Daemon Snow - Winterfell - 74 AC
I gazed at the sleeping form of my newborn cousin, Cregan Stark. He was as cute as a button and already had a strong pair of lungs. My grandfather had ensured that my aunt, Cregan's mother, was as healthy as possible by making her drink a concoction disguised as a potion, made partially from my blood, in addition to the usual herbal remedies mixed into her food and water. The birth had been difficult, but she survived, unlike my mother. My grandfather entered the room, surprised to find me in the nursery for the first time, looking at my younger cousin.
"Daemon, it's good to see you've finally decided to visit your cousin," he remarked. "People were beginning to think you didn't care for him and resented him for taking your place as the baby of the family."
I scoffed. "Grandfather, in the past year, you've come to understand me better than anyone. Even my attempts to put up a front have failed against you. You know I don't care about him beyond what use he might have for me when he becomes Lord Stark, years and years from now. I can't care for any of you. I know I'll outlive every one of you, and my empathy has long since burned out."
My grandfather gave me that mysterious smirk of his, the one that usually enrages me with its hint of mockery, as if he doesn't believe me.
"Daemon, you may think so," he said, "but let me ask you one question. Would you ever harm him or try to usurp his position as Lord Stark?"
I scoffed again, this time more forcefully. "You know well enough that ruling over Winterfell is not my purpose. I have no intention of causing him harm. If I desire power, it's 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 doesn't interest me. Yet even those ambitions pale in comparison to my true calling, which extends far beyond mere kingship."
"And that's why I say you care for us, Daemon. Whatever horrors you've endured, they haven't broken you, and you continue to fight. Even now, I can see the extra weights you've hidden under your woolen clothes, 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 seemed frustrated that I ignored his advice on this matter, but he set it aside for now.
"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 story unfolding before me. Living in a medieval world was dreadfully boring, devoid of entertainment. I derived amusement from introducing basic hygiene practices to the people—boiling water before drinking, bathing daily, and keeping water sources clean—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's good news, Grandfather. I've been waiting for your permission. When will we do this?"
"I will prepare the weirwood paste today, and you will drink it tomorrow night in the Godswood. Are you ready for the consequences and the pain? The paste is said to be a pure poison that even affects the Gods, and only the blessing of the Old Gods will save you," my grandfather cautioned.
I looked at him with determination. 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 nearly all of them. In anticipation of consuming the weirwood paste, I had even begun chewing on weirwood leaves. Initially, they 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 I can be, Grandfather. I have no fear of the poison; I am confident I will survive, even if my third eye doesn't open" I reassured him. I was confident because even if I hadn't originally had greensight, which is impossible to verify, I had definitely developed something from watching Aethan use his abilities.
Lord Stark nodded and dismissed me from the nursery.
Godswood
Lord Stark awaited us as we entered the Godswood. Aethan Reed, one of my few true friends, had displayed unwavering loyalty over the past year. He shared his experiences with greensight and taught me the meditation techniques used by the Reeds to unlock this ability. In return, I trained with him in knife skills, and he attempted to keep up with my rigorous routines, avoiding permanent injury only due to my shared power. He never revealed what he saw through his greensight unless instructed by Lord Stark.
The night was cold and eerily silent, lacking the usual forest sounds. There was no wind, and the typical noises 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 arrived, my grandfather glanced 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 I remained calm outwardly. 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 beginning. 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, 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 and gestured for me to sit at the base of the Weirwood tree with my back against it. I obeyed, settling 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 Heart tree, 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 ancestors, a sudden black shadow enveloped me, sparking panic. Rolling back, I beheld Balerion the Black Dread looming above me. After a moment of pure awe, I realized that his eyes were fixed on me and he was staying afloat in the air without advancing forward. For the first time since this new life began, 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."
The moment the dragon heard the names Maegor and Aegon, he became calm and snorted, as if finding amusement in my proclamation. Despite the fire burning my mind, I heard a reply in my thoughts.
"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 would be quite wroth with me if I destroyed 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 Balerion 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 engaged with a woman from behind. The woman, on her hands and knees, was licking another 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 or cousins from my father's family. Initially, I was uncomfortable with the idea of incest and planned to ignore any personal relationships with them, only claiming a dragon and leaving. But now, seeing these two women, I agreed with my grandfather's famous saying, "Laws of neither Gods nor Men apply to Targaryens," while formulating the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. It seems that incest is wincest.
I identified them as the Conqueror and the sister-wives. There was immense pleasure on the face of the woman receiving oral attention from her sister. The sizable breasts of the woman I assumed to be Rhaenys swayed back and forth as Aegon took her from behind. Even then, her mouth didn't leave Visenya's sex, and I could see her fingers moving in and out while her mouth remained busy.
Visenya, leaning on her hands while looking at her sister and brother, remarked, "Brother, you are a beast tonight, and did you forget that you are with your delicate sister and not the warrior one?"
Suddenly, the room became a blur and my vision went black.
Godswood
I began to hear a distant echo, my name repeated softly as I looked around for its source. Although nothing was visible, I knew it came from my own time and body. Despite the tantalizing scene before me, I understood that returning to my present reality was paramount. Suddenly, I felt water falling over me, and I gasped as I returned to consciousness.
I spluttered and coughed, hot water dripping down toward my lap.
"What the hell? Why did you do that?" I snapped, seeing a grinning Aethan and my laughing grandfather.
Aethan shrugged. "Lord Stark's orders, my friend. I didn't have a choice."
I turned to my grandfather, seeking an explanation. He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward my arms. As I glanced at them, pain shot through me, and I fell unconscious once more.
