The lord's stutter seemed to break the frozen tableau, but the silence that followed was just as heavy. The only sound was the wind whipping across the courtyard and the low, rumbling breath of the dragon at his back.
Aegon's gaze swept over the stunned faces before settling back on Lord Rickon. He offered a slight smile. "My apologies for the dramatic entrance, Lord Stark. After such a long journey, I thought it best to… expedite the landing."
Lord Rickon Stark was a man carved from northern granite, and Aegon watched the discipline of a lifetime, war with primal, gut-deep shock. The Lord of Winterfell took a sharp, steadying breath, the cold air hissing between his teeth. "No apology is needed, my prince," he managed, his voice finding its familiar rumble. "Winterfell is yours." The traditional words sounded newly profound.
Rickon's eyes flickered past Aegon to the immense size of Dreamfyre, her heat a forge-blast in the frigid air. He seemed to remember himself, his duties and gestured with a broad, calloused hand toward the Great Hall. "Please. The warmth of the hearth is a better welcome than this courtyard's wind."
Aegon gave a gracious nod. He fell into step beside the Lord of Winterfell, the crowd of guards and servants parting before them, while the family followed behind. As he walked, he shared a silent command with Dreamfyre. A low, understanding rumble vibrated through her scales, and she settled more deeply into her resting position against the walls.
The cold gave way to heat in an instant. The Great Hall's fire burned hot and close. Aegon shrugged off his fur cloak and passed it to a servant, who bowed low, hands trembling as he received it.
Lord Rickon stopped in the center of the hall, the firelight dancing on the faces of his family, who fell into a silent, expectant semi-circle. The formality felt fragile, a thin veneer over rampant curiosity and disbelief.
"My family," Rickon said, his voice pulling Aegon's attention to the group before him.
He started with his wife, a young woman of quiet, composed beauty. "My wife, Lady Gilliane."
She was young, her youth a stark contrast to her husband's weathered presence, with soft brown hair braided neatly beneath a simple net. Her hands clasped tightly before her.
Gilliane offered a deep, graceful curtsy. "My prince," she said, her voice soft but clear. "We are honored by your presence."
Aegon inclined his head politely. "The honor is mine, my lady. Your welcome is warmer than I expected to find in the North."
Rickon continued, his gaze moving to his brother. "My brother, Bennard, his wife, Lady Margaret, and their sons." He listed them like a roll call. "Benjen, Brandon, Elric."
Each boy bowed stiffly as named. Benjen, the eldest, with a serious, forced poise. Brandon, his eyes burning with unspoken questions, his bow too quick. Elric, the youngest, who was still staring openly until his father's subtle nudge brought him back to reality.
Aegon's eyes met each of theirs in turn, his smile a hint of amusement.
Bennard Stark shared the same brown hair and rugged, weathered features as his brother, though his hair was longer and tied back. He was taller, and his stillness had a watchful, assessing quality.
Aegon's attention shifted to Lady Margaret.
She shared a similar age and composure to Lady Gilliane, her brown hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her eyes held a sharper, more curious light as she studied him.
Rickon ended the introductions with the last member. "...And our ward, Orren Cerwyn."
A step away stood a boy who was not a Stark, his hair a shade lighter. He held himself with a nervous stiffness, his gaze flicking between Aegon and Lord Rickon.
At his introduction, Orren bowed so deeply he nearly stumbled. "Prince Aegon," he mumbled, his face flushing.
Aegon returned with a smile. "A pleasure, Orren"
Although everyone tried to keep their composure, they simply couldn't after what they had just witnessed. It was only a lifetime of drilled etiquette that held them back from complete disarray.
"I-it's been a while since anyone has seen a dragon in the North.", said Bennard. He seemed to be choosing his words with care. "Especially…one so large."
Aegon chuckled softly. "Yes, Dreamfyre is almost as big as Vermithor now."
Bennard raised an eyebrow. "Vermithor? You mean King Jaehaerys's dragon?" The name of Jaehaerys's mount was a legend, a measurement of power itself.
Aegon nodded with a faint smile. "The very same."
