Omniscient POV
The time spent flying to Winterfell had been good for Aemon. It had been a long time since he last flew so much, and this time, he was able to enjoy the sights rather than trying to escape from memories or his own responsibilities. After taking in the scenery, he began to reflect on his actions over the last decade, and what he found left him dissatisfied. Even with his selfish nature, the loyalty Baelon showed him, made him want to be worthy of it. Baelon had gone so far as to defy their father, the king, all for him. For the first time, Aemon realized how much he had taken for granted.
Perhaps it was this realization that led to his introspection during the flight. Or maybe the fear of losing his heirship had straightened his head. Or, possibly, it was the fear of Balerion that tempered his arrogance. Even Baelon had been shocked by the entire encounter beyond belief, and Aemon knew how much Baelon worked with their father.
Aemon could barely contain his mirth when the soldiers on the walls of Winterfell panicked and fled at the sound of the dragon's roar. Yet, despite their fear, he saw several soldiers reach for arrows and spears. At least he could say the men here were infinitely more loyal and brave than those at the Twins, where he had spent a night on his journey north. Though he dismissed the longbows at first, on his second pass above the castle near the walls and towers—while Caraxes swooped and played in the air, trying to spook the remaining soldiers—the bone-white color of some of the bows caught his eye.
"The Weirwood longbows are the finest in the world, my prince," Lyarra's cheeky voice echoed in his mind. "An excellent archer can shoot through thick mail if he has enough strength." Aemon's eye watered slightly as the memories of his love hit him.
"It is said that Brandon Snow, brother to Torrhen Stark, had prepared three special weirwood arrows to kill the Conqueror's dragon and even proposed assassinating the dragon riders at night himself. Fortunately for you, my prince, my own great-grandfather denied him and chose to bend the knee after praying to the old gods." The cheeky voice echoed in Aemon's memory.
Aemon had laughed hard when he first heard that story. After his trip to the Dragonpit with their father, he had to acknowledge that Torrhen Stark was the greatest king at the time of the Conquest. He resisted the temptation to ask "what if"—what if Brandon Snow could succeed. Instead, Torrhen bent the knee and acquired peace, kept his old gods, improved trade, retained almost all of his authority, and didn't lose a single Northman. Aemon shuddered to think what would have happened if the North had followed the Dornish path. He knew even Balerion would struggle to burn the entirety of the North's snow to flush out its lords.
He landed outside Wintertown, and he didn't have to wait long for the escorts to arrive. He frowned, noticing that Regent Bennard Stark wasn't among them.
As he rode through Wintertown, he heard loud whispers:
"Is he the sire of the Blessed Bastard Snow?"
"Is he also blessed by the dragon gods?"
"He must be a great man to sire a god's messenger like Daemon Snow."
"The hair is the same as half of Snow's…"
"He's so beautiful," one girl swooned, while the girl next to her scoffed. "Ha, don't be silly. Mark my words, Daemon is already more handsome than this posh southern prince. When he returns from the war, he'll be a man, just like the heroes in the stories. He'll bless us by visiting our brothel."
Aemon ignored the comments, unsure of how he felt. His emotions had been in complete turmoil. Only the fear of Balerion and the prospect of losing his place as heir had given him the strength to fly to Winterfell, to face her and her son again.
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Bennard Stark had felt many things since news of his father's death reached him. Prominent among them was a sense of uselessness and anger. When he heard what his bastard nephew had done, his anger became as tall as the Wall. His own ability with magic was nonexistent, but he wasn't a fool. He understood what his father, his brother, and Daemon had been up to. He could never forgive the bastard for killing his sister, and now his own Lord father was dead, all because of the son of that damned dragon prince.
When Aemon entered the courtyard, he saw Regent Bennard Stark's face, twisted with animosity. Bennard was trying to maintain the legendary Stark composure, but like Aemon, recent events had loosened his control—or perhaps Bennard was still the same spoiled brat who had tried to attack him when he thought he'd lost Lyarra to him. Aemon had laughed it off at the time and simply beat Bennard into submission during their sword fight.
Bennard Stark had maintained the famous Stark mask for days, but seeing the arrogant, casual walk of the dragon prince, and noticing the shadow of Daemon in it, made his anger burn. It was the eyes, though, that truly made him snap. The same color as Daemon's—the ones that had fought their way into Daemon's one eye and ruined his sister's beautiful grey in their son. The same eye that always looked at him with curiosity and mockery, as if he were a bad pun made by some bard.
"My prince, we weren't expecting a dragon—just a raven," Bennard hissed through gritted teeth, his anger barely concealed.
For a moment, Aemon was taken aback by the open rage in Bennard's eyes and the disrespect he was showing.
Roar! Caraxes let out a thunderous roar that shook the courtyard as Aemon's fury reached his dragon. He now understood the reason for Bennard's behavior.
How dare this fool blame me for her death? It was our blasted son who was responsible, and this cunt has the audacity to accuse me to my face. How dare he not even bow when I've been sent on behalf of the Iron Throne itself? Aemon's thoughts boiled with indignation.
Aemon immediately wanted to displace Bennard as regent and make Daemon the regent, just to spite him. But remembering Daemon was only thirteen, he restrained himself. Even if Benjen Stark had appointed Bennard as sole regent, Aemon resolved that he would appoint Gilaine Stark as co-regent. He would have dismissed any punishment for Daemon's actions then and there, but the King's orders, which stated that neither he nor Bennard could make the final decision, stayed his hand.