When I awoke the next morning, discomfort from mending bones and muscles in my hands greeted me. At least my bones would be stronger after healing. I sighed in relief that Balerion hadn't burned me and marveled at the bizarre connection between my physical body and the weirwoods' magic. At least I wouldn't face Balerion again—his fiery wrath would surely have been my end.
Reflecting on the ancient scenes I witnessed, I was amazed by my learning ability. The visions had significantly enhanced my magical capacity, and the techniques I learned from Aethan were proving invaluable.
Footsteps approached my room, and I turned to see my grandfather entering. He was likely informed by a nearby rat of my awakening.
"Daemon, how is the healing? Any complications? And what happened that you got injured in the present? What did you see?" he asked.
"Balerion happened, Grandfather," I replied. "The dragon sensed me and was quite angry. It slapped me down to Dragonstone with its tail. My hands broke from the impact, but the healing is going as expected. I also witnessed a brief history of Winter Kings."
My grandfather looked thoughtful. "Intriguing. Perhaps there's a reason Torrhen Stark chose to kneel rather than use magic against Balerion. You were already gifted with dreams, so seeing it all firsthand isn't surprising. It's your duty to verify our historical records. It's been 200 years since the last Stark greenseer updated them. This is how we preserve knowledge accurately."
I agreed with the wisdom of our ancestors and accepted the task after fully healing. My grandfather left me to rest.
Two days later, fully healed, I was back in the training yards with Aethan Reed. Soldiers trained around us, and I was instructed by the Master-at-Arms, who, though less skilled than Bennard, was competent. My talent for learning was in overdrive as I absorbed the various techniques being demonstrated. Aethan, practicing his knife skills, was highly proficient.
"Daemon, stop daydreaming and focus on the battle, or you'll be dead in a real fight," Aethan snapped, irritation clear in his voice.
I smirked inwardly. My skills were advanced for my age, and I was confident that my magical practice and combat skills would make me a formidable warrior.
"I'm so adept with a knife that I don't need to concentrate against amateurs like you, my dear friend," I said, watching the adults spar while my talent absorbed their skills.
Aethan scoffed and increased his speed. His right hand, holding the knife in a reverse grip, flashed toward my stomach. I stepped back to avoid it, moving my right hand to slash at his. He swiftly adjusted his grip, turning the knife with the point aimed at me. I parried just in time.
"Aethan!" Ser Cassel's voice rang out, his concern evident as he approached.
"Aethan, Daemon, how many times must I remind you not to use real knives?" Ser Cassel exclaimed.
I smiled at the Master-at-Arms. "It's alright, Ser Cassel. We have Lord Stark's permission, and you've seen how skilled we've become."
Indeed, Lord Stark's private lessons had accelerated our skills. Aethan, a prodigy with the knife, nearly matched my prowess. Our practice and training, along with the occasional bloodshed, had certainly paid off.
75AC
I sank into the soothing hot water of the springs, savoring a rare moment of relaxation after a grueling day of training in arms and parkour. The heat was surprisingly comforting, easing the aches in my bones and soothing the wounds that seemed to be a constant companion. Training had become a routine part of my life, and the added weights on my limbs had only intensified the challenge. Most of my injuries were from parkour—leaping from tree to tree and swinging through the Godswood like some mythical figure.
I had climbed to a height where I could see the forest canopy stretching out like a sea of green. Even with the trees being tall enough that I imagined three giants standing on each other's shoulders could barely reach the top branches, I aimed to traverse the entire forest without a single fall. My efforts had already resulted in a broken leg and numerous bruises, but my body was growing more resilient, and my balance improved daily. This training made me more agile and confident in navigating treacherous terrain, an essential skill in a world where falls could be fatal, whether from a horse or a high stair.
Aethan was nearby, clearly pondering something, but I left him to his thoughts. I leaned back, letting the warm water envelop me, and closed my eyes.
As my consciousness drifted, I entered a different state of mind. My primary connection was with an eagle, but my focus was elsewhere. Recently, I had established a bond with a falcon, which I had sent south. Maintaining this connection was challenging, especially as it crossed the Neck, but with daily practice, I managed to keep it weakly tethered. I hoped to strengthen it further as it neared King's Landing.
"Daemon," Aethan's voice broke through, and I felt him shaking my arms. I had been underwater for nearly five minutes, losing awareness of my physical self while warging. Despite my training to hold my breath underwater for up to 30 minutes, I had nearly drowned.
I surfaced, noticing Bennard's suspicious gaze as he passed by the springs. My lord uncle's attitude toward me had been one of disdain, which I could understand given his history. I hoped he would not emulate Cregan's rule and create conflicts that might force me into a position where I would have to act against my own kin.
"So, Daemon," Aethan's voice pulled me from my thoughts, "what's the purpose of our upcoming journey to White Harbor? My father's warg scouts were sent there two years ago."
I looked at him, surprised that Lord Reed hadn't shared this information.
"Aethan, this marks the start of a significant journey for the North," I began. "House Stark, with the support of House Manderly and the Sealord of Braavos, is funding this venture. Wargs are vital for scouting and traveling through the night. Over the past two years, they've traveled with Manderly ships, scouting the Narrow Sea up to Volantis. Reports indicate that they can now traverse the open sea without sticking close to shore, thanks to bird scouts and updated maps."
Aethan pondered this. "Daemon, why is Lord Stark revealing the secret of warg scouts to the Manderlys now?"
"Keeping power without utilizing it is folly, Aethan," I replied. "It's time for the North to leverage its resources fully for our survival."
Aethan seemed confused. "Is that why you shared your powers with me? What about others?"
