Meeting in Great hall
Even though the Great Hall was half the size of Winterfell's, it could easily pack in hundreds of soldiers. At least 200 Stark men and some of Mormont and Karstark men were present, which irritated the Umber Guardsmen as they struggled to control the other soldiers.
I entered the Great Hall of the Umbers with Aethan Reed amidst shouting between lords and Lady Mormont. I noticed Lyra standing on the sidelines, observing the chaos. The place near the Lords near the horizontal great table was filled with soldiers of rank, and others stood in silent vigil on the side of the room and near my grandfather's body, paying their respects to my grandfather.
His body had been cleaned and prepared with oils so it could reach Winterfell without decomposing. My eyes watered at the sight of him lying on a wooden structure used to move his body from the cart that carried him. Crushing my sadness, I approached the corpse.
The soldiers seemed to grow more cheerful as I walked forward, although some pointed at my head—my hair was still red, despite bathing twice since I woke. The blood had been washed away, but the redness remained. I reached my grandfather's body and bowed, kissing his forehead. I stood straight, gripping Ice, which had rested on his chest. For some reason, the scene of grandfather lying with the sword held in his chest, reminded me of Sean Bean's river funeral in Lord of the Rings.
Everyone in the hall was surprised, their attention drawn by the movement of Ice in the midst of their arguments. I saw Karstark's eyes narrow with anger as he noticed I had taken the sword, but, fortunately for him, he said nothing at that moment.
"Daemon Snow, it gladdens my heart that you've regained consciousness and suffered no injuries," Lady Mormont said. "It was as if you were possessed by the old gods themselves with the skill and speed you showed that day."
Before I could respond, a snide voice cut in—Lord Karstark. "Yes, it was the gods' grace that you were unharmed by your foolish actions that night."
The soldiers started grumbling in anger, but Lord Umber's voice boomed before I could say anything.
"Are you mad, Karstark? It was his actions that saved our skins and broke the spirit of our enemies. He was a whirlwind of death that day—the greatest Killer I've ever seen. Cheers for the hero of the Battle of Nightfort! The Stark, the Red Death!"
The soldiers cheered at my new nickname, "The Red Death." I guessed it was because of the red mist and my hair. I sighed inwardly at the new nickname, atleast it was not bad like the whoresbane.
"Lords, my lady," I said, turning to face them, "what are you arguing about? Why haven't our men begun hunting down the scattered enemy?"
"We don't have the numbers to hunt down the entire Gift," Lord Karstark replied. "The Night's Watch is 10,000 strong. How can we trust them when so many of their own men just betrayed us? Lord Umber wants to hunt the wildlings now, but I believe we should return Lord Stark's body to Winterfell and let Regent Stark call the banners. A raven has already been sent informing the North of Lord Stark's passing, and the North will want to pay respects to one of Winterfell's greatest Lord Stark."
I frowned at the lords, my own thoughts getting darker and darker. I knew a funeral must be held, but it was clear they wanted to save their own men and money rather than start the hunt for the wildlings. I am already sure their men are patrolling the roads under their control and carefully guarding the borders with the Gift. I had no such limits.
"My lords, my lady," I began, my voice hard with rage, "I agree my grandfather was one of the greatest, and the entire North will mourn his loss. But we will lose precious time if we allow the traitors to regroup. They are scattered, and their leader—the noseless bastard—is with us. I've extracted information from him, and he confessed their leader has a entire castle under their control and men. This man has succeeded in his plan—he killed Lord Stark and his heir, leaving a four-year-old as the next in line. Now, he aims to consolidate his control over the wildlings beyond the Wall. We don't have time to wait for these traitors to escape or betray the Night's Watch again."
"Snow, I want to hunt the vermin as much as you do," Lord Umber said, "but I can't call the banners and go to war without the Regent's order. We are sworn to follow the Starks of Winterfell, and the current Regent is Bennard Stark. You must return with us, and then we can follow you with the banners for war. I don't have the men or resources to protect my own lands while hunting wildlings. My duty is to my people first. I will avenge Lord Stark, but without the full might of Winterfell, this is folly."
I grimaced, knowing there was truth in Lord Umber's words, but I could also see his hesitation—he feared losing his life, his influence, and that the new Regent's Father-in-law, Lord Karstark, was fully behind returning Lord Stark's body to Winterfell.
I looked around, seeing Stark men angry and even the commanders of Umber and Karstark disappointed. The lords expected me to follow their orders and even before waiting to see what I would they were shouting against each other again. I knew that if I stayed silent today I will then have to shed enough northern blood or wait Cregan to be the Lord Stark to ever have a voice in the North again and I was not willing for either choice. Only my performance on the battlefield earned me the right to speak today and I was ready to make it as solid as the Ice.
"My uncle may be the Lord Regent," I started, and the Lords stopped immediately and they looked very much surprised that I said something after they dismissed me, but the stark men who knew me from my birth were looking at me expectedly, "but Lord Stark is Cregan, a six-year-old boy who I consider my own little brother—a boy who lost his father and grandfather to traitors and wildlings. I was raised by two of the greatest men I've ever known—my uncle Rickon and my grandfather, who I consider a father. I will not return to Winterfell until I eradicate every single one who conspired against us. I will only return with the head of the King Beyond the Wall, so that Cregan can sleep peacefully, knowing his father's murderers no longer draw breath. This is my gift to him, and my vengeance. Soldiers, are you with me?"
