Heavy rain battered the ancient stone walls of Winterfell. Water ran down the rocks laid by the First Men thousands of years ago, pooling into muddy puddles at the base of the walls, reflecting the flickering torchlight atop the battlements.
Winterfell, the seat of the North, stood upon this vast and unforgiving land.
The North occupied nearly a third of the continent of Westeros, stretching from the Gift to the Neck, from the Shivering Sea to the western coast.
Yet the climate was harsh. When the long winter came, ice and snow would seal the land for years on end.
The population here was sparse—only a million souls in total—scattered across frozen hills, deep forests, and wind-lashed shores.
The people of the North were descendants of the First Men. They worshipped the old gods, carving faces into weirwoods and listening to the whispers of nature in the depths of the forests.
This bitter land bred a hardy people. They were taciturn, valued honor, and held their oaths dearer than their lives.
Before the War of Conquest, whenever the long winter descended, the old soldiers of the North would form "winter wolf" warbands and ride south from Moat Cailin to raid.
These aged warriors, in order to let their younger kin survive the winter, fought like berserkers, fearless of death.
Their brutality was tempered by the blunt sincerity unique to the North.
They did not fear death—only that hunger and cold might cling to their families.
After Aegon the Conqueror unified the Seven Kingdoms, as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, he decreed that whenever the long winter came, House Targaryen would call upon the six southern kingdoms to aid the North.
But what truly sustained this land through countless winters was House Stark.
They had ruled as kings in the North for five thousand years, yet never amassed the mountains of gold and silver that southern lords possessed.
The coffers of Winterfell were often empty, for every coin had been exchanged for grain, furs, and firewood, distributed to the people when winter fell.
In the hearts of the Northmen, the Starks were not distant rulers. They were the fire in the cold, the hope in despair.
A Stark's word was the law of the North.
Inside the great hall of the keep, oak logs crackled in the hearth.
Daemon Targaryen removed his rain-soaked heavy cloak and tossed it aside to a servant.
His dark red leather armor gleamed like blood under the firelight, the three-headed dragon embroidered in gold thread upon his chest vivid and lifelike.
Water dripped from the tips of his silver hair.
Eighteen-year-old Cregan Stark sat upon the high seat. It was carved from a single weirwood trunk, worn into deep grooves by the kings of the North who had sat upon it through the ages. Now it was draped with the full pelt of a direwolf, grey-white fur, the wolf's head resting atop the back of the chair.
The young lord bore the Stark look: a long face, grey eyes, and dark brown hair.
At his side stood Maester Roderick, his hair and beard white with age. The chain at his neck clinked softly as his eyes—tempered by decades of northern winds and snow—studied the visiting prince.
"Prince, you have come from afar. The North ought to receive you with the courtesy due a guest," Cregan said, his voice not loud, yet clear enough to cut through the sound of the rain outside.
"But forgive me for speaking plainly—this journey of yours will likely be in vain."
Daemon narrowed his eyes. He was four-and-forty; time had carved fine lines at the corners of his eyes as his gaze swept slowly across the hall.
Portraits of past Lords Stark hung upon the walls—kings who had fought the Others in the Long Night, kings of the North who had bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror in the age of conquest.
Banners hung from above, the direwolf on grey stirring faintly in the drafts that passed through the hall.
"Disappointed?" Daemon let out a soft laugh as he walked toward the hearth and held out his hands to the fire. "I have yet to speak, and already you know what I would say, my lord?"
"All the Seven Kingdoms know," Cregan replied evenly.
"The hunt in Blackwater Bay, the fall of Driftmark, the bloodshed at Dragonstone."
"Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey…"
"When I received the raven bearing the ill news, I was by Long Lake inspecting the granaries, preparing for the long winter."
"By the old gods, may these Valyrian youths rest in peace."
Daemon turned, his voice turning cold.
"Valyrian?"
"These boys were the sons of Princess Rhaenyra, whom you once swore to serve. And now they die, and none can say how?"
"And you would hold your tongue, fearing the power of the Greens?"
Cregan fell silent for a moment. A log in the hearth burst apart, sending sparks into the air.
