I awoke with a gasp, though I had no physical body to draw breath. I was in an endless void. My previous life played back in my mind with perfect clarity—an ordinary existence filled with learning, working, starting a family, and eventually succumbing to old age. My life was unremarkable; I was far from virtuous and lacked the good karma often associated with the reincarnation stories I used to enjoy. I frequently fantasized about wielding personal power, imagining what it would be like to be an apex being in a world of my own.
Suddenly, an ethereal but robotic voice resonated around me, interrupting my thoughts. "You have been randomly chosen for reincarnation." I glanced around and saw a glowing blue panel in the void with the same words written as the voice had spoken.
New text flashed on the panel:
"The offer is this: If you accept the reincarnation, you will be born into an alternate universe of A Song of Ice and Fire. We will infuse the entities of that world with eldritch horror archetype powers, making it a more challenging experience for you.
As compensation for the increased difficulty of the world:
You will be born into one of the most powerful magical bloodlines in that world.You will be non-aging and functionally immortal, but you can be killed like any other mortal.You may have four wishes for power. However, you cannot choose any powers that would break the world. The more powerful your wishes, the more the power level of the world will increase to provide you with a suitable challenge. So, choose your powers wisely."
The opportunity overwhelmed me. The idea of visiting Westeros, one of my favorite TV series worlds, was tempting. The offer of any powers, despite the restrictions, was irresistible. I envisioned becoming overpowered and enjoying life in the new world. Undeterred, I carefully considered my wishes, knowing that personal power was crucial in the tumultuous world of Westeros.
It seemed that I would be reborn as John Snow, a bastard with both 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 would become both physically and magically powerful, preparing the North for the impending Long Night. The Night King, White Walkers, or Others would gain a power boost, turning into eldritch horrors. Defeating them would be impossible if they had 8,000 years of corpses at their disposal.
After contemplating the dire challenges ahead, I presented my wishes to the enigmatic panel:
"1) I want to have the highest potential for mind, body, and soul that the world can allow."
"2) I want a modified version of Doomsday's adaptation and healing powers, removing the resurrection aspect and limiting the adaptation to 1% of Doomsday's, with healing capabilities up to 20% of Wolverine's."
"3) I want the ability to temporarily pass my adaptation and regeneration power to any part of my body, including blood, if it was present in the consumed being's physical structure."
"4) I want the talent for instinctual learning of everything—psychic, martial, social, soul, and magic talents—from the Waifu Catalogue, but with slower development than the original talents."
"Alright," the panel said.
As the words faded, a bright light enveloped me, and consciousness slipped away into the unknown.
Winterfell.
I don't know how much time passed after my encounter with the being. The room was warm, adorned with white and grey walls, and I found myself swaddled in a cozy blanket. I was certain this was the legendary Winterfell. Distant shouts echoed around me, prompting my annoyance, particularly toward a woman whose voice I recognized as Tully's. She seemed to be causing a disturbance, though I knew no one else who might be shouting near me at this point.
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 bore 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. 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. I thought I would be reborn as Jon Snow. I had been overjoyed, thinking I would be my favorite character. Even though the show made a mockery of the story by rushing Seasons 7 and 8, I liked Jon's ending—he was only truly free when he was beyond the Wall, just chilling. I always knew the story wouldn't have a happy ending with Jon and Dany on the throne, but at least Jon got his rest. Now, I didn't even know what year it was or who I was.
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 wish the raven from my father, the King, will arrive shortly and allow me to marry your daughter," the Prince replied, cradling me in his arms. I could feel the affection in his gaze, but I couldn't 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 myself in shock. Lord Stark took me carefully from my father, likely sensing the rage in the prince's eyes.
Lord Stark looked at me, his face marked by sadness for his lost daughter but also acceptance of fate. He bore no anger toward me, and I wished fervently that I would be raised in Winterfell. I was also relieved by the roar, realizing the dragons were still alive at this point.
"My Prince, your rage at your son is misplaced. 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 the overwhelming emotions. I understood that my father was on the verge of breaking.
"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 okay, son. All will be well in time," a melodic female voice said from the entrance of the room.
"Your Grace, I apologize for not welcoming you in the courtyard. I did not hear your dragon's roar," my grandfather said, bowing even while holding me.
"It is of no consequence, Lord Stark," the Queen said, looking at Lord Stark. "I deliberately did not announce my arrival. Your master-at-arms welcomed me when I landed in the courtyard and guided me here. You have my condolences for your lost daughter."
My father could no longer hold back. He snapped, "Mother, why was there no raven for almost a moon? I sent it a month ago. Why was I not allowed to marry my love? Now it is all over. My child's mother is dead, and now it is impossible. What was more important than this? Now I have lost my love to my own child, a child who killed her."
Well, fuck you too, Father, I thought, mentally discarding any plans involving the Targaryens helping me with anything. It seemed that there would 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. "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 could 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 expression. "Apologies accepted, Your Grace. You should not insult the dead, especially in front of a parent who has just lost their child. I knew and told Prince Aemon that Your Graces would never accept a marriage to a bastard daughter."
"Yes, you have always been honest with me, Lord Stark. That is why I allowed Aemon to go north to you. Your loyalty and honesty are your defining features, as is your character," the Queen replied with a resigned expression. "That is why I made you Warden of the North, to guard it from any future threats."