"Aye!" they roared. "Vengeance for Lord Stark! Vengeance! Vengeance! The Red Death for Traitors!"
"Daemon, cousin, I understand your fury," Lord Karstark began and started walking towards me, "but this is near treason against the Regent. We cannot make such decisions on our own. I must stop you from this foolishness and from taking Ice with you. It must be returned to Winterfell to the Regent, who will decide its fate." He emphasized his point by placing his hand on the sword's hilt.
"Ah!" Lord Karstark yelled and withdrew his hands as the skin where he touched the hilt burned.
"What the fuck?" Umber yelled, "this has not happened with Ice before. What is this magic."
"What have you done to Ice, boy?" Karstark shouted. "You've despoiled Ice, our ancestral sword, with your sorcery!"
"Enough!" I shouted. "Lord Karstark, your greed for the sword overwhelmed you. I've done nothing to Ice—it finds your blood unworthy of the Stark line. You are not of Stark blood. The sword is now blood-bound to me as its wielder, at least until its need for vengeance is quenched, or Cregan himself takes it from my hand. I'll tell you which will happen first. You will be my messenger. Inform Lord Cregan Stark that I will return with the killers' heads and surrender Ice to him then. The Stark line has been reduced to five members—Lord Cregan, Uncle Bennard, and his two sons. It's time for Bennard to add more to the line with your daughter. I will risk my life to ensure the Starks survive this crisis, and if you try to stop me or the Stark army, I will consider you a co-conspirator to usurp Cregan, to make your grandson the Lord Stark and kill you on the spot."
Lord Karstark, enraged, yelled, "How dare you? I am loyal to the North, boy. You question my honor? My fealty to the Stark?"
"I don't question it—the magic that binds Ice to House Stark questions it. And it wouldn't be the first time House Stark had to purge prideful cadet lines that thought themselves better than their parent house."
"Enough!" Lord Umber bellowed. "You're all under my roof, and this is no time for accusations when our lord lies dead here. Daemon Snow, I know how much Lord Stark's death has affected you—we all saw it." A chill passed through the hall as everyone recalled the slaughter I had wrought. Even now, my silver-red hair drew glances from everyone in the room. "I want to remind you that Lord Karstark is not a traitor, however, the sword has judged. You may do as you wish, but remember, the lives of the soldiers who follow you are your responsibility. Beyond the Wall is no place for the unprepared."
"Aye, Lord Umber," I said. "I will be careful, and thank you for understanding. Lord Karstark, I apologize for my outburst—my emotions are running high."
Karstark nodded stiffly. "I also apologize for interfering in House Stark's internal matters. Your use of Ice is to be judged by House Stark alone. But I still maintain it should be returned to Winterfell, to its rightful lord, Cregan Stark. However, as no one here can touch it, and you will not be traveling to Winterfell now, that seems impossible."
I nodded, accepting the apologies, and turned to leave.
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Daemon, what is the plan? Aethan's voice pulled me from my thoughts. We were in the tent that Lord Stark's men had prepared for me, the canvas heavy with the scent of wet earth and iron. I was seated, slowly cleaning Ice—a way to steady my mind, to understand the strange bond that now pulsed between the blade and me. My father had taught me much about the magic behind Valyrian steel, about how a true warrior could bond with it, making it an extension of their very self. Feed the blade some blood, kill your first foe, and it would forever be like an extension to your arms—sharp, swift, and deadly. I expected it when I bled on Ice and killed my enemies, but this bond was more.
I know Ice was a custom made, using the Ice sword a remnant of Long Night times, bonded to the Stark Line. But even my father couldn't light the cold fire like I did and cause similar scenes of that night.
Daemon. Aethan's voice broke through again, more urgent now.
I looked up. Aethan stood there, flanked by five army captains and Lyra Mormont, the fierce warrior sent by Lady Mormont herself. She had bought almost all remaining Bear Island's soldiers to assist me. All eyes were on me, waiting.
"The plan is simple," I said, setting Ice down beside me. "We know Stonedoor remains loyal to the traitor beyond the Wall. Five hundred men garrisoned there, and scattered across the Gift, another seven hundred wildlings and Night's Watch deserters. I'll take Stonedoor myself and kill every last one of the traitors before they can cause more harm to the North or the Watch."
There were nods of grim approval from the captains, but I continued before they could voice their thoughts. "We've captured Ser Noseless and his five lackeys. They'll be delivered to Castle Black. The truth will be extracted before the Lord Commander itself, and I'll behead the traitor in front of a weirwood, feeding his blood to the Old Gods."
"The most crucial thing is how to find the scattered army and The Old Gods have already blessed me by sending sign. Come and see." I said with a serene tone.
