[Chapter Size: 2000 Words.]
Third Person POV.
Winterfell.
...
...
"Mother..."
The words felt strange coming out of the Dragonborn's mouth as he kept his gaze fixed on the statue of Lyanna Stark.
Her body was buried beneath that pile of stones.
That look was hesitant, but even so, it shimmered, seeing her bones through the small coffin... He had confirmed it was her just by seeing the mortal remains, there was a connection.
That was good... After all, for what he intended to do... He would need them.
"Should I intervene, mother?" Daemon spoke softly, looking at the bones and ignoring the statue.
"Maybe it's better to talk to you first. Not everyone would want to come back..."
Daemon had decided some time ago to cross the line between life and death.
He couldn't do it alone. He would need a place... a certain Daedric... princess for that.
This would not be cheap, especially with the condition that those dark gods cannot intervene in this world — he would be breaking some natural laws established in this plane.
After all, gods don't walk with mortals here, the world has too little magic for that.
As he watched her a little longer, he sighed and took out a few things from his dimensional space, many blue flowers — none other than winter roses — for Lyanna Stark, her favorites.
He covered the ground, placing them at the feet of the statue.
"First of all, mother... I've waited so long to do this... I hope you weren't disappointed with your ignorant son the first time he was here, after learning the truth after so many years..." Daemon spoke in those crypts alone.
"You knew what I went through in this place... You knew I was sent to another world and became a force in another plane, when I was most needed, a dragonborn?
Did you see me in that place, see my trials, my challenges, my victories... My joys and my sorrows?"
He received only silence in return.
He looked a little frustrated.
"Look at me, talking to a statue, what would Paarthurnax say about this..."
He laughed, his laughter echoing through the place.
His gaze returned to the statue once more.
"I hope to finally meet you soon," Daemon said with a rare sad tone, before placing the torch into a bracket on the wall and beginning to leave.
His eyes looked over the crypts before climbing the stairs.
He could feel the cold, eerie air, could hear the howls of direwolves and men screaming for battle.
There were many ghosts in that place, and Daemon only mocked them.
There were some Starks who didn't seem to have found peace after their deaths, souls that do not rest and cannot detach from this world, never having the right to enter the halls of Sovngarde.
He simply continued climbing the stairs after that, after taking the first step.
Back in the courtyard of Winterfell, he saw that it was quite bustling.
The men who had tried to greet Daemon earlier, or at least the maester, were lost while Daemon's men were still checking every place, trying to find any Bolton to throw out.
And there were indeed many hidden, while Daemon had left his wolves to sniff out each one — anyone with bloodstains was caught, even among the servants.
They were taken to the Old Nan, who would say whether or not they were true servants of Winterfell, especially since the Boltons had placed torturers among their staff.
They didn't need to fight in battle — just serve as assistants in the tortures that took place at the Dreadfort.
Without care or expression, Daemon ignored all the chaos and didn't bother with anyone else.
He entered Winterfell.
Some of the men approached him, seeking orders, but Daemon wasn't in the mood for that.
He simply ignored them and kept walking deeper into the castle.
Last time, he had snuck in there and made his way to the feast hall during the king's banquet — after he had first taken Ghost, the direwolf was just a pup at the time.
He once again entered the feast hall.
With all the tables cleared away, there were still many plates of food around.
They had been eating before finally surrendering, probably in the middle of their meal — just as the dragon flew over Winterfell for the second time.
He walked past the tables toward the high table... he wasn't the least bit excited to be there, but couldn't help smiling as he looked at that central table.
He remembered the king, his uncle, and all those who seemed to be enjoying themselves at that banquet, while Daemon had calmly studied them, hidden among the guests, before stepping onto the stage and singing a few of his melodies.
He had stirred chaos sometime after that — so much so that Lord Stark never held another banquet.
There was no one there until some servants entered with free folk to check the place, and they were startled to see him calmly walking through.
Daemon didn't look at them and went to the high table, lost in his own thoughts.
He touched the wood, with a few of them in front of him, smiled again, and on his way back, once more drew curious glances as he continued heading out.
As he slowly walked through the corridors, he entered the audience chamber next, where sat the winter throne of the old kings of the North — or rather, the Kings of Winter, as they were called.
Or so it was before his ancestor Aegon conquered nearly all of Westeros — after all, Dorne never yielded back then.
The blood of the Kings of Winter and the Dragon Kings ran through his veins... a dangerous combination, and at the same time, so chaotic — ice and fire weren't things that usually coexisted in harmony.
He once again ignored everyone who was there, sat on the throne, resting his arms on the sides, finding it strange, but it would be his chair.
When all the lords came to Winterfell, that was where they would meet — not in the banquet hall.
Because he was a king, not a lord.
"Leader... we've checked all the rooms and corners of Winterfell. There's no one else. The woman working as a servant also didn't find any more suspects among the staff."
"You didn't check the right place," Daemon said calmly.
"There are at least five men inside the crypts, still hiding on some of the lower levels. I want you to send a group to hunt them down. Don't worry, I'll send one of