"You honor me, Your Grace," Lord Stark said, bowing.
"As for my son, Aemon, do not disrespect the dead. Lady Lyarra is gone. It is sad, but that is how life is. However, you have a son who lives, my grandson, no matter his birth status. We shall find him a noble Stark mother, who will wed you. My grandson will live as a legitimate Stark prince."
My Prince Father gasped, his mouth open, barely comprehending what his mother was saying. "Mother, are you insane?" he yelled. "Father would never allow that!"
The Queen, however, ignored her son and continued. "Aemon, please be a father to your son, Daemon Snow. As for Lady Lyarra, we shall have the septons pray for her and the memory of your love."
The Queen turned around and nodded to the maester. "You will take care of her remains."
"Of course, Your Grace, her body will be burned in the sept as is the custom for any northmen who died for the crown," the maester said, bowing.
"Lord Stark, as a token of my thanks for your years of service and loyalty, I give you Winterfell for your line to forever rule. As for the matter of the Hand's daughter, your son is hereby legitimized by royal decree and henceforth to be known as Daemon Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North, and a noble of the realm."
The Prince could not believe it. He looked at me, wide-eyed, as if everything that had transpired was surreal. He was about to say something when a loud roar interrupted him. I turned my head to see a dragon, much larger than I expected, roaring at me, as if it had been waiting for me. Its scales shimmered in the warm glow of the fire. Its eyes met mine, and I felt a strange connection. I realized that my life, once ordinary, had just become extraordinary.
-------
Four Years Later
71 AC, Winterfell
It was another typical day in Winterfell, as Benjen Stark stood on the balcony, overseeing the training of the castle guards. His eyes focused on his son, Rickon Stark, sparring with his younger brother, Bennard. Benjen, now in his forties, observed with pride as both young men showcased their skills. Rickon, at 20 years old, and Bennard, at 18, were already formidable in combat.
As Benjen watched the training, his thoughts wandered back to the past four years, a period marked by the tragic loss of his dear daughter, Lyarra. She had died at the tender age of 15 during childbirth. The painful memory of that day lingered in Benjen's mind, especially when he thought of his grandson, Daemon Snow.
Benjen recalled the day Daemon was born, a mere two weeks after Lyarra's death. The baby's first cry had been a profound moment, but something about Daemon had always seemed different. At first, Benjen dismissed these feelings as the result of grief, but as time passed, it became clear that Daemon was unique.
Daemon was an unusually quiet baby, crying only when necessary and stopping almost immediately after. His appearance was striking, with a face that bore a resemblance to his grandfather, the King. However, the most remarkable feature was his hair—half black, half silver-white. This unusual combination was rare, and it unsettled some of the castle's inhabitants. Benjen had seen heterochromatic eyes before, even within his own family, but Daemon's distinct split hair color was something entirely new.
Despite these oddities, Daemon was remarkably healthy. Any illnesses or ailments he experienced vanished quickly. By the time he was two years old, he was walking with a purpose, his movements eerily confident, as if he remembered where he wanted to go rather than simply exploring like a typical child. This ability to remember his way around Winterfell, a vast and labyrinthine castle, was astonishing, even to the adults who sometimes got lost in its halls.
Though Daemon's early walking posed dangers and resulted in frequent falls, he miraculously avoided severe injuries. Benjen began to wonder if the falls were intentional, as if the boy was testing himself. As Daemon continued to defy expectations, it became clear that his mind was just as extraordinary as his physical traits. By the age of four, Daemon could express himself clearly, though his speech was not yet fluent. He could hold meaningful conversations and remember details from weeks before, a skill unheard of in a child so young. The only real trouble Benjen had with Daemon was his newfound obsession with chasing cats and rats around the castle.
As Benjen's thoughts drifted, he noticed his grandson approaching the balcony. Daemon's intense gaze fell on the soldiers training below. There was a small frown on his face as he observed the guards, which disappeared when he turned to watch his uncles sparring.
"Daemon, what are you doing on the balcony?" Benjen asked sternly. "You have a penchant for falling. Do you want to tumble from here now? Go inside."
"Papa, I too fight. I watch the fight to learn," Daemon replied in his broken speech.
Benjen couldn't help but smile when Daemon called him "Papa." It brought back memories of his sweet daughter. Though Benjen had taken on the role of Daemon's father, and Rickon acted as an older brother, Bennard, his youngest son, seemed to harbor resentment towards Daemon. Perhaps Bennard, who had been close to Lyarra, blamed Daemon for her death, just as Daemon's father foolishly did.
"Son, you have time to learn. You're still too small," Benjen said as he lifted the boy off the ground. "Let's get you settled in your room, and remember, don't come to the balcony or any high places alone. You still fall a lot."
Daemon Snow
As I sat in my room, where my grandfather had just settled me, my thoughts turned to my new life. Despite my enhanced physique, it had taken me a considerable amount of time to walk on my own and explore the legendary castle of Winterfell. The ancient walls of weathered grey stone enclosed the fortress, a testament to the Starks' mastery over the harsh North. Though I hadn't ventured beyond the inner walls, the imposing structures loomed all around me. Brandon the Builder must have been quite paranoid to construct a 100-foot wall, encircle it with a moat, and then add another 80-foot wall on top of that.