I stepped outside and pointed to the trees. Every single one had birds perched on its branches, watching the army with careful vigilance. Despite the noise of the camp, there was no panic, just a quiet and steady focus. Twenty of those birds were under my control, ones I had warged into when I awoke. They had been flying tirelessly after I fed them enough blood, along with my own eagles.
In addition to the birds, I had also warged into three wolves, who were essential in tracking down the hiding traitors. The only way I could locate these birds and wolves was by using the Weirwood to scry the present, a breakthrough I had only recently achieved. Even then, it took me hours to find enough eyes and nearly broke my mind to bond with them. The migraine from establishing these new connections still lingered.
Aethan, already aware of my abilities, showed no surprise, but the captains and Lyra Mormont were visibly astonished. Lyra even whispered, "Skinchanger."
"I, along with Lyra and the Mormont men, will head to the Stonedoor to deal with the traitors there," I announced. "The five of you captains will divide our forces into six equal battalions. Aethan will lead the last one. The messenger birds will guide you to the scum who dared to spill Northern blood. Cleanse the North of their depravity and meet at the Night's Watch in ten days—fifteen at the latest. If they surrender, accept their submission. The birds will then lead you to the nearest weirwood, where you will behead them and feed the weirwood their blood. The Night's Watch traitors have weakened the Wall's magic by breaking their oaths. Their blood will restore the magic to what it was when they first swore their vows."
The captains looked at me as if I were a madman, ranting about magic and ancient gods, but they couldn't deny it—not after what they had witnessed at the Battle of the Nightfort.
"My lord," Lyra Mormont began, her voice uncertain, "I'm not sure the soldiers will be able to accomplish all this within such a limited time and still be ready to go beyond the Wall. They will be tired, and they'll need rest."
I smiled knowingly. "Do not worry, Lyra. The old gods will provide the strength needed for this task, for they will it to be so. You shall see the results."
I turned to the group. "Let's rest tonight and set out tomorrow morning to begin our missions."
The captains gaped but nodded, aware of the rumors surrounding me—and of the improved health of everyone in Winterfell and the surrounding lands.
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Stonedoor
The wind howled through the ancient trees, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and death. The castle stood at the edge of the world, an outpost of the Night's Watch that had long since fallen into shadow. Its once-proud walls now harbored traitors, men who had forsaken their oaths for greed and cruelty.
Daemon stood beneath the towering weirwood, its crimson leaves whispering secrets only he could hear. The face carved into the trunk seemed to watch him, its eyes following his every move as he prepared for what was to come. He could feel the gaze of the Old Gods coursing through him. The traitors in the castle had no idea what was coming for them.
"Snow," Lyra called as she joined me in observing the castle gate. The gate had been hastily repaired, as there was usually no need for such defenses south of the Wall.
"Lyra," I replied. "Ready your men. I can see ten guards at the gate and along the wooden palisade. I'll open it for you."
For a moment, Lyra looked skeptical, but she remembered the display of my abilities that night. She nodded. We were 500 meters away, hidden behind the trees.
We moved forward slowly, stopping at the edge of the treeline, 200 meters from the gate. From this distance, we could see the guards armed with bows, standing watch in patient silence.
I nodded at Lyra, and she nodded in agreement.
Without a sound, I broke into a sprint toward the gate. I was halfway there before the guards registered what was happening. I had expected them to laugh at the sight of a lone soldier charging, but my reputation must have spread, for instead of laughing, they panicked and fired their arrows. I saw ten arrows flying toward me, three of which were on target.
Still running, I unsheathed Ice from my back, pushing my speed even faster. One arrow flew harmlessly behind me. The other two came straight for my chest, but I cut them from the air with Ice. Before they could reload, I was within 50 meters of the gate. My leg muscles tensed in anticipation, and I front flipped.
I soared just over the gate and was upside down mid-air, when I reached above the gate. Using every ounce of my strength and momentum, I brought Ice down in a powerful arc, cleaving the crossguard and splitting the gate's middle clean in half. I landed in the courtyard, rolling smoothly to absorb the impact and slow my momentum.
I dashed beneath the palisade, slashing the gate with two swift strikes before kicking it open, the pieces flying in all directions. Running alongside the wooden palisade, I sliced through the supports, causing it to collapse as I moved. The guards couldn't shoot at me while I stayed beneath the wooden structure. When I reached the end, I turned and ran back, seeing five men who had fallen while trying to arm themselves. They were too slow, and all five were dead within moments.
By now, the commotion had roused the rest of the castle. I finished off the remaining five guards near the gate and was already halfway to the castle proper when the first Mormont soldier entered through the shattered gate. The traitors inside were unprepared, groggy from sleep as they scrambled to arm themselves.
I ignited my sword, its flames casting a flickering glow, and kicked down the entrance door, ready to bring the traitors to justice.
------------------------------------------------------------------
79 AC
King's Landing
Baelon Targaryen
It had been nearly two years since the infamous tourney of Princess Rhaenys, an event that sent shockwaves through the realm. The repercussions were still felt, with the Citadel particularly outraged by the Iron Throne's new orders, which diminished their influence over the lords of Westeros. Yet, their complaints were swiftly silenced by a single visit from Baelon himself, flying on Vhagar as the Iron Throne's official representative. Confiscating two of their prized dragonglass candles and all the Valyrian tomes on magic had felt like bullying in Baelon's eyes, but the King had been adamant.