As the roar of Caraxes echoed through the courtyard, causing everyone to take a knee in deference to the crown prince, as tradition dictates, Regent Bennard Stark remained standing, glaring angrily at Aemon.
"Bennard, what in the names of the Old Gods are you doing?" came an angry voice—surely Lady Stark—cutting through the tension. Aemon saw a woman and a boy, no larger than a six-year-old, approaching quickly.
The lady was beautiful in the northern way, though nowhere near his Jocelyn, let alone Lyarra, whose face was a mask of anger and fear. But it was the boy's face that made Aemon pause. Ever since entering the town, there had been a lingering sense of grief and anger, and the boy bore the same mask Benjen Stark had worn all those years ago when he and Lyarra were caught after she became pregnant with that demon spawn.
Bennard didn't respond to Lady Stark, nor did he acknowledge her presence, still staring at Aemon, struggling to suppress his emotions.
"My prince, please forgive my regent. He has been under immense pressure and stress ever since my grandfather rejected my uncle from leading the army that went to the Wall, giving the duties of Lord of Winterfell instead. The news of his father's death has taken its toll. Please excuse my uncle's behavior," Cregan said, bowing from Bennard's right, standing two steps behind.
Aemon had to suppress his surprise at the impressive manners of the boy, and he stifled a laugh at what happened next, though a snort escaped him.
Aemon watched as Cregan reached his uncle and punched him behind the knees, forcing Bennard to buckle and fall to the ground on his knees, just like everyone else in the courtyard, except for Cregan.
The harsh voice that came next, eerily similar to Benjen Stark's, snapped Bennard out of his anger and the surprise of being made to kneel by his young nephew.
"Now, uncle, you shall apologize to the prince and welcome him according to tradition," Cregan commanded.
Bennard ground his teeth for a moment but managed to compose himself, putting on a mask of remorse that Aemon immediately recognized.
"My prince, I regret my behavior and am ashamed by it. My own father would have tanned my hide if he were alive now. I apologize. Your surprise arrival, along with the other shocks I've experienced, has clouded my judgment and made me forget my courtesies. I beg your forgiveness for my foolishness. Winterfell is yours, and you are welcome within its walls at any time."
Aemon waited for several heartbeats, considering various harsh punishments, but the current state of House Stark stayed his hand. For all Bennard's stupidity, he had been close with Lyarra, and she would make his afterlife a living hell if he punished Bennard too severely. Sighing, Aemon made his decision
"Lord Bennard, I am in a calm mood after the pleasant flight here, so I will forgive your behavior and chalk it up to the grief-stricken madness of a man who has lost his father and elder brother to traitors. But know that I will never forget this. The gods know I've committed my share of foolishness out of grief when I lost my Lyarra in childbirth. Be warned: one more such incident in my presence, and not only House Stark, but the entire North, will be punished harshly."
Aemon paused, letting his words sink in. "Now, you asked why I am here. I come as crown prince and Hand of the King to convey the Iron Throne's condolences for the loss of one of its most loyal lords paramount and his heir to traitors. I am here to pay my respects to Lord Benjen Stark, who did so much to improve the North for the benefit of all. I had intended to inquire about Lord Benjen's will regarding the regency, if such a document exists, and enforce it. But now, I am half-tempted to appoint Daemon as regent—were he not only thirteen—and remove you from your post, Lord Bennard, regardless of Lord Benjen's wishes, due to your rash behavior just now. The Iron Throne does not desire a regent who makes decisions driven by emotion. It says something when your underage nephew, whom you are regent to, must rein in your feelings."
Aemon could see the Northerners still kneeling, slightly relaxing as his words continued, though they remained tense as he chastised their regent.
"With a heavy heart, I, Prince Aemon Targaryen, Hand of the King, hereby disregard any will Lord Benjen may have left regarding the regency and appoint Lady Gilaine Stark as co-regent to Lord Cregan Stark, alongside Lord Bennard Stark. Furthermore, since Lord Cregan has shown exceptional maturity, he will have the right to contest any decisions made by his regents directly to the Iron Throne in matters of grave importance. Now, let this unpleasantness be over, and I accept the guest rights you have offered."
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It was three days after Aemon's arrival when Lords Umber and Karstark, along with their retinues, arrived at Winterfell, bearing Lord Stark's body and confirming the grim news of the "Red Death." Aemon had heard the tales from the first day he was there—how his son had become mad with grief and transformed into a gods-blessed hero. The stories spoke of how Daemon's anger had frozen the entire battlefield, allowing the Northmen to slay the traitors in their midst. They claimed he had killed a thousand men that night and had been so drenched in blood that no other color was left visible on his body.
Aemon had scoffed hard at these tales, knowing no man could accomplish what the gossip suggested. However, the meeting with the lords—alongside the co-regents and Cregan, who was adamant about being present—revealed that there might be some truth to these wild stories.
Aemon dismissed these stories as exaggerations, the desperate fantasies of frightened men trying to rationalize the horrors of war. Yet, as he descended the steps toward the solar, a growing unease gnawed at him. The lords who had witnessed these events weren't men prone to fanciful tales, and their grave expressions suggested they were still struggling to make sense of what they had seen.