Bernard was about to continue when Brandon, who couldn't contain himself any longer, interrupted.
"The fire wings!" he blurted out. "You were falling, and then…" He trailed off as Benjen elbowed him sharply in the ribs, shooting him a warning look.
A small chuckle escaped from Aegon's lips. "A useful trick for a dismount. I find it makes an impression."
"You… you certainly did," Lady Margaret said, finding her voice. It was melodic, though it trembled a little. "We had heard tales of Valyrian magic, but to see it…" She took a deep breath, as if trying to calm her restlessness.
Aegon smiled plainly. "Stories often fail to capture the truth of things."
Lady Gilliane smoothly stepped forward next with a soft cough, reclaiming her role as the lady of the castle. "The truth, for now, Prince Aegon, is that you must be weary from your journey. These mysteries can keep until you've had a chance to refresh yourself." She offered a gracious smile to her family before turning back to him. "Allow me to show you to your chambers. A proper luncheon will be ready within the hour." Her offer was a rescue, a return to the familiar script of hospitality when magic had torn the script to shreds.
"That would be most welcome, my lady," Aegon replied politely.
Lady Gilliane offered a small, knowing smile to her family, gesturing subtly for them to compose themselves, before turning gracefully toward the corridor.
As he followed her out of the hall, he didn't need to look back to feel it, the weight of their collective gaze: a mixture of shock, awe, and a deep, simmering curiosity that had only just begun to burn.
Meanwhile, the rest of Winterfell had erupted into low voices and hurried motion.
In the kitchens, the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air. Pots boiled over. A scullion boy burst in from the yard with a slopping bucket, water splashing over the stone.
"He jumped," he choked out. "Off the dragon's back. Like he was dropping from a horse."
The head cook rounded on him, ready to scold, then stopped. The flagstones beneath her feet were still faintly trembling from the roar that had shaken the whole keep. She rubbed her flour-dusted hands on her apron, her face pale.
"Off the back?" she repeated. "You're sure of that?"
"I saw it," the boy said, wide-eyed. "There was fire around him. Like… like it held him up."
The cook let out a slow breath. "Gods be good," she muttered, and for once she didn't tell him to get back to work.
Up in the weaving room, the looms sat idle. Half-finished work hung where it had been dropped. The women had crowded to the narrow windows, pressing shoulders for a better view into the courtyard below.
From there they could see the dragon.
She lay across most of the yard in front of the Great Hall, a massive blue shape, wings half-folded, tail curled along the inner wall. Snow had already melted around her in wet patches. Steam rose in little bursts every time she breathed.
"I remember my mother talking about this," one of the older women said, voice quiet. "When the king and his queen flew north. I wasn't born yet."
"She's larger than they said," another answered, almost under her breath.
No one argued. They only watched. Every time the dragon shifted, every head flinched the same inch.
In the stables, the horses were restless. Hooves rang on stone; heads tossed; white breath burst in quick, nervous clouds. The boys working there moved from stall to stall with soft voices and careful hands.
"Easy," one murmured to a sweating gelding. "Easy now. She's not coming in here."
A second boy, still peering through the half-open door toward the yard, swallowed. "She's near as big as the hall," he said. "Her head alone…"
"Keep your voice down," the older stablehand muttered. "You'll scare them worse." "I'm already scared worse," the boy whispered back, but he started rubbing the gelding's neck all the same.
On the battlements, two guards stood with their spears in hand, cloaks snapping in the wind. From that height, they could see the dragon fully, wings folded like great sails, tail coiled, her body rising and falling slow with each breath. Heat shimmered above her back.
"Right over us," the younger guard said quietly. "I could feel it when she passed. Like standing too close to a forge."
The older man's jaw worked. "Aye," he said. "Last time I saw a dragon, I wasn't yet a man grown. King Jaehaerys brought his to Winterfell. Thought I'd never see the like again."
The younger hesitated. "And the boy… did you see him? The way he came down?"
"Aye. I saw." The older guard's voice was low now. "Fire all around him, spreading like wings. Gods help us, I thought he'd burn before he touched the ground. The tales were true… pyromancy."