At least one benefit had come from his brother, Vaegon, who had joined the Citadel before the turmoil began. The archmaesters had been arrogant enough to flaunt their knowledge of Valyrian history and magic in front of a Targaryen prince, because of the Royal family's notorious loss of ancient knowledge after the Doom. Baelon was certain that Vaegon's innocent thirst for learning had helped deflect their suspicions, as they failed to notice the contingency laid out by the King. Baelon was satisfied the overt issues with the Citadel were now behind them, especially with Lord Hightower's support of the Throne, allowing him to return to King's Landing in time for the birth of his son, Prince Viserys, that same year.
Both the King and his brother Aemon were thrilled with the birth of Viserys, already planning to wed him to Rhaenys, ensuring a Targaryen would remain King Consort. However, Aemon had made it clear after Viserys' birth that he would not risk having another child himself, fearing for Jocelyn's life after a difficult labor. Despite Jocelyn's attempts to persuade him otherwise, Aemon remained firm, insisting that she take moon tea to prevent any future pregnancies. Baelon knew the King wasn't pleased with this decision but had accepted it reluctantly, content in the knowledge that Baelon had a healthy son and would likely have more children in the future.
Small Council meeting.
Baelon was surprised to find two letters from Winterfell on the agenda of the Small Council meeting. He had sent two letters to Winterfell himself after recent events, addressed to his bastard nephew, but had received no reply. The lack of response from a mere bastard, a snub to a prince and rider of Vhagar, had enraged him. However, the King had ordered him to let it go. The King was happy that there have been no complaints from north since then and it surprised everyone now when the Grandmaester revealed the letter with the snarling direwolf seal of House Stark.
"Prince Baelon, read the first letter," the King ordered.
Baelon broke the seal and began to read aloud:
To King Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm
Your Grace,
It is with deep sorrow that I write to inform you of my father, Lord Benjen Stark's death. He was ambushed by traitors within the Night's Watch and 2,500 wildlings while leading an army to avenge my elder brother. Witnesses say my father moved to shield my bastard nephew from arrows, saving his life. Upon realising what happened, Snow became mad with grief, took our ancestral sword Ice without permission or any right to it and went on a mad slaughter of our enemies. The use of Ice at that time could be forgiven, but he has ignored the commands of Lord Karstark, Lord Umber and swore revenge on the King beyond the wall and took the Stark army and Ice with him, which is unforgivable as they must obey my commands, as I am regent.
I humbly ask your permission for punishing your grandson for Usurpation of Stark men and using our ancestral sword without Lord Stark's permission.
Lord Bennard Stark
Regent for Cregan Stark
Warden of the North.
"Lord Benjen is also dead?" Aemon whispered, a look of sorrow crossing his face.
"I am sorry, brother. I know you had a good relationship with Lord Stark," Baelon said, trying to console him, though his mind raced to make sense of his nephew's involvement. Baelon noticed the king deep in thought, likely considering the consequences of this death.
"Well, it seems the gods have decided to punish House Stark for their trickery, even after the King was gracious enough to forgive them. Even House Stark cannot escape the consequences of violating the King's laws," Lord Manfred Redwyne, the Master of Ships, remarked snidely.
Baelon scoffed. "Lord Redwyne, the gods had nothing to do with this. This is the work of men. Betrayal and treachery are not the victim's fault. If the gods intended punishment, it would have been my nephew who fell, as this was his idea in the first place."
Aemon snarled in response, but before he could say anything, the king interrupted. "Enough. There is another letter from Winterfell. Read it aloud, and let us see what my errant bastard grandson has done to be accused of usurpation."
Baelon nodded and began to read the second letter.
King Jaehaerys Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms
Protector of the Realm
My King,
It has come to my attention that my co-regent, my brother-in-law, has hastily sent a letter requesting punishment for your grandson, Daemon Snow, over the use of a large sword and for hunting down traitors to the crown with loyal Stark men. I am writing to plead his case and not allow Lord Bennard's foolishness, driven by sorrow and anger, to cloud your judgment. He wrongly blames Daemon, a 12-year-old boy, for the death of Lord Benjen Stark, just as he has blamed him for the death of his beloved sister for all these years.
In fact, Daemon should be recognized, for according to the reports we have received, it was only because he picked up Ice, making it burn and went on to kill hundreds with it like a hero from the Age of Heroes, that our decimated army turned to victory. Nearly 1,200 Northmen survived, while 3,000 of the enemy were slain, even as 1,000 Night's Watch traitors attacked us during the night, with wildlings ambushing from the sidelines. Despite this, the North lost 1,500 proud warriors. Lord Karstark and Lord Umber had no right to command men sworn to Winterfell, and they chose to follow a Stark to avenge my husband and father-in-law.
I plead that you hear this and absolve Daemon. He has promised to return with the head of the King Beyond the Wall as a gift for my son, Cregan Stark.
