Winterfell, The Great Hall.
A dangerous smile played on Daemon's lips, and his hand rested firmly on the hilt of Dark Sister.
Maester Kennet stepped forward quickly, his chains clinking.
"My Lords, I beg of you, maintain the peace of the hall. Remember the laws of hospitality..."
Daemon released the hilt and suddenly laughed, a sound of genuine, if grim, appreciation.
"Good. A true Stark," he said, shaking his head.
"At least you have the courage to speak the truth to my face, unlike the curs who only whisper slanders behind my back."
He walked to the long table, where a pitcher of warmed ale and several clay cups sat. He poured himself a cup and drained it in one go.
"You are right, Lord Cregan," Daemon said, wiping his mouth.
"Some of us Targaryens are exactly as you describe. Proud, volatile, mad, and viewing rules as nothing. Maegor was so. I am so. And now, Aemond is even more so."
"But do you know where this arrogance comes from? It is because a Targaryen can truly achieve what mortals cannot. My ancestor, Aegon, conquered the Seven Kingdoms with three dragons. Not because the Starks or the Lannisters weren't strong, but because dragons changed every rule of war. A thousand knights are nothing against the breath of a dragon."
Cregan remained silent. The rain had slowed to a fine mist.
The young Lord walked to the high seat but did not sit. He looked at the Stark ancestral blade, Ice, hanging on the wall.
"What is it you want me to do, Prince?"
"Summon your vassals," Daemon said, his voice turning serious.
"But not to march on King's Landing, at least, not yet. I want you, as Warden of the North, to issue a formal demand to the capital. Demand to send a representative to see the King. To confirm the health and freedom of Viserys I."
Cregan turned. "They will refuse."
"Then it gets interesting," Daemon smiled.
"If they refuse, they prove to the world that the King is a prisoner and they are usurpers. Then, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands, every House dissatisfied with Green rule, will have their cause. As long as they hide the King, Alicent's decrees are the words of a rebel. We need more than swords; we need legitimacy."
"You have contacted the others?"
"Lady Jeyne Arryn of the Vale has already pledged support. The old Lord Tully in the Riverlands leans Green, but his sons lean toward us. And Lord Boremund in the Stormlands has no love for the Hightowers."
Daemon stepped closer. "Cregan, this is about the future of the Seven Kingdoms."
Cregan closed his eyes. The hearth fire dimmed, and the Maester adjusted the logs, the flames illuminating the Lord's young, stern face.
"If I agree to send a representative," Cregan said finally, opening his eyes with resolve, "I need a guarantee. I need a joint demand from the four realms. Not the North alone, but the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands together. We demand to see the King to verify his will."
Daemon's smile became genuine.
"A wise move. I have already sent word. In one month, the representatives can meet at King's Landing."
"And if..." Cregan stared into Daemon's eyes.
"If it is proven the King is of sound mind? If every decree came from him, and Aemond is merely his hand? If this truly is the will of King Viserys?"
Daemon's gaze darkened. "Then I will go to the Iron Throne myself to beg for mercy. I will take Rhaenyra and the children into exile in the East, never to return. But Cregan... you know that is impossible. I know my brother. He might name Aegon heir, but he would never remain indifferent to the murder of his grandsons, nor would he attack his own daughter's lands."
Cregan took a deep breath.
"Fine. In one month, I will send my man. But first, I must see the formal documents from the other three Lords, sealed with their sigils."
"Naturally," Daemon nodded.
The tension eased as the pact was made.
Dinner was served, a simple, rough Northern stew of root vegetables and meat with black bread.
"I hear your lady wife is with child," Daemon remarked casually as he ate.
Cregan paused. "Three months. The Maester says the child will be strong."
"Congratulations," Daemon said, raising his cup.
"The blood of the Winter Wolf continues. It is a blessing for the Realm." He set the cup down.
"Rhaenyra is also pregnant. The blood of the Wolf is worthy of the Dragon. My son, or the child in Rhaenyra's womb... regardless of gender..."
Maester Kennet's chains rattled. He knew what this meant. A marriage pact would bind the North to the Blacks forever.
Cregan looked at the fire for a long time.
"The children are not yet born. It is too early for marriage contracts. Northern tradition is to meet the person first. But... the Starks will consider every possibility for the future of the North."
It was enough. For a Northman, a lack of refusal was a sign of great sincerity.
---------
The Guest House.
Later that night, Daemon stood by a stone window in the Guest House. The rain had stopped, and the stars were out.
"Prince," a voice said behind him. It was Maester Kennet.
"What is it, Maester?"
"Lord Cregan is young, but not foolish," the old man said.
"He knows the risks. Daemon... how much of what you told him, the King being drugged, the decrees being forged, is truth, and how much is... speculation?"
Daemon laughed. "Seven parts truth, three parts speculation. Viserys is ill. Alicent is signing the decrees. Aemond does control the army. As for the drugs and the forgeries? Knowing my brother, those are the most certain truths of all."
"And the Battle of Dragonstone?" the Maester asked.
Daemon's eyes went dark.
"That battle... it defied expectation. But Aemond... that madman. He leaped from Vhagar onto Vermithor at hundreds of feet in the air to kill the rider himself."
The Maester gasped. "A mid-air boarding action? That is suicide."
"It was madness," Daemon agreed.
"But he succeeded. Aemond does not fear death, or worse, he believes he cannot die. Do you think a man who cares nothing for his own life will care for anyone else's? You know the history of Targaryen madness, Maester. Aemond is more dangerous than Maegor because he has wisdom and patience to match his fury."
He turned to the Maester. "I am a madman myself, so I recognize it. I want the North to stop him. Not for me, but for the future of Westeros. What do you think a sixteen-year-old kinslayer will do when he has absolute power?"
The Maester had no answer.
"I will advise the Lord to be cautious," he said finally.
"But the choice is his. The Starks have protected the North for eight thousand years. I trust he will choose what is best for his people, even if it means many of them will never see these snows again."
The old man bowed and walked away, his chains clinking softly into the distance of the stone corridor.
-----
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