The cold winds of the North whipped around the towers and walls, underscoring Winterfell's strategic position in the vast, desolate landscape. Despite my initial frustrations with frequent falls and quick fatigue, I eventually realized that my body was healing itself at an extraordinary rate. This realization marked a turning point for me, and I resolved to turn every day into an opportunity for learning and improvement.
I began intentionally practicing falls from various heights to enhance my durability. The spectacle provided much entertainment for the people of Winterfell, who found my relentless efforts amusing. Recently, I've taken to chasing the numerous cats and rats that inhabit the castle, using it as a form of exercise to keep myself from growing bored. After all, if it was good enough for Arya in canon to train her speed, it was good enough for me.
Observing the guards train and spar had become a daily routine, although their skill level was too poor to offer much in the way of instinctive learning. My uncles' sparring sessions, however, were a different story. Rickon was skilled, but Bennard was exceptional—a born warrior who trained from dawn until dusk. I absorbed as much as I could from watching them, even though I had decided to delay exploring warging or magic until I was older, perhaps around 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, but unlike Daenerys, I discovered I wasn't entirely unburnt. I could withstand fire for a short time, but the effect on my skin escalated quickly. I realized I had only a modest fire resistance, similar to the cold resistance I inherited from my Stark lineage. Determined to improve, I made it my goal to enhance both resistances until I could stride through dragonfire and halt the Ice Sword of the White Walkers with my bare hands. The thought thrilled me so much that I impulsively tested my resolve by placing my hands in the fire until they slightly burned. The pain was intense, but it healed overnight. I resolved to gradually increase my fire resistance by exposing myself to the flames daily.
When I wasn't resting or watching the sparring, I followed my grandfather everywhere. I watched him hold court, absorbing both the mannerisms of a king and the behaviors of the smallfolk. It was only a small drop of understanding, but it felt good to use my powers, even if only a little. I even followed my grandfather into his solar one day, but he quickly kicked me out.
My motives for staying close to him weren't born of love or affection; they were purely selfish. My life as a family man who lived for others had ended in my first life. Now, my grandfather was my ticket to greatness and an easy life while I increased my personal power. I wanted to use my adorableness and cuteness to worm my way into his heart. After all, he was the Lord of Winterfell and the de facto King in the North. It was by his grace that I was living this easy life. Since he didn't seem to hate me on principle, I decided to integrate myself into his life. It helped that he doted on me. Of course, I would do my part to keep him alive in this cursed world where anyone could die any day from a missed crossbow bolt or an assassination attempt. Though my Uncle Rickon, the next Lord Stark, liked me and played with me, I knew life would change under his rule. It was as though I was the trueborn third son of Lord Stark, not the bastard son of his bastard daughter. I often wondered how charismatic and lovely my mother must have been to have such an effect on men, even after her death.
Since Lord Stark was so loving towards me, I decided to empower the North during his time as Lord. It also served my own purposes, as the North's power and stability would be essential when the Others, or White Walkers, or whatever they were called in this world, tried to kill everyone later. I needed the North to be strong, not weak and pitiful like in the canon.
In the four years since my birth, neither my father nor his family had made any contact with me. They hadn't even reached out to the Starks to inquire about me. I had expected something from my father, given how much he had loved me the first and only time he held me. However, it seemed that the common Westerosi nobles' tendency to blame the child for the mother's death during childbirth had infected even the vaunted Targaryens, who thought themselves above the laws of gods and men. Stupid, narcissistic, inbred morons. What did they expect when a girl as young as my mother was forced to bear a child before her body was ready? It was no wonder that survival depended on luck, and I had been quite unlucky. My hopes of riding Rhaegal or any dragon I could hatch as Jon Snow had turned out to be impossible. Fate was cruel to me.
As of now, House Targaryen had more dragons than they knew what to do with, and here I was, unlucky enough that I would be killed the moment I tried to claim any of them. I thought about the dragons that were currently kept at Dragonstone and perhaps even a few in the Red Keep. With my current Targaryen blood and heritage, I could potentially hatch a dragon for myself, but even that was fraught with risk. Since my father and his relatives refused to acknowledge me, I would continue to use the Stark name for the time being. Even if they didn't treat me as a Stark, I would never kneel to the Targaryens. They were my enemies now, and any encounter with them would end in death.
I contemplated the dragons that remained unclaimed—Dreamfyre, Meleys, The Cannibal, and the greatest of them all, Balerion the Black Dread. It was only 71 AC, and Balerion wouldn't meet his end until 94 AC. If I had twenty years to bond with him through blood and magic, perhaps he wouldn't succumb to old age or the injuries he sustained during that ill-fated journey to Valyria with Aerea. But the possibility of claiming Balerion was beyond my reach now, and the easiest path to power had slipped away.
Rumors swirled among the castle staff, guards, and visiting lords—whispers that were surprisingly easy to overhear. Most people dismissed me, viewing me as a naive child incapable of comprehending the weight of their words. The only person who seemed to measure his words around me was my grandfather.
Through careful observation, I confirmed that nearly everything aligned with the known timeline, except for the Starks. In the conventional timeline, Lord Benjen was supposed to be the grandfather of Cregan Stark, who would be born sometime after 110 AC. Yet, in this altered reality, Benjen already held the title of Lord Stark, and Cregan was expected to be born soon, as my uncle Rickon was set to marry in the next five moons.
