to woo her granddaughter, Princess Rhaenys. They were attending a feast at Riverrun on their journey north, a necessary stop before reaching Winterfell.

Rhaenys had only ever flown Meleys over King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Driftmark, yet she had been adamant about accompanying them to Winterfell for her beloved aunt's wedding. Alysanne had been tense ever since her daughter, Viserra, had grown suddenly closer to Rhaenys years ago. She had watched them converse again and again, searching for any hidden scheme Viserra might be plotting. Yet, to her surprise, she found nothing. For all intents and purposes, Viserra truly seemed to love her niece as she should.

Alysanne had noticed Rhaenys becoming more serious in her lessons and thoughts over the past few years, but her motivation had increased drastically since befriending Viserra. The girl had even sought out the King for lessons on the history of House Targaryen and Velaryon, eager to understand their connections. Alysanne chuckled, recalling her husband's expression when Rhaenys had questioned him about the Velaryons. Ever since the Sea Snake had been appointed Master of Ships, Jaehaerys's dislike of Corlys had become evident—and she could not blame her King. Corlys's casual arrogance was greater than even the Lord Paramounts'.

But Alysanne also understood that Rhaenys had been determined to accompany them for some hidden purpose. The tension in her posture, the weight of her thoughts—it all led to that conclusion.

Her musings were abruptly cut off when a Frey boy attempted to court Viserra. The entire hall fell silent at her daughter's sharp retort for the heathen comment.

"The next person to insult my future husband's family," Viserra declared coldly, "will lose their tongue."

Aemon, who had been casually eating throughout the exchange, merely picked up the heir's knife and set it down on the table with deliberate ease.

Alysanne sighed. What was it with her children and their fascination with taking tongues in defense of the Starks?

She raised a hand, calling for peace and dismissed the tension.

Maybe next time I will allow, the fools who dared insult her daughter's choice of marriage to receive whatever punishment his children devised.

=================

That night, Alysanne ordered Rhaenys to sleep in her chamber for comfort. Her beloved daughter Gael had been left behind in King's Landing—Alysanne knew such a journey would be too taxing for her delicate nature. She had also given explicit orders to the Kingsguard and Septas to keep Daemon away from Gael, ensuring that he would never corrupt her youngest daughter.

In the dim candlelight, Alysanne spoke in a low voice.

"Rhaenys."

Her granddaughter, who had not been sleeping but rather lost in thought, responded immediately.

"Grandmother?"

"Tell me, child, what is on your mind? Why did you insist on accompanying us? I know you have been close to Viserra for years, but I suspect this is neither about your friendship with her nor about training your dragon-riding skills."

Rhaenys sighed, rubbing her temples in exhaustion.

"Well, you are correct, Grandmother," she admitted. "I want to see my father's mistakes with my own eyes before I decide on my future king consort."

Alysanne almost yelled in shock before forcing herself to lower her voice.

"Your future king consort is Viserys. That decision was already made by the four of us—me, the King, your father, and your uncle Baelon. Just as your uncle Baelon will serve as Hand of the King, Viserys will be your king consort. Daemon or Aegon will be your Hand."

Rhaneys who knew aboyt the unofficial decision already made at their birth didnlt get angry or sad.

"Grandmother, I love viserys as he is my cousin, but I will be honest with you, I am not attracted to him.  He will make a fine Hand of the Queen, but not my King Consort.  I would have, off-course followed my elders wishes if not for the dangers to my claim to the throne.

"Daemon Snow," Alysanne interrupted, her voice sharp. "That is why you are reconsidering, isn't it? He is a bastard, Rhaenys. Even the North could not stand against the other six great houses alone for a mere bastard, even with Stark Blood when there are many legitimate heirs. You have nothing to fear, my dear. But tell me, who else could you possibly be considering over a Targaryen? Viserys will have a dragon—that is the greatest security you could ever ask for."

Rhaenys nearly snorted but held back. Mocking the Queen, even privately, was not wise.

She knew The Queen never believed any of the songs or tales of magic, but she knew his father, uncle were not fools and even when a learned man like Ser Otto said he had verified some tales, it should not be taken lightly and yet The Queen couldn't see past her own opinions.

Grandmother, I asked Viserys to come with me to claim Dreamfyre," she said. "But he was uninterested. He wants to wait. I suspect he hopes to claim Silverwing after your time, as its gentle nature is more suited to him." She shook her head. "Even having a dragon does not make one a true dragonrider. If he has no will to wield his power, what use is it? I know him better than anyone, and I know this—if he ever had to command a dragon to burn people, it would break him. That is why I need to see my brother for myself. I need to decide whether I require a husband with ambition, with the will to protect my claim and enforce my orders."

Alysanne clenched her jaw, her anger toward her bastard grandson flaring. Even his shadow haunted her favored grandchildren, influencing their choices in ways she could not prevent.

"Rhaenys," Alysanne said after a moment, "your father promised you the freedom to choose your husband, and my husband's iron will has softened in his old age. He will not force you to marry Viserys against Aemon's wishes. The fate of Saera shattered his resolve—he will abide by his heir's decision in this. Even a dragon less child disobeyed him for their desires and he knows what would his own heir with a dragon will do, if he orders something that is not welcome. But I ask you, child—you say Viserys has no will to fight for you, but what of his father and his younger brothers?"

For a moment, Rhaenys looked surprised, as if she had not considered that.

"I see you had not thought of it," Alysanne noted, her tone measured. "and why would you? Even being more skillful in almost anything and having the biggest and most battle tested dragon, Baleon's loyalty to his brother was never in question. Everyone had taken it for granted while you forgot our own history in just previous generation.  The younger brother with bigger dragon declared himself king over his rightful nephew and look what happened.

She let the words hang in the air.

"Baelon's loyalty should be rewarded," she continued. "Even if he serves you only because Aemon wishes it so."

Rhaenys sighed, deep in thought.

"I will consider this, Grandmother. You have given me much to think about."

Silence enveloped the room.

Queen Alysanne Targaryen observed the kneeling northern men as they welcomed the royal family. After an appropriate time, her son commanded them to rise. Her gaze shifted to the Stark who would soon marry her daughter.

Lord Cregan was handsome, and there was something about him—something familiar, something that that made the stark just more like her family.  She wondered what made this generation of starks have the otherworldly beauty that the Valryians are famous for. He looked genuinely pleased to see Viserra, and the subtle tension he had held in King's Landing was missing here. She understood—this was his home, where he felt safe.

She glanced toward the back of the crowd, searching for her bastard grandson, but found no sign of him. When Aemon voiced the same question, it was Lord Cregan who answered.

"My prince, we received reports of bandits in the Wolfswood. Daemon and Fenrir left to deal with them. They know the forest better than anyone."

Alysanne immediately understood why daemon went away when they arrived.  Her grandson had to kneel before them if he is in Winterfell when they arrived as tradition and courtesy dictates, but instead, he had conveniently disappeared.. How simply intelligent of him to just go away to avoid that.

"Oh, he left alone to deal with bandits? And just yesterday, knowing we were arriving?" she asked, her voice full of skepticism. "I wonder, what foolishness he had to go alone in a forest where a group of men could ambush him."

Cregan hesitated for only a heartbeat before bowing slightly.

"Your Grace, Daemon is not in danger. Fenrir is larger than even Winter, and there is nothing in that forest that could harm him. He alone is enough to track and kill the bandits."

Alysanne saw the honesty in Cregan's eyes—the absolute belief in his words.

Viserra will have her work cut out for her if she hopes to influence this fool against his bastard kin.

Alysanne sighed inwardly. He truly believes in these otherworldly things.

The wedding was set to take place in two days, and Alysanne was restless. She was old now, and the cold of the North seeped into her bones in a way it hadn't decades ago when she had last visited. Even the warmth of Winterfell felt insufficient, and there was a subtle but undeniable feeling that she was not entirely welcome in the castle.

It was the small things that no other noble lady would notice, but Alysanne had always considered the servants and smallfolk worthy of her attention. The servants of Winterfell followed the rules of interacting with nobility to the letter, but their eyes did not lie. She had observed them—the men-at-arms, the castle staff, everyone—and the way they treated Viserra was very different from how they treated Aemon, Rhaenys, and herself.

Viserra received warm, kind smiles, while they were met with nothing but rigid respect. Alyssane had even overheard some of the servants whispering about Daemon, calling him their "god-blessed," hated and belittled by a "hateful harpy of a queen." They whispered how someone who seemed so kind to them could be so cruel to her own grandson.

She had wanted to punish the servants for their insolence, but her son, Aemon, stayed her hand.

"No, Mother," he said firmly. "Do you really want to alienate the staff of Winterfell when they are so welcoming towards my sister? And besides, they only wonder about what I myself have questioned for years. Your indifference and love to your own blood without any rhyme or reason." His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of something sharper beneath it. "At least I had a reason to hate my son for so long. I was young, foolish, and mad with grief. But you… you have no reason.

"Similarly, for a long time after Aemma Arryn's birth, I thought it was because she lacked the Targaryen name—you were indifferent toward that granddaughter of yours. But then I saw how little you liked Viserra once she finally stepped out of Saera's shadow. Just like now, you suffocate my youngest sister while remaining indifferent to Daemon the younger—yet you dote on Aegon, a boy saved because of Daemon's wisdom.

Alysanne looked as if she had been struck by the question. But she immediately composed herself and replied coldly.

"I love all my family, but Daemon Snow is a bastard. He is not family. If we considered every dragonseed to be one of us, then half of Dragonstone would be related to us in some way or another. The only reason our line has avoided an overabundance of dragonseeds is that my brother and both my elder sons were monogamous. Even my father, my brother Aegon, and that traitor Maegor left many dragonseeds behind—did we acknowledge them as our uncles or nephews? No, no one did that.

"The mistake, Aemon, is not mine. It is yours. You acknowledged your bastard before the realm—a boy born not even of a Stark girl, but a Snow. You should have known there was no future where you could marry a woman already carrying your child. You should have returned to King's Landing the moment you knew she was with child. I tire of this stupidity, of you blaming me as if I have wronged him. yet the only person who could truly admonish me remains silent and understanding."

Aemon looked confused for a moment when Alysanne sighed and replied.

Aemon hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing in confusion. Alyssane sighed and answered the question before he could voice it.

"Your father—the King. He knows the truth. That is why he remains indifferent to how I treat Daemon. You should follow his example, my son. As for the servants… I will turn a blind eye to them for now, for Viserra's sake. I am weary of this cold and this castle. Aemon, come. You will escort me to the godswood, where Silverwing is roosting. I wish to see my beloved dragon and bask in her warmth."

Aemon wanted to refuse, but the sharp look in his mother's eyes stilled any protests.

"Don't think you have escaped my question about the other Targaryens, Mother."

Aemon and Queen Alyssane entered the godswood through the Stark entrance. Only members of House Stark could use it, or those granted permission by Lord Stark himself. They had been given such permission, as Silverwing preferred to spend her time in the godswood, sometimes even lying in the hot spring-fed lake. Both Caraxes and Meleys had been forced to roost in the Wolfswood, as Silverwing had claimed this space for herself. Even Alyssane had been surprised when her dragon had snapped at the younger dragons, sending them away. Even Caraxes was afraid to start a fight with the bigger one.

As they walked deeper into the godswood, Alyssane shivered against the northern cold. From afar, they could see Silverwing's massive form shifting, her head moving as she made small sounds. Alyssane frowned—she had expected her dragon to be resting.

When they got closer, the source of Silverwing's movements became clear.

Both Aemon and Alyssane froze in shock. A girl, no older than six or seven, stood by the dragon, scratching its scales and speaking animatedly. Even more astonishing, a massive bear lay a short distance away, completely unbothered by the dragon's presence.

Aemon knew that Silverwing was the most docile and friendly of dragons and had never killed a human. However, startling her now could be dangerous. Even though the dragon was known to be gentle, no one had ever dared to get so close—even in the presence of the queen. Even their own family was cautious around other's dragons, except for his father.

He saw the surprise on his mother's face quickly give way to fear and even anger. Alysanne started briskly walking forward, but Aemon immediately caught her hand in warning.

"Mother be calm. Your fear and anger will affect the dragon."

Alysanne stopped at once and took a deep breath. She immediately connected with her dragon—and was met with another surprise.

Alysanne felt neither hostility nor indifference from Silverwing. Instead, the dragon radiated exasperation, a kind of amused fondness toward the girl speaking to her, and even contentment at the scratching and patting. The dragon felt Alysanne's presence and immediately sent a welcoming trill, eager to show her the child she had found—oh, and the pet bear too.

"Come, son. Silverwing knows we are here now," Alysanne said as they entered the clearing.

The bear immediately lifted its upper body and looked at them. They hesitated, but the bear simply lay back down and closed its eyes. Now, they could clearly hear the excited voice of the child.

"My mother said not to bother other animals or try to befriend them. She told me they would attack me, and she even said I'd be punished if I went looking for dragons, especially since three were coming with the Targs. But I know you're all just big cats, and my pats will make you like me. Isn't that right, Silverwing? You're so beautiful—more than the Red Queen and that snake-headed red one. You are the Silver Queen, the Queen of Beauty!"

Aemon and Alysanne froze, utterly stunned by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

But Aemon… he found himself liking the girl's voice. He admired her bravery, the sheer wonder and happiness in her voice. What would he give to get back the worry free and innocent days back. He sighed internally even though a smile appeared in his face. And, oddly, he felt a strange sense of kinship with her.

Hem hem.. the queen made some sound to attaract the girls attention, but the girl was really engrossed in the dragon.

Alysanne, who had dealt with many children before, sighed and nodded at her son. Aemon stepped closer and gently placed a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Girl, who ar—"

Perhaps it was the strength of his grip or the speed with which he moved, but the girl reacted far faster than Aemon thought possible. She yelled in surprise, bending forward to escape his grasp. In the same motion, she whirled around, a knife already in hand, stabbing toward him with a fierce snarl on her face.

Only years of training allowed Aemon to react in time, stepping back just enough to evade the strike. He looked down at her face—and froze.

The girl looked up at him—and froze as well, her wide eyes locking onto his hair and eyes. A second later, she hastily dropped the knife, her expression shifting to a sheepish grin tinged with fear.

Aemon, however, remained frozen for another reason.

She had Lyarra's eyes and same wild spirit. His beloved Lyarra.

And beneath the northern coloring, he could see it—the same sheer, inhuman beauty hidden in her features, just like Rhaeny's beauty hidden by black hair. He had already felt some connection to the girl from afar. And now, combined with how much Silverwing tolerated her antics, the truth settled in his mind.

Granddaughter. Daemon's child.

A harsh sound tore through his thoughts—his mother's voice.

"Girl," Alysanne snapped, her anger evident as she processed the fact that her son had nearly been stabbed by a mere child.