"Aethan, Lord Stark is aware. Under his guidance, I share my power through the water, wine, and ale distributed among the castle residents," I clarified. "I don't only share it with you. You benefit directly from it like my family does, and indirectly through the food."
"Thank you, Daemon," he said, his eyes reflecting respect and gratitude as he realized the extent of my help.
76 AC
King's Landing
The Spring Prince
Baelon Targaryen sat beside his elder brother Aemon in the Small Council Room, struggling to maintain his focus as the meeting dragged on. Although he held no official seat, his presence was permitted as the heir's heir and for future training. As boredom set in, his eyes roamed the room, taking in its grandeur: a spacious, rectangular chamber with high ceilings adorned with elaborate moldings and several candelabras. Rich tapestries lined the walls, depicting historical events such as the Burning of Harrenhal, the Crowning of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, and portraits of their parents. Baelon understood the importance of these historical scenes but was perplexed by the inclusion of the last two paintings, especially given the king's strong aversion to anything associated with Maegor the Cruel.
The portraits in question depicted Balerion burning down the Sept of Remembrance and the Dance of the Dragons over Godseye, where Maegor had killed his uncle Aegon and Quicksilver.
Baelon had noticed that Septon Barth, the Hand of the King, often frowned whenever his gaze fell upon the portrait of Balerion's destruction of the Sept. He wondered if anyone had ever questioned the presence of these paintings before he and Aemon were inducted into the council, though they likely avoided doing so out of fear of the king's notorious temper regarding anything related to Maegor.
Clearing his thoughts as he felt the king's gaze shifting towards him, Baelon refocused on the council member who was about to speak. It was Lord Manfred Redwyne, the Master of Ships. Usually confident, Lord Redwyne's hesitation suggested that the topic at hand was troubling, likely concerning the North.
"For the past years, the ravens and reports from the Night's Watch have been a constant issue for the King and the council," Baelon thought. The Queen, sitting beside the King, grew irate each time the North was mentioned, as the King blamed her and the Hand for the ongoing troubles.
"Your Grace, I have some news regarding the North," Lord Manfred began 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 significant moves," Lord Manfred explained. "I've received word that 50 ships have been commissioned from Braavos by the Starks. Initially, I dismissed it as rumor due to the high cost and the Starks' known financial constraints. However, I've confirmed that a Great Voyage similar to the Sea Snake's was initiated last year."
Lord Manfred paused, his expression grave. "The Starks have not reported their dealings with Braavos to the Iron Throne or sought your permission, especially given Braavos's strained relations with the Seven Kingdoms after the stolen dragon eggs incident."
The King's expression grew stern as he absorbed this information, while Aemon showed increasing interest in the developments concerning the North.
"Why would the Starks, or any lords for that matter, need my permission to engage in trade?" the King questioned dismissively. "I haven't banned trade or relations with Braavos or other Free Cities. I only prohibited ventures into Old Valyria and warned of war if any dragon were to fly over Braavos. If they want to waste their money on ships and risky ventures, let them, provided they pay their taxes for trade."
Baelon exchanged a glance with Aemon, recognizing the King's stance as a reflection of old grudges. The loss to the Andals centuries ago still haunted the Faith and the Andal Lords more than the actions of King Maegor did.
"And if the Starks have enough funds for a small fleet, why are they complaining about food shortages and famine?" the Queen interjected, frustration evident in her voice. "It's not my fault the Night's Watch rejected my generous gift. They should trade for food from the Riverlands or the Reach if they care so much for their people," she added, irritation evident.
Baelon struggled to suppress a snort of laughter, his eyes twinkling with mirth despite his composed exterior. Everyone except Septon Barth and the Maester understood the impossibility of the Queen's suggestion. Baelon kept quiet, not wanting to embarrass his mother in front of the council.
The King sighed. "My Queen, it's impractical to follow that suggestion. The food would spoil long before reaching the North. The distance is hard to grasp unless you've traveled there by dragon," he explained. "Let's end the meeting. If there's nothing else, as I ordered, there's no need to address the Starks' folly in buying ships. Keep an eye on their ships in the North, Lord Manfred."
"Of course, Your Grace," Lord Manfred replied. "I should also mention that no other southern lords have dared to maintain relations with Braavos after their displeasure with you. However, there is one more thing: the flags of this voyage bore a sigil that intrigued me. In addition to the Stark direwolf and Manderly merman, it featured a snarling white wolf and a black dragon on a black and red background. I confirmed it to be the sigil of Daemon Snow," Lord Manfred said carefully.
At the mention of Daemon Snow's name, Aemon's anger and sadness became palpable.
"Your Grace," Septon Barth interjected, "it is improper for a seven-year-old bastard with no land or achievements to use noble heraldry, especially one that includes the royal dragon. It is a crime, and he should be punished for presuming to rise above his station. Furthermore, the sudden association with Braavos seems more than a mere trade relation or voyage. I suspect Lord Stark aims to obtain a dragon egg for the bastard grandson. This overstep should be punished."
The council chamber fell into a tense silence as the accusation resonated through the room. The King surveyed the council members for their opinions.
Baelon seized the moment to pose a crucial question. "My Lord Hand," he addressed Septon Barth, "why would Lord Stark permit his eight-year-old grandson to use such a sigil, and why would it be displayed on voyages funded by the Starks, Manderly, and Braavos? Additionally, how could the Starks afford dragon eggs, which would have crystallized without the heat of Dragonstone? Even if they acquired them, they couldn't hide a dragon from us for years."
As the implications of Baelon's questions sank in, the room's members widened their eyes, grappling with the revelations.
"My Prince," Lord Manfred interjected, "I had similar questions. My contacts in the Braavos shipbuilding industry revealed that Daemon Snow provided half the gold required for the contract, lending it to House Stark with substantial interest and a profit share. The bastard's greed is apparent."