Despite my initial disdain for the Dornish, who seemed untouchable in the canon, and my frustration with Doran Martell's endless scheming without action, I began to appreciate the value in waiting for the right moment. Doran's strategy of biding his time to strike at his enemies when they least expected it, or simply waiting for them to perish naturally, resonated with my own approach to acquiring a dragon. Though it might seem frustratingly slow, a deliberate and patient strategy could yield greater results when the time was ripe.
I decided to wait for the experienced dragon riders to meet their fates under suspicious circumstances, just as they did in the canon. This would give me the time to prepare, to train, and to solidify my position without relying on dragons—at least until the potential demise of my uncle Baelon in 101 AC, assuming the timeline remained unchanged by my presence. This strategy was not cowardice; it was a tactical decision. I intended to become the Unburnt before ever facing a dragon, be it friendly or wild.
Yesterday, my explorations finally led me to the Kitchens. My goal was to investigate without drawing attention, so I discreetly entered the vast space where dozens of servants were engrossed in their tasks. No one paid attention to a seemingly inconspicuous figure like me, and slipping through the half-open door was easy. Inside, I focused on acquiring a knife and locating the stores of water and ale. I believed that Winterfell's inhabitants could benefit from a little health boost. After some skillful maneuvering, I managed to secure a small kitchen knife and quietly retreated to my room. It amazed me how absorbed the castle servants were in their duties, so much so that they ignored their surroundings unless disturbed. It seemed that no one wanted to lose their place at Winterfell for any reason, and everyone did their best to perform their tasks flawlessly.
Now, it was night, and the time had come to test my enhanced healing. I quickly locked the room by climbing a chair and retrieved the stolen knife. My hands trembled as I picked it up. I'm not fond of self-harm, and the pain would be excruciating, but my survival depended on this. Standing in front of the fireplace, to avoid bloodstains where servants might find them, I carefully held the knife in my dominant right hand and attempted to make a small slash on my left palm. My first attempt was barely a touch, and nothing happened. After several moments of cursing every god I knew, I gathered the courage to slash more decisively.
"Fuck!" I whispered, as pain erupted in my left palm. The knife was sharper than I had expected, or perhaps my strength exceeded my estimation, resulting in a larger gash than intended. Blood began to pool in my small palm, and I quickly used a piece of cloth to wipe it away. Holding my hand above the small fire in the fireplace, I carefully examined the wound. It would likely heal overnight, and I threw the cloth into the fire to destroy the evidence.
"Boom!"
The instant the cloth touched the flames, 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 a single heartbeat. Then, as quickly as it had erupted, the fire receded back into the fireplace, burning now 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 overlooking the entity that Melisandre worshipped.
The fire burned with a bright orange color and an unnatural heat. My upper body had turned slightly red, and my shirt was entirely consumed. But the real problem lay with my hands—they were more severely burned than ever before in my practice, and I knew they wouldn't heal overnight. Initially, adrenaline had dulled the pain, but now panic set in as I observed the orange flames growing, consuming the cloth.
The fire slowly transformed, taking on a blood-red hue with a sinister edge. I quickly realized that some magical force had been triggered by my careless act of adding blood to the fire. I tried to guide the magic to see the future, like the red priests, but the time for directing it had passed. The magic was wild now, controlled by whatever entity resided on the other side. Fear gripped me as I realized that this was not the benevolent Red God of legend who allowed his priests to resurrect people for amusement. Deep in my bones, I understood that R'hllor was not on my side against the Others in the North. Everything I knew about the Red God, his priests, and the religion had to be discarded as false in this new world.
By then, I had positioned myself in the middle of the room, seeking refuge from the encroaching heat. Prioritizing self-preservation over the fear of being discovered as a pyromaniac, I quickly decided to unlock the door and escape. Rushing to the door, I fumbled with the lock, tumbled from the chair, and pushed 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 something hard, like stone, knocking my head backward.
My head rang like a bell as I hit the stone floor, and since I'm so lucky, the back of my head struck the floor too. Pain unlike anything I had ever felt enveloped my entire upper body and head. I looked up to see who had been outside my door and responsible for my new agony. As my vision cleared, I glimpsed cold, grey eyes—Lord Stark's eyes—fixed on me. In my dazed state, I watched my grandfather step over my prone body and enter the room, his Valyrian steel sword, Ice, in hand. The last thing I recall before sweet unconsciousness 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."
Then, I heard the sound of Valyrian steel striking stone, and the heat in the room plummeted to a bone-chilling coldness, reminiscent of the Others.
Daemon Snow
I woke with a small gasp, feeling a strange mix of clarity and pain coursing through my body. As my senses returned, I became aware of my surroundings. The door to the dimly lit room opened, and my grandfather entered. The space resembled a dungeon, devoid of windows and ventilation, illuminated solely by flickering torchlight. Countless books and maps adorned the walls, and shelves overflowed with crowns and various knickknacks. It dawned on me that I was in a Stark family vault or something akin to it. This place seemed to harbor ancient histories and forgotten magics.
A wave of fear washed over me as I realized I was alone with my grandfather and no one else was around. Yet, deep down, I knew that my grandfather would not harm me; he loved my charming self too much. I decided to play the adorable, innocent child. "Papa, where are we? What happened? Why are we here?" I asked, trying to sound as endearing as possible.