"Mother," Aemon warned, his voice calm. "It's all right. The little lady was startled. The fault is mine. One should not touch a lady when she is engrossed in something. Isn't that right. Lady..?"

The girl hesitated. "Lyanna Mormont," she said, then quickly added, "My prince."

His mother made an irritated sound.

Aemon knew Alysanne hadn't seen his Lyanna yet, as his body blocked the girl from view. He stepped aside.

The moment Alysanne caught sight of the child, her sharp voice turned into a snap. "Girl, I appreciate your preparedness, but how could you attack a prince of the blood? And what foolishness led you to pet my dragon? She could have ki—"

But Aemon smirked as his mother's voice, once filled with anger, slowly shifted—to curiosity, then wonder, and finally recognition.

Alysanne fell silent. She understood now. This child was Targaryen by blood. The answer to Silverwing's unusual friendliness was clear. And she finally understood Aemon's smirk and his apparent lack of concern over the attempted attack.

The girl shifted uncomfortably. "My queen?" she asked hesitantly.

Alysanne shook her head. "Lady Mormont, since my son was unharmed and found no fault, you are forgiven. Now, on to more important matters. What made you come here and pet a dragon? That was incredibly foolish. You could have been burned—or killed."

"But, Your Grace, Silverwing was welcoming. I came with Teddy to watch from afar, but she sniffed me out and called to me. And I know no animals will harm me. Also… I couldn't be burned. I once touched fire, and I felt only warmth."

Both Aemon and Alysanne's eyes widened in awe. They had good fire resistance—but neither of them were unburnt.

"I see," Alysanne murmured. "Silverwing is always friendly, but you are fortunate it was her and not another dragon. Beware, young lady—never approach a dragon without its bonded rider. Do you understand?"

Alysanne's emotions were in turmoil. This was her first great-grandchild, but this was the bastard's daughter. And she could already see it—the sheer cuteness of the girl. She would be more beautiful than her own Saera.

The girl nodded. "I understand, Your Grace."

Alysanne pressed on. "Now, tell me—who are your parents?"

At that, the girl hesitated. Alysanne saw her eyes widen slightly, and realization dawned—Lyanna had just now understood that she was standing before her grandfather and great-grandmother.

"My mother is Dacey Mormont, heiress to Bear Island. And my father is a bear in the forest."

"What?" Alysanne said in shock. "A bear? Don't joke with me. Who is Lady Dacey's husband? Tell me his name."

"But my mother isn't married. Even my grandmother isn't married. I've heard that in other houses, if a noblewoman is the last of her line, someone will marry and take her name. But Mormonts don't do that. We have children, and they are always named Mormont. That was our tradition when the Ironborn ruled us, and it remains our tradition under the Starks."

Alysanne whispered, "But… only the king has the right to—"

"Mother," Aemon interrupted. "This has been their tradition for millennia. The Conqueror allowed the noble houses to keep their customs unless he explicitly denied it."

Alysanne hesitated, then finally nodded.

Aemon turned back to the girl. "So, Lady Lyanna, do you know the name of this 'bear in the forest'? Did your mother name him? Did he name himself?"

Lyanna looked down. "I promised not to tell his name to anyone… when he returned to Bear Island."

Alysanne nearly hugged the girl on the spot to calm her down and pinch the cheeks. She was so huggable and adorable. She wondered if Silverwing's fondness for Lyanna was influencing her own feelings.

Aemon nodded. "Oh? Then there's no need to break that promise. Come, child. Since you know the name, you must know who I am. Walk with me—I want to learn all about you."

Aemon saw Lyanna was worried and was hesitating, so Aemon added, "If you do, I'll tell you about my dragon—the snake-headed one. I may even introduce you to him."

Immediately, Aemon could see all the worry and fear vanish from his granddaughter's face, replaced by excitement.

"Really? Then come! I will introduce you to Teddy here and even Fenrir when he comes back to me—after he gets bored with Uncle Daemon. Come pet him here, I found Teddy here when I was only two, in a cave in the forest with his mama bear."

Alysanne was once again surprised, and even a sense of worry for the girl entered her mind. She decided to have a talk with Lady Mormont about how her blood had found its way into the forest when she was only two.

The girl started running but came to an immediate stop. Aemon thought it was out of courtesy to the queen, as tradition dictated, but the girl completely ignored his mother. Instead, she ran to Silverwing and hugged the dragon's neck as it lay on the ground.

"Oh, Silvy, I will come back to be your friend so you are not lonely and even bring some meat for you. If the servants don't give me any, I could make Fenrir or Teddy hunt something for you. Don't worry, I will keep you company when you are here."

The dragon simply purred and trilled in contentment.

At that, Aemon had to swallow his laughter at his mother's expression.

Authors Note: yeah that happened….  Surely daemon's plan to hide his child and never saying to lyanna he is her father would have worked wonderfully….. also next chapter is as you all guessed daemon meets his father for the first time.  

Chapter 28 : The Mad Bastard.

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My Discord

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 28: The Mad Bastard

The Wolfswood

Daemon Snow.

The last few days had been quite good for me—I had slaughtered my way through the bandits. Whoever said violence is never a solution must have never been in a fight. It was cathartic, and the turmoil of my emotions settled enough for me to think clearly about what would happen when I returned to Winterfell.

I am an adult now, and if I combine the years I have lived, my age would be close to eighty. Holding onto this level of hatred for my father and grandmother at this point is not normal. For fuck's sake, I am ageless, and yet I still wonder why anger grips me whenever I think of my father—especially when I have done the same, or worse, to countless children of my own across the North. Whatever my issues are, I was never a hypocrite. Yet, the fact that I never even realized this contradiction myself was something that angered me greatly. I had considered all my other weaknesses and taken steps to turn them into strengths, and yet I never realized how compromised my own emotions were.

It took Cregan pointing out that I became irrational whenever the Targaryens were involved for me to finally understand it. And the fact that my little brother had to be the one to point out my weakness pissed me off. It happened during an argument when Cregan realized that if I was in Winterfell when the Targaryens arrived, I would refuse to kneel with the Stark household.

"Daemon, what is wrong with you? You're clever enough to hide your emotions in any other matter, to the point where I have to pry them out, but you wear your hatred for the royal family on your palms. Your plan to disrespect the Queen so blatantly may even lead to useless bloodshed. For fuck's sake, you even forgave Brandon, your sworn shield, and made me forgive him too—despite the fact that he abandoned his oaths to you and had a bastard with my mother. I love my half-sister, Sara Snow, but if anyone finds out that he did it without your permission, you'll be forced to take his head. The Targaryens have never even come close to that level of betrayal and disrespect." Cregan had yelled at me.

I was shocked then, as I finally grasped the truth.

"Cregan, you've given me a lot to ponder." I exhaled, rubbing my temples. "In Brandon's case, I never wanted a sworn shield. It was only a means to an end—to spread tales of my god-blessed abilities among the people of the North. And at the end of the day, love is blind. Let him and Aunt Giliane have their happiness, or do you really want your mother and sister's hatred aimed at you? Let the story of their marriage spread, and it will be the end of any bad-mouthing." 

After the slaughter, I sat under the nearest weirwood and decided to meditate on my life until now. I wanted to understand why this hatred existed and how I needed to deal with it. After all, everything had happened according to canon as long as I wasn't involved. Aemon would fight back against the Myrish and die accidently in 92 AC. I had kept an eye on Myr and the bloodbath was just starting.  It was pointless to hate someone when I had already almost had my revenge even without trying. Aemon will never be king and his own wish of Rhaenys being the queen will never happen then.  

The most Aemon had done to me is ignore me and that allowed me to train and attain the power I had today. It was the best thing as I would have been limited in kingslanding.  I will return the favor by ignoring him and what will happen;

Aemon would die, the king would ignore Aemon's wishes and make his daughter a laughing stock before the realm by ignoring her claim, not once but twice. No matter how I looked at it, I had come out on top without even playing the game of thrones. And yet, my irrational mind in not satisfied with it.

I closed my eyes, my thoughts drifting back to the first and last time I had met my paternal family. Within minutes, I reached the moment I first gained consciousness in this world. I saw my father's eyes fading into death, filled with hatred toward me, and my grandmother's sheer indifference. The only time they had actually acknowledged me. Having an adult mind had allowed me to remember it clearly.

I opened my eyes and sighed. They had never actually harmed me, and yet, I couldn't let go of my anger. Looking back, the Targaryens had even helped me in some ways. The money they granted me, the king's decree that no blood of the dragon should be punished—both had made me untouchable in the North. Only my Stark grandfather could have disciplined me, and he had died long ago. I had even gotten my revenge on the Targaryens without trying. The number of them who had died and would continue to die in the future simply because they couldn't be bothered with me should have satisfied me.

I was never the grudge-holding type. I was the "forgive, but never forget and be indifferent" type—the kind who would never help those who had wronged me. Even in this life, I treated most people the same way—except for my paternal family. Like Cregan said, I had even forgiven Brandon just the other day for abandoning his vows of life and sword to me, for siring a bastard with Lady Giliane. At least I could give him credit for managing to bed a woman so far above his station. And yet, I still couldn't forget my anger and hatred toward my family. Maybe this was my own version of Targaryen madness.

Every Targaryen had their own kind of madness, both in canon and in this world. Aemon, with his fear of childbirth and his hatred toward me. Jaehaerys, with his obsessive micromanaging of the royal family and his hatred for anything connected to Maegor. Alysanne, with her indifference and unshakable belief in her own opinions. Baelon, with his blind, almost fanatical loyalty to Aemon. It was almost amusing when I heard that the second son had been named Daemon in this life too. I had thought my presence might change things, that the Rogue Prince might be given another name. But Aemon's attempt to replace me, and Baelon's support for such foolishness, painted a clear picture. Then there was Queen Visenya, with her disdain for anyone without Valyrian blood.

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. I couldn't keep dwelling on this. Sighing, I decided to enter the weirwood network and observe the recent happenings in Winterfell.

I saw the queen's arrival and the talk of my presence. I saw the servants being cheeky and laughed to myself—perhaps I should give them something more to gossip about. I watched Aemon and the queen discuss matters, and though I could understand the logic behind their words, they had forgotten one thing—I was not some nameless peasant's son. I was a son of Winterfell, raised as almost a Stark.

I followed them into the godswood.

Seeing my daughter standing so close to Silverwing made me freeze in shock. My body tensed, ready to brute-force my way through time itself if necessary to save her from harm. But what followed was something I had never even dreamed of.

At least Aemon and the queen were sharp enough to recognize Lyanna and even show some care for her—care they had never shown me. I saw the deep sadness in Aemon's face as he spent almost the entire day with my daughter, even taking her for a ride on Caraxes.

At least they had not dared to make my favorite daughter sad or harm her. Otherwise, I had no idea what I would have done.

I saw Rhaenys observing her father's interaction with Lyanna, frowning. She subtly inquired about the girl's identity, and the queen told her that she was her bastard brother's daughter—a Mormont at that.

Relief flickered across Rhaenys' face as she asked if I was married, but when the queen denied it, the relief vanished faster than it had come.

Seeing that my daughter was in no danger, I withdrew from the weirwood network and returned to the present.

I was surprised. They had so easily forgotten about me and treated Lyanna with warmth. I couldn't understand how they could do that when I, in contrast, could never think rationally where they were concerned.

What was wrong with me?

I let out a bitter laugh and snapped loudly to the forest.

Suddenly, I heard Aethan's voice in my mind, echoing words from the night my grandfather died.

"….You're crying because you loved him enough that your control over your emotions has shattered. The indifferent mask you always had for others from the first moment I saw you had finally shattered….."

 I recalled the rest of my thoughts from that day, and the answer struck me like a hammer blow.

I couldn't feel anything but anger and rage because of my ability to control myself.

I remembered my father's sheer hatred and fury in my first moment in this life—hatred that should have been love. The baby I had been had imprinted that emotion deep into my mind. My own response that day, just before I lost consciousness, came rushing back to me.

"Fuck the Targaryens."

I laughed hard as I realized that my own irrational hatred was because of that day and how much the words I casually said because of my own anger at being cheated by the Being send me here.  I was expecting to be Jon Snow after all. 

Fenrir padded over and licked my face, sensing the sheer fear that gripped me. I had spent so long believing I was rational, only to realize I had been acting irrationally because of my own ability. I had pride on my own long term planning and how I was accomplishing my goals to end the threats in this world, but now I have to rethink everything and decide whether it was actually good or not.

I needed my rationality. I needed my logical mind. Without them, I was doomed in this world of death and chaos.

And what would happen if I lost a battle and was the last man standing?

A violent shiver ran down my spine as the terrifying thought took root. I would be nothing more than a vessel for the Night King—or some other entity. A slave within my own mind. That was a fate I had to avoid at all costs.

"Boy, it seems that I was fucked by my own abilities.  Atleast I should correct it as I am going to interact with Targaryens in the coming days and years.  why bother making unnecessary enemies when I could achieve what I want from them without even interacting with them that much."  I whispered to Fenrir as I scratched behind his ears.

Fenrir let out a soft huff, sending me his feelings of absolute belief in me.

It took almost the entire night to unravel the control ability from my emotions. The moment the automatic application of control was lifted, I felt as if a heavy weight had been removed from my shoulders. I had been shackled by irrational hatred and anger. Without serving any purpose to motivate me, such emotions were nothing more than self-destructive forces waiting to consume me.

My father despised me, and my grandmother had insulted me. They had suffered for it—my grandmother lost her children, and my father would die before ever seeing a grandchild from Rhaenys. I decided I would no longer go out of my way to enrage or provoke them. Instead, I would focus on something far more crucial for my survival and my plans to explore this world—securing a dragon of my own.

From the moment I witnessed it easily kill and devour another dragon at Dragonstone, my eyes had been set on one beast. I gave myself two years to tame and bond with it after Aemon's death in 92 AC. Even if that didn't happen because of butterfly effect, I resolved to travel to Dragonstone and blend in among the smallfolk. My natural ability to learn quickly would help me mask my accent and integrate seamlessly.

But before I ever stood before the green, deadly flames of the Cannibal, I needed to develop some resistance to dragonfire. I had seen its flames consume dragon scales as if they were mere kindling. If I were caught in such fire unprepared, there would be nothing left of me but ashes.

"Thank you, Cregan," I whispered, realizing that my resistance to dragonfire could be built easily now that there were three dragons in Winterfell.

I considered my options carefully. Silverwing was the first I dismissed—far too old, and I wasn't willing to risk being turned to cinders instantly. The second was the Blood Wyrm, Aemon's dragon, but it was the most volatile. I couldn't be certain it would use fire instead of simply mauling me. I had seen it play with its prey many times, only unleashing flames after its victim was already dead.

