Winterfell, The North.
Heavy rain lashed against the ancient stone walls of Winterfell.
Water streamed down the rocks piled by the First Men thousands of years ago, cascading into the moats and reflecting the flickering orange glow of the watchtowers.
Winterfell, the capital of the North, sat atop a vast and cruel land.
The North occupied nearly a third of Westeros, stretching from the Gift to the Neck, from the Shivering Sea to the Stony Shore.
Yet the population was sparse, scattered across icy hills, deep forests, and windswept coasts.
The Northmen were the descendants of the First Men.
They worshipped the Old Gods, carving faces into heart trees and listening to the whispers of nature in the depths of the forests.
This bitter land bred a resilient people, taciturn, honorable, and holding oaths dearer than life.
Before the Conquest, whenever a long winter approached, the old veterans of the North would form the "Winter Wolves," marching south from Moat Cailin to die in battle, ensuring the young had enough food to survive the frost.
They were fierce, grim, and straightforward. They did not fear death; they only feared the cold creeping into the bones of their kin.
After Aegon the Conqueror unified the Seven Kingdoms, he decreed that during the Long Winter, the Crown would call upon the southern realms to assist the North.
But the true shield of this land had always been House Stark.
They had ruled as Kings in the North for five thousand years, never amassing the mountains of gold found in the South.
Winterfell's vaults were often empty because every coin was traded for grain, fur, and firewood to be distributed when the snows fell.
To the Northmen, a Stark was not just a ruler; they were the fire in the winter, the hope in the dark.
The word of a Stark was the law of the North.
Inside the Great Hall, the oak logs in the hearth crackled and popped.
Daemon Targaryen unfastened his heavy, rain-soaked cloak and tossed it to a nearby servant.
His dark-red leather armor shimmered like blood in the firelight, and the three-headed dragon sigil embroidered in gold on his chest looked life-like.
Rainwater dripped from the tips of his silver hair.
Cregan Stark, the eighteen-year-old Lord of Winterfell, sat upon the high seat, a chair carved from a single block of weirwood, its surface worn smooth by the Kings of Winter over millennia.
It was draped in the pelt of a massive direwolf, its grey-white head resting atop the back of the chair.
Cregan had the long face, grey eyes, and dark brown hair characteristic of his House.
Beside him stood Maester Kennet, his white beard contrasting with his heavy chain of office.
His eyes, which had witnessed decades of Northern snows, carefully studied the visiting Prince.
"The Prince has traveled far, and the North should welcome him as a guest," Cregan began, his voice low but clear enough to cut through the sound of the rain.
"But to be blunt, I fear you have come for nothing."
Daemon narrowed his eyes. He was forty-four now, with fine lines of age at the corners of his eyes.
He scanned the hall, looking at the portraits of Stark lords, kings who fought the Others in the Long Night, and the King Who Knelt to Aegon the Conqueror.
"Disappointment?" Daemon chuckled, walking toward the hearth to warm his hands.
"I haven't even spoken, yet the Lord of Winterfell knows what I intend to say?"
"The whole realm knows," Cregan said calmly.
"The hunt in Blackwater Bay. The fall of Driftmark. The bloodbath at Dragonstone. Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey... I was inspecting the granaries by the Long Lake, preparing for winter, when the ravens brought the news. By the Old Gods, may those Velaryon boys find peace."
Daemon turned, his voice turning icy.
"Velaryon? Those boys were the children of Princess Rhaenyra, to whom you once swore fealty. Now they are slaughtered, and you stay silent out of fear of the Greens?"
Cregan remained silent for a moment. A log snapped in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks upward.
"Even so, kinslaying is a grave sin," he said slowly.
"The laws of the Old Gods are written on the weirwoods and carved into the hearts of the First Men. He who sheds the blood of his kin is cursed."
"The Old Gods?" Daemon smiled with his characteristic arrogance.
"Do you know what blood meant in Valyria? It meant the purity of power. Brother against brother? Father against son? It was commonplace in the Freehold. The dragon does not recognize weakness; it only follows strength."
Maester Kennet cleared his throat.
"Prince Daemon, this is the North. The Lord follows traditions thousands of years old. Oaths and blood ties are sacred here."
"So you would rather swear fealty to the Greens?" Daemon took a step forward.
"My brother, King Viserys, lies in his chambers, drugged and senile. Every decree comes from the hand of Queen Alicent and her son, Aemond. Do you serve the King, or the Greens who control him?"
The hall fell silent, save for the wind whistling through the ancient stones. Cregan exhaled, his breath a visible mist even in the summer.
"I received a raven from King's Landing not long ago," he said slowly.
"The parchment bore the King's seal. The wax was marked with the three-headed dragon. It bore the signature of the Queen Regent. The letter stated that Jacaerys and his brothers violated the King's command, stole dragons, and intended treason. Procedurally, everything is in order."
"Procedurally?" Daemon nearly laughed.
"A fine word! Tell me, did you see Viserys write that letter? Did you hear him give the command? Or do you accept anything that bears a seal? My brother hasn't been seen in public for half a year!"
Cregan's grey eyes sharpened. "Prince, you are accusing the Queen Regent of forging royal decrees."
"I am accusing them of imprisoning the King and murdering their own kin!" Daemon's voice rose.
"Aemond Targaryen bathed Driftmark in blood. He plundered the Velaryon legacy. Now he has taken Dragonstone. Did the King authorize any of this?"
Cregan lowered his gaze. He had heard the rumors, from merchant caravans crossing the Neck, from rangers, and from singers in the inns.
King's Landing had changed; it was orderly in a way. The internal strife of the Targaryens had turned bloody.
"Even so," the young Lord looked up, staring into the rain outside.
"Prince Aegon is the King's formally declared heir. That is a fact, Prince."
"Because my brother was ill!" Daemon spat.
"Alicent and Aemond blinded him! We believed their promises of peace, those hollow promises stained with the blood of Rhaenyra's sons!"
Maester Kennet spoke softly.
"Prince, these are internal matters of House Targaryen..."
"No!" Daemon cut him off, facing the Maester with violet eyes burning like dragonfire.
"This concerns the future of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Cregan stood up. He was tall, and at eighteen, he already carried the weight and majesty of a Warden of the North.
"And what of you, Prince Daemon?" He looked Daemon in the eye.
"How many captives did you slaughter in the Stepstones because you were angry? Men call you the 'Lord of Flea Bottom'; it is not a title of endearment. And the rumors... they say you murdered two of your wives. They say you had Laenor Velaryon killed so you could marry the Princess. You looted merchant ships in the East; some even speak of the slave trade. To my eyes, you and that kinslayer in the south are not so different."
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