As the lords recounted their experiences, Aemon's intrigue deepened. They described how Daemon had wielded fire that radiated both cold and heat, and he saw Lord Bennard's shock while young Cregan wore a wolfish grin. Cregan seemed disturbingly pleased by the slaughter of traitors and wildlings alike. Then they spoke of what happened on the road to Last Hearth—Daemon's near murder of Lord Karstark, his accusations of treason, and how the ancestral Stark sword, Ice, seemed to possess a judging power that Lord Bennard initially rejected.
Lord Karstark's face darkened as he protested his son-in-laws rejection immediately. "The bastard accused me of treason, of conspiring with the enemy. He nearly killed me on the spot, had it not been for Lord Umber's intervention. The Stark sword—Ice—it's as if it has a will of its own, and that mad boy has somehow bent it to his will. The Sword burned my hand, when I tried to lift it. He must be punished severely for taking what was rightfully Lord Bennard's to wield in defense of the North, especially now."
Whatever Lord Karstark expected to gain by pressing the charges of treason and disrespect, the reactions of Crown Prince Aemon and Lord Cregan Stark were not what he anticipated.
Aemon's initial amusement at Daemon's audacity quickly dissipated when he learned that Daemon had openly declared Lord Benjen Stark as his father. A surge of jealousy, something Aemon had seldom felt, rose like a storm in his mind. He was enraged by the notion that Lord Stark had usurped what was rightfully his—Daemon was his son. Only his newfound maturity and introspection kept his rage in check.
Aemon remained silent, observing how the matter would unfold. He watched Lord Bennard, who was agreeing with his father-in-law's complaints, and Cregan, who appeared satisfied when Daemon declared he would gift Cregan the head of the so-called King Beyond the Wall.
Another Kingsguard who betrayed their oath. Aemon decide he will execute any Kingsguard for breaking oath when he become kings. Aemon had already gathered from his chance encounter with Cregan in the godswood that the boy harbored an unhealthy amount of hero worship for Daemon, similar to Baelon's loyalty to Aemon. Cregan's loyalty was clear—his allegiance lay with his older brother, Daemon.
"I propose that Prince Aemon grant me the authority to punish Daemon," Lord Bennard demanded. "More than that, Daemon has ignored my orders to return Ice while the men remained behind securing the Gift. I received word just before your arrival, Prince Aemon, that he slaughtered every man in a castle, declaring them traitors, and then rode to Castle Black, where he now rests in preparation for the venture beyond the Wall."
"No!" Lady Stark interjected. "Daemon may not have followed tradition, but he is needed to address the threats we face. There's no need for punishment. Lord Benjen himself handed Ice to Daemon with instructions to give it to Cregan. He is only following orders."
"No need?" Bennard snarled. "I am the—"
"Enough," Aemon snapped, silencing the room. "There will be no more bickering in my presence. My own house has two ancestral Valyrian Steel Sword and only the King, the head of House Targaryen decides what to do with them. Cregan, though underage, is the rightful Lord of Winterfell, and Ice belongs to him by title and by the endowment of the previous wielder. Daemon has wielded something of House Stark's, and Cregan is its head. Let Cregan decide whether Daemon should be punished or not."
Aemon finished speaking and watched as Cregan, despite his youth, considered the matter carefully. Aemon didn't particularly care whether Daemon was punished or not; his primary concern was ensuring that Bennard didn't get his way.
Cregan, despite being just a child, knew deep down that Daemon would never harm him. His last meeting with his grandfather in this very solar echoed in his mind. He remembered Lord Benjen's words:
"Cregan, if you ever find yourself alone, know that Daemon will be there. He is unstoppable, and he will be loyal to us as long as we remain united in our purpose—to face the Long Night."
"My lords," Cregan began, his voice steady, "the last thing my grandfather told me was to trust Daemon and learn from him. He gave Ice to Daemon to deliver to me, and I am confident he will do so. I will be pleased if Ice is returned to me along with the head of this so-called King Beyond the Wall. I trust Daemon to accomplish this, and he may use Ice until he completes the task."
Aemon smirked, noticing the enraged expression on Lord Bennard's face. Bennard and Lord Karstark had no choice but to remain silent, knowing they had been overruled.
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Beyond the wall
Daemon Snow.
I opened my eyes, disconnecting from the animal in Winterfell through which Brandon had been keeping me informed. Though Brandon wasn't directly involved in any meetings, Cregan shared details about the situation regarding me with him.
Aethan stood guard by my side. Ever since I crossed beyond the Wall, I've lost the ability to warg while remaining conscious in my own body. My connection to the other side was severed, and it took all of my power along with the weirwoods to warg with any animals I'd left behind.
Aethan glanced at me, curiosity and concern written across his face.
I sighed, collecting my thoughts. "My uncle has royally fucked things up, Aethan. The king sent Aemon on Caraxes to deliver the Iron Throne's condolences and to sort out matters regarding me. But my uncle lost whatever sense he had left the moment he saw Aemon. He disrespected him, and it took Cregan stepping in to diffuse the situation. Aemon made Aunt Giliane co-regent, but Cregan can challenge any decisions made by the regents directly to the throne. Bennard fought hard to have me punished—accusing me of taking Ice, leading men without permission, and even blaming me for my mother's death in childbirth. In the end, Aemon left the decision to Cregan since he's the head of House Stark."