That left only one option—Meleys, Rhaenys' Red Queen.

"Well, Fenrir, you should hide when we get near Winterfell. I'll find Meleys and try to make her breathe fire."

Fenrir gave me a look as if I were an idiot and huffed mockingly.

"Yeah, I know it's foolish, boy," I muttered. "But I have no choice. I won't stand before the Cannibal without this. It's too risky."

Fenrir simply huffed again and disappeared into the forest cursing the Old Gods for making him bonded with such an idiot.

I was on my way back to Winterfell when I heard a distant roar. Immediately, I connected with one of my eagles, and elation filled me as I spotted the Red Queen soaring over the forest.

I stood in a clearing where the dismembered bodies of bandits lay scattered. The blood had already attracted scavengers, feasting on the remains. I decided to wait there, wondering if the scent of death would draw the Red Queen.

As I had guessed, the dragon descended into the clearing. However, I was immediately proven wrong about her coming for the scent when I saw the slender form of my younger half-sister dismounting. She spoke in High Valyrian, her tone light.

"Thank you, my dear Meleys. I needed to clear my head, and this was a nice flight. I knew you would land in this clearing, as I said."

The dragon sniffed the air, then let out a low growl of warning. At once, Rhaenys tensed, her gaze sweeping over the clearing. Her cautious expression twisted into one of fear and disgust as she took in the gore and scattered body parts.

Quickly, she climbed back onto her dragon, ready to take off in case any threats remained.

"No need to worry about bandits, my dear sister," I said with a grin, stepping out from behind a tree and into the clearing.

Rhaenys stiffened further atop her dragon, her eyes narrowing at my casual tone.

"What? This is your doing?" she demanded.

"Aye, dear sister. I left to hunt this scum, after all," I said with a shrug.

"But this is needless cruelty! They deserve a burial at least. You left their bodies to be devoured by animals," Rhaenys said, her voice filled with reproach.

"Of course I did, dear sister. Why should I bother burying this filth? I have far more important matters to attend to," I replied with an air of indifference.

"Monster," Rhaenys hissed. "And don't call me sister, bastard. I am a trueborn Princess of the Realm, and you are just a bastard." Her voice dripped with venom, her lips curling into a mocking smile.

My smug grin only widened. The word bastard had long lost its sting, whether it had any in the first place. She must have truly expected it to affect me, for a flicker of fear and surprise crossed her face when she saw my lack of reaction.

"Of course, I am a bastard," I said, my voice amused. "Both literally and figuratively, dear sister. And now, you must think carefully before insulting such a monstrous bastard in the middle of the forest—when you are alone. After all, I could harm you, sister."

Her fear melted into mocking laughter.

"Are you out of your wits? You stand before my dragon, while I sit upon her back. A single word from me, and you would be nothing but ash where you stand. You should be thankful that I do not punish innocent men over foolish words."

She looked at me then, my bright smile unwavering. Something in my expression must have unsettled her, for a storm of emotions flickered across her face.

"That is the most perfect thing you could do for me, Princess," I said with a mocking bow. "After all, I was planning to have Meleys breathe fire on me. I need to adapt to the magical nature of dragonfire, and the other two dragons are far more powerful—and far more dangerous. So, Dracarys is the word, Princess Rhaenys. Say it now." I smirked, spreading my arms as if welcoming the flames.

For almost a minute, Rhaenys remained silent, her mouth slightly open in sheer disbelief.

"What? I am no kinslayer! Are you mad?" she finally yelled.

"Of course, I am mad, little sister. A small piece of advice for you—take it as you will. Everyone in this world is a little mad, and only the consequences of their actions hold their madness in check. You insulted me without reason, and now, you will bear witness to my burning. Had you simply greeted me or even ignored and left me be, I would have enacted my plan tonight when the dragon was alone. But now, this will serve as a lesson—to never insult your elders. And most importantly a valuable lesson to you little sister, never issue a threat unless you are prepared to carry it out. After all, you are supposed to be this land's future Queen," I finished with a mocking grin as I remembered the future.

Rhaenys snorted. "Oh? You think you can make me do this, bastard? You are truly mad. And these lands' queen? I am no fool—I did not miss the mockery in your voice nor the implication that I would not be your queen. You seek something that does not belong to you."

My eyes widened briefly at her words before I burst into laughter.

"Oh, sister. I have no lands, and therefore no king or queen to swear to. I could always leave for Essos and do whatever I wish. And as for the Iron Throne? I have no need for a seat that is painful for mere mortals to sit upon. I merely meant that you would curse your own chance of ruling. After all, you are deciding whether to marry the arrogant Sea Snake or Viserys. If you desire the throne, marrying Corlys Velaryon would be idiotic. My second and final piece of advice to you—marry Viserys and be the Queen. Marry Corlys, and you shall be the Queen Who Never Was.

"Now, enough talk. Say Dracarys and let us be done with this. I estimate it will take two days to heal from the burns and return to Winterfell."

Rhaenys stared at me, anger flashing in her eyes. Finally, she shook her head.

"I will not be part of your madness be a kinslayer and I have better things to do. I am leaving, bastard. May you become food for some beast in this cursed forest."

I merely grinned, feigning a wound to my heart. "Now, now, sister. No need for such negativity. Since you refuse to comply, I shall make Meleys do it myself."

I cut my connection with all but Fenrir, focusing my mind.

Rhaenys snorted. "You may have the blood, but you lack the knowledge of even basic dragonlore, Snow. Bonded dragons obey only their riders."

"Oh? Is that so, dear sister? Then allow me to test it," I said before shouting, "Dracarys!" as my mind slammed into Meleys like a battering ram.

The dragon's mind immediately flared with fire, burning away my intrusion. But black flames engulfed me, shielding me from Meleys' mental defenses.

A piercing scream from Rhaenys rang out, filled with agony. I ignored it, sending another command to the dragon. Panicked, Meleys did what was natural to her— Breathe fire at the perceived threat.  Lots and lots of fire. 

Immediately I left the mind of Meleys and prepared myself. 

A furious "NO!" tore from Rhaenys, but I paid it no mind.

The dragonfire engulfed me.

For fifteen seconds, I felt nothing—my trained fire resistance battling the flames. By the twentieth second, I sensed faint warmth on my skin. My clothes had already disintegrated into ash. At thirty seconds, blisters formed. By fifty seconds, pain set in—but I suppressed it using my control ability.

Meleys, enraged beyond reason, continued spewing fire, the stench of burning flesh filling the air.

At the two-minute mark, Rhaenys, sobbing in horror, finally regained control, slashing Meleys' side with her whip. The fire ceased.

I jumped sideways from the burning area.  I opened my eyes and looked at my body. I had protected my face using my hands allowing my eyes to be saved from burning.  Apart from my hands and the place in my stomach, I had stabbed Ice to stop the necrosis of the Night King, my entire flesh had vanished and become ash.  My hands and the place in abdomen which had already injured by magical fire long back had only 4th degree burns. I was glad about the control aspect as I could just mute my pain, otherwise I would have turned insane by this amount of pain.

Rhaneys looked at me in horror her eyes filled with tears. She was shaking in the saddle, whispering, "No… no…"

I grinned. "Oh, sister. Don't worry. It's just a flesh wound. I'll be fine in two days."

And I was right.

 My own healing has improved so much that I am sure I now has atleast 70 percent of wolverine's healing ability. Unlimited potential is just such a hack.  And the muscles was already healing slowly to visible eye.

Rhaenys whispered in awe and fear, "What… how? Who are you?"

"I am god-blessed, sister," I said darkly. "You have heard the rumors. And you will keep this knowledge to yourself."

"And why would I want to do that?" Rhaneys asked, her tone sharp with defiance.

"Because if you don't, the realm will brand you a would-be kinslayer—driven by hatred and jealousy toward the so-called god-blessed bastard. And if you remember your lessons, the last kinslayer to sit the throne did not have a good reign." My voice was calm, but the warning was clear.

Rhaneys hesitated before nodding. "I will be silent," she whispered, though her face betrayed lingering resentment. Then, without another word, she turned and shouted, "Soves!" The great beast took to the skies, its wings beating against the air as it carried her away.

I sighed, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me. The healing process had already started draining me, but at least I had Fenrir to bring a fresh supply of game—dozens of animals for me to cook and consume while my body recovered.

Surveying the damage left by Meleys, I grimaced. Even a younger, lesser dragon had done this much to me. It was a sobering reminder of how much more dragonfire is. I can now stand in ordinary fire for hours now and yet with dragonfire this was the result.

 I had the foresight to test myself now before standing before the Cannibal. Had I gone to him unprepared, I was certain I would have been reduced to ashes before I even had the chance to react. At least now, I had the experience and the adaptation against Dragonfire to atleast survive the coming confrontation.

Winterfell

I sat with my back against the weirwood in the godswood of Winterfell while Fenrir rested his head on my legs. I was patting the warm, soft fur of the wolf when the scent and sound of someone approaching reached me—or rather, reached Fenrir first, and our bond alerted me. Whenever I was near Fenrir, our connection had strengthened to the point where I could almost have parallel thoughts. I wondered how much of that was due to my fight with the Night King, which might have helped develop this bond. After all, the Night King had multiple perspectives and controlled many at once.

I opened my eyes and saw Prince Aemon Targaryen walking toward me. Ever since I returned to Winterfell after healing, I had been busy with wedding preparations and had not spent a single minute with Aemon. He had been trying to meet with me alone, without it being an order, and I had been avoiding him—without even trying—simply because I was too occupied. Now that the wedding was over as of yesterday, I knew this meeting was inevitable.

Rhaenys had not said a single word about what had happened, and for the past two days, she had looked at me with a mix of fear and awe. The queen had ignored my presence entirely. At least both Aemon and the queen had spent much time with my daughter, and those were good moments for my daughter.

Aemon reached the weirwood and looked at me.

"Prince Aemon. This is truly a surprise," I said, without any courtesy, still lying with my back against the tree.

A frown passed over his face, and I wondered—was it because I called him "Prince Aemon," or was it my lack of courtesy?

"Surprise? There is nothing surprising about it. A father can have a meeting with his son. I am not 'Prince Aemon' to you. I am your father. Call me that," Aemon said with some sternness.

I snorted and couldn't stop my laughter.

"You are twenty years too late to establish a father-son bond, Aemon," I said with a grin. "This is the first time I'm meeting you, so yes, it truly is a surprise. What do you want?"

Aemon took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"I... I..." Aemon started, then stopped, as if lost for words. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, he finally asked,

"Don't you have any questions? About why? Why I hated you and left you behind?"

I looked at Aemon carefully and saw that he was tired. Dark circles under his eyes made it clear he hadn't been sleeping.

"What is there to question?" I replied. "I know you foolishly blamed me for my mother's death in childbirth, and you were madly in love with her. That means nothing to me, nor is it something I care about." I shrugged indifferently.

I could see that my nonchalant attitude had rattled Aemon, and I mentally patted myself for maintaining control over my emotions. Truly, sheer indifference was more damaging to Aemon than any rage I could direct at him.

"My son, please—at least shout at me. You may even hit me. Why are you just sitting there, doing nothing? Don't you even care?" Aemon snapped.

"It is pitiful that it took you two decades to move past your grief," I said, my tone calm but cutting. "And I don't care about you enough to shout at you or blame you. Do you know something, Aemon? I remember everything that has happened in my life from the moment I first gained consciousness after birth. I saw the madness in your eyes when you heard the healer declare my mother dead. It took me several years to fully understand, but by then, I already had another father figure." I shrugged again. "I lost nothing when you left me here. It was your house that lost much because of it."

Aemon thought about what I meant, and realization dawned on him—the deaths of his brothers and sisters. If I had been in the South from the beginning, they might have lived, thanks to my abilities. He looked at me again, finally understanding the sheer indifference in my words and stance. It was the same cold detachment his own mother had for some people. The same his father had.

Anger flickered across his face, but the mocking grin on mine, as I recognized that I had gotten to him, tempered it.

"I see," Aemon said at last. "You truly are your grandmother's grandson. The sheer indifference, the lack of care for your blood relatives—it's just like her."

Aemon smirked as he saw anger flash in my eyes. I was so tempted to let Fenrir take a bite out of him for comparing me to that bitch of a grandmother. The so-called "Good Queen" was someone I had always disliked in my past life, and nothing had changed in this one.

"Ah, well," I said coolly. "I have your blood, after all. And I'm glad it was the indifference I inherited, and not your cowardice."

Aemon smirked. "I'll give that a seven out of ten. But I'm not young enough to be angered by being called a coward. I was afraid, and I ran away—from duty, from you. It was cowardice." He took a deep breath. "Anyway, I'm not here to trade insults with you. You are my son, and your exile must end. My father doesn't want you in King's Landing, but I am sure I can convince him. I came here to ask if, when the time comes, you will come with me and try to mend the rift between us."

I was surprised by the offer, but there was no way in hell I would let myself be trapped in King's Landing—especially not now. I needed to be free to travel the South. To claim Cannibal.

"You shouldn't bother, Prince Aemon," I said, stressing the title. "Should such a letter come to Winterfell, the answer would be no. I will not come. There's no need to mend anything, just so you can placate your guilt. Or is it that, after two decades and you growing old, you finally remember my mother will be very angry with you in the afterlife?" I tilted my head. "Whatever the reason, I don't want anything to do with you or the king."

Aemon looked as if I had struck him. He sighed, tired and resigned.

I see you have her stubbornness added with my own. I will not send such a letter. 

"I see you have her stubbornness," he muttered. "Mixed with my own. I will not send such a letter, but I will be in contact with you."

"Good," I said simply. "Anyway, I have to go to my sleep now. Get some sleep—you need it."

I stood up, and Fenrir followed suit.

"Also, Prince Aemon," I added, pausing for a moment, "you've been good to your granddaughter, so I'll give you a single piece of advice."

Aemon frowned. "Advice?"

"Always stay on top of your dragon when you're in enemy territory or a war zone," I said. "Myrish crossbows are deadly at close range."

Aemon's eyes widened in shock as I walked away from the godswood.

I wondered why I had tried to save my father's life.

It was a gamble. A test to see how much I could change the canon by just existing. Aemon's death mattered more to the timeline than Aegon's or Viserra's. Would fate fight back?

And if so, how much effort would it take to truly change the canon?

===========================

Maesters often wondered what Prince Aemon's reign would have been like had he not died in 92 AC at the hands of traitorous assassins disguised as Myrish men. The Myrish exiles who swarmed Tarth were defeated by the combined might of the prince's dragon, the Velaryon fleet, and Stormlander troops. But victory turned to tragedy for the royal family with the cowardly assassination of the crown prince.