The gravity of these revelations settled over the council chamber, deepening the tension. Baelon snorted softly and glanced at the King, noting Lord Redwyne's contradiction of his earlier claim that no lords maintained relations with Braavos.
"What?" Aemon exclaimed, incredulity in his voice. "You're saying that an eight-year-old has the acumen to invest wisely rather than squander the gold I provided? This reeks of Lord Stark misusing the funds. There shouldn't even be a question of punishing Daemon."
Aemon's frustration was palpable, and the room buzzed with murmurs and exchanged glances. The idea of Daemon Snow's involvement in such a significant venture unsettled many present.
"My Prince," Septon Barth cautioned, "the North is a wild and perilous land. Stories speak of violent men with a thirst for bloodshed, barely above the lawless wildlings beyond the Wall. It is said the Wolfswood is so vast and dense that even the Starks do not know all its secrets. It is possible, though not certain, that a dragon could be hidden within it if well-controlled, and there are tales of skinchangers among the First Men—man-beasts that use the bodies of animals as their own. Dragons, after all, are merely beasts."
76 AC
King's Landing
The Spring Prince
"Enough!" Aemon snapped. "No matter the horror stories from the Faith about the First Men, they pale in comparison to the might of the Dragon. Anyone foolish enough to attempt to bond with a dragon, apart from the Targaryens, will face destruction by fire and blood."
"Of course, my prince," Septon Barth replied, deferring to Aemon's expertise on dragons.
"My prince," the Grand Maester interjected, "I have received troubling reports from the maester assigned to Winterfell by His Grace. The boy, Daemon Snow, is proving to be a prodigy in many areas—reading, writing, combat, you name it. Even now, while other northern lords utilize our services primarily for tax maintenance, the boy has shown a keen curiosity, asking many questions. The maester wondered if he should provide additional instruction, but Lord Stark has not issued such orders. What should I advise?"
"What? Now the bastard needs a lord's education? Tell him not to teach the boy anything," the Queen exclaimed.
"No," Aemon replied firmly, his tone echoing the King's authority. Baelon noted the resemblance to the King's demeanor in his elder brother's voice.
"What did you say, Aemon?" The Queen's shock was palpable—it was the first time her son had directly defied 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 your jurisdiction. Though I despise him for his role in his mother's death, I will not deny him a few answers. Maester, instruct the maester at Winterfell to assist Daemon in any way he needs. This is a direct order from your Crown Prince."
The Grand Maester exchanged a concerned glance with the Queen, aware of her volatile temper, but knew only the King could countermand Aemon's command.
"Of course, my prince. I will follow your instructions," the Grand Maester confirmed.
"Brother, will you allow this?" Alysanne demanded, her voice sharp. Baelon saw the King sigh before responding.
"As I told you when Daemon was born, he is Aemon's child, and he has the right to decide his fate. I will not interfere without valid reason. Grand Maester, follow the prince's order and investigate whether Lord Stark has used the funds provided to Daemon with his consent. Let the North manage their own resources and alliances as they see fit. If they are seeking dragon eggs, it is of no concern to House Targaryen. We will reclaim the eggs and hatchlings from them, dead or alive. Let us set aside the discussion of the North; I have endured their complaints for years. Let us hope their voyage brings some resolution to their issues, granting us a peaceful period. Dismissed," the King concluded, and the council members began to leave after bowing.
"Baelon, do not leave. Stay here," the King's voice rang out as the room started to clear.
As the others departed, Baelon felt a growing unease, anticipating the imminent question.
"Baelon, why is this the first time I'm hearing about this northern voyage? What have you been doing all this time? Why have you not reported on this trip through your dreamwalking? Aren't you checking regularly as I instructed?"
"My King, I apologize. I have failed," Baelon responded, his voice tinged with apprehension. "It was only yesterday that I managed to breach the protections around Winterfell using the Dragonglass candle, and even then, I had to exert considerable effort. I encountered a firewall of black stone in Daemon's mind and saw an aerial view of Winterfell. The castle is constructed with black stone similar to that of Dragonstone."
The King's eyes widened in surprise, an unusual reaction. Baelon noted this with interest.
"That is quite intriguing. There are no known accounts of such elaborate mental defenses," the King remarked. "It seems we will have to rely on ordinary spies moving forward. Do not attempt to breach his mind again, Baelon. We wouldn't want him to discover our attempts and counter them."
Baelon exhaled deeply, relieved to have avoided severe reprimand. He had braced himself for a harsher response.
"Now, son, let me hear about the latest intelligence you have gathered, both through conventional and magical methods. I want to see if you have mastered the role of Master of Whisperers and if I can fully entrust you with the maintenance of my network."
Baelon straightened, ready to present the intelligence he had compiled.
77 AC
Daemon Snow
I rode alongside Aethan on my pony, heading towards the Neck as promised to Lord Reed. The journey, though arduous and often monotonous, was fascinating—it marked my first adventure beyond Winterfell's confines. We were accompanied by ten guards from Winterfell, familiar faces who had grown fond of me due to my frequent interactions with them as a child.
Over time, some of the older residents of Winterfell noted that the frequency of illnesses among the castle folk had declined significantly after I fell ill at age four. Aethan had spread a rumor that I possessed a magical charm against illness and had been blessed by the Old Gods.
As we neared the Barrowlands and nightfall approached, we proceeded cautiously on horseback, with the guards riding two abreast. While searching for a suitable place to camp, my falcon suddenly alerted me to danger. She flew above the treetops and tugged at our connection, signaling the presence of men lurking below the trees.