Lord Stark regarded me sternly. His expression was hard, cold, and unreadable, even to me. Fear gripped me, evident on my face. My grandfather sighed, and the sternness melted away.
"Don't play the fool with me, Daemon," he said. "I do not wish to hear the phony speech you reserve for servants and the maester. Do you understand?"
I paled further but nodded, realizing I had no other choice. He scrutinized me, seemingly gauging how much I would reveal, but seeing the panic in my eyes, he attempted to be calm again.
"This is the Stark Vault, hidden in my Solar. This place belongs solely to those of Stark blood. In the 8,000 years of the North's history, not even a spouse of the Starks has entered here. This is where knowledge and important records are stored—secrets and lore that the ancient Kings of Winter discovered, conquered, and traded. The library outside is merely a distraction for the common folk and other interested parties. You will be among the youngest to know of this vault. You fainted from the pain and hitting your head; this is the following night. I brought you here because no one knows of your extensive burns, which were healing at a speed I have never encountered before. I thought you would appreciate secrecy, given that you've been hiding many things. I don't want the realm to know of your powers, so I brought you here, ordered that I would spend a day with you, and dismissed everyone else."
I looked at my grandfather, cursing myself for how to explain this. 'Is this the end of my easy life?'
"Secrets? Powers?" I asked, confusion evident in my tone.
At this, Lord Stark's mood soured; his face turned cold. "Do not play the fool with me, Daemon. Whatever intelligence and growth you possess, no ordinary four-year-old behaves as you do. 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 stem from the future or the dreams you've had. Perhaps you also possess Greensight, a potent gift in our bloodline."
I sighed, realizing that any further lies would only lead to disbelief. I decided to embrace the idea my grandfather proposed. "Aye, I am a dreamer. My healing stems from my powerful ancestry. I might have been blessed by both the Old Gods and the 14 Valyrian Gods. But how did you know? What happened yesterday, and how were you aware enough to come to my rescue?"
"The Starks have existed for 8,000 years and amassed a wealth of knowledge. Do you truly believe we have had no contact with the Valyrians? We did not acquire Ice, the largest Valyrian sword, by paying for it, but by providing a service. A Dragonlord visited us, seeking a solution for his young daughter's uncontrollable dragon dreams, having heard ancient tales of Greensight and warging, mental magic, and came to us for help. In return, he forged Ice for us in a special manner. That power was used yesterday to banish the red demon. Ice is not a pure Valyrian steel sword; it is a unique blend of the Other's Ice sword and Valyrian steel, bound together by our blood, both Valyrian and Stark. Only a Stark with magic in their blood can wield Ice to its full potential, and yesterday I used the cold infusion to eliminate the Red Demon's presence from the fire."
Stupefied, I stared at my grandfather in shock. He laughed at my expression.
"Well, what? Did you think you knew everything by dreaming, Daemon? No, the truth is that you know nothing, Daemon."
I was lost for words. I never expected to be subjected to the infamous "You know nothing, Jon Snow" line. I decided to press for answers: How did my grandfather know? I wondered if there was a hidden detection system for outside magical interference known only to Lord Stark.
"I knew because the Old Gods warned me. I was meditating in the Godswood when my instincts alerted me to find you. I rushed to check on you and saw you taking a knife to your palm, and then your reckless behavior followed."
I glanced at my grandfather and finally understood. "You are a warg," I said.
"Yes, I am," my grandfather replied. "It has been exhausting since you started chasing my cats and rats away from their intended places."
"I apologize, Grandfather. I don't know what else to say." My mind raced, processing everything. 'The Starks of this generation are not far removed from the Kings of Winter, only by 3 generation; they still possess knowledge and magic. They are not lost to time as in the canon. I need to learn whatever my grandfather can teach me; this is a golden opportunity.'
"How did you know how to deal with the fire and R'hllor within it? I thought he was a God of Essos."
My grandfather sighed and began to explain. My world turned upside down with the information he shared, nothing like the canon I had assumed, and it cemented the danger of this world in my mind.
"There are records in this vault, and history passed down word for word from father to sons. Just as the cold ones came to kill all life in the Seven Kingdoms, the Red God is a fire demon. According to the records, the Long Night was not confined to Westeros; even ancient Valyria experienced snow for the first time. There is a land connecting Essos and Westeros beyond the Lands of Always Winter, a place absent from any conventional map. This land is unknown to any man, as the land and seas are so cold and infested with ice monsters that nothing warm can survive. After nearly defeating the First Men, the cold ones spread in that direction, causing the surviving population to flee to different islands: Dragonstone, Skagos, Iron Islands, Three Sisters, Arbor, and the Stepstones.
It is said that the darkness spread by the cold ones awakened a monster known as the Lion of Night. Its origin is unknown even to us, but it controlled shadows and monsters, attacking Yi Ti. The Five Forts were constructed after the Long Night to defend against them, just like the Wall does for us. The more monsters and corpses the army had, the stronger the Others and the Lion of Night became, causing darkness and coldness to spread. The Grey Waste was once a fertile land, populated beyond belief, but it succumbed during the Long Night. The numbers were staggering, and darkness enveloped the world."