When the news reached King's Landing, it is said that the king himself had to restrain Prince Baelon from mounting Vhagar and going on a rampage. Yet, not even the king's closest confidants knew that the usually wise and benevolent ruler was merely waiting for the full picture to emerge—before proving that he was indeed King Maegor the Cruel's nephew after all. No matter how far one tries to run from it, blood still reigns supreme.

Author's Note:  Yeah that happened… daemon is finally over the emo-moody teenage behavior whenever targs are considered.  Rhaenys is traumatized by the madness or is it greatness? I wonder.

Anyway, to tell you the truth, in my initial plan I had no plan to make the meeting between aemon and daemon. It was supposed to be left to readers discretion and daemon not initiating such a meeting because he didn't want to change the canon. But thorugh out the story I understood not even having a single conversation will be disappointing for all and thus this happened.

Aemon who loves and hates daemon at the same time, in his maturity wanted to mend the relationship by the time he is king.  But was stopped by the sheer indifference of daemon for now... he thinks he has time and a way to reconcile or atleast be in friendly terms through lyanna, but fate happens...

next chapter it is kingslanding chpter and we see the fallout of rhaenys disastrous meeting with daemon and it is  92 AC and we see the fallout of aemon's death..

Read, commend and Recommend!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 29: Fire and Blood

Rhaenys Targaryen

King's Landing

 91 AC – First Moon

Rhaenys felt tense as she stepped into the king's solar, accompanied by her father, Prince Aemon, her uncle Baelon, and the Queen. After much deliberation, she had decided to marry Corlys Velaryon rather than Viserys. She couldn't deny that her meeting with her bastard brother had played a role in her decision—or that his warning against marrying Viserys had lingered in her mind.

The thing she had seen that day still haunted her.

For a moment, she had believed her brother would be found dead, and somehow, she would be branded a kinslayer. Yet she had nearly died of shock when the insane bastard walked into Winterfell two days later—without so much as a scratch. Since then, she had never dared to speak to him alone or even be near him.

She had been prepared to inform Aemon and the Queen of her choice in Winterfell itself, but her concern for Uncle Baelon and her cousins had stayed her hand. It was only when she overheard a conversation in Winterfell—where Lord Manderly and the Reeds mocked Corlys with disdain—that she finally made her decision. Their scorn was born of jealousy—jealousy of his accomplishments, his wealth, and the power he had built. She knew that wealth was its own form of power.

Her father had tried, time and again, to change her mind, urging her to consider Viserys—or even the second son Daemon—as her consort. But she had made him see reason, promising that when the time came, Uncle Baelon or his sons would rule beside her. She had also pledged that her children might wed theirs, uniting their claims.

"Grandfather is still healthy," she had argued. "He has ruled for four decades now. You will be king for decades more, and Uncle Baelon could serve as your Hand all those years. By then, we will have children of our own, and our houses will be bound together."

In the end, it had taken her mother's support for Aemon to finally relent. He had spoken to Uncle Baelon, and though disappointed, Baelon had—as always—agreed to follow.

And now, they stood before the king, seeking his approval.

The king sat in his solar, eyeing them with a knowing smile.

"So," he said, "why is everyone gathered in my solar after requesting a meeting? Is it finally time to announce Rhaenys and Viserys's betrothal? My head aches from the sheer number of letters I receive about the matter will finally end."

Rhaenys almost flinched, and she saw her father tense beside her. At once, the smile vanished from the king's face.

It was her grandmother who spoke first. "Brother, our granddaughter has chosen Corlys Velaryon as her husband—not Viserys."

The king stilled. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension. In that moment, Rhaenys understood why her kind grandfather had once inspired such fear in her father and uncle.

"Rhaenys," the king said at last, his voice dangerously quiet and calm. "Is this true?"

The weight of his gaze made her hesitate, but she refused to cower. Lifting her chin, she met his eyes.

"Aye, Grandfather," she said. "I want Corlys as my husband. He has the will, the talent—"

"Enough."

The king's hand struck the table with a sharp crack. "It does not matter why you have ignored a son of House Targaryen and chosen the vaunted Sea Snake. I don't care enough to know whatever drivel he has filled your head with."

It took all her bravery not to cry then and there.

The king ignored his distraught granddaughter and turned to Aemon and Baelon.

"Aemon, I am asking you here and now. Are you willing to back this madness of your daughter and the overstepping of your bannerman? Driftmark is, after all, sworn to Dragonstone and House Targaryen. Are you willing to ignore your lifelong dream of joining your line with your sibling's? For this ungrateful child?"

Rhaenys saw her father hesitate. He looked at the stoic and emotionless Baelon and then at her.

Aemon sighed and then opened his eyes with determination.

"I am, Father. This is my will. I gave her the choice long ago, and I won't take it back now. I can't do that."

The king grimaced, and the tense posture of his shoulders relaxed.

He looked at Baelon and said, "I am sorry, Baelon. It seems that your brother and niece have taken your loyalty for granted."

Aemon flinched as if he had been struck by a dragon's tail.

"Enough, husband. Do not try to manipulate your sons against each other just to have your way in this," the Queen snapped.

The king remained silent.

"I see that you all have made your decision. I am old and nearing the last decade of my reign. I don't have to worry about my heir's succession. That will be your headache when you are king after me. Do as you will, but I will not allow money to be wasted on a grand celebration or anything of the sort. If he wants a grand marriage, Corlys can well pay for it himself," the king said, tiredly.

Before anyone could reply, he suddenly straightened and looked at Rhaenys.

"Rhaenys, my sweet grandchild, look at me," the king said. "I will not say no to this if it is truly your final decision. But know this—Corlys Velaryon is known as the Sea Snake, not the seahorse that graces their banner. That is for a reason, and his ambition is the venom of the snake. I advise you to consider Viserys or even Daemon as your husband. You have one day to make your final choice."

The next day, Rhaenys confirmed Corlys Velaryon as her husband. The frown and the stone cold mask of disdain that followed the rest of the meeting on the king's face was something Rhaenys would never forget for the rest of her life.

And later, after years she finally understood that her bastard brother's warning was not a trap like she thought, but a genuine one.

91 AC 2nd moon

Winterfell

Daemon Snow

Ever since the Targaryen left after the wedding, I had been preparing for my journey south, hidden as a bard. I had already met with the five bards under my control about joining them at various times. They were surprised at my decision to travel with them as a lowly bard, but they were very happy to allow me in. The healing I had done for their families, along with the gold I paid them for singing the catchy songs I composed—which made them popular—had earned their trust. It took me years to find these five, and yet I am still searching for more, but it takes luck to find those who match my specifications.

I was returning from my meeting with the bards in Wintertown when I heard that Cregan was looking for me. I entered the lord's solar of Winterfell, and even without my senses blaring from the mirth and smug happiness radiating from my aunt Viserra, I could see the mocking laughter on her face as she read a letter. She was already with child, and we had developed an almost good relationship. For some reason, she saw me as a kindred spirit—someone who had issues with both the king, the queen, and the crown prince. I never bothered to correct her; unlike her, my life did not revolve around petty revenge.

"Daemon," Cregan called happily. "Come sit. Viserra is just reading the invitation to Rhaenys' marriage to Corlys Velaryon."

I was not shocked, as I had already observed the meeting the king had with the family.

"I already know that, Cregan. I even informed you weeks ago, didn't I?" I asked curiously.

Immediately, Viserra cleared her laughter. "What do you mean by that, nephew?"

I just smirked.

Viserra sighed. "Of course. How many fucking abilities do you have?"

"Enough," I replied. "By the way, why are you laughing so much?"

"Well, my plans finally succeeded. I wish I could see my father's face when he learns his beloved granddaughter is marrying the Sea Snake. This is the subtlest thing I have ever done. And I must thank you, nephew—Rhaenys already had a very good impression of Corlys since he bested the Northern Voyage and apparently got one over you. I think that was the first time she learned about you or something."

"Oh?" I asked, finally understanding how my warning may have been interpreted by my sister.

"I never knew you had been doing this. Interesting… And that must be why she didn't take my advice. I told her she would be the 'Queen Who Never Was' if she married Corlys."

"What?" Viserra asked, confused.

"Oh, you'll see," I said, giving a knowing smirk to Viserra. "Leaving unimportant matters aside—Cregan, I am leaving for the Wall to bring the mammoth herd to the Gift. They would be very useful for us in shipbuilding, as the trees need transportation, and even for tilling the land if properly planned."

Cregan nodded.

"After that, I will be leaving for the south and will not be in contact. It is time that I claim my birthright."

Viserra looked intrigued and wary. She had learned about my abilities and had seen Cregan's fanatic love and loyalty toward me and our goals. She was a lot happier after being healed, as the worries of childbirth had completely vanished.

"But you are exiled. What birthright?" Viserra asked.

"Oh, Aunt, please. I never visited the south because it was not my will to do so. It is time, and I want to—so I am going. Birthright? The same one you were denied, Aunt—the skies."

Her eyes immediately widened as she understood. "Dragons."

"Which one, and how? The Dragonpit is guarded by the Keepers, and they are efficient."

I smiled. "Dragons are not only found there, Aunt. There are three wild dragons on Dragonstone, after all."

Viserra's eyes widened in wonder.

"And the king's reaction?"

"What he doesn't know until much later won't hurt him."

I was on the Kingsroad when I sighed at Fenrir's foolishness.

"Oh, come on now, you big furry idiot. Why are you hiding when you know I can always sense where you are from our bond?" I yelled.

A direwolf the size of my horse emerged from the treeline, and anyone could feel the sadness radiating from the massive wolf. Despite his sheer size, he seemed like a small puppy that had just lost its favorite thing.

"Oh, enough with the dramatics. You're too big for the puppy face to work on me. You're not coming with me to the south. I am traveling incognito, and that wouldn't be possible with you following me, you big idiot."

Feelings of sadness hit me through our bond, and images of Fenrir hiding behind bushes flashed in my mind—but it wasn't enough to sway me.

I snorted, laughter erupting from me at the ridiculous image. I jumped down from my horse and hugged the wolf.

"You will be with me in mind. I want you to stay here in Winterfell so that I can easily contact Cregan," I said while burying my face in the soft fur.

Irritation flickered through our bond, and suddenly, I saw the image of Bear Island and my daughter.

"What, you're going to stay with Lyanna?" I asked, surprised. "But I wanted you to stay here."

A snort of derision came from the wolf, and he huffed.

"Yeah, yeah, don't be grumpy. Do whatever you want," I said, ending the hug with a smile.

At least my daughter will be protected, I thought as Fenrir ran back.

92 AC

I was at the Crossroads Inn in the Riverlands when I saw my father being killed by crossbows. I had watched the entire campaign from my animals eyes and was surprised that Aemon actually followed my advice. He was always protected by the dragon's body or wings whenever he was not in his tent or in the air. The Myrish were cornered animals without any choice, but the Crown's army hunted and killed everyone.

It was after the celebration, when the guards were low, that the assassination of my father happened. Caraxes was outside the camp, as the noise and alcohol made men very rowdy. My father was talking with Lord Baratheon and was about to fly back to King's Landing when two crossbowmen made their attempt. They were aiming for the prince, and my father died instantly.

The death was shocking in the sense that this was a gamble on my part—whether I could change the fate of people without being directly involved. It seems that the most important events will happen as per canon, even with my small involvement. Prince Aemon was supposed to die at the beginning of the Myrish bloodbath, but that did not happen. Instead, he died after the fighting was over.

Seeing my father dying was not that affecting for me. I felt pity that he had to die so young, and I knew my daughter would be sad that her grandfather had passed. Every other week, there were letters between them, and since there was no grandfather on the Mormont side, my daughter had truly grown close to the prince. I had seen that at the time, and it was the reason I gave that advice to Aemon when we met for the first and last time. Whether he was alive or dead, I understood that he would never try to harm me. Thus, when the news of me claiming a dragon reached the king, it didn't matter if Aemon was alive or dead.

It was only curiosity that made me follow the fleeing assassins.

In canon, Baelon vented his frustrations on thousands of Myrish. Now that they were already defeated, I wondered what would happen. I pondered whether to do something about the Conningtons. They only dared to act because Aemon had defended me all those years ago, and now they had dared to harm my blood.

And that thought struck me hard and for the life of me I couldn't just let go the need for vengeance. It was like my own mind raging against the fact that someone managed to harm one of my blood.  But I was the master of my own mind and finally swallowed the need for slaughter and think through logically.

Suddenly, a thought struck me—Lyanna is my daughter. What would people do to her for forcing my hand when the people of this world finally believed the rumors? No definite answer came to me as I considered making an example of the Conningtons.

It was that night, when I felt Fenrir tug at our bond, that I made up my mind. Fenrir was beside my daughter, and she was screaming in her dreams. One word hit me like the attack Balerion had landed on me all those years ago.

Grandfather...

Fenrir was licking my daughter's face, trying to wake her from the vision or nightmare, but it was no use. I gave the command for him to bite her without too much damage so that the pain would at least break her out of it. I let Fenrir do it, as he knew his strength better than I did—I didn't want to bite through the bone by mistake. She woke up with another yell as the pain registered, and Lyra finally entered the room. I looked through Fenrir's eyes and saw the wound. It was big, but she had inherited enough of my healing that the bite would heal in a week.

I closed my connection entirely as despair filled me—I was not there.

Slowly, the anger I tried to bury, enveloped me. These lowly nobles dared to kill one of my blood and, in doing so, made my daughter see nightmares. Fate is truly a funny thing. Aemon had defended me and punished them for me. That is a debt I now intend to repay.

Griffins Roost.

Next Day.

I had to run so fast that I could reach Griffin's Roost all the way from the Riverlands. I used my birds to scout the road ahead, and whenever I saw someone approaching, I leaped into the trees lining the King's Road and ran through the branches. At least the deviations through the forests allowed me to gather the herbs needed to put the entire castle to sleep.

I scouted the castle by taking over the rats and cats in it from outside and it was surprisingly easy to accomplish my goals.

I wondered, if Bran had his warg powers when he was still in Winterfell, how much would the story have changed? I whispered to myself as I made my way to the lord's solar.

With my skinchanging abilities, breaking animals in and scouting was child's play. I was carrying the lady of the castle and the lord's three-year-old son. I placed them in a chair before taking out an herb to bring Lord Connington and his bastard brother back to consciousness.

I was already wearing a wooden mask with a laughing face when the lords awoke, their screams of fright echoing through the chamber.

"Now, now, please keep quiet," I hissed.

"What is this?" the bastard demanded, while Lord Connington made incoherent sounds. "Lady Connington—"

Both men staggered to their feet, swaying slightly, but still determined to attack me. The bastard was faster. His right hand shot toward me—I blocked it. His left came at me next, but enraged, I caught it with my own. I tightened my grip, exerting my inhuman strength, and within seconds, he screamed in agony as the bones in his left hand shattered.