Your loyal vassal,
Lady Giliane Stark (née Glover)
Lady of Winterfell
Co-Regent of Cregan Stark.
"This doesn't make any sense, Your Grace," Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, said. "Lord Bennard's letter made no mention of a co-regent or the true actions of Daemon Snow. And what does she mean by a 'burning sword' and a boy killing hundreds with it?"
Baelon noticed the air of disbelief among the council, save for his family.
"The Stark sword is a greatsword, nearly my height, called Ice—and it is Valyrian steel," Prince Aemon explained.
"There are tricks in Essos that allow a sword to be set aflame. Perhaps my nephew used one of those tricks to burn the ambushers," Baelon speculated.
Lord Lyman furrowed his brow, but the king responded with a thoughtful look. "You missed the crux of the matter, Lord Lyman. Both the mother and the uncle are vying for regency of Cregan Stark. The uncle believes he is the only rightful choice, while Lady Stark knows it will be difficult for her to be the sole regent as long as an adult Stark lives."
Baelon spoke up. "So, what shall be our reply, Your Grace? Does my nephew deserve punishment for his apparent heroic actions—or, as Lord Bennard claims, usurpation?"
The king pondered the question, then turned to Aemon. Baelon immediately felt a sense of unease as an unsettling thought crossed his mind.
"Prince Aemon," the king commanded, his voice cold and firm with the ever present Kingly Mask that Baelon almost considers the true face of the King, "you shall leave for Winterfell tomorrow on Caraxes to pay the crown's respects to Lords Benjen and Rickard Stark. You shall also investigate the truth of the matter and determine whether Lord Benjen left any instructions regarding Cregan's regency. If there is proof, follow it to the letter; otherwise, let the mother and uncle share the regency. The haste and vagueness in Lord Bennard's letter, along with his request for punishment without explanation, give me pause regarding the long regency. You will also decide the matter of Daemon once the truth is revealed."
Baelon watched as disbelief washed over Aemon's face, slowly transforming into anger.
"My king, I have duties here. Baelon is the Master of Laws; let him fly with Vhagar and handle this matter. I do not wish to return to Winterfell, where only painful memories await me," Aemon said respectfully, and Baelon sighed in relief. His brother had managed to conceal his anger and sadness while offering a reasonable excuse.
"Yes, my king," Baelon added quickly, "it would be an honor to oversee this legal matter. Vhagar is far larger and faster, enabling me to reach Winterfell sooner." Baelon tried to support his brother, but even before finishing he could see carefully hidden anger and disappointment in King's face.
"Prince Aemon," the king said sternly, "Baelon may be the Master of Laws, but he has no authority to enact any law without my leave. You, however, are the Crown Prince and Hand of the King. Only you have the authority to handle this matter. This is not a request; it is an order."
Baelon sighed inwardly, knowing defeat.
Aemon, his rage carefully hidden, bowed respectfully. "Of course, my king. I am your loyal heir, first and foremost."
The king scrutinized his brother for several heartbeats, then declared, "This council is dismissed."
Baelon noticed that the other masters had several topics they wished to discuss, but no one dared speak, sensing the king's tense mood.
As the council rose to leave, the king called after them. "Prince Aemon, Baelon—come with me to the Dragonpit. It has been too long since we flew together."
Baelon saw Aemon tense further and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Brother, let's enjoy the flight."
Knowing he couldn't refuse the king, Aemon nodded.
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"Sers, dragonhandlers—everyone—evacuate the Dragonpit. Let us spend time with our own dragons and the unclaimed ones. Alone," the king ordered as they reached the inner courtyard of the enormous Dragonpit.
Baelon swallowed hard, sensing that whatever was about to happen would be painful for both him and Aemon. He understood now—the king brought them here so no one could overhear what was about to be said.
"Come, sons," the king commanded, walking briskly through the cavernous halls as though he knew every turn by heart.
As the king veered away from the usual path leading to Vermithor and the other dragons, Baelon initially thought, maybe, The King, had lost his way. But soon, it became clear—they weren't heading toward their own dragons at all. They were walking toward the Black Dread. Baelon glanced at Aemon, noticing his brother's growing impatience with the king's dismissive attitude.
The vast cave loomed before them, darker than any other in the pit. A low, rumbling vibration from the very ground beneath them and the increased heat, signalled the presence of the greatest living dragon, Balerion the Black Dread.
Though bonded to Vhagar, the second-largest war dragon, Baelon couldn't suppress a shiver as they entered the cave. The Black Dread's malevolent eyes watched them, glowing in the shadow. It left him awestruck—and terrified—when the king approached Balerion without a hint of fear, whispering in Valyrian as he patted the dragon's snout. Both Baelon and Aemon exchanged disbelieving glances. Balerion allowed their father to come this close, but they had never been granted such proximity, even as children except for his foolishness once.
"Father—" Aemon began, but the king ignored him, still whispering to the Black Dread.
When the king turned around, Balerion's massive head loomed behind him, so large that Baelon could barely see his father, as though the king were nothing more than a tooth in the dragon's mouth. Baelon felt Balerion's gaze bore into him, rooting him to the spot—a primal terror only those who have faced a dragon understand. It surprised Baelon and his brother that they felt terror similar to that non-dragonriders probably feel before a dragon.