I gazed at my grandfather, disbelief etched on my face. I pondered the profound devastation wrought by the original Long Night—a calamity so enduring that even 8,000 years later, its scars remained unhealed. For the first time since my rebirth, the unsettling thought crept in: I might meet my end in next long night, despite the newfound powers at my disposal. It was unfathomable to consider the extent of empowerment bestowed upon the Others or the Lion of Night by the 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 visited Yi Ti atop his dragon, seeking to uncover the cause of the spreading darkness. His quest unveiled a new threat looming on the horizon. Known by name in every civilization east of Valyria, Azor was a master of dragon dreams and pyromancy, utilizing 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, revealing the chilling truth of the first Other's creation by the Children. This involved inserting dragonglass and the Black Stone of the Bloodstone Emperor into the heart of Brandon the Builder's grandfather, a Greenseer. The Lion of Night, the embodiment of the Bloodstone Emperor, had been corrupted by the enigmatic Black Stone, believed to have fallen from the sky. Despite the formidable defenses of the ancient mages of Yi Ti, their strength waned against the overwhelming numbers within the empire. Each monstrous entity was intricately linked to its leaders, granting them formidable powers.
Azor Ahai learned this harsh lesson firsthand when he and his colossal dragon attacked the leaders 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 of the Forest, 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 a testament to his unparalleled genius. As the leaders of the Pact—the Builder's father, the Children, and Azor—debated strategies for attack and the harnessing of magical might, it was the Builder who proposed a cunning plan. He suggested that a direct assault, both magical and physical, would be tantamount to suicide. Instead, he recommended a mental assault to fracture the alliance between the Great Other and the Lion of Night.
The Builder, recognized 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 defenses of the monsters without alerting them was immense and only succeeded because of the blessings of the Old Gods. By granting this power, the Old Gods almost faded, and every weirwood planted by the Great Other was consumed, along with the Builder's father, who was channeling the power. A Child of the Forest sacrificed itself to empower Azor's attack, and he lost his immense Dragon Dreams and dragonglass viewing power after the assault."
I gaped at the lengths my ancestors had gone to fight the monsters. I was not looking forward to the fight and sacrifices I may be forced to make to combat 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 to the point of near death. He fled to what is now Asshai, the Shadowlands, and 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 harbored 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 through on 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. Upon the defeat of the Great Other, the expected betrayal from the 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 shrank 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 were 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 the vows of the Night's Watch. As long as a Stark resides here, the Wall will retain its power."
I looked at my grandfather in pure disbelief. This was nothing like the brief history mentioned in the show or books. "Fuck my luck that I was sent to this dangerous, death-ridden 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, Daemon?" he chuckled. "No, if the Great Other were 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 in sheer surprise. "I thought the Starks were beloved and honorable people. How else do we have such loyal bannermen except for the Boltons? What happened?"
My grandfather scoffed at my question and retorted, "Honorable? Don't be a fool, Daemon. The ancient Kings of Winter were as cruel and unyielding as winter itself. We are honorable 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 to the Throne of Winter and became the Winter King .
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 thirteen-year-long winter season, during which the Stark brother and the woman 'ruled' on Wall as the Night's King and the Corpse Queen, birthing thirteen 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 reached Nightsfort at the end of the thirteen-year-long winter, the Queen and the Night's King went beyond the Wall, and the Queen performed the same ritual to change the King into an actual Other. She 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 time was limited, the Corpse Queen decided to comply with the Winter King's demand.
When the Corpse Queen reached the castle, the Winter King beheld her ethereal beauty. Memories of his youthful infatuation and lust resurfaced, made a political move to declare the woman as his brother's wife and to assert his law of lord's right of First Night after marriage, even over his brother, who had relinquished his noble status by swearing the Night's Watch oath. During the barely legal act, she fought against the Winter King, revealing herself as an Other during the struggle, sparking a deadly confrontation.
Realizing that the cold woman was the Corpse Queen sought by the Starks, the King tried to kill her as his duty. In the ensuing fight, the Queen escaped but lost her fourteenth child; the King's sword had pierced her stomach, and his brother's child was murdered. But the Corpse Queen survived long enough to reach Nightsfort and inform the Night's King. The Winter King's was enraged beyond belief by his brother's actions 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 Night's King's name from records as a Stark and declared war on him as an Other Lover and traitor. The Night's King's hatred toward his brother reached unknown heights when he heard that his brother had erased his Stark name from records and history. He declared that he would kill every person who called the Starks their king, destroy everything any Stark ever built, and kill every person who had ever heard the name Stark, accelerating his preparations for an attack on the North."
I gasped and looked at my grandfather with an open mouth. I spluttered, "That... that... that is insane. You must kill every living being to achieve that. I mean, almost anyone who trades 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 the population was so low that he could achieve it in a few years. Now, after eight thousand years, you are correct. Also, do you see, Daemon? The King followed his words and interpreted them as he deemed fit. Only our own records show that the King was in the wrong. For the world, he was honorable. Anyway, let's continue the history lesson. The army of the King of Winter met with the Night's King's little corpse army, and the First Men beyond the Wall also attacked at the same time. The Night's King and the King of Winter met sword to sword above the Wall, with the Wall as the witness. The King of Winter, the elder twin brother, was always the best swordsman, and with Sword Ice, he was unbeatable. The Night's King was almost defeated when the King of Winter saw some dark magical essence enter the Night's King, and Ice armor formed around the Night's King.