Kingsroad
Daemon Snow
Out of the ten men-at-arms accompanying us, five rode ahead while the rest guarded the rear. Everyone was mounted, and I realized that shouting would only alert the ambushers. Although I couldn't pinpoint their exact numbers, it was clear the threat was substantial—they had the confidence to ambush a group under the Stark banner.
I glanced at Aethan, riding beside me, and hissed, "Ambush. Arrows." I surveyed the guards, noting the shields strapped to their backs. Aethan nodded in understanding.
"Stop, you shitheads! I need to take a piss!" I yelled loudly, feigning childish petulance to misuse my status over my subordinates.
Aethan's eyes widened in brief panic before he recognized my ploy to halt our slow advance. Captain Cassel, who had known me since birth, immediately grew wary, detecting the unusual tone in my voice.
Captain Cassel ordered a stop and glanced back at me. I had already dismounted and was walking towards him. As I passed the first guard, I murmured, "Ambush, shield," causing his eyes to widen, though he maintained his composure to avoid alerting the ambushers. Captain Cassel watched me and, as I moved between two guards on horseback, I mimed taking shields and hiding behind them. He nodded and discreetly signaled to the others. Aethan also reached the center of the guards, informing them of the imminent ambush and preparing his bow.
Captain Cassel called out, "Bastard, why are you here and not taking a piss behind the trees? Do you want us to hold your dick for you?" While shouting, he unlocked the shields and prepared for use. The rest of the guards followed suit.
Positioned between two horses and guards, I was concealed from both sides of the forest due to the low light. I quickly retrieved a bow and quiver from a saddle, arming myself. It wasn't a longbow, so I could handle it with reasonable skill.
As I readied the bow, I connected briefly with my eagle to spot the archers in the ambush. I saw two archers in the trees on either side of the road and two more advancing to the second row of trees. I sent my falcon to distract the archer in the trees on the right.
Moving to the side with my back against the right horse, I aimed and connected mentally with my second eagle, which was observing from the air. I adjusted my angle based on the eagle's perspective, marking the position of the second archer. Breaking the mental connection, I peeked from behind the horse and prepared to shoot. I connected with the eagle again for a final check, but as usual, I struggled to control both my body and the connection. I disconnected and aimed.
Years of practice in knife throwing and archery flashed through my mind. My talent had absorbed skills from everyone who had trained before me, including the hunters during our outings with Lord Stark. Despite the challenging angle, I was confident. I hadn't missed a shot from even 100 feet away in training.
I adjusted my aim, connected with the eagle for a final check, then shot. As the arrow flew, I knew it would hit its mark. I shouted "Shields!" just before the ground archer could react. I quickly nocked another arrow and shot at the second archer in the tree.
Moments later, yells erupted as the archers were struck and fell. The guards raised their shields, defending themselves from any incoming arrows.
I reconnected with the falcon and saw one of the archers on the left clutching his ruined eyes, while Aethan had dispatched the other with an arrow. The ground troops, initially stunned and panicked, rallied and charged toward us in anger.
Taking advantage of the chaos, I rolled forward under the horse, drawing a knife from each boot. As the archers on the left released their arrows, I threw the knives. The first knife hit its target, and the second followed swiftly. Rolling back to the center of the guards, I saw the knives incapacitate the archers.
I checked the situation near Aethan. One archer was dead from an arrow, but the other was missing. The ground troops pressed their attack with renewed ferocity.
Seeing that the archers were dealt with, two guards dismounted to protect me while the remaining three, including Captain Cassel, advanced on the bandits. Though not a full charge, the sight of mounted guards wielding swords was intimidating to the disorganized bandits.
I surveyed the battlefield, feeling numb as blood stained the road and screams filled the air. Drawing two knives from my hip sheath, I prepared to fend off any stragglers.
Three bandits who had escaped the mounted guards came at me, screaming. My guards used their shields to block the initial attacks. The third bandit was swiftly dispatched by one guard's sword. I dodged a strike from another bandit, rotating on my left foot to deflect the blade with my knife. I then completed a 180-degree turn and thrust my left knife into the bandit's chest. Fear replaced the man's anger as realization set in. Withdrawing the knife, I slashed the other bandit's neck, blood splattering on my face. I evaded the blood, focusing on the battle around me.
As the fighting subsided, I realized with dawning horror that this was my first kill in either life. Numbness overtook me, and the stench of death and urine from the bandits made me sick. I fell to my knees, overwhelmed.
Captain Cassel asked if everyone was alright, but I couldn't respond, lost in a spiral of guilt and fear. Aethan approached, and I wanted to escape the battlefield. I started walking towards him, my guard providing silent support.
As I neared Aethan, he shouted for me to dodge. The last missing archer had aimed at me and fired. Shock and adrenaline had left me immobile, but my guard pushed me out of the way. The arrow struck his arm, and I fell to my knees. In a surge of anger, I threw the knife still in my hand, hitting the bandit's eye with deadly precision.
The ambush was over.
-
After cleaning up in a nearby stream, I sat beside the fire, trying to relax while two guards kept watch. The others were resting, though one was in pain. A guard with basic medical knowledge had managed to remove an arrow from the injured man's arm, applying some herbs to the wound and binding it tightly. The arrow had gone in deep, and we all knew that without proper care, the arm could easily become infected and might even need to be amputated.
Aethan, sitting beside me, looked at me pointedly. "Daemon."
"What is it, Aethan?"
"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Aethan murmured, careful not to let the others hear.
I looked down, feeling ashamed. My first instinct was to offer the guard my blood, but I hesitated, not wanting to reveal my abilities at such a young age. Yet Aethan's pointed look reminded me that these guards would one day become loyal retainers of House Stark. If they ever learned about my gift, they would remember this moment. I decided to be discreet.