Aethan burst out laughing at that. "So you got away without punishment again?"
I scoffed. "There was nothing to punish me for in this matter. Allowing these traitors to consolidate their position and spread chaos would be a disaster. Ice accepted me, and Cregan has no use for it at the moment. I'll surrender it to him when I bring him the promised head."
Aethan chuckled. "Really? You'd just surrender such a prize?"
"What?" I snapped, narrowing my eyes. "Do you think I'm a thief? Why would I want this massive chunk of metal, which I can barely control, when I could rightfully claim two of the most famous swords in the world from my paternal family?"
Aethan smirked. "Aye, I've heard His Grace is eager to bestow both Blackfyre and Dark Sister upon you."
I couldn't stop the snort of laughter from escaping. "Indeed," I said, shaking my head.
Then Aethan's expression turned serious. "But, Daemon, do you still feel the same presence observing us? "
"Aye, Aethan. The presence has lingered ever since we left the Wall. It's ancient, something deeply unsettling. My instincts and abilities are working overtime to shield us from whatever it is that's interfering with our meetings."
Aethan's brow furrowed in concern. "That's troubling. I've seen nothing, nor learned anything, that could explain this. There's no Three-Eyed Raven at this point in time, as you've mentioned in your visions. But, while you were warging, I finally found what we've been searching for. One of my birds tracked down a dozen of them, and in three days, we can move them where we need."
A bloodthirsty grin spread across my face as the good news sank in. "It seems, at last, fate smiles upon us, Aethan. Three days, you say? Plenty of time for me to take control and subdue them. That'll be the perfect moment to confront the enemy army. They won't see it coming."
Aethan grinned as well, a wicked smile that showed exactly why Crannogmen earned the name "bog-devils."
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4 Days Later
The Wildling camp
I could only grin in satisfaction as I gazed upon the sheer destruction before us. The lifeless eyes of dozens of wildlings wandered aimlessly, searching for their fallen comrades and any remaining valuables. They were so focused on their task that they didn't even notice our army observing them from a mere 500 meters away.
"Daemon, how did you accomplish this?" Lyra asked, awe and respect clear in her voice.
I basked in the admiration, not just from her, but from the soldiers as well, all of them looking at me with a newfound reverence.
"Men of North," I began, my voice steady and commanding. "You followed me to this cursed place out of sheer loyalty and love for the Starks. I don't want to see even one more death of a man sworn to House Stark. You marched with me knowing the enemy numbered seven thousand, while we were only a thousand strong. So, I made a vow: the only lives lost would be theirs, not ours. You can now see the enemy army scattered, dying, their camps trampled."
I grinned, and the soldiers began to stir, sensing something in my words.
"And if you're wondering how that happened, you can see the answer grazing the fields at the far right of the enemy camp" I said.
The soldiers looked at the right and saw something in they have only heard stories about.
"Aye, it was a herd of mammoths that trampled these fools. Now, ride in and finish the job." I continued, "Kill anything that moves—there will be no mercy except for a dozen of them. Also look for the fancy tent in the middle of the camp. I made sure the mammoths left it alone. Inside, you'll find Lucamore the Lusty, dead in his bed. Bring me his head."
The soldiers roared in jubilation, charging forward to finish off whatever remained of the wildling army.
Lyra approached me, her curiosity clear. "How did you control the mammoths? It takes time to tame such large, mature beasts. And what about the traitor? How did you kill Lucamore?"
I smirked, offering no clear answer. "I have my secrets, Lyra. Feel free to try and figure them out."
Her only response was a playful punch to my shoulder.
Lyra turned to Aethan. "You tell me," she pressed, a teasing edge in her voice.
Aethan grinned. "Well, he's Daemon Snow, the god-blessed. He has the power to control the mammoths once I found a herd. As for Lucamore..." He trailed off, shrugging. "I'm not entirely sure how that was handled in the night."
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Omniscient POV
Aemon was enthralled by the sight of the sprawling North as he flew to the Wall on Caraxes. Ever since they re-entered the North, Caraxes had been rough and temperamental, influenced by Aemon's own emotions, and the cold didn't help the dragon either. At least the Wolfswood was vast, and the population of wild animals plentiful enough that Caraxes could take out his anger and hunger on some bears and aurochs without taxing House Stark's resources.
Aemon flew over Long Lake,
and as always since his journey to the North, his thoughts were full of Daemon and the prospect of meeting him for the first time. Hearing Daemon acknowledge his grandfather as his own father had been an arrow to Aemon's heart, stirring feelings of anger, disdain, and jealousy. Even now, he didn't know what would happen when he finally saw Daemon. The anger dissolved to nothing as he enjoyed the view of the North, its snow-laden mountains, and lakes from the air. Maybe Caraxes would allow Daemon to ride with him after they burned down whatever paltry wildling army Lucamore the Lusty had gathered. The disgraced knight could beat even Aemon in a spar, but he never intends to even touch the ground before the wildling army is turned to ashes.
===========================
"Prince Aemon, welcome to Castle Black," said Lord Commander Ryswell, bowing in respect as Aemon entered the courtyard. The Lord Commander noted the young prince's facial resemblance to Daemon and sensed the same air of arrogance in his posture, though the bastard's was perhaps even higher than that of the dragon-riding crown prince of the realm. Ryswell would have scoffed at that before, but when all his sources spoke of Daemon slaughtering hundreds, a blur of blood and ancient magic wielded with ice, the young bastard indeed had something to be arrogant about.