The King of Winter engaged in battle again but soon realized that defeating his brother was impossible with the new armor, as the sword's magic was not working against him. So, the Winter King took his brother's black-blue blood and mixed it with his own blood to enact the ritual of banishment from the Night's Watch. As Lord Commander, he could bring the Other to this side of the Wall and pass through its magical protection. During this ritual, the 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 armor of his uncle, proving himself worthy to wield 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 toward his twin the Winter King. His outer armor and skin turned to red ash as he reached the King in an instant, piercing the King's chest with his hand through the steel armor 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 King's corpse. The heir was stupefied for minutes but recovered quickly. Despite his 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 his father 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 thirteen children certainly did. The ancient kings believed that the 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 the Stark name."
I was speechless after hearing the ancient history. My thoughts raced, and they were not good. I was exasperated that the current threat beyond the Wall is now because of two brothers' rivalry and jealousy over a woman. The Starks being foolish enough to allow two threats to grow beyond their borders without any intervention? And whatever the hell the Lion of Night is now. I was quite sure that the Night's King is boosted by eldritch power, and I dreaded my future.
The moment I thought that, a cold dread enveloped me.
Facing my grandfather, who was observing my reactions to his lesson and smiling at my flabbergasted and fearful expressions.
"Don't worry, my dear Daemon," Grandfather reassured me with a gentle smile. "They both have not attacked for eight thousand years, and they will not attack for the next eight thousand 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 unsure 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 remains 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 the Gods?"
I looked at my hands and saw the truth; they were healing faster, and I decided that bullshitting was my only option to save myself from a world of trouble. I nodded slowly, preparing myself for 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.
------------
Daemon Snow
72 AC
It had been a week since my clandestine meeting in the Stark vault, yet the promised audience with Lord Stark remained elusive. My burns, though nearly healed, were slow to mend due to their magical nature. The day after I sustained them, I was moved back to my quarters, and my grandfather spread word that I had contracted a contagious illness, forbidding anyone from visiting me except himself.
Wearing anything over my upper body was still painful, given the state of my wounds, and I had been subsisting on standard meals throughout the week. The only person allowed to see me, aside from my grandfather, was my uncle Rickon. He seemed troubled during his visit, and I later learned that my grandfather had informed him of recent events. Initially, I was angered by this, but upon reflection, I realized the wisdom in preparing Rickon, as the future Lord Stark, for what lay ahead.
Despite a week of contemplation, I had yet to formulate a concrete plan. The unpredictability of my grandfather's reactions and possible shifts in circumstances left me hesitant. However, I resolved to share my power—my advanced healing and biological abilities—with him. Keeping my grandfather alive for as long as possible was crucial to ensuring my own security.
The Meeting
When I entered the Stark vault, I found my grandfather deeply engrossed in ancient scrolls. He glanced up as I entered, motioning to an empty chair. I took a seat respectfully.
"Thank you, Papa," I said, attempting to be charming.
He offered a small smile before speaking, "Daemon, it's been a week, and you've recovered remarkably well from burns that would have taken far longer for anyone else to heal. In all my research into ancient history, I've found no mention of such extraordinary powers. You spoke of living long enough to see the Long Night. Now, I want the truth. Last week, I indulged your curiosity and shared secrets known only to a select few. Now it's your turn."
I nodded, acknowledging his words. "I am grateful for your guidance, Papa. It humbled me and made me realize how much I have yet to learn. The source of my power comes from a dream I had while I was injured. I believe I was blessed by both the Old Gods and the gods of Valyria to survive and aid humanity during the Second Long Night, which I foresee arriving in about 225 years. My enhanced healing allows me to survive almost any injury given time, and I can share this power through my blood. Anyone who consumes it will heal their injuries and gradually improve. The effects - the healed wounds and small amount of body improvement is permanent , though the healing only lasts as long as the power remains in their body. This revelation came to me in that dream."
My grandfather seemed intrigued. "I see. You believe this power was given to you to prepare for the coming Long Night and the threats that will arise. It sounds almost as unbelievable as the prophecy itself."
As I watched him, I could see he was deep in thought, contemplating the implications of my words. Interrupting his silence, I asked, "Why do you find it unbelievable, Grandfather? You know of the survival of our ancient enemies of ice and fire. Why should the return of the Long Night be so improbable to you, of all people?"
Looking at him earnestly, I continued, "Grandfather, I want to train. My mind is extraordinary, and I am determined to strengthen the North. I want to share my blood with you to ensure your health and longevity. You must remain strong and alive for at least another 50 years. My blood could help you achieve that, barring any major injuries or deadly diseases."
"Fifty more years?" my grandfather replied with a wistful smile. "I am already 41, and few in the North live to such an age. Winter will come for the old, and the young must endure. I made peace with my mortality long ago. However, for your sake, and for the North, I will strive to stay alive as long as I can."
"The Long Night seems improbable to me because, for the last 8,000 years, they have been there, and we have been 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 such a catastrophic event could occur again in 225 years."
"Papa, I don't know what will change in the years ahead. I only have fragmented visions of the intervening years. I'm sorry," I said earnestly. "I will do my best to strengthen the North as much as possible."