"Aemon, you will never repeat something like this again. If you dare to question my order on such an important matter and try to escape from your duties, then I will have to reconsider who my heir should be." The King said.
Baelon's shock came not from the words, but from the way the king delivered them. There was no anger, no disappointment—just cold indifference. For the first time, Baelon felt like he was seeing Jaehaerys Targaryen without the mask of a King.
Baelon saw Aemon begin to recover from his shock, his expression hardening as he prepared to step forward and argue. But before he could make the mistake, Baelon acted swiftly, gripping Aemon's right hand in a vice-like hold. Aemon jerked back, glaring at his brother in confusion. Baelon quickly shook his head and nodded toward Balerion.
The Black Dread, who had been resting his massive head on the ground, was now rising. In one fluid, silent motion, Balerion's face loomed above the King casting a massive shadow over the king. The sheer size of the dragon, combined with the eerie stillness—no growl, no sound of movement—sent a chill down Baelon's spine. It was as if the great beast had become one with the very darkness of the cave, its ancient eyes unblinking, watching everything. The absence of noise made the presence of the Black Dread more terrifying than any other Dragons.
Aemon gulped, his earlier anger replaced by fear. "Father, please... That place haunts me. I lost her there, to him. I don't know what I'll do if I see Daemon again. Please, understand—"
"Oh,for the sake of your mother, shut up Aemon and get over it." The King snapped, his voice echoing with passion and anger.
"It has been 12 years since that bastard girl died in childbirth and you are still blaming my grandson for it like an imbecile Andal lord that I have to suffer for the last several decades. You are my elder son, Prince Aemon Targaryen, my Heir, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and moreover a Dragonlord. Act like it."
Baelon was lost for words by the raw fury in the Kings words and he saw Aemon gaping like a fish in land, his eyes travelling from the King to the towering presence of the Black Dread. Before Aemon could say anything, The King continued;
"For 12 years, I have indulged your idiosyncrasies and I will not do it for one more day. You will get over your… your, your whatever it is and will do as I ordered regarding Winterfell and Daemon. You can't hide from this anymore, if you want to rule this Kingdom and be the King after me. If you can't, then abdicate your title—and that of Rhaenys — and not be a headache for me anymore."
Baelon still had a firm grip on Aemon, but he knew it was no longer necessary. Aemon was paralyzed, both in awe and terror, beneath Balerion's gaze.
"Father... I... I..." Aemon stammered, his voice strained and broken, a vulnerability in him that Baelon had not seen in years. The sound of his brother's voice cracking ignited a fire in Baelon's chest—a burning fury toward their King. How could the king force this upon Aemon, when he knew the pain that place held?
But then Aemon lowered himself, slowly and deliberately, to one knee. "I will do as you ordered, Father. I will not escape from my responsibilities," he said, his voice steadier now, but the defeat in it was evident for everyone.
Baelon stood stiffly beside him, every muscle tense. His heart raced, and he could feel his bond with Vhagar becoming taut as his own fury roused the old war dragon. Fury coursed through his veins, hidden beneath the surface, but it was there—a rage so deep that Baelon wondered if the king could sense it. And for a fleeting moment, he was certain that Balerion, the Black Dread, did. The dragon's fiery eyes, fixed upon Baelon, seemed to burn through him, searing into his soul for just an instant.
And…
For a single heartbeat, Baelon's mind was filled with a single haunting vision.
He saw a lone dragon, its scales black as night, unleashing all its fury upon Harrenhal, the largest and most fearsome castle in the realm. The night sky was illuminated by the beast's fire and Harrenhal, a fortress so vast it dwarfed even Balerion and Vhagar combined, stood defiant against the onslaught—but only for a moment.
The enchanted stone walls, said to be protected by sorcery, began to tremble under the relentless assault of dragonflame. The heat was unimaginable, turning stone to slag, Baelon could almost hear the crackling of the stones as they shattered, see the molten rivers of rock pouring down the once-mighty battlements. The towers of Harrenhal, which had loomed like giants over the land, crumbled and collapsed into themselves as if they were no more than kindling before a bonfire.
The dragon's fire raged with such intensity that even the magical protections woven into the stone faltered and disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. In the distance, Baelon could almost hear the desperate screams of men, their voices lost beneath the roar of flames and the terrible, earth-shaking bellows of the Black Dread.
And Baelon lost all his rage.
The king had a curious yet threatening glint in his eyes.
"Baelon, Aemon, let me be clear with you both today: if you ever think of betraying me by attempting to usurp my throne before my natural death, believing that Vhaghar and Caraxes can overcome my Vermithor, know that you will face the full fury of the Black Dread."
For the first time since entering the cave, a low growl emanated from the Great Dragon, as if in approval of the king's words, making Baelon tremble with terror. Aemon gaped in pure disbelief, as if the very thought was a foreign concept to him.