'What is a man compared to one who's god-blessed and kills before others even draw their swords?' The Lord Commander Ryswell thought swallowing the feelings of fear.
"I can see you are prepared for something. What is it, and why have you not ventured beyond the Wall to kill the enemy king?" Aemon asked, attempting to smother his anger as he thought of his son leading a paltry force against superior numbers in the harsh lands beyond the Wall.
"My prince, the wildlings have no way through other than crossing this Wall. It is far easier for us to kill them here than to hunt them down in their own lands," Lord Ryswell replied.
"So you allowed an army of 1,000 and my son to cross and hunt 7,000 men you yourself were afraid to face without hiding behind a 700-foot wall?" Aemon's temper rose at the thought of his son in such danger.
"My prince, I had no choice but to allow them passage. Even though I hold superior numbers, I don't want to face your son while he wields Ice. You son has actually earned his moniker of 'Red Death' twice over. The stories of a sword in flames and him being a whirlwind of violence and broken bodies are true. He destroyed an entire castle, venting his wrath upon 500 traitors there. The fire started by his slaughter even melted some portions of The Wall, which was said to be impossible."
"Let us hope they are all well when I catch up to them. I will end this wildling threat immediately. Even snow melts under dragonfire," Aemon replied as Caraxes, who had been lying outside the gates, slowly rose and let out a mighty roar.
Aemon walked back the way he came and climbed into the saddle.
Caraxes looked back at him as if asking what to do. He sent a mental nudge urging the dragon to fly. To maintain their supposed cover of how close a dragon-rider is to their dragon, he called out, "Sōvēs!" in High Valyrian.
Caraxes spread his red wings, and with two powerful flaps, they were half the height of the Wall and hundreds of meters to the south. Aemon almost face-palmed at his dragon's antics, sending a feeling of laughter and an image of reversing their flight and soaring over the Wall.
Yet, for the first time, his dragon outright ignored his order. Caraxes continued flying away from the Wall. Aemon tried to probe the dragon's feelings, but there was only a bone-deep wariness and caution. Deciding to be more forceful, he commanded Caraxes to return to the Wall. They reached the Wall at double its height, but Caraxes moved sideways, beginning to fly west instead. Aemon looked down and understood: his dragon would not cross the Wall's boundary.
He remembered the old tale of how Queen Alysanne's Silverwing refused three times to fly over the Wall. With a sigh of defeat, Aemon ordered Caraxes to return to the Night's Watch.
Upon landing, he met Lord Commander Ryswell, who had been waiting in the courtyard. Aemon guessed the Night's Watch still recalled Silverwing's story.
"How long has it been since my son went beyond the Wall, and is there any chance of catching up with him?"
"No, my prince, it has been six days since Daemon left, and he rejected any scouts. We have rangers stationed near the Wall to report if an army returns, but beyond that, it's not our duty to know their location."
Aemon's temper flared, but he didn't want to cause a scene, knowing the Lord Commander was right.
"I see. Then you will send your fastest rangers to find my son and his men. Though he has inherited the talents of my blood in arms and magic, he's still young to be fighting such numbers in hostile territory. They are to order him to return immediately. Also, arrange for the best tent to be set up outside the gates for myself and my dragon. He is weary and irritable in this cold, and may end up killing your men without my supervision."
Lord Ryswell was angered at the prince's presumption. "I am not under your command an—" he began but was interrupted by the vicious roar of the red-winged beast outside.
Ryswell cursed the thrice-damned abomination of a dragon and its magic as he nodded in reluctant agreement, conceding to Aemon's demands.
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Prince Aemon's time at the Wall was dragging on far longer than he anticipated, his patience waning under the relentless cold and monotony. Each day, he tried in vain to push Caraxes to fly over the Wall, but the red dragon remained steadfast, refusing to cross the ancient barrier. Every failed attempt seemed to gnaw at his pride, and his restlessness deepened. He'd taken to training with some guardsmen from House Umber—rough, towering men from Last Hearth who offered solid practice but little in the way of mental relief. They, along with several other men, had been sent north at his request when he passed through Last Hearth, a precaution he'd considered necessary given his uncertain stay.
On the second day, the trouble began. A pair of men from the Night's Watch, desperate and evidently harboring a vendetta against the crown, tried to ambush him, clearly embittered by their grievances with the royal family. Caraxes, sensing the threat almost before Aemon did, swiftly dealt with them, a ferocious roar echoing across Castle Black. The incident left Aemon unsettled—though the two men hadn't been part of the conspiracy of traitors, their loathing had been palpable. The thought lingered, irritating him like a thorn he couldn't remove.
And then came the dreams. For four nights, Aemon was haunted by visions of confronting Daemon, his estranged son, only for his own pride and anger to unleash dire punishments on Daemon. In one such dream, he witnessed Caraxes lashing out, burning Daemon as he defended himself. In another, Daemon—wielding Ice with a mastery of strange, northern magic—defeated Caraxes and turned on him, ending both dragon and rider with cold fury.