Taking Aethan's ale waterskin, I opened it and, still holding my knife, deliberately nicked my palm while keeping my hands down in the shadows. I squeezed drops of blood into the waterskin, then wiped my hands, watching as the cut on my palm quickly healed.
I approached the wounded guard. "Brandon, thank you for pushing me out of harm's way. Don't worry—the Old Gods will protect your arm from festering. Here, you deserve a reward." I handed him the waterskin. "This is a special ale for you. Drink it now and save some for tomorrow. Everything will be fine," I added, trying to sound reassuring.
The guards looked at me with pity, thinking my optimism was misplaced. But Brandon's face showed gratitude as he bowed. "Thank you, my lord."
He took the waterskin and drank eagerly from it.
Months passed at Greywater Watch, where I learned the ways of the swamp—how to navigate it and blend into its depths. My stealth improved greatly as I trained alongside the Crannogmen, honing my abilities.
After a moon had passed, Captain Cassel and the Stark guards left, satisfied that Brandon's arm had healed. The guards regarded me with a mix of awe and reverence, the older ones understanding that Brandon should have lost his arm. The arrow had pierced bone, and even with immediate care, recovery was unlikely. Brandon's unexpected healing, coupled with rumors about my abilities, began to solidify their belief in me.
This belief planted a seed of respect and loyalty that would grow over time, nourished by my future accomplishments. Brandon tried to stay on as my personal guard, but I sent him back to Winterfell, knowing that his presence there would lend credibility to the rumors and help build my legend.
I waited in the dining hall with Lord Reed as Aethan and his party returned from their hunt. The hunt for a lizard-lion was a rite of passage for any Crannogman looking to prove himself. Aethan had gone alone, shadowed by his party but unaided, tasked with tracking and killing the beast.
As Aethan entered the hall, carrying the spoils of his kill, I watched with pride for my friend. With his enhanced abilities, I knew 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 Crannogman capable of defending The Neck from the enemies of the Starks in Winterfell. Let this be my tribute to my loyalty towards you and the Starks. I swear my eternal loyalty to House Reed of the Neck and to the Starks in Winterfell. I swear it in the name of the Old Gods, by Bronze and Iron, and by Ice and Fire."
Lord Reed smiled proudly at his son's accomplishment. "Rise, Aethan. You have returned faster than any Crannogman in living memory from this 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, given that Lord Reed had no other sons. Perhaps this hunt held greater significance than I realized.
"REED!" "REED!" "STARK!" "STARK!"
The room erupted in cheers, breaking me from my thoughts. I was exasperated by the overwhelming loyalty the Starks commanded here. I wondered what the Winter King, who had conquered the Neck, had done to inspire such loyalty millennia later and why it hadn't worked with the Red Kings, the Boltons.
After the cheers died down, Aethan sat beside me with a smug grin.
"Daemon, I have a gift for you, my dear friend," he began. "A lizard-lion skin coat for your armor. It will remind you that I am the better hunter, 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 nine-year-old on your day of ascension from Crannogboy to Crannogman. And if I need a lizard-lion skin, I could hunt one myself. I've learned your ways, thanks to Lord Reed and your kindness in teaching 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 futile. 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.
That night, I scouted the swamps 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 a tree outside. I felt ashamed that I had been caught so quickly and that my 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. "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 kill when I get back."
Turning, I headed to where I had hidden my supplies, knives, and spear. Armed and ready, I walked out onto the path in the swamp to hunt down a lizard-lion.
After walking for about ten minutes, I began to regret 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, however, were my first enemy. They swarmed around me, biting any exposed skin, and the irritation was growing unbearable. I wasn't even concerned about any diseases they might carry; to me, they seemed inconsequential.
The second enemy was the dampness. Twice, I nearly drowned as I lost the path in the darkness, and my pants were already soaked with water and mud. It didn't take long to realize that aimlessly wandering through the swamp was foolish. I climbed a nearby tree to rest and used my eagles to scout for any sign of 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 a sense of peace, no longer bothered by the mosquito bites or the constant buzzing of insects. I flew further and further, my eagle searching for any trace of the lizard-lion. My sight, strengthened by constant warging at night, had even enhanced the eagle's vision in the darkness. But after hours of searching, I found nothing and returned to my body.
The first thing I felt was fatigue and a strange euphoria. Shaking my head, I dispersed the swarm of mosquitoes and dozens of spiders. But as my mind cleared, I realized something far worse: two different snakes were biting into my legs, injecting venom into my veins. The euphoria I had felt was actually a symptom of the poison cocktail now coursing through my bloodstream.
Quickly, I retrieved a knife from my hip and slashed at both snakes, bisecting them. The severed parts fell from the tree, blood spurting from the pieces still embedded in my flesh. I bent down, prying the snake heads away, hissing in pain as I pulled out their fangs, which had sunk deep into my skin, tearing chunks of tissue as they came out.
"Fuck," I muttered through gritted teeth.
I cursed my inability to monitor my own body while warging. I took the ale I had stolen from the store, drank two mouthfuls, and poured the rest over the rotting flesh where the venom was concentrated. To my shock, the torn tissue didn't bleed, and the rot seemed to be spreading faster than it should. Venom shouldn't affect me like this; I had grown immune to most poisons and venoms I'd encountered.
Even then, I felt a wave of fatigue and unconsciousness approaching, which surprised me—two snake bites shouldn't be enough to bring me down. I grabbed a container of oil, tore a piece of my shirt, and wrapped it around my spear. After dousing the cloth in oil, I cut my hand, letting my blood drip onto the spear and flint. One strike of the flint against the knife edge, and the spear ignited.