Lord Connington froze, panic flashing across his face before he hesitantly sat back down.

"Now," I said, my voice steady and cold. "I am here because you murdered Prince Aemon. That is a crime many people find most grievous, and an example must be made." I placed parchment and ink before him. "You will write a confession for the king and the seven great lords of Westeros. Let me be clear—I am going to kill you, your brother, the maester, and every single person in this castle. There are thirty of you, including the servants. The servants will be spared. They may take whatever they wish from the castle and leave.

"But if you write this confession, I will not kill this fine woman and her child. I will let them live."

Disbelief twisted Lord Connington's features, and again, he muttered protests.

I sighed, turning to the bastard brother, who was curled up in the corner, sobbing and whimpering. I raised my foot slightly and kicked. A sickening crunch filled the room, followed by a scream of unbearable pain.

"Now start writing," I said, my voice calm. "Or there will be more pain for your dear brother and after him-"

Lord Connington wasted no more time. He moved swiftly, his hands trembling as he put quill to parchment.

Hours passed, and so did many lives. By the time I was finished, I took the three-year-old boy with me, leaving his mother dead. Two days later, I left him sleeping in front of a sept in the Reach. He never stirred once.

Unlike my father, I don't leave enemies alive so they can plot revenge. Tywin had the right of it—threats must be eliminated, root and stem.

King's LandingBaelon Targaryen

For the past few days, Baelon had been feeling uneasy for reasons he couldn't quite place. He had attempted to divine any dangers, but nothing had been revealed. He knew Aemon was being cautious, always protected by Caraxes, and that he was winning the war. Still, Baelon remained wary and tense. Even the usually unflappable king was weary and short-tempered. He had tried to go in place of Aemon or atleast with him, but both The King and the Crown Prince agreed that it must be Aemon himself who saves his wife's birthlands.

The answer to his worries arrived in the form of two letters, delivered during a small council meeting.

Baelon sat numb as the Grand Maester read the message aloud, a letter his acolyte had rushed to bring to the king. Jaehaerys had commanded the Maester to read it aloud, seeing as it was from Lord Baratheon.

Your Grace,

It is with deep sorrow that I must inform you of the death of my nephew and good brother, Prince Aemon. He was slain by hidden Myrish assassins wielding crossbows.

Prince Aemon never left Caraxes' side during an attack, not even while planning his strategies. The entire campaign was a success—every Myrish soldier was wiped out, according to our outriders and even the slaver scum under sharp questioning. The prince had declared the war over, and the remaining Myrish forces were being slaughtered across Tarth and the Stormlands.

The army was in a celebratory mood when the prince finally dismounted from Caraxes and retired to his tent. The next morning, as he stepped outside with me to mount his dragon, a hidden Myrish crossbowman struck. The bolt pierced his throat. I am sorry to say there was nothing we could do.

The prince's final words were: Lyarra, Daemon, Baelon, and Rhaenys.

— Lord Baratheon

A suffocating silence filled the room. There were splutters of denial from the Master of Coin and even the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. No one dared to look at the king—no one except Baelon. The tension in the chamber reached a breaking point.

"Read the second letter from Lord Connington." The King ordered to the maester.

And read he did.

A fucking confession of killing his brother.

Even with his fading sight due to the fog of rage and sorrow, Baelon saw something that made his mind snap into full clarity. The king had known. There was no surprise on Jaehaerys' face—only rage. He had expected this news but had dreaded the confirmation.

Within a heartbeat, a rage unlike anything Baelon had ever felt burned through his veins. The silence was shattered by a tremendous roar from above.

Vhagar.

The ancient dragon was circling over the Kingswood near King's Landing before the meeting, her fury already echoing Baelon's own from their close bond. Her massive form banked sharply, racing toward the walls of the city. A deafening roar rippled through the capital.

"My prince—" the fearful voice of the Grand Maester trembled, but Baelon barely heard him. The entire council, except the king, turned to the windows, watching as Vhagar flew faster than almost anyone had ever seen.

Baelon stood quickly and the chair moved back all the way at the force.  He was almost at the door among the protests of the councilmen due to the disrespcy when his kings voice reaxhed him.

Baelon moved. He stood so suddenly that his chair skidded backward, scraping against the stone floor. He was already at the door when the king's voice cut through the growing chaos about the clear disrespect of leaving the King without being dismissed.

"And pray tell, where are you going, Baelon?"

Baelon nearly ignored the question. His mind was singular in its purpose: reach Vhagar, take flight, and burn everyone responsible for this atrocity to ashes.

But something in Jaehaerys' voice made him pause. It was not the usual regal authority, nor the weariness of a grieving father. No, this was something far worse—controlled, simmering fury.

So Baelon answered.

"I am going to Griffin's Roost and turning it into another Harrenhal. I will not rest until Aemon's murderers are either burned by dragonflame or their blood soaks my Dark Sister."

The room erupted into immediate protests—pleas about armies, castles, and the innocent women and children who would perish.

"Everyone else. Out."

The king's voice was cold and unyielding.

Despite their protests, no one was foolish enough to disobey. Baelon stood near the door, unmoving, as the councilmen shuffled past him and the doors were closed.

"Come here, Baelon."

Reluctantly, Baelon turned back and approached the king.

Jaehaerys tossed a parchment onto the table.

"Read this."

Baelon picked up the letter, his eyes scanning the words with growing fury.

King Jaehaerys

I really want to say that it is with sadness that I write this to inform you that Prince Aemon has been killed by assassins with crossbows, dressed as Myrish. But in truth, I am not really sad about the prince's death. He was foolish and, at times, even insane, and his hatred toward many people made me care very little about him.

Anyway, I have been observing the war from the beginning, and the prince did follow my instructions—never exposing himself without Caraxes throughout the entire campaign. So it was disappointing to see him grow careless after defeating the Myrish. When he was about to return to King's Landing, he exposed himself outside his camp by walking to Caraxes. Sometimes, it seems, no one can change fate.

Regardless, I was curious about who the assassins were and what they would do after killing a dragonrider. I mean, would they boast about it in inns? Escape back to Essos? But I was surprised when they reached Griffin's Roost, and one of the assassins turned out to be the brother of Lord Connington. I was utterly confused as to why the fuck that happened—until I remembered the punishment that took place at Rhaenys' tourney.

Pretty bad of you to keep the insulted still a lord and relevant. You should have taken care of him before things like this happened.

I thought about what to do, and the answer came on the night when someone very close to me had a nightmare of Prince Aemon being killed.

Fate has its funny ways, as the event made someone very close to me deeply grieve—and that was a mistake. I have just ended the Griffin's line, root and stem. No more future enemies for me or even for you. By the way, you are welcome, and I expect a great reward.

Everyone except the servants is dead. The servants will escape with whatever they can take once they regain consciousness—as of now, while you are reading this. Connington's letter of confession will reach you, the seven Lord Paramounts, the Citadel, and the High Septon. The servants will spread the tale that the angry ghost of Prince Aemon came for bloody vengeance.

I thought you would like to know this as early as possible to ensure you can retain whatever image of strength that remains for yourselves—and for House Targaryen after your brother's vassal dared to even think about killing The Blood of the Dragon.

A Well-Wisher of Westeros.

"What the fuck?" Baelon exclaimed. "Who would dare to mock us and my Aemon's death?"

The king just scoffed. "Anyone could write an insulting letter like this without putting their name, but the matter itself is the more important one. The man conquered an entire castle alone without a raven being sent and made a proud fool like Connington write confessions. The letter arrived in front of me by an eagle. This letter mocks me and even my son's death—all while doing a service to our house. There is only one person I assume has the skills to watch the war unfold and follow two wary assassins. There is only one person who could have dreams of Daemon dying if it was anyone not here—my great-granddaughter, Lyanna Mormont. More than that, there is only one who would dare to do this—my grandson, Daemon Snow."

Baelon gasped in surprise for a moment before rage enveloped him. "That little bastard! He mocks my brother's death and now takes away my vengeance? I shall hunt him down myself and bring him before you. If he watched the assassins, I want to know why he didn't save Aemon."

"No. You shall do no such thing," the king said. "Daemon probably watched through some animals—he is likely a skinchanger. He couldn't have done anything, and we have more important matters to deal with than hunting my wayward bastard grandson. Also, he didn't mock you—he mocked me, just like Connington did when he dared to even think about spilling our blood. I thought that no one would dare to challenge me in my lifetime after what Maegor has done, and even my own punishments to my dear friend Barth and Grand Maester. But I was wrong." The king finished with a calm smile.

For a moment, Baelon felt pity for everyone about to face the monster hiding behind the Good King —but then, the fact that his brother was dead made everyone else irrelevant. They deserved whatever was coming to them.

"Father? What is to be done?" Baelon called after decades of only addressing him as "King" or "Your Grace."

The king looked surprised for a moment before sighing.

The king looked surprised for a moment before sighing. "No. Nothing would make me happier than mounting Vermithor and burning everything down that made this possible. But no, it is not my fight anymore. I can see the fire in you—this is your vengeance. My grandson has taken one aspect of vengeance from you; I will not take the other part. In return, you will leave Daemon alone. He will be the hidden knife for the survival of House Targaryen if the things get awry for me and you. The rest of our family is too soft or mercurial and the pragmatism required for strength at worst days is missing in them."

Baelon scoffed. "What vengeance? The bastard took that from me by killing the Conningtons and now you wanted to make use of a wild dragon like Daemon? "

"Oh, Baelon, you think too directly. Everything in this world exists for my use as a Dragonlord and can play a part—if you know how to use it. I shall teach you that later. Now, what does my half-brother write? His goodson is dead by Myrish assassins. This would have ended there, and the bastard Conningtons would have gotten away if not for my grandson.

The Myrish exiles lost in Myr and fled to the Stepstones. They lost there too—to pirates and Tyrosh. After that they dared to attack an island sworn to a Dragonlord after loosing to scums and vermins? They thought that attacking me was easier than challenging the Myrish faction, the Archon of Tyrosh, and some pirates in the Stepstones. It was their arrogance and daring that allowed one of our vassals to plan this and take my son's life. This is an insult that no true Dragonlord will leave unanswered."

Baelon looked worried for a moment before the truth of the the words hit him.

"That is correct, my King. They dared to attack us because they feared the Myrish and Tyrosh more. So… are we calling the banners?" Baelon asked, knowing that even Vhagar would be hard-pressed to fight an entire Free City alone.

"No. I am not calling the banners. There will be no war or parley talks. Just Fire and Blood.  The Myrish and the Archon excused themselves claiming lack of authority over exiles from the events on Tarth when we sent envoys. Now, I will send dragons. There will be no warning for them. Both the victors of Myr and the Archon of Tyrosh, alongside the pirates who supported them, will die in dragonfire. Now come, son. Let me take you to Vermithor and make him come with you and Vhagar."

Baelon watched as the king whispered to Vermithor. He couldn't hear anything, but he could guess what was being said.

After that the king turned towards Baleon,

"Son, you will go to Griffin's Roost first and burn the castle down. Let it be another Harrenhal—a reminder. After that, you will go to Tarth and send all available ships to the Stepstones. I will use the dragonglass candle to scry every one of the enemies who failed to finish a fight and ran their enemies into my territory. They are celebrating their victory while we mourn—and that is not acceptable.

While the ships go to the Stepstones, Vermithor will lead you to the manses in Myr and Tyrosh that need to be burned down. Then, you are to burn down the walls and gates of the cities. Afterward, you will arrive in the Stepstones and burn all the ships. Our own fleet will have reached there, and they are to loot whatever they can."

Baelon was pleased with the order of vengeance his father had just issued.

"I will accomplish this with complete happiness, Father," Baelon replied with a bloodthirsty grin.

"Baelon, I am sure there will be no defense against the dragons, as this is a surprise attack. But make sure you come back safely, even if you have to burn all of Myr or Tyrosh to the ground. No amount of blood spilled will ever equal my son Aemon's—or yours."

Baelon simply nodded and vowed to come back no matter what.

The events of 92 AC are well recorded in every part of the world, as the message was sent to every Free City;

"If any of the Free Cities' infighting causes even a single death in my kingdom again, then House Targaryen will ensure that there shall be no more wars between the Free Cities at all—just as King Aegon made sure there was no infighting in Westeros. I have extracted my blood price from Myr, Tyrosh, and the pirates of the Stepstones, who sent an army to my kingdom to test the waters, leading to the death of my son, Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen.

King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen,

The  Good King  of the Seven Kingdoms,

Protector of the Realm."

Thousands perished in the aftermath of Crown Prince Aemon's murder, and every magister or person of importance in Essos whispered of "Cruel's Heir"—how it was his own vassal who had truly slain the prince. But a king's word was law, and none dared to protest the blood price extracted from Myr and Tyrosh. More than that, the rumours of The King's Dragon attacking without a rider present send the entire Essos reeling.

The Bronze Fury and Vhagar burned nearly a quarter of Myr to the ground, and the newly appointed council of magisters—victors of the Myrish bloodbaths—could not even savor their triumph before they too perished in the flames. Tyrosh fared slightly better, as its Archon was the sole leader, and only his manse was destroyed, but the fire started had spread unnaturally and parts of the city was destroyed along with hundreds of men.

Not a single scorpion was loosed upon the dragons—the attack had been too sudden, too swift.

It is believed that this devastating assault was the catalyst for the formation of the "Eternal Alliance" of the Triarchy and the widespread development of scorpions and other means of warring against dragons across Essos.

Author's note: so that happened…  unlike canon where aemon's death was a mistake and the targs have their revenge on the thousands of myrish exile in tarth, here it was deliberate assassination and the free cities is blamed for invasion.  Myr and tyrosh sued for peace as they were no where prepared to face dragonfire or the supposed good king who stood for peace for decades would do horrible war crimes. 

so anyone guessed it would be the connigtons who kills aemon?? i am curious to know!!!

Read, commend and Recommend!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 30: The Queen Who Never Was

92 AC

Ser Otto Hightower

Ser Otto contemplated the recent events as he observed Prince Baelon stepping before the Iron Throne after doing something the usually calm and talented prince would have vehemently opposed under normal circumstances.

Ser Otto had been called back to King's Landing by the king in 91 AC to serve as an assistant to Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin. The true purpose, however, was to counter the growing influence of the Sea Snake, who had been appointed Master of Ships in 87 AC. . His family had almost thrown a tourney at him being called to king's landing.  It was always joyous when your years old plan becomes successful.  All the money and favours owed to the Lord Redwyne was truly worth it for his squireship under Ser Ryam.

Also, they were thankful to the ambitious Sea-Snake too, eventhough no one will admit it. Only the rising influence made the king call him for countering it. Even the betrothal and marriage between the Sea Snake and Princess Rhaenys had come as a surprise to many, and the fact that the princess had chosen him herself was widely known.