It was the seventh night that marked the breaking point. In his dream, Daemon's face was etched with brutal clarity as he slashed through Caraxes with ease using the Great Sword Ice, leaving Aemon defenseless before striking him down. The dream was vivid enough to enrage Caraxes through his bond; the dragon woke in an uncontrollable fury, lashing out and slaughtering two Night's Watch guards by the gate and nearly bringing down part of the castle itself. It took all of Aemon's skill to calm the irate dragon.
At dawn, Lord Commander Ryswell approached him, seething with anger at the carnage but unable to voice his resentment openly. Aemon, exhausted and haunted by his nightmares, merely brushed off Ryswell's anger. He promised to compensate the Night's Watch with resources and ten prisoners from the crown to join their ranks—a gesture that earned him a bitter nod of acceptance from the Lord Commander.
The following morning, Aemon resolved to leave. He could no longer bear the thought of facing Daemon, his visions gnawing at him as much as his son's palpable absence. He gave Ryswell a final message before his departure.
"When my son returns, he is to take the head of the so-called King Beyond the Wall, along with Ice, and escort them directly to Winterfell. No detours, no other adventures."
Ryswell, stiff but resigned, gave a curt nod. "I will inform him, my prince."
Aemon mounted Caraxes, and with a powerful clap of wings, they soared southward, away from the Wall and his son's shadow.
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Beyond the wall
Daemon Snow
After the slaughter of the wildlings, I allowed dozens to survive to spread word of my name and our deeds. We were now returning to Castle Black. The head of the traitor was preserved, and the army was in high spirits, as no one had lost their life in this mad quest. During this return journey, I took the time to reflect on my actions since the death of my grandfather. I had been hasty in many things, but looking back, I couldn't see any other way to achieve what I wanted.
"Daemon, why are we circling around?" Lyra asked me, riding beside my position at the front of the army. Aethan was at the rear, and the first line of soldiers was out of earshot due to the noise of marching. Ever since the night I became known as the Red Death, Lyra had been trying to stay close to me. We had been close friends ever since our first meeting at Winterfell, and I trusted her to some extent, but I hadn't revealed my more esoteric abilities. When I first met her in the godswood, I felt an immediate crush on her, but it faded within a week. Looking back now, I realized that my powers' control aspect had likely suppressed the feeling, since I had decided not to develop a crush because it was a weakness.
At first, I hadn't noticed her intentions, consumed as I was by grief and focused on vengeance. But now, with time to process things, I could see she might have developed feelings for me. Her new habit of sticking by my side had become a bit of a headache, as I had to censor what I said when I had discussions with Aethan.
"Lyra, let me ask you something. Why have you been staying so close to me since that night? You've been acting oddly and asking many questions."
Lyra looked guilty for a few seconds, and I couldn't understand why.
"Daemon, I want to apologize to you. It was my fault that you lost your grandfather. If my mother hadn't found us—because of my own carelessness—then Lord Stark wouldn't have had to jump in front of those arrows to save you. I'm so sorry, Daemon. I can see how much it affected you, and I feel guilty for the lengths you went to for revenge," Lyra said in a broken voice.
I was taken aback by her conclusion and could see how deeply it was affecting her. I felt ashamed that I had mistaken her caring and guilt for romantic feelings.
"Lyra, that's the most foolish thing I've ever heard," I said seriously.
"What?" Lyra sputtered, utterly confused.
"Do you think I would have hidden that night even if I hadn't been with my grandfather? We were ambushed by crossbowmen, and they weren't there for me. They were after the lords. You had nothing to do with it, Lyra. You aren't responsible for the traitors' actions. They're the ones responsible, and they've paid the price. That's enough."
Lyra looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded, a smile of relief crossing her face.
"You still haven't answered my question, Daemon," she said after a couple of minutes.
I sighed, knowing Lyra was trustworthy and deserved honesty.
"Prince Aemon Targaryen is at Castle Black, waiting for our arrival—or at least for the riders sent by the Night's Watch with his orders for us to return to the other side immediately. I don't want to see him or face a dragon right now. From what I can tell, his patience is thinning every day, and I don't think he volunteered to come north now, after ignoring me all this time."
Lyra grimaced but nodded in understanding.
"Daemon, how long do you intend to linger here? I'm sure the soldiers won't complain, but if your father or the king learns of it, you'll be in more trouble."
"Don't worry too much, Lyra. I'm still just a bastard, not important enough for them to be overly concerned. And there's another reason for our delay. Aethan and I are looking for something," I said with a grin, but I didn't elaborate. Knowing my dramatic streak, Lyra just scoffed and didn't bother to ask further.
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That Night.
The camp was set up for the night, and I was preparing for my own trip. After a long search, my birds had finally spotted my quarry: a pair of direwolves with six pups, likely less than a week old. The wolves were several miles from our path, moving with haste, and I decided to go after them alone.
"Are you sure about this, Daemon?" Aethan asked as I secured a short axe to my belt. Ice was strapped to my back, as I couldn't run or move with it at my hip.
I was silent for a moment before answering. "I'm hesitant to approach fully grown direwolves, Aethan, but this is an opportunity I can't pass up. With my warging and other skills, I should be able to escape if they turn hostile."
Aethan scrutinized me. "Well, I'll keep my eyes on you anyway."
I nodded in thanks.