"It's not your fault, Daemon. The Old Gods are the ones showing you these fragmented visions; they are to blame," my grandfather replied with a loving smile. For the first time in this life, I felt a pang of guilt for using such a kind man, but I quickly pushed it aside.
I nodded in acceptance, but a question suddenly struck me—one I hadn't thought to ask last week. I stared at the fireplace with a nervous frown, feeling as though it were watching 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, whether it be 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. Anyone 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 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 Realm, and therefore my targets. However, I had no idea how to defeat a bodiless Fire Demon sustained by sacrificial energy and the faith of millions. 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 accomplishing the mission of ridding the Realm of its Great Enemy. 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 sleepless nights," I said gratefully. "I want to start preparing for the coming conflicts. I am confident that if I share my power with you, you will live another 50 years. Likewise, I wish to bless the castle's 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 suffer 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 intently, clearly intrigued by my plans to secretly strengthen our people, 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 by the day. The smallfolk living there are leaving in droves, and our grain stores are suffering. 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 8,000 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. Foolish woman."
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 on 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 fates of Saera, Viserra, and Gael were examples of 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 that may put it back in 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."
"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 King 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. They need to be respected, or at least seen as more than just rulers because of their 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 King's ruling of sending prisoners to the Night's Watch, compounded by the Good Queen's arrogant misuse of Crown power against the advice of the then Lord Paramount of the North."
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 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 six years, Da. I want to be at least ten 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 move against House Stark for this maneuver, 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 would 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 Manderleys and the 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 4,000 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.
"1,000 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 for myself.
Finally, I spoke, "My feelings toward the Targaryens are irrelevant, grandfather. I believe informing them, at least until after I acquire my own dragon, will do more harm than good. They may not be reliable allies. The Targaryens have been complacent for a century, their overconfidence potentially fatal to us all. There's a reason why my grandmother, despite her prophetic dragon dreams, never mentioned the Long Night. The Dragonlords believe they have conquered everything. In their arrogance, they dismiss the warnings of the First Men. Even if we can persuade them to act, they will likely be caught off guard and unprepared for the devastation to come. Moreover, I believe it's time for the North to rise once more as a power to rival any in Westeros."
My grandfather raised an eyebrow at my statement, but I could see his expression softening as he began to understand my reasoning.
"Perhaps you're right, Daemon. The North has always been a power unto itself. We've never truly needed the South, and we've survived through the worst of times. It may be better to rely on our own strength rather than the whims of the dragons," he conceded.
"Exactly, grandfather. We will build the North into an unbreakable force. When the Long Night comes, we will be the ones to stand against it. But for now, we must prepare, and that includes making the North stronger than ever before," I declared, filled with determination to ensure our survival and success.
My grandfather nodded in agreement. "Very well, Daemon. We will follow your lead, but be careful. The future is uncertain, and we must be prepared for anything."
With that, our conversation came to an end, and I knew that our plans were set in motion. The North would rise, and we would be ready for the darkness that lay ahead.
5 Moons Later
The time had come for my uncle's marriage to Lady Gilliane Glover. She was a beauty in the Northern way, soon to be my new aunt. Initially indifferent towards me, she warmed up after spending two weeks in my presence—perhaps influenced by how the Lord of Winterfell and his heir treated me as a full member of House Stark. The only exception was my second uncle, Bennard. He was a prickly man, devoid of any magical talent. According to my grandfather, Uncle Rickon was skilled in both warging and wielding the magical power of Ice, while Uncle Bennard excelled as a swordsman. I suspected he envied his brother, unable to wield Ice despite his prowess.
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. However, 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 had taken from the armory. 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 makes me want to vomit.
Following the Red Demon incident, my grandfather confiscated my stolen knife and warned me 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 major areas like the brain or heart. I decided to protect these vital areas with armor 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 discovered an excellent method of training to increase my resilience in multiple ways. The hot springs of Winterfell became my secret weapon. The day my uncle took me to them to teach me swimming was the day I cursed my own shortsightedness. The hot spring situated in the Godswood was the best thing that ever happened to me. Although it is called a hot spring, it is almost a lake and flows into 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 is accessible only to 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 moves away. When I inquired about the depth of the lake, my grandfather informed me that no one knows the depth, as it gets hotter the deeper it goes, and there are tales of Starks being burned due to the heat. In just one week, I relearned to swim. My previous knowledge and my learning talent, combined with my uncle's or grandfather's teachings, 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, signaling 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 front of 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 at first glance looked like an overgrown 16-year-old. There was someone shorter near him, almost my height, which was surprising, as Aethan Reed was supposed to be seven years old. I really hoped his magical talent was 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 to their quarters, discussing my life here and nothing more. As I left them, I wondered when I could learn from them.
Five days had passed 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 liked to think some of the respect was for me too.
"Lord Stark, it has been a surprise to receive your order to escort my son here for training someone in greensight. He is only seven and discovering his abilities through meditation after unlocking them. The only help I could give is to explain 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 prompting from our side.
"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 determined, and I noticed that Aethan Reed, during our recent knife practice together, looked like a child in search of a friend. I decided I would be that 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 honored that you have selected my son to be taken as a ward. I agree to your request, but I ask that after five years, he be allowed to travel to the Neck and stay there for six 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 wish."
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 I informed my grandfather, he advised me to leave the maester alone and assured me that he was being watched carefully.
I wanted to accept myself, but I would 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 six.