Ser Otto had attempted to lend an ear to Prince Viserys, who was more disappointed than heartbroken. The prince had fully expected to marry the princess and spend his life as king consort, only to be betrayed by his cousin, confidante, and childhood companion. Otto had considered whether there was any political potential in Viserys, but the prince remained steadfastly loyal, willing to serve the heir and princess without ambition of his own.

Otto was disappointed that Prince Baelon's second son, Prince Daemon, had not been born first. It would have been interesting to see how events would have unfolded had it been Daemon—who had believed for most of his life that he would marry Rhaenys—who was spurned. Even now, both Daemon and Aegon were enraged by Rhaenys' choice, though the presence of their elders forced them to swallow their anger and grief in silence.

Ser Otto had first heard of Prince Aemon's death from Lord Beesbury after a disastrous Small Council meeting. That the king had dismissed his entire council—except for Baelon—and decided the matter in private did not sit well with him at that time. Otto had expected the king to reprimand Baelon for ordering the destruction of an entire noble family, the Conningtons, in private. But when, three days later, he heard that the king's dragon, along with Baelon and Vhagar, had flown to Griffin's Roost to turn it into another Harrenhal, he was both shocked and alarmed. He had to completely reconsider everything he thought he knew about King Jaehaerys. He was numb from the shock and fear as the images of a burned down Hightower came in his nightmares for a couple of week.

And at last, he understood why Maegor the Cruel had not killed Jaehaerys when he had the chance. House Hightower understood the truth about that infamous king—the truth of his greatness bordering madness. Maegor had ensured Targaryen rule, by breaking a thousands-year-old system of Faith to do so and he was clever enough to make sure atleast one male of the family survived, to be the king after his death. Ser Otto despised Maegor with all his heart and took comfort in the thought of the cruel king suffering in the Seven Hells, yet even he could not deny Maegor's will and tenacity in establishing Valyrian traditions for the royal family and curbing the Faith's power so drastically.

The only truly monstrous act Maegor had committed, in Otto's mind, was the massacre of the Red Keep's builders to conceal its secret passages. And yet, because of that act, no one knew those passages. The Hightower archives held secret maps of half the castles in Westeros, thanks to the maesters—but not a single one for the Red Keep. Only Maegor had ensured that by eliminating every last builder and engineer.

When word reached him of Myr and Tyrosh being burned, and when the king proclaimed that Myrish men, disguised as exiles, had been sent to Tarth to test an invasion plan, Otto recognized the king's cunning. He knew Myr and Tyrosh had nothing to do with the attack on Tarth. The escaped exiles had merely sought refuge and, in desperation, attacked the island. The king knew it. The Small Council knew it. The leaders of Myr and Tyrosh knew it. But no one would dare speak the truth, not when the king had ordered his son to burn the manses of Myr's ruling class to the ground.

How had Prince Baelon known exactly where the leaders were? That was another matter entirely. Otto had reached the answer after a moment of thought then;

Magic. Glass candles.

He had tried to extract answers from Viserys and Rhaenys, but both had been kept in the dark by the king. They were simply told to grieve, assured that the guilty would be punished. Otto was disappointed that any distance that had formed between Rhaenys, Viserys, and Daemon due to her marriage to Corlys had been erased by their shared grief. The Dragonkeepers had to restrain Daemon twice when he attempted to claim Balerion—or even Dreamfyre—to join his father in burning Myrish and Tyroshi lands. That the king had not punished Daemon for such reckless behavior was telling. Jaehaerys approved of his ten-year-old grandson's bloodthirsty nature.

Otto understood the king's actions. The message to the Free Cities and the creation of another Harrenhal was clear—it was a warning. Though Jaehaerys was a peace-loving king, he had no hesitation in spilling seas of blood if a Targaryen was harmed. Even Otto, who despised the use of magic, had been angered by Prince Aemon's death and the invasion attempt by slavers. But the fact that the king had so deliberately used magic to enact his revenge was unforgivable.

Still, Otto was patient because he has no other options to achieve his goals. He would serve the royal family as diligently as possible, waiting for the right opportunity for he must be present here in Kings Landing, when it arrives.

His thoughts were interrupted as Prince Baelon unsheathed Dark Sister and laid it before the throne, dropping to one knee.

"My king, I have accomplished what you ordered. Prince Aemon has been avenged. The Conningtons are no more. The slave masters who attacked our lands and caused my brother's death are ashes. Both in Myr and Tyrosh, the remaining magisters are spilling blood to seize power. The pirate scum of the Stepstones have been burned and looted by our ships."

There was harsh silence as even now many couldn't believe the Good King could order such cruelty in his old age. The new generation of nobles was familiar with the Cociliator king who is wise and wants peace. Burning a nobles castle is not an act of conciliator, it is an act worthy of a conqueror or even a cruel. Whispers of Baelon doing what he did without kings permission has been spread by many fools and thus many waited how the king would respond to this.

Ser Otto scoffed at the fools and he saw the king smiling at the news and for a moment he thought the king gave a mocking smile as the king looked through the great hall and the crowds until his eyes landed on his kneeling son.

"Prince Baelon, my son, you have avenged your beloved brother, Crown Prince Aemon, and his assassination. You have avenged the thousands who perished when slavers attacked my lands. You have proven your loyalty to House Targaryen time and again, serving this kingdom more faithfully than most. I thank you for your service. But I have nothing to reward you with, for even I cannot bring back the dead."

"I have no need for a reward, my king," Baelon replied, still kneeling. Many noblewomen swooned at the nobility and humility of the handsome, widowed prince.

"That is correct. You have no need for a reward," the king said with a smirk. "And so, I must punish you."

A collective gasp swept through the hall.

"I must punish you, for your punishment is a lifetime of service and duty—to me, to this throne, and to this kingdom. Thus, Prince Baelon, I declare you my heir to the Iron Throne and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. You bent the knee as my second son and a prince of the blood—now rise as The Crown Prince and Prince of Dragonstone."

The hall fell into stunned silence at the proclamation.

Ser Otto grinned. Even the usually emotionless Prince Baelon looked shocked. But what truly satisfied Otto was the anger and sorrow on Princess Rhaenys' face. The queen was furious—only years of experience kept her from speaking out. Otto schooled his own expression, watching as Prince Viserys smiled in awe and wonder.

And in that moment, Otto silently thanked the new gods. The opportunity he had been waiting for had arrived sooner than expected.

 Baelon Targaryen

He was beyond angry as he reached the king's solar, pushing the door open with force. The Kingsguard outside didn't even react to him, as the king, having anticipated this, ordered them to do nothing. That only made him more furious.

As he entered the solar, he saw the king seated in a throne-like chair, lacking any kingly posture or regal mask. Instead, he saw the weary, old, and tired face of Jaehaerys Targaryen—the man, not the king. The sight of it left him silent, at least until the angry voice of his mother rang from outside.

"Is the king inside?"

"Yes, Your Grace, and he is expecting you. Princess Rhaenys and Prince Viserys are also allowed inside."

"What?" came the sound of protest from Corlys, his son Prince Daemon, but they were not foolish enough to openly defy the king's order and enter.

Baelon saw his family enter and he was further surprised at how angry both his mother and niece looked. His son viserys looked thoughtful and there was apparent gleam in his eyes that Baelon didn't like at all.  Then, he paled as realization struck—he now understood why the king had allowed Viserys to be involved in a major decision for the first time.

"Why?" A quiet voice, trembling with restrained rage, echoed through the chamber. Princess Rhaenys fixed her grandfather with a piercing glare. "My father has not even been dead for a full moon, and already you have betrayed his wishes by naming Prince Baelon as heir."

Baelon glanced at the king, and in that moment, he no longer saw the weary old man. The kingly mask had returned, sharp and unwavering. Baelon knew well the bite of his father's tongue, and if Jaehaerys responded now, their family would be torn apart permanently.

Thus before the king could speak, Baelon cut in.

"It does not matter why, niece. I never accepted the position before the court. The king will proclaim that I have declined the title and will name you as the Crown Princess, as per all the laws of gods and men. I will not usurp Aemon's line or betray his wishes. Do not test me on this, Father."

Baelon felt a new surge of anger as he saw the proud smile on the king's face—and the bitter disappointment on Viserys's. He clenched his fists. He would have to teach his son some hard lessons about ambition.

"Brother, please, this is madness!"  Queen Alysanne, pleaded. "Rhaenys has been our heir's heir since her birth, and you have never objected to it. Please do not betray her now, not when her father was unjustly killed, and she couldn't even seek justice because you forbade her from going—because she was with child! This is the rightful succession, upheld by all established laws, Brother! Please, do not divide this family when we are already devastated by our beloved Aemon's death."

"Oh, dear sister, I didn't hear you preaching the laws of gods and men when I usurped our niece Aerea's claim. You were rather happy to support me and take your place as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I wonder where your respect for tradition and law had gone then?"

The Queen, usually unshaken, found herself at a loss for words. The anger in her brother's voice was rarely ever directed at her, and yet, here it was. She had been exceptionally tired and broke by yet another child's death and hearing the cruel words really broke something in her.

"And Baelon," the king continued, his gaze dark and unreadable, "I heard a threat in your tone just now. Does burning the slaver scum across the sea made you forget the lesson I imparted to you all those years ago in the Dragonpit or perhaps it's just my old age making me mishear things." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Regardless, I will not proclaim Rhaenys as my heir, no matter what. But I wonder—what will you do?"

Baelon clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. "I could deny my claim, but then you will declare my son, Viserys, as your heir. Since that is the case, I will accept your order and declare Rhaenys as my heir." His voice was sharp, his words deliberate.  There was pause as he pondered on whether he should punish The King, and for a moment he stopped, but then he remembered the disrespect shown to his beloved brother and he continued.

"Just as I accept this position before the court."

The king's smile vanished instantly. Baelon knew he had crossed a line, but he saw no other way for the king to enforce his wishes in this matter. He wanted his father to feel the insult just as deeply—for dishonoring Aemon's wishes before the realm. And yet, he was sure the king had no choice but to follow through his demands. Even a king needed a capable heir.

The king scoffed. "Oh Son, you just have to go there? You are angry at me for discarding Aemon's wish, and so you seek to insult me before the realm. You should have kept silent about your own heir and declared Rhaenys heiress when you were king. Then I could have let this matter go—just as I did when Aemon was alive and his declaration of Rhaenys as his heir. His heir and legacy were his to choose, not mine."

"Uncle," Rhaenys called, finally breaking her stunned silence. Her violet eyes burned with disbelief. "You would do that for me? Even when my own grandfather skipped over me in the succession because I am a woman?" She exhaled sharply, then turned to the king. "And what do you mean you 'let Aemon decide his heir'? You agreed with his choice! You have taught me many lessons, grandfather."

Baelon merely nodded. "I would do anything for Aemon and his wishes, niece."

The king let out a cold laugh. "What a lovely sentiment, my son. The love you held for your brother is to be appreciated." He then turned to Rhaenys, his expression darkening. "But you, Rhaenys—I never wanted you to be queen. And you have only proven me right."

Rhaenys tensed, but the king pressed on, his voice unwavering. "You were foolish enough to discard an eligible Targaryen for a husband and chose instead a proud fool. I would have forgiven you if you had chosen even your bastard brother, but you chose the ambitious sea snake. I let it go because you are not my problem. I ruled for decades, and I expected Aemon to do the same when he ascended. Perhaps—who knows?—you may not have even outlived him."

His mocking tone cut deep, but Rhaenys did not back down.

"So you would hate me for my marriage to Corlys?" she snapped. "This is madness and unreasonable! At least I know Corlys will fight for me and mine—unlike Viserys here. I have been just prove right, even ten-year-old Daemon wanted to attack our enemies, yet Viserys never once thought of standing beside his father. And do not mock my uncle's love. At least Uncle Baelon loves me enough not to usurp his brother's daughter—unlike you, Grandfather."

Baelon caught the flicker of surprise on the king's face. It had been a long time since anyone other than the King's wife or children had dared to speak to him in such a manner.

The king ignored Rhaenys and turned to Baelon instead. "Baelon, did you see that? My granddaughter has turned out to be a selfish, arrogant woman who chases after exaggerated tales rather than upholding her duty. I taught you the importance of our blood—that the Targaryens stand above all. And yet, your niece insulted you, your brother, and even your own son by ignoring Aemon's generosity in allowing her a choice of husband."

His tone grew colder. "Baelon, do you really want to give up power and wealth for a niece who went against her father's wishes? Who takes your loyalty for granted by not marrying Viserys?"

The room was silent, heavy with tension. Then the king's voice darkened further. "She should have tied your lines as just the previous generation saw an uncle usurp even a male heir after his brother's death. And before protests from you all about Baelon's love to Aemon, let me tell you, Maegor, too, had his own twisted love for his brother. After all, he had Balerion and even with overwhelming power, he respected his brother's orders and punishments."

Baelon stiffened at that, as his mind pondered the possibilities, but his love for his brother triumphed over the king's manipulation.

"You cannot change my mind, Father," he said firmly. "I am loyal to my brother first and foremost. It was his wish for Rhaenys to be queen, and I will follow it. More than that, she has the support of the Baratheons, the Velaryons, and the laws. Why create a problem for the future when we could resolve it now?"

The king sighed, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

"Viserys, my grandson," he said at last, "I am sorry that your father is more loyal to his dead brother's memory than to you and your brothers."

Baelon saw Viserys flinching at that and he would have snapped at the king but before that the king continued;

Straightening his posture, the king shook off any trace of weariness. "Prince Baelon, if you do not swear by Aemon's memory, here and now, that you will accept the position of heir and declare Viserys as your heir before the court, then I will disinherit you, Rhaenys, and your three sons from the line of succession."

The room held its breath.

"That will be followed by your lines exile from Westeros. I am sure Essos will welcome you with open arms after the destruction you wrought there—on my orders."

Baelon's heart pounded.

"Then I will call back my firstborn grandson, Daemon Snow, to the south, legitimize him, marry him to Gael and declare him my heir. At least he has done nothing I would disapprove of. And do you really want me to spell out how I will sell Daemon as my heir to the lords?"

Baelon gaped at the threat. He ignored the scoff from Rhaenys; he knew this was no mere bluff. Rhaenys and his mother were too angry to speak.

But his son was not.

Viserys stepped forward, his voice shaking with fear and anger at his father for the first time. "Father, what are you even thinking for? Please, don't get us disinherited and exiled for Cousin Rhaenys. I have no illwill towards her for not choosing me as her  husband, but this is the King's order. This is our home—our birthright! Both Daemon and Aegon will be in danger in Essos!"

His desperation finally broke Baelon's resolve.

'Forgive me, Aemon.'

Lowering his head, he whispered, "I will follow your orders, my king."