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I sighed in relief as the water satisfied my thirst and calmed my panting from the run. The initial plan was to use my horse, but nighttime posed a major problem. Under the full moon's glow, with my improved night vision, I had no trouble crossing the land on foot. I ate the dried meat and gulped down water to easily replenish my strength, feeling my enhanced body processing the food faster than was normally possible.
Using my warging abilities, I observed the pair of direwolves, 200 meters ahead, just outside a cave through the eyes of an owl. Both direwolves were tense, growling at the cave's entrance and glancing around in vigilance. The male was as large as my horse, with far more muscle on his frame. The female, though shorter, was nearly as tall as my horse back in camp. Between them stood six pups, trying to mimic their parents' growls, though they could barely manage a weak rumble.
I wondered what had them on edge and considered whether they'd already sensed me. Expanding my warging, I scanned the area and detected nine presences. One animal was inside the cave—a bear, from what I could gather through my hesitant prodding. I tensed immediately; even fully grown direwolves would struggle to protect their pups and kill a cave bear simultaneously. As my awareness expanded further, I felt the presence observing me ever since I crossed the wall, growing stronger as I reached out. I fortified my defenses, ensuring it would gather no secrets from my mind.
Deciding that openness was better than stealth, I leapt down from the tree. The male direwolf's head whipped in my direction, and he growled a warning. I withdrew my mind from all my birds and extended it to connect with both direwolves. I projected warmth, kinship, and respect, though they remained wary and continued to growl.
Raising my hands to show they were empty, I cautiously approached. I was halfway there when suddenly, I tripped and fell, feeling something latch onto my left leg from behind.
I looked back and screamed like a little girl for a second as I saw a rotted hand holding my left leg, exerting an unnatural strength for such a thin limb.
"Fuck this shit!" I yelled, using all my strength to kick at the hand with my right leg. Even as the hand broke away from the main body of the wight rising from beneath the snow, it remained firmly grasping my leg, trying to pierce my flesh with sheer strength alone. The grip and sharp bones could have easily pierced a normal man's skin, but my own durability had increased, preventing it from achieving that now.
The snow I walked through was moving and wiggling as wights emerged from the ground. For a moment, I froze as the raw necromantic magic hit my senses like a giant's fist, and my innate learning talent went into overdrive, absorbing information from the wights.
I may have seen many zombies on screens in my previous life, but there was something inherently disturbing about seeing a live one in front of me. I hoped my scream and freezing moment hadn't been caught by Aethan through his birds.
I immediately crawled a couple of meters backward, faster than I thought possible, then jumped back at the end, putting even more distance between me and the wights. I scanned the area for the white walker leading them and spotted an ethereal being of ice observing us from the other side of the clearing through which I had come.
I took two more steps backward, but my concentration on the wights was interrupted by a growl. I glanced back in surprise and realized I had entered the direwolf's lunging range; it was warning me to stay away while tensing its muscles for a leap.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I snarled back at the wolf, flaring my presence with killing intent consciously for the first time to ensure the wolf wouldn't attack me from behind. "These dead fuckers are hunting you and your pack. I'm trying to protect you." The male direwolf looked afraid for a moment and turned its eyes toward the wights, ignoring me.
I saw a hundred wights—made from men and women—eerily observing us with absolute stillness and silence. Even the cold wind of the night had died down, and the creatures of the night had long since fallen silent. The blue light of their eyes was truly chilling, sending a shiver down my spine as I imagined millions of these abominations staring at me before an attack. I immediately shrugged off that vision and readied my axe, preparing to test the abilities of these wights. I thanked my younger self for training my speed so much, knowing I could always escape by running away. I was confident enough in my skills and powers to avoid using Ice immediately and test the wights' capabilities. I would have grabbed two pups and run away if Ice had not been with me.
"Yeah, whatever. This staring is getting boring," I snapped, taking my axe and walking forward. "Let's dance."
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It had been only five minutes since my battle with the wights began, and I immediately noticed the differences between these wights and the cannon ones.
For one, these wights could heal any damage to their undead bodies—not catastrophic damage like losing a body part, but any slash or blunt force was healing slowly. Luckily they retained every damage they accrued before being turned to a wight. Second, surprisingly, there was coordination among the wights as they attacked from all sides. Only my superior speed allowed me to jump away or escape the traps set by the wights. The third thing I noticed was that each wight had retained the skills they possessed in life. Their attacks weren't just indifferent flails; they had a basic level of skill. Fourth, I learned that decapitation or damaging the heart or brain didn't stop the body from moving.
I had dismembered over a quarter of the wights when The Other moved toward me from the clearing. It was fast, and an ice sword appeared in its hand, adding cryomancy to the list of Other's abilities. It moved with supernatural grace and I transferred the axe to my left hand while my right hand grasped Ice's hilt.
It was faster than even Bennard and I immediately understood that only skilled fighters with experience could actually defeat an Other even with Valyrian Steel in their hands unless they have enhanced body like me.
The axe met the slash of the ice sword, and the steel shattered like glass. I leaned back to avoid a leftward slash from the ice sword. The returning slash was blocked by the Valyrian steel in Ice, and the Other widened its eyes in pure surprise. Capitalizing on the moment, I extended Ice and stabbed it through the other's stomach. The sword exited through the back, severing its spine, and it fell to the ground with a screech that almost made me deaf.