I held the fire to my legs, trying to cauterize the poisoned wounds, but to my dismay, my fire resistance hindered the process. Then I noticed something black near the snake bites through the torn fabric of my pants. Cursing my luck, I tore off both my boots and pants, revealing at least twenty leeches clinging to my legs, sucking my blood.
Now I understood why I had been so weakened by a mere snake bite.
Using the fire, I burned away the leeches and freed myself. Almost immediately, I felt the fatigue lessen, and the rotting wound ceased to worsen. I sighed in relief, then decided to eat the stupid snake for sustenance.
Climbing down, I found the snake lying near the water. I cut a piece of its flesh and pinned it with my knife over the fire to roast. As I was halfway through my meal, the lizard-lion, attracted by the scent of blood, attacked me. Stupidly, I hadn't even realized it was creeping up on me due to the fatigue.
I didn't see its full size before it leaped at me, biting into my waist and dragging me into the swamp water. The only thing I noted was that it had positioned itself perpendicular to my body, which would allow me to stab it in the face without contorting myself. I tightened my grip on the knife pinning the snake and braced for the impact as we hit the water, where I started to drown.
Pain exploded through me as its teeth sank into my stomach and near my spine. Anger surged within me at this continuous assault by the swamp's creatures. Wrapping my right hand around the knife, I turned sharply and used all my strength to stab the lizard-lion in the eye, aiming for its brain to deliver a quick kill.
The knife pierced its eye, but I couldn't push it deep enough—the snake's body, still pinned on the knife, blocked my efforts. The lizard-lion roared in pain, releasing me, but I wasn't finished. I swam, latching onto its head with my legs, positioning myself on its back. I couldn't let it bite my neck; that would be fatal. Tearing the snake from the knife, I brought it down hard against the lizard-lion's face again and again.
Even with all my strength, the buoyancy of the water worked against me, and the knife failed to pierce through its scales. I cursed myself for behaving like a crazed barbarian, trying to kill it with a knife when I had far greater power at my disposal.
Focusing my mind, I hit the lizard-lion's consciousness with the force of a giant's battering ram, my anger amplifying the blow. Its mind shattered, and I forced it to swim to the surface and then onto land. As soon as we reached the shore, I left its mind and plunged the knife into its other eye, burying it to the hilt, finally killing the beast.
I fell from its back into the mud, panting heavily as my vision blurred. Panic enveloped me as I saw another lizard-lion approaching the dead body of the first one, just before I lost consciousness.
---------
I lay on a bed of leaves, drenched in sweat as if I'd just emerged from a bath. When consciousness returned to me, I found my legs unresponsive below the spine. Propped on my back, I felt the weight of heavy bandages wrapped tightly around my waist, each movement sending waves of pain through me. When I attempted to lift my hands, a stronger grip halted my efforts.
Slowly, I turned my head to see Aethan sitting beside me, barely concealing his amusement. It dawned on me that he had orchestrated my current predicament. Anger surged within me, and I wanted to punch the smug bastard in the nose. 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 were waging a desperate battle against the onslaught of diseases, poisons, and blood loss from my encounter with the lizard-lion and the toxins I had 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 me, 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 the immediate danger lay elsewhere, as no vital organs had been damaged in that area. Fortunately, blood loss was no longer a concern for me, thanks to my unique abilities.
I groaned in pain as I tried 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 the hot soup without spilling it. I drank it down like a lifeline, the warmth 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 tried 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. I tried to move my legs experimentally, 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 bed's headrest. 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 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 with one without worrying about getting eaten by those beasts."
I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times in clear disbelief.
"What were you thinking, Aethan? Are you insane? You should have just asked me why I believed I could bond with a dragon instead of using me as some kind of experiment without telling me. I would have told you that, as a son of the Targaryens, I would inherit the ability to bond with a dragon. Or I could have mentioned that I'd seen it in a vision," I exclaimed, frustration lacing my voice.
"How can you be so sure, Daemon?" Aethan snarled back. "You're not a Targaryen by name, and you're not pure Valyrian. The Targaryens are famous for their incestuous unions to keep their bloodline strong enough to tame dragons. That's the reason behind the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. No one but a true Targaryen has ever ridden a dragon since the Doom. You don't know the secrets of dragon riding. For all we know, you might need to drink dragon's blood or perform some ritual. And don't forget, the greatest dragon alive tried to kill you in a vision. I just wanted to make sure you could survive an encounter with a dragon before you face one for real."
I could see that Aethan was genuinely concerned for my survival, given the limited information he had. It wasn't even my fault that I couldn't tell him about the foreknowledge from watching HOTD show I would bond with a dragon.
I decided to reassure him. "Aethan, you don't need to worry about me. The answer lies in the Targaryen words: Fire and Blood. As long as I have enough magical Valyrian blood, I can bond with a dragon. There's no issue."
Aethan looked uncomfortable, his gaze shifting to my injuries before he grimaced. "Well, at least you won't catch any diseases native to Westeros, nor will you be affected by most poisons in this part of the world. Maybe Sothoryos or the Faceless Men have toxins that could harm you, but that's about it. You had six different poisons coursing through your veins, and almost all eleven of the diseases that plague the swamps and have destroyed Andal armies."
"Six?" I asked incredulously. "I was only bitten by two snakes! Where did the other four come from?"
"You're lucky 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: the frog. The only reason you survived is because of the poisons you've been exposed to since you were four, and the immunity you've developed."
I grimaced at the thought of the number of deadly creatures that had attacked me, feeling a mix of disbelief and relief that I had survived such a harrowing ordeal. I tried to push the pain caused by the poisons out of my mind.