"Father, what? What in the name of Doom are you talking about? Betraying my father and my liege? How could you even think of me like that?" Aemon said, outrage clear in his voice. "And how could you even consider Baelon might betray you? He has worked harder than anyone else, yet you never acknowledge him in front of me. How could you?"
Baelon closed his eyes in defeat, knowing the truth of the matter: he would always stand by Aemon's side. The king scrutinized his eldest son, searching for any trace of insincerity, but ultimately sighed, defeated.
"You are a fool, Aemon, if you believe Baelon's loyalty to his king surpasses his love for his brother. I lost his loyalty and love a long time ago," the king said, a hint of sadness in his gaze as he looked at his second son.
Aemon turned to Baelon in surprise, his eyes widening. Baelon could only nod in response.
Aemon's expression brightened, a pure smile breaking through the tension and reminding Baelon of their happier times before their fateful journey to the North. "Thank you, Valanquor!" Aemon exclaimed, before turning back to their father. "But even then, Father, it's still insulting for you to even consider it. How could you?"
The king sighed wearily, closing his eyes briefly before turning to Balerion. He unsheathed Blackfyre from the scabbard at his hip, the smoky steel reflecting the flickering torchlight around them.
With a silent command, he gestured for his sons to follow as he moved sideways along the enormous dragon's body, his left hand raised as he searched for something among Balerion's scaled hide.
"Aemon, it doesn't matter whether one is a father, son, brother, or uncle; first and foremost, we are Dragonlords, bound by the blood of Old Valyria, where might makes right. I know this from experience; my own uncle's family caused the death of my elder brothers. Rage is in our blood, and when we burn, it is with fire that cannot be smothered until our enemies are reduced to ashes. There's a reason the forty in Valyria sent off their deaths by dragonfire. You burn as brightly as any of us, Aemon, and I understand where foolishness may lead in dire circumstances. I want to curtail any such foolishness before such thoughts even enter your minds."
The king finished speaking just as he reached the spot he sought. He turned and passed the torch to Aemon.
"Perhaps King Maegor should have done something like this for my own foolish elder brother before he faced the Black Dread," the king added with a grunt, seizing the hilt of Blackfyre with both hands and driving the sword into the dragon's side with a forceful stab.
Both Baelon and Aemon immediately panicked as their king attacked the greatest dragon in existence. They glanced nervously at Balerion's head, bracing for fire, but instead were met with a sound that resonated as a mix of pain and relief.
Aemon drew closer, fire in hand, and Baelon gasped at the sight of black pus oozing from the wound, thick, smoking blood pooling on the ground. The area around the sword's piercing was marred by healed stab wounds, while decayed, pus-filled scales marred other spots.
"Baelon, come. Use Dark Sister and shave off the decayed scales and flesh," the king commanded.
"Yes, your grace." Baelon acquiesced, drawing Dark Sister from its sheath, the blade's unsheathing causing Balerion to glance back at them, a small fire flickering in his open throat.
"Lykiri, Balerion," the king said, stabbing Blackfyre into another spot. "He is only helping, my son Baelon, rider of Vhaghar."
Balerion emitted a sound Baelon interpreted as a snort, the fire in his throat momentarily dimming.
Baelon exchanged glances with his brother, a look of clear wonder etched on his face, while Aemon shrugged in surprise. He returned the gesture and began working on the decaying scales within reach, his strength required to pierce the tough, resistant hide even with Valyrian steel.
It took them hours of effort to finish, and eventually, the king passed Blackfyre to Aemon, resting against Balerion's head while Aemon took over the task.
Both Aemon and Baelon were soaked in sweat, the heat of the dragon and the weight of their labor pressing down upon them.
The king nodded in approval as they stepped back from the Black Dread.
Baelon exhaled in relief as they exited the stifling heat of the Great Dragon's lair, the burden of the king's and dragon's scrutiny lifting.
"And Aemon," the king continued, "when you find my wayward bastard grandson, tell him he shall not humiliate a Prince of the Blood by ignoring his letters again, especially not a Dragonlord. Warn him that he will be burned if he pulls the dragon's tail one too many times, and remind him he has lost his greatest protector since he lost Lord Stark. I don't think Regent Bennard will value Daemon's ideas or defend him as much. Also, Aemon, ensure that Daemon's actions are not judged by Bennard or yourself, and reward him for his service, if the second letter proves truthful. After all, it hasn't even been two years since I announced House Targaryen's generosity and rewards for services to the realm and our own house."
"I understand, Father," Aemon replied, discomfort evident as the reminder loomed over him—he would soon visit Winterfell and see his son after twelve long years.
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I stood in the solar of Lord Commander Ryswell along with the maester and other lords of the castles along the Wall. Most of the lords were furious with me for destroying Stonedoor in my quest to kill every traitor.
"Lord Commander, are we really entertaining this bastard? He is neither a Stark nor a Targaryen, and he destroyed one of our castles along with its members. If they were traitors, it was our duty to punish them, not this boy's. He should be punished, and his army banished from our lands," one of the lords spat.