Baelon closed his eyes, unwilling to meet his niece's gaze, knowing the betrayal and hurt he would find there. A cry of rage tore from Rhaenys's lips.

Even without looking Baelon knew that The king had that cursed smile on his face as his will had become reality.

Baelon Targaryen sighed in exhaustion as he gazed out over Blackwater Bay from the balcony of his chamber. It had been one moon since he accepted the heirship and declared Viserys as his heir before the court. To him, it felt as though he had slain Aemon with his own hands—but the alternative, being homeless and in danger in Essos, was unthinkable for his sons.

He cursed his cruel father. At the very least, even the slaver scum in Essos recognized the truth of his nature and named him accordingly—Jaehaerys the Cruel—after receiving his messages.

Almost the entire nobility had supported Baelon, especially after his triumphs in Myr and Tyrosh, celebrating the future king who had three sons. Only the Baratheons and Corlys Velaryon had protested, but their objections were swiftly silenced. Even Lord Baratheon had lost his voice, as it was his own bannerman who had slain Aemon.

But now, one moon later, after the announcement of Viserys' betrothal to Aemma, many ambitious lords were beginning to reconsider their loyalties. The gold and influence of the Sea Snake were flowing into their coffers, swaying their decisions.

In the wake of these events, both he and the king had all but forgotten about Daemon Snow. It was only yesterday that a letter from Cregan Stark arrived in the capital, stating that Daemon Snow had left the North, claiming he was traveling to Essos. Cregan had no idea where he was now.

93 AC

Dragonstone.

Daemon Snow

I sighed as I sat in a shadowed corner of the tavern. After the events of last year and Aemon's death, my bitch of a grandmother had moved to Dragonstone after fighting over the inheritance. She had taken Gael with her, and I saw the girl in person for the first time.

She was ethereal, like all Targaryens, but there was something more to her. I understood it when she curiously watched two birds that I had sent to observe her. There was no third time—I was more careful after that, ensuring I only watched from hidden vantage points.

Her fate had been tragic in canon. Suffocated by her heartbroken mother. Seduced by a fucking bard, bearing his bastard. Losing that child to moon tea and then taking her own life.

I wondered if I had seen the bard in question during my travels over the past year. The aforementioned events would take place in 98 AC, during the celebration of the king's fifty-year reign. I still had time to decide what to do about her and a nobody bard seducing a Princess of the Blood.

For now, my thoughts were consumed by a single being.

The Cannibal.

I had to break the minds of my birds just to get near his lair. I had already sacrificed dozens—one at a time—since the dragon was happy for killing every single one of my spies. Only my own practice allowed me to escape before the bird perished.

The Cannibal was smaller than Vermithor and Vhagar, but even through the eyes of my birds, I could feel its presence. It was like Balerion the Black Dread. I instinctively knew it was far more dangerous than other dragons. But for the life of me I couldn't find why the two dragons alone was just more, when compared with other dragons. I have tried scrying using the Weirwoods in Dragonstone for the last two centuries trying to see any Targaryens mentioning about this, but I got nothing.

At the moment, I was observing the guards stationed around the Dragonmont. They were well-paid to monitor the paths leading up the mountain and to stop any intruders. It surprised me that King Jaehaerys was paranoid enough to have men watching even the wild dragons.

For me to venture there, I needed to get rid of those idiots. I studied their daily routines, waiting for the right moment. My plan was simple—kill them while they guarded the road, drag their bodies to the Cannibal's cavern, and offer them as tribute. Perhaps then, the dragon would be more inclined to let me claim him.

I dragged the two corpses up the mountain. I had killed both of them by twisting their necks from behind, without spilling a drop of blood.  Later, I would regale the climb was easy even carrying two corpses but even I was breathless as I climbed the mountain. Only my own exceptional strength and balance made it possible to climb the mountains as there were places there was only solid stones and I had to carve footholds while the corpses dangle in a rope behind me.

Finally I reached the cavern where the beast lay. It was like a huge whale size soil and rock was missing in the middle of the mountain.  There was a large hole inside the mountain and an open place of almost 60 metres infront of me. I could see the rock pieces lying in the ground which must have caved in from above while cannibal carved his cave, making the open space.

I had both the corpses over my shoulder as I approached the opening. With my night vision, I could see into the darkness of the cave.

The Dragon was black as coal, as expected but its green eyes locking onto me was not something I expected. A chilling terror gripped my body, freezing me in place. Even with my tremendous willpower and mental defenses, I found myself paralyzed—just like I had been when the Night King attacked all those years ago.  I could only try to fight the hold over me for a moment.

There was no warning growl, no sound. Just an overwhelming torrent of green fire from a mouth a large lion could walk in comfortably.

The flames engulfed me. For the first five seconds, I felt nothing. Then, the pain hit—unlike anything I had ever experienced. The only good thing was that the sheer agony forced my body to react. Instinct took over, and I launched myself backward with all my strength—a strength far beyond normal human limits.

The earth beneath my feet buckled under the force of my kick, and in an instant, I was nearly two hundred meters backwards from where I had stood. Pain erupted through my legs as my bones shattered under the strain. I had pushed my body past its natural limits of even my enhanced body.

By then, I was already suppressing the pain, allowing me to stay conscious. Fortunately for me, the Cannibal was too lazy to pursue. Instead, it turned its attention to the two bodies I had brought for it which fell from shoulders to the ground when I jumped backwards.

Only then did I realize I wasn't landing on solid ground and I looked down.

"You fucking fool," I muttered to myself. "You should have chosen any other dragon—fed it your blood, made it powerful."

My frightened jump had taken me outside the mountain edge and I was falling to the ground. The ground was nearly 400 meters below, covered in a dense forest of trees thriving in the fertile soil. Instinctively, I brought my hands up to shield my head.

The first branch I hit snapped beneath me, the impact breaking my legs further. I spun around because of my momentum and it carried me through more branches, each one bruising, cutting, and breaking my body. Finally, I slammed into the forest floor—and everything went black.

Authors Note: finally  it is dragon claiming time and I assure you it is not easy as just going in front of the dragon and then claiming it like a pokemon...

see you in Chapter 31: How To Tame Your Dragon!!!

Read, commend and Recommend!!!

My Discord

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: How To Tame Your Dragon

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

93 AC, 2 weeks later

Dragonstone

Daemon Snow

I groaned as I entered my room for the first time in two weeks, that I have rented at an inn in the port of Dragonstone. I collapsed onto the straw bed—it was a mild improvement over the cold, hard ground I'd been sleeping on.

It had taken me nearly three days just to regain consciousness, and another full day before I could even move my body. Remembering it was as horrifying as actually experiencing it, but my mind went back to the day I woke up.

"Thank you, Meleys," I whispered, gazing down at the burns and the aftermath. The muscles in my thighs had almost completely wasted away, and in some places, blackened, scarred bone was visible. At least the broken bones had already healed, and they felt stronger than before.

I hadn't had food or water, and somehow, unconsciously, I'd drawn energy from the various bonds I shared with animals. I realized several of those bonds had vanished—dead. I had drained them, just like the Night King did with his wights.

At first, I hadn't noticed it, but there was a deep connection between me and Fenrir—one that allowed energy to flow between us. If Fenrir ate more than he needed, that excess sustained me, and vice versa. I'd never noticed the bond's true depth until I saw Fenrir heal from a bear attack, even without me sharing my blood.

I had made sure to tell him: if he ever felt our connection begin to fade when I was unconscious, he should eat more than necessary. Clearly, he had listened. Despite being unconscious for three days and on the brink of death, I neither felt thirst nor hunger. I knew Fenrir had followed through.

Lying on the bed, I slipped into the minds of my animals stationed in Dragonstone, trying to understand what had happened in my absence.

Apparently, the disappearance of the two guards had been blamed on the dragons—it had happened before. Two others had already volunteered to take their place, lured by the promise of gold. This time, there was even some hazard pay offered. I grinned in relief. At least I now had something to offer Cannibal, or a bargaining chip if I ever needed to escape.

It took me another week after I was back to perfect health, to gather the courage to face the climb—and the dragon—again. When I finally reached the summit, I hid behind the rocks and threw the corpse of one of the dead guards to Cannibal. The dragon had already sensed my presence but didn't react beyond shifting its head to swallow the body whole in one massive bite.

I shouted in High Valyrian, "Oh great Cannibal, I am Daemon Snow, great-great-grandson of Aegon the Conqueror, rider of Balerion the Black Dread!"

Through my senses, I felt nothing but cold indifference—until I said the name Balerion. Then, the dragon let out a low, irritated growl. I pressed on.

"I want to be on good terms with you," I said, stepping toward the entrance of the cave.

Suddenly, that same bone-deep fear gripped me again, freezing me in place. But this time, I was ready. I broke free from its hold after a few minutes. Cannibal snorted in surprise, and for the first time, moved his head outside the cave. He took a deep breath—I could feel the shock rolling off him. He hadn't expected me to survive his last attack.

But the surprise didn't last long. I felt his indignation—how dare I survive? Then came the Fire.

This time, it was even brighter—a vivid, emerald green—and Cannibal was faster. Much faster. The flame struck me with brutal force, engulfing me completely and blasting me off the mountain once more. I fell the 400 meters down to the ground again.

I groaned in frustration, feeling like Team Rocket from that old Pokémon series I used to watch as a kid in my past life.

The only saving grace was that I had already numbed myself to pain before reaching the summit. This time, my bones didn't shatter outright—but they were broken in several places. Still, it was the burns that hurt the most. Even with my adaptation and boosted fire resistance, Cannibal's enhanced magical flames had done almost as much damage as last time.

"Fucking hell… this is going to take time," I muttered as I lay on the ground, waiting for my bones to begin healing again.

2 Moons Later.

I had gone back four times over the past two moons, and now the knight in charge of Dragonstone was growing increasingly suspicious about the disappearance of the poor fools who had volunteered for this job. The queen had been informed, but she wasn't in the mood to care about missing smallfolk—especially not when it concerned carrying out an order issued by her kingly husband. She told the knight to either stop the operation altogether or do whatever he could to find a solution. She didn't care about a few missing guards, when guarding a beast like cannibal was foolishness at best.

The knight responded by positioning the next pair of guards farther back from the path—almost at the edge of the forest. Even that spot was still far enough from prying eyes, giving me room to do what I needed.

During all my previous visits, I had never used my warg abilities—I was too uncertain and afraid how Cannibal would react. Until now, I'd been nothing more than a minor annoyance to the beast, a convenient source of meat. But I was almost certain that if I tried to enter its mind, everything would change. Cannibal, by the last visit, had grown bored of me entirely. I had even survived the fall without taking any damage. Still, the dragonfire remained a threat—even now, it could burn through my resistance easily. My current limit was about thirty seconds in the flames before they began to truly hurt me.

But this time, I had made up my mind. I was confident I could survive any fall now, and so I was ready to use my warg powers for the first time.

I had already planned my escape. I had identified the easiest path toward Sheepstealer's cave and intended to lead Cannibal there. Once both dragons were in proximity, it wouldn't take much to spark a fight between them—and in the chaos, I would slip away.

I hid behind the opening leading to the summit, feeling the dragon's boredom ripple through my senses as it sensed my presence once again. I picked up one of the dead guards and hurled the body toward the cave. Cannibal didn't hesitate—he devoured the offering with casual ease, satisfied, his massive form slightly relaxing.

That was the moment I acted.

Drawing on all my strength, I reached out with my warg powers and plunged into the dragon's mind. It felt like falling through green fire—searing, alien, alive.

A deafening roar exploded from the cave, so loud it made the very mountain tremble.

I was inside Cannibal's mind—and it was furious. I felt its wrath like a storm. A mental avatar of the dragon surged forward to meet my intrusion. Its green eyes blazed with malice, intelligence, and pure, unfiltered rage. This wasn't like Balerion. There were no words, no cryptic thoughts—only raw hostility.

Instinct screamed that if the flames hit me, they wouldn't just burn—they would erase me, mind and soul. I fled, tearing myself free of the dragon's mind. But the fire chased me—bleeding through the connection. My mental palace ignited in emerald flames.

But I wasn't unprotected. The black flame- I copied from Black Dread all those years ago, that surrounded my mental Winterfell, absorbed the brunt of the inferno, saving my life again.  I was singed, but not broken.

I gasped and opened my eyes.

For the first time, I saw Cannibal in all its terrible glory as it emerged fully from the cave. Its burning green eyes locked onto mine, and I swallowed hard, paralyzed by its presence. Before it could even take another step, I threw myself off the cliff—again. In my hand was the body of the second guard, meant to increase my falling speed.

But Cannibal was heavier, faster, and far more experienced in the air. With a single flap of its wings, it was already closing the gap. I could see the malicious amusement on its face—the gleeful anticipation of playing with its food.

I knew I wouldn't reach the treeline in time. It would swallow me whole in mid-air, before I reached there.

Desperate, I hurled the second body at its face with all the strength I could muster. The dragon wasn't expecting it. The corpse hit with a sickening splatter—blood, bone, and gore exploding across its face and momentarily blinding it.

Reflexively, it beat its wings to avoid the projectile, and again when the gore obscured its vision.

That was all the time I needed.

I hit the ground hard, rolled to absorb the impact, and surged to my feet, already sprinting. I ran faster than ever before—faster than I thought possible. The ground blurred beneath me, dust and leaves kicking up with every step. I knew I would be almost a blur in normal eyes by the speed I am going. From the sky above, I caught glimpses through my birds' eyes—the dragon was pursuing me, a monstrous shadow gliding just above the treetops.

I felt a grin in my face as excitement and adrenaline rushed in me unlike any time before as I tried to escape a grisly death.

This was madness, yes—but it was also exhilarating!!

For ten minutes, I ran for my life as the dragon raged behind me, crashing through the forest, setting trees ablaze in its wake. But at last, I reached the cavern.

The lair of Sheepstealer.

I had already confirmed it was inside, before engaging with Cannibal. I didn't hesitate. With one final breath, I severed all my animal connections—except for Fenrir—and launched a mental assault at Sheepstealer's mind.

I expected another blast of fire, another monstrous avatar like Balerion's or Cannibal's and I was surprised as I didn't see anything similar in Sheepstealer's mind.

It was somehow lesser than the two dragons.

Sheepstealer's mind was different. Not passive—but cold, calculating, aware. It was intelligent, far more sophisticated than a common animal. It didn't respond with mental avatar's of wrath or flames, but it fought back fiercely. It wasn't like dominating an animal—it was more like struggling against another human will. I might have won if I'd been prepared for this kind of resistance, but my surprise cost me.

Still, I managed to plant the seed of a command as per my plan to make sure of my survival:

Attack. Attack. Attack Cannibal.

No roar. No grand response. Sheepstealer simply emerged from its cave.