"Why is this sickroom filled with so much waste from my injuries?" I asked, pointing to the bloodstained clothes and gouged-out flesh.
"That was my doing," Aethan replied. "My father ordered it to be burned, but I remembered you mentioning the Red Demon in the fire that consumed your blood. I wasn't sure what would happen if such a large amount of blood and flesh were burned, so I instructed them to keep it away from you, knowing you wouldn't be affected, and that we wouldn't be either."
I nodded, recalling the fire incident. "You were right, Aethan. Even now, burning this much blood would attract attention. Burn the rotten flesh—it's dead from the venom. Wash the clothes as much as possible, then burn them. There's no other option."
Aethan nodded in agreement. "I'll do as you say and send more soup and food for you. I know it's essential for your recovery."
"Send the Lizard-lion meat if you can," I said.
"Are you sure, Daemon? It's meant for a feast in your honor as a Crannogman."
"Yes, I want to savor the kill now. I don't need the entire beast."
"Well, I wouldn't put it past you to eat it all yourself," Aethan remarked.
I grinned at him as he left, already imagining the rigorous training I would put him through once I'd recovered in a couple of 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 from his grandfather's forge and the hum of his mother's sewing needles. Though he bore no blood relation to 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 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 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. Though his grandfather was a blacksmith by trade, he had once been a soldier and saw potential in his grandson. Encouraged by his mother and driven by his own aspirations, Brandon presented himself to Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell, seeking a position as a trainee.
Ser Rodrik, 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. But that was ten years ago, and like almost everyone else, he was once smitten by the bastard daughter of Lord Stark. She had a wild beauty and a charm that made everyone who met her fall in love.
Brandon had dreamed, even though he knew it was impossible, that he could prove his worth and make Lady Snow fall in love with him. But fate favored the highborn, and this time it was The Dragon Prince. When he heard of her death, he cursed the prince and his lineage fervently. He tried to avoid seeing the child when he was little and almost succeeded, but the boy 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. It took Daemon years to charm everyone, but the final blow was a rumor that started a couple of years ago.
Brandon and the men-at-arms laughed at the old crone who first whispered 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 people of Winterfell from almost any sickness. There were even whispers of Valyrian gods blessing the child, with 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 question 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 same effort, yet his growth was legendary. Archery, knife fighting, anything athletic—Daemon and his Crannogman friend were prodigies in it all. 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, but something helped him heal. His anger toward Daemon Snow faded the moment Daemon personally thanked him and rewarded him for saving him.
The reward was a special ale—ale drank by the lords, not the piss available to smallfolk, even guards. It was a worthy reward for a cripple, but whatever it was, he believes it was that which healed him. The optimism Daemon showed at that time, combined with his own healing, made him a believer. Brandon knew Lord Stark could see the same devotion in his eyes as he knelt 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 ask 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."
78 AC
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 within the Godswood. Winterfell was bustling with the lords of the North, their families, and their retainers. The usual training grounds were filled with heirs eager to measure their prowess, and I had no patience to entertain them. Though my uncle's age placed him above their petty squabbles, they might still attempt to needle me, especially given the rumors and my close association with Heir Reed.
After returning from the Neck, Brandon was assigned to me by my grandfather. Initially, I tried to reject the assignment, but upon realizing that Brandon's loyalty was unwavering, I accepted it. It turned out to be a wise decision, particularly since my pride had been shattered in the Neck. Having a supportive companion was invaluable to my recovering confidence. The fact that he was skilled with a sword was a bonus, as my own abilities improved with our daily sparring sessions. He even shared some memories of my mother with me, which felt awkward as I didn't know how to feel about her. My feelings about my father were much clearer—he didn't care about me, and I didn't care about him—a perfect quid pro quo.
My observations, using my eagle to spy on the south, confirmed that Aemon was happily married to Jocelyn and secure in his position as Heir and Master of Laws. He eagerly anticipated the birth of the future Rhaenys. The care he lavished on Jocelyn Baratheon and their unborn child made me ponder what-ifs. Life would have been easier if I were a Targaryen, but I had to deal with the hand I was dealt. I wasn't angry at them for abandoning me, as I had no need for a new family in this life. I was angry at the Targaryens because I lost the easy path to power: The Dragons. I was also furious that I had to sacrifice capable dragons and dragonriders to the stupidity of the canon, making my quest that much harder, just so I could eventually claim a full-grown dragon. Moreover, Balerion would have survived his wounds if I had been in King's Landing, but now the greatest living dragon would 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 hadn't seemed impressive, but up close, there was something about her that was undeniably attractive. My heart began to race, and suddenly I felt nervous speaking to her. I knew she must be one of Lady Mormont's daughters; according to what I knew, the elder was fourteen and the younger thirteen, though they both looked at least seventeen to me.
"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 mere minutes. Maybe it was because of my past life's infatuation with warrior women. I grimaced, knowing that even though I looked like a fourteen-year-old, I was only eleven, shorter than her, and had 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 made 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 before 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 below couldn't see us.
I was slightly nervous, knowing that my 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 had no desire for the throne or to be king.
"Daemon," my grandfather's calm voice 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 dragonriders 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 your 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 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 certain the King will support any plan that doesn't make the Targaryens appear weak, or at least weaker than the current situation. The entire King's Landing knows that the Queen's decision led to this, and the more we complain, the more nobles will hear about it, making the Crown appear foolish. So, I am sure 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 solemnly, understanding that I wouldn't waver from my decision. "It never ceases to amaze me how you connect with your animals from such a distance. But I have given you my warning. Let's hope your conclusions prove right."