"Even so, kinslaying remains a grave sin," he said slowly.
"The laws of the old gods are carved upon the weirwoods, etched into the hearts of the First Men."
"Those who shed their own blood shall be cursed."
"The old gods?" Daemon laughed, arrogance plain in the sound.
"Lord Cregan, do you know what blood meant in Valyria before its Doom? It meant the purity of power within the bloodline."
"Brothers killing brothers? Fathers slaying sons? Such things were common in the Freehold."
"For dragons do not abide weakness—dragons follow strength alone."
Maester Roderick cleared his throat, his chain rattling softly.
"Your Highness, this is the North."
"My lord follows the traditions of the First Men, passed down for thousands of years—honoring oaths and the bonds of blood."
"So you would sooner swear to the Greens?" Daemon stepped forward. "Viserys the First—my brother—now lies in his chambers in the Red Keep, drugged, kept in a haze day and night."
"All decrees now come from Queen Alicent and her son, Aemond."
"Do you swear to the king upon the Iron Throne—or to the Greens who hold him in their grasp?"
Silence fell across the hall. Only the rain striking the stone windows, the wind wailing through ancient cracks, and the steady crackle of the fire remained.
Cregan exhaled a breath of white mist; the chill of the North never truly left, even in the height of summer.
"Not long ago, I received a raven from King's Landing," he said slowly.
"The letter bore the king's seal, the wax marked with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen."
"It bore the signature of the Queen Regent, written in a steady hand."
"It said that the three brothers—Jacaerys and the others—had defied royal command, stolen royal dragons, and intended treason."
"In form, everything was in order."
"In form?" Daemon nearly laughed.
"Well said—'in form.'"
"Tell me, that letter—did you see Viserys write it with your own eyes?"
"Did you hear him give the order?"
"Or is the king's seal enough for you to accept all without question?"
"Viserys—my brother!"
"For more than half a year, he has not shown himself before the realm!"
Cregan's grey eyes sharpened.
"Prince, you accuse the Queen Regent of forging the king's will."
"I accuse them of confining the king and butchering their own blood!" Daemon's voice rose sharply.
"Aemond Targaryen—he slaughtered Driftmark and stripped House Velaryon of a century's wealth!"
"And now he has taken Dragonstone."
"Which of these acts was done with the king's leave?"
He drew a breath, forcing himself to calm.
Cregan lowered his gaze.
Of course he had heard these rumors—from merchants crossing the Neck, from northern rangers who had gone south and returned, from wandering singers who sang of tragedy in taverns.
News from the Seven Kingdoms always reached Winterfell. Though distance might twist and blur it, the core seldom changed.
King's Landing had already changed beyond recognition. The strife within House Targaryen had been stained with blood.
"Even so," the young lord said, lifting his head, his gaze passing beyond Daemon to the torrential rain outside, "Prince Aegon was the heir publicly declared by the king."
"That is a fact, Prince."
"That was because my brother was already gravely ill!" Daemon snapped.
"He was deceived by Alicent and Aemond!"
"We believed their promises of peace as well—those false promises, drenched in the blood of Rhaenyra's three sons!"
Maester Roderick spoke softly, his tone calm yet rational.
"Your Highness, this remains an internal matter of House Targaryen—"
"No!" Daemon cut him off, turning to face the maester, his violet eyes burning in the firelight. "This concerns the future of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Cregan rose to his feet.
He was tall; though only eighteen, he already bore the authority of the Warden of the North.
"And you, Prince Daemon?" he said, meeting Daemon's gaze without retreat.
"In the Stepstones, when anger took you, how many prisoners did you slaughter?"
"They call you the Prince of the Narrow Sea, the Lord of Flea Bottom—these are no honors."
"And there are rumors…"
"That you slew your wife."
"Laenor Velaryon had only just died, and you wed Princess Rhaenyra. People say you had him killed."
"In your youth, you campaigned in the east, raided merchant ships—some speak even of slave-taking."
"These rumors have reached the North as well."
"In my eyes, you are little different from the kinslayer."
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