The younger shot him a sidelong look. "Do you think he'll burn us?"
"If he meant to burn us," the older replied, "we'd not be standing here asking it."
Outside the walls, in the winter town, work had all but stopped. Smiths stood in their aprons, iron cooling on their anvils. Women came out onto stoops with their sleeves still rolled. Children huddled behind them, peeking.
From there, they couldn't see the whole of the dragon, only the rise of a great blue wing and the slow coil of a tail above the inner wall. But they could hear her… a deep, rolling sound that carried even across the snow and empty road.
"I'll be damned," one man said, voice low. "Thought I'd die never seeing one."
"Are they all that big?"
"No," the older man said. "Not this big."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, little by little, life began to move again. A woman pulled her child back inside. A smith went back to his anvil. A pair of boys ran off at a dead sprint, shouting to anyone who'd listen what they'd seen.
But the talk didn't die. Every doorway, every lane, every warm room in Winterfell and the town below carried the same words now:
A dragon. A pyromancer. Here. In Winterfell.
The chamber stank of blood and tallow smoke. Frantic candlelight guttered against damp stone walls, the shadows dancing like mad things. In the center of the room, a man was strung up on a crude wooden cross, his arms pulled taut.
He was a peasant, his frame once sturdy from a life of labor, now broken and trembling. His face was a mess of tears, snot, and sweat, his sobs echoing in the confined space. Hic... sob... please...
Schlick. Thwip.
The sound was wet and precise. A strip of flesh, pink and raw, peeled away from his back with a sickening tear. The peasant screamed, a raw, guttural sound that was half-prayer, half-animal agony.
Standing before him, a middle-aged man in a fine, dark leather tunic worked with a small, sharp knife. His face was long and pale, his eyes the colour of a winter sky, and a nonchalant smile played upon his thin lips. He didn't seem to hear the screams as cries of pain, but rather as a pleasing melody.
"Shhh, now," the flayer murmured, his voice a soft, chilling contrast to the violence of his hands. "The price for tardiness must be paid. A lesson must be learned."
"Please, m'lord... I'll get the coin... I swear it... my boy..." the peasant begged, his words slurring together in a desperate litany.
"Your boy?" The flayer paused, tilting his head as if considering an interesting thought. "Ah, yes. The little one with the straw-colored hair. He and your wife came to the gates yesterday. Such pitiful wailing. 'Have you seen my husband?' Alas," he said, leaning closer, his breath a ghost against the peasant's ear, "they will not find you here."
A fresh wave of despair broke over the peasant, and his cries deepened, becoming those of a man whose soul is being shredded.
"Do not trouble yourself over them," the flayer continued, resuming his work with a gentle, almost loving precision. Skritch. Thwip. "If they should fail in their obligations next season... well, they will simply follow you. A family should be together, don't you think?"
The peasant's body convulsed, his screams dissolving into broken, hopeless whimpers. The flayer paid no heed, his wintery eyes focused on the intricate map of pain he was carving.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was firm and out of place. The flayer's smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of displeasure.
A voice, muffled but respectful, came from the other side of the heavy oak door. "Lord Bolton? It is time for supper."
The flayer sighed, a sound of genuine irritation. He laid the bloody tip of his knife gently against the peasant's quivering cheek. "Supper time. But do not fear," he whispered, his voice dripping with reassurance. "We are far from finished. I will return shortly. We have so much more... to discuss."
He walked to the door and opened it just enough to reveal the stern face of his trusted retainer. The man's eyes did not stray into the room.
"Apply the honey and woundwort to his back," Lord Bolton instructed, his tone now all business. "I do not wish for him to die before we are done. It would be a waste."
"Yes, my lord."
Without a backward glance, Lord Bolton stepped out, closing the door on the muffled sobs. He ascended a narrow, winding staircase of dark stone. As he climbed, the flickering light from a sconce above fell upon a banner hanging on the wall: a pallid, pink figure stretched in agony upon a blood-red saltire.
The Flayed Man of House Bolton.
***
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