"Oh, shut up, whoever you are," I said in irritation. "I didn't attack the Night's Watch. I killed traitors and oathbreakers. I killed the bastards who dared to kill Lord Stark and his heir. I'd gladly do it again. Ser Noseless told you the truth, confessed everything, and yet you still blame me. No wonder they were able to gather so much support right under your collective noses."
The other lord bristled at my insult.
"Silence," Lord Commander Ryswell ordered. "This is my solar, and there shall be no more arguments. Daemon Snow is correct. He has helped us more than once, and now he has directly helped us again. It's time we hunted down the army and the traitor hiding as the so-called King Beyond the Wall. Benjen Stark was right when he said King Jaehaerys turned the Night's Watch into a penal colony by sending traitors and oathbreakers here. This Ser Lucamore Strong, once a Kingsguard, one of the best warriors, used his prowess to fight the gathering wildlings and defeat their leaders for power. No one has ever had the audacity to do such a thing in the Watch's history. But what was the motive, Snow? Did he tell you that? We never reached that part in our inquiry."
I snarled thinking about the traitor and his foolhardy plan from the beginning to take over the Night's Watch and rule the lands beyond the wall.
"What motive does a traitor like Lucamore the Lusty have?" I continued. "Revenge, of course. Revenge against the king, my grandfather. Ser Noseless is one of his bastards, and their plan was always to escape beyond the Wall. They assumed the king or his sons would come, but dragons don't cross the Wall. They must lead the army from a horse top themselves and what is a dragonrider without a dragon? Just another man. Poor Lucamore couldn't foresee our alliance to reclaim the New Gift and make it prosper. His whole plan hinged on it being abandoned. So, He had to act earlier than planned."
"Fucking Targaryens," Lord Commander Ryswell snarled. "First he send Maegor's Kingsguard, and now his own. Both rebelled against us and caused trouble for the North. This will not be tolerated. An example must be made. The Watch's honor is at stake. This is the second time a Stark has lost his life due to treachery from the Watch. I will do everything in my power to ensure there is no third time. I will personally send the head of Ser Noseless to the king with a message for the entire South to hear: Any oathbreakers and criminals sent here will be scrutinized and watched for years, and no criminal will hold any position of authority when there are those who voluntarily joined. Rest assured, the wildling army will never cross the Wall again, and we will defeat them when they appear."
"What? You're not coming to hunt them down with my army?" I asked, surprised that the Lord Commander would now decide to hide behind the Wall.
"Unfortunately, I can't, Snow. According to the traitor, they are seven thousand strong. What if there are more? We would be in enemy territory, and I can't afford to lose more men carelessly," Lord Ryswell explained, and the other lords nodded in agreement.
"Cowards," I snarled. "Then you will wait forever, as I will personally go with my men and kill every single one of them."
Protests erupted from the other lords, but the Lord Commander's stern gaze was locked on mine. He knew that if he didn't let me go, his own life might be in danger and I would may just cause another slaughter to go beyond the wall.
"Silence," he ordered. "Our duty is to stop wildlings from coming into the North, not to stop Northmen from going beyond the Wall. I will allow you and your men to go."
I accepted the proposal and we parted to rest before the execution of the traitors, which I insisted doing and by beheading in front of a weirwood.
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I felt the direct connection between the weirwood and the Wall as its roots drank in the blood of Ser Noseless after I beheaded him and hung his body upside down on the trunk of the tree. The ancient system made by the builder with the help of Children of the Forest was still efficient. The damages caused by the broken oath of Nights Watch slowly mended by their own life's blood.
"Is this necessary?" Lord Commander Ryswell asked as he approached."Aye, Lord Commander," I replied. "A message must be sent to any new recruits and even the wildligs themselves." I kept my face cold, mimicking the cold mask I had learned from my grandfather—the typical Stark sternness.
The Lord Commander grimaced but continued. "My rangers—those we can trust—have returned with news. Seven thousand men have gathered at the Fist of the First Men. My ranger managed to
escape without alerting them. They haven't heard of their army's defeat on this side of the Wall and are preparing to move south. By now, they may have already started their march. This is the only knowledge I could give you. I will also provide you with additional supplies.
I thought for a moment, but without seeing the land for myself, I couldn't foresee any problems, so I agreed.
"Snow, I have a letter from Regent Stark, ordering me not to let you and your men cross the Wall. You are to return to Winterfell immediately while your army stays here under your captains' command to scour the Gift."
I snorted. "We both know that's not going to happen. The Gift is already secure."
"Aye, I've heard about it. Your birds leading your army to the wildlings hiding and scattered after the Battle of Nightfort. It's been a long time since any Northman used their warging so openly," Lord Commander Ryswell said.
I neither confirmed nor denied it.
Lord Ryswell snorted. "Aye, well keep your secrets. Almost every person who heard the old stories will know it. Maybe try to keep it down, You wouldn't want the Targaryens hear about it and realizing that their dragons, is also a beast at the end of the day.
I nodded, accepting the advice offered in good faith. As I walked back to the tents, my mind wandered to the traitors who started this mess. Perhaps beyond the Wall, I might even find a direwolf cub—one for myself and maybe one for Cregan, too. He'd love it, and it might help him cope with the loss of both his father and grandfather.
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