Cannibal noticed the movement and growled in warning—but dismissed it just as quickly, returning its attention to the hunt.

Cannibal advanced with smug arrogance, certain that I was within reach.

But its smugness evaporated in an instant.

At the last second, it veered to avoid Sheepstealer's claws and fire. The ambush had worked.

With a roar that made my ears ring and the trees tremble, Cannibal turned and met Sheepstealer's attack head-on.

As the two dragons clashed, wings and teeth and fire colliding in a frenzy of violence, I turned and ran—grinning.

I had done it. I had survived. For now.

That night, I slipped into the cavern where Sheepstealer had taken refuge. The sight that greeted me was pitiful.

I had watched the fight through my birds, seen every blow exchanged, every flame cast. The only real damage Sheepstealer managed to inflict on Cannibal was a tear across the wing membrane—caused more by the initial surprise attack and the dragon's partial blindness from the gore I had flung earlier than any true might.

He had fled, half-gliding, half-falling toward Dragonmont, toward the ancient roosts of the Targaryen dragons. Cannibal had halted his pursuit only when the proximity of other dragons made the chase too dangerous. Now, in the silence of night, I found Sheepstealer curled deep inside one of the abandoned caverns—wounded, breathing raggedly, his wing limp and scorched.

Knowing that the dragon will die without some care and if it was dead my own chance of escaping cannibal would be hard, I was here.

I crept closer.

The dragon stirred. Remaining one massive eye opened, glowing faintly in the dark. It growled a low, guttural warning, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath my feet.

I didn't speak. Instead, I projected calm, pushing soothing emotions toward it—wordless images of healing, safety, recovery. The dragon snorted, dismissive and bitter. I could feel it then—its sorrow. A deep, dragging weight. It knew it would never fly again. Even with help. The loss of freedom, the sheer indignity of being earthbound, was so sharp I felt it scrape against my own heart.

Sheepstealer let out another growl when I reached toward its head, but there was no fire. It didn't have the strength. All of its energy was going into staying alive.

I didn't hesitate. I drew a knife and slashed across my left wrist, severing an artery.

Blood sprayed, hot and fast, across the dragon's scaled snout. I stepped forward and pressed my hand toward its mouth. The dragon hesitated—but the moment my blood hit its tongue, something shifted. Its eyes widened. It tasted the magic in me.

Then it drank. Not with hunger, but with understanding.

Immediately, I felt the bond begin to form—unbidden, instinctual. The dragon's essence reaching out to entwine with mine. A link of spirit and soul. But I didn't want Sheepstealer. I wanted Cannibal.

So I rejected the bond.

Pain flared in both of us. Sheepstealer recoiled, snarling in rage and agony at the sudden severance. His jaws snapped shut, almost taking my arm with them.

"Oh, fuck you!" I shouted, stumbling back as he roared at the ceiling.

I barely managed to dive out of the cavern before he could lunge again.

Breathing hard, blood still dripping from my wrist, I sprinted into the shadows.

That had been too close.

And I had just made a very wounded, very proud dragon even angrier.

It took a full month before Sheepstealer could fly again.

Every day during that time, I returned to the cavern, bringing sheep by the dozen, drenched in my blood to speed the healing. It was exhausting, painful, and increasingly risky, but I endured. I had use for Sheepstealer yet—and I needed him strong.

By then, everyone on Dragonstone knew something strange was happening with the wild dragons. Rumors spread of missing guards, distant roars, scorched cliffs, and the sight of dragons clashing in the night sky. But the queen, in her cold detachment, dismissed it all as irrelevant. She was too busy nursing her hatred against The King when she was not mourning her lost children, to care about wild beasts. And because she did not care, the people of Dragonstone court did not care—and no word of it ever reached the ears of the Old King.  He was far more busy handling the aftermath of 'Death of the Dragon'. 

95 AC

It had been nearly two years.

And today marked my hundredth attempt to tame Cannibal.

As always, it ended in failure.

By now, even Cannibal's lowest flames barely harmed me. Only the most intense, focused bursts had any real effect—and even those required effort from the beast. Energy. Intention. Cannibal had learned, just as I had. He knew I would lead him toward Sheepstealer if he gave chase. By the thirtieth time, it became a pattern. A game. And Cannibal didn't like games he couldn't win.  It also noticed, just as I had, that Sheepstealer was growing stronger with each encounter.

By the tenth attempt, no one on Dragonstone dared to take the guard post, and I lost access to my offerings. Though Cannibal was irritated by the loss, I managed to escape as usual.

I tried everything—luring, baiting, submission, mental domination, emotional projection. I pushed myself deeper into his mind than I ever had with any beast, even at risk of burning my soul in green fire again. And still… Cannibal would not bond. Each time, I was thrown out. Rejected. Reviled.

I had no idea what I was doing wrong.

In desperation, I turned to the weirwoods. I dove into the memory of Dragonstone itself through greenseeing—searching for answers, for some hidden key.

 I was shocked to discover that Cannibal had been here even before the Doom.

I was in awe of its longevity, but its lack of growth was perplexing. Over the years, it hadn't grown much at all, allowing Balerion, Vermithor, and Vhagar to outsize it—even when they were younger.

Once, I spied on a meeting between Balerion and Cannibal, where they exchanged roars and even fire. But I couldn't watch for more than a minute, as both dragons suddenly turned and breathed fire in my direction—as if they sensed someone was watching. I barely escaped with my life and mind intact.

I wondered whether I should just give up on cannibal. It was getting boring trying to do it again and again.  The only thing that made it bearable was the slow but steady improvement to my body. Pain wasn't the issue—my pain dampening saw to that—but the monotonous repetition was infuriating.

Sheepstealer, on the other hand, had been strengthened by my blood and his more than two dozen battles with Cannibal. He had survived near-death more times than I could count. He had wanted to bond with me from the very beginning, and I knew I could accept that offer at any time.

By my calculations, Sheepstealer could even challenge Vhagar now. But that would be the quitter's choice—and I am no quitter.

Moreover, after spending so much time inside both Cannibal's and Sheepstealer's minds, I understood something clearly: Cannibal was simply… more. Where other dragons were simply more than beasts, Cannibal was something else. He wasn't just power. He was age. Memory. And I wanted the best possible dragon as mine.

The erratic behavior of both dragons had finally reached King's Landing. I knew Baelon—or even Daemon—would soon be sent to investigate, especially with the Queen continuing to ignore every order from the King. My time was running out. I needed a miracle.

A miracle?

Suddenly, an idea struck me. For this, I would need the other wild dragon—Grey Ghost.

It was the 101st attempt. I had already used warging to command Grey Ghost. Constant fight with Cannibal had honed my warging and Grey Ghost was not powerful enough to go against my planted orders.

Now, Sheepstealer—who once fled from Cannibal's shadow—knew that fighting it would only make it stronger. When I planted the command to attack, it welcomed the challenge. The only part left was mine—drawing Cannibal out of its cavern and making it attack me.

As always, Cannibal knew I was there. And as always, it ignored me like a pest. After so many attempts, the dragon no longer saw me as a threat. It had learned that trying to eat me was useless. Sometimes it ignored me, other times it pretended to sleep, or gave half-hearted chases to mock me.

I usually just talked—only attempting to bond at the end. But today, there was neither gentleness, nor calmness.

"Cannibal, I'm tired of this," I shouted in Valyrian. "If we don't bond today, this will be the last time!"

The dragon snorted and closed its eyes, utterly unimpressed.

I was enraged by that disrespect. I summoned my power. Closing my eyes, I steeled my will. I entered my mental palace of Winterfell. I had tried to control the black flames before, the ones I had seen in Black Dread—but even now in mental realm, I couldn't fully command them. I could, at least, make my hands burn with them. I shaped the burning hands into fists, gathering all my mental strength.

I remembered the piercing strike the Night King had made with his sword simultaneously with his mental attack which enhanced the attack so much. I had crafted a dragonglass knife based on that attack—brittle, but infused with magic using my blood, potent enough to pierce even through the magical durability of a dragon. I had tested it on my own skin.

I cut a wound into my left palm and smeared the blood on the dragonglass blade.

My preparation was complete and I moved—physically and mentally—using everything I had.

The moment the knife pierced Cannibal's scale and vanished into his flesh—taking half my fist with it due to the sheer force behind it—my mental avatar's hand, cloaked in copied black flame, pierced the dragon's mind.

The dual assault hit simultaneously. Both the physical and mental forms of Cannibal roared in pain and fury.

His slumber vanished as he reared back, jaws snapping toward me while I could feel heat gathering as Cannibal prepared to breathe fire. He knew his lesser flames would be useless against me.

I immediately retreated—both body and mind—and leapt out of the cavern.

I dodged to the side as Cannibal's jaws closed in on where I had stood moments before.  Lightning fast, the Dragon head moved backwards and a blast of immense green flame engulfed the space I had just moved to making me jump to side again.

And then—Sheepstealer struck.

Descending from above, he raked his claws across Cannibal's massive back. Where once those claws had broken against his scales, now they left deep scratches. Boiling black blood splattered the earth.

A roar—full of rage and agony—burst from Cannibal, the sound so loud it shattered my eardrums. A terrifying magical presence surged from him, freezing me in place.

I had overcome this presence in my third attack, but this attack was nothing like that. It was  unyielding and a terrifying power that wanted to burn, burn and burn everything again, but the Sheepstealer being a dragon and it broke out of the freezing aura. It gave Cannibal enough time to take flight.

And so, the Dance of Dragons began in earnest.

It was beautiful. And utterly horrifying. The air trembled with shockwaves from the heat from the flames. Firestorms clashed against each other and even with two years of my blood adapting and making it powerful, SheepStealer's flames barely managed to counter Cannibal's.

Then I saw it—a chunk of Sheepstealer's belly meat fell to the ground near me.

He was going to die.

Whatever strength he'd gained from me, it was nothing compared to Cannibal. Sheepstealer realized it too. He broke away and tried to flee.

I ran after them. The moment my feet touched the treetops, I was moving above them—my speed letting me race across the canopy without breaking it.

I saw Sheepstealer flying away, trying to escape, but Cannibal almost caught him—until Grey Ghost attacked from above. The massive wounds left by Sheepstealer were torn open further by Grey Ghost's claws and teeth. Immediately, Sheepstealer turned and slashed at Cannibal, ripping open its stomach and trying to bite at Cannibal's neck

But Cannibal was not a dragon that could be defeated so easily. It twisted its neck just in time, and Sheepstealer never got a firm grip. I saw Cannibal's jaws open, and fire—unlike anything I had ever seen—spewed forth upwards at Grey Ghost. The flame was a dark green, so deep it was almost black. Even from hundreds of meters away, I felt the searing heat in my skin and burning my body through all my resistances. I watched in horror as one of Grey Ghost's wings was consumed by the flames and turned to ash instanly.

Grey Ghost, still above Cannibal, roared in agony and fell—crashing into both Cannibal and Sheepstealer.

By now, Sheepstealer had sunk its jaws into Cannibal's upper chest, and its claws shredded through one of Cannibal's wings. As all three dragons plummeted through the air, Cannibal twisted its head down and unleashed another blast of that black-green fire directly at Sheepstealer. The dragon, having seen what that flame could do, disengaged and beat its wings to flee—but the fire was faster.

The flames engulfed Sheepstealer completely. I saw with horror as not one, but two layers of dragonscale were burned away. Sheepstealer's pained roar echoed through the sky as she struggled to slow her fall. Her wing membranes were now paper-thin, scorched to a crisp along with the several muscles and scales. She looked like a walking anatomy sketch—muscles without skin—except many of her muscles were already reduced to ash.

With an earth-shaking crash, all three dragons slammed into the forest, crushing trees beneath them and igniting a fire from the burning bodies. Cannibal took the brunt of the impact, along with the weight of Grey Ghost crashing down on him.

Within seconds, I reached the clearing and saw them. Sheepstealer saw me and whined—half in pain, half in hope. I saw Grey Ghost breathing his last... and then the burning, hateful eyes of Cannibal.

I see the sorry state of the cannibal as it couldn't even breath fire at me because of  his overuse of the hottest fire. The plan was simple.   I wanted Cannibal to be injured beyond anything, to offer him healing while bonding with him. Sheepstealer wanted to bond with me when I healed him the first time and I wanted to recreate it with Cannibal.

I took a step toward him—but a pitiful whimper from Sheepstealer stopped me. By now, our friendship was strong. Even though I sometimes thought of her as my pet, I realized she probably saw me as hers—a strange little healing creature/pet she'd grown fond of. It felt like having a massive, scarred, winged cat.  And I loved that as it helped me to not miss my direwolf Fenrir.  I looked back at Sheepstealer and I could see that it was at Death's door.

I looked at Cannibal, saw he would survive for now, and went back to Sheepstealer. I fed her my blood. She growled softly in relief as it began healing her burns, then slipped into unconsciousness. I saw the worst of the damage was healing—she was safe, at least for now.

Then I turned to Cannibal. I grinned savagely and muttered,

"Well, well... how far the mighty have fallen."

I could hear the grinding of shattered bones as he tried to move—tried to bite me—but it was useless. The weight of Grey Ghost along with his own injuries pinned him down.

"Now, now," I said, stepping closer. "I could heal you, my dragon," I added possessively, "but we will be bonded."

Cannibal didn't reject me as usual and taking it as agreement, I pulled out a second dragonglass knife and sliced a line across the artery of my left arm. Blood poured freely as I approached. I held out my bleeding hand and pressed it into Cannibal's mouth. The moment my blood touched his tongue, I felt a shift—his mind stirring. I tried to breach the mental barrier I had touched before, to forge the bond.

But before I could reach that familiar breach, the damned beast moved.

With a sickening snap, Cannibal clamped his jaws down—biting clean through my arm just below the shoulder.

The pain was blinding. I screamed in fury as Cannibal opened his jaws again, ready to swallow me whole. A wave of pure rage surged through me as I realized the damned beast's trap. I had one chance to achieve what I want and even save my own life.

Fueled by adrenaline and fury, I hurled my mind into his with a single, desperate command:

STOP!

Something snapped in my mind—everything around me froze.

Blood burst from my eyes, ears, and nose. My body gave out, overtaxed by the sheer strain of projecting my will into the dragon's mind.

The last thing I heard before loosing consciousness was the words in my mind,

"You are the most arrogant, foolishly stubborn two- legged dragonling I have ever had the misfortune to meet. I should have ended my life with the glorious battle against the Black Shadow rather than face this indignity of being bonded with a puny human." 

Authors note: Finally daemon has his dragon… every targ or mc or si claiming dragons left, right and centre has been cliché for too long. I want it to change and when my own planned dragonlore gave me a chance I ran with it. hope everyone enjoyed this one!!!