I took two steps backward, expecting the Other to shatter like in canon, but was surprised to see it not shatter. It yelled in a cold tongue as the gaping hole in its stomach stopped widening. Immediately, all the wights' bodies fell down as I felt enormous magical energy being siphoned to the Other itself.
Curious to see what would happen, I watched as the gaping hole in its stomach slowly closed while the bodies of the wights turned to ashes. Cursing my luck for having wights and others with a small healing factor, I pierced the heart of the other with my Valyrian steel, and surprisingly this time, it shattered like brittle glass. Only my control talent made me not panic as I realised that I have to defeat, possibly millions of wights with healing factor.
I sighed as tiredness enveloped me after the events. I turned back toward the direwolves when suddenly, the presence that had observed me the moment I entered this side of the Wall surged all around me. I felt the cold hands of The Other enveloping my head from behind, and I sensed my mind palace, Winterfell's defenses, shattering like glass as the mind entered my consciousness, trying to subjugate me. I lost control of my physical body as my entire will fought against the invading force. I fell to the ground as the other's hand touched my head, and my grip on Ice's hilt loosened.
I understood that the presence overwhelming me was the Night King, using greenseeing and his own minion to directly attack me from his fortress in the Lands of Always winter. I had only ever felt such an attack in my mind once before, when Balerion The Black Dread invaded my thoughts during my vision. The Night King kept shattering every defense I raised. The hundred-foot black walls of my Winterfell mind palace crumbled as ice and snow began to cover the entire castle. My bonds with my animals severed as my mind cracked under the superior power. The weirwood in the heart of Winterfell started rotting, and the blurry dragon nearby went into hibernation due to the cold.
"No!" I yelled as my mind tried to fight back, but the pressure was overwhelming. My talent grasped many things while I defended myself, but even that wasn't enough to overcome this assault. As my own talent picked the skill of forcing oneself to another beings mind from this assault, using my entire will for a single heartbeat I retaliated, my will slipped into the ancient entity's outer mind, and I felt millions of connections to its consciousness. While I had many animals I used, it was just a drop in the ocean compared to the countless connections the Night King had forged with his subordinates through his mind and body, all interconnected like weirwood network and feeding their powers to it. I understood that the stategy of killing off the head of the snake and the army will crumple will be useless in this world.
The difference in experience and the bonds of the Night King were immense, and I was immediately repelled backward. That was an opening for the Night King, and I felt my mind shredding under the pressure. The first tower, walls of first keep shattered and I finally understood that this might be the end of my life.
Then, the Night King made a mistake in his haste to subjugate me.
Just then, I was suddenly pierced by an ice sword from behind. The coldness and pain made my body react, and I regained a flicker of physical control. With immense strain, I tried to grasp Ice. By luck, my hand was not near the hilt but at the sharp Valyrian steel edge. My palm was slashed open, and the pain grounded me further in reality. Blood fell onto the Valyrian steel, and I grasped the sword by its sharp edge. With a yell that defied the power threatening to gain full control of my mind and body, I used the most basic magic I had learned in this life: I ignited my blood, and the sword was engulfed in flames.
The flames of the sword gave me a sudden strength as I grabbed it and rolled on the ground, while slashing with all my strength. I saw my attacker, it was the other shattered earlier that had reformed haphazardly. The Ice went through its hips bisecting it and it caught fire.
For a moment, the Night King—a being of ice for 8,000 years—felt heat and fire and withdrew from controlling my body and mind in reflex. The pressure came back on my mind but it was lessened drastically as one of the connections through which the Night King attacked me directly was cleansed by fire powered by my blood. Only the shattered state of my mind defense gave it any hope for accomplishing it's goal.
Suddenly, an insane idea struck me. I slashed both of my palms open as I crawled toward the fire and lay down among the flames. The fire grew hotter as it fed on my blood.
Again the fire made the Night King withdraw in reflex and it was the only second I needed.
As I lay there, my mind conjured the firewall I had encountered in Balerion's mind around Winterfell in my consciousness. The black walls of Winterfell were remade in seconds, and the outer walls were enveloped in fire. The mind version of Winterfell had been completely buried under ice and snow by that time, but the sudden appearance of the firewall and the loss of direct power from the Night King caused the snow to start melting immediately. I knew the Night King would come back any moment, as he was on the cusp of victory—and I was not wrong.
Overwhelming pressure surged and entered my mind, but this time I was prepared. The firewall made a difference, and having the flaming Ice bonded to me was a huge advantage. As the Night King couldn't overwhelm the fire I copied from Balerion, he retreated, and I knew I had won,only because he didn't have direct contact with me the second time.
I lay in the fire and removed the crystal ice sword that was still pierced in my stomach, throwing it far away. I sensed necromantic energy and ice magic trying to destroy my body from within. With no other choice, I took the still flaming Ice and pierced the spot where the thin ice sword had entered me. I felt nothing as the flesh around was almost killed by frostbite, immediately, the fire cleansed the necromantic and death magic, but Ice, being a ridiculously large sword, left a huge wound in my stomach.
I crawled outside of the fire and lay in the cold snow to cool off from the heat of the flames. The magical nature of the fire had burned me in many areas, even with my enhanced fire resistance. I saw the direwolves approaching me, and I tried to sit up to defend myself if needed, but the movement made me faint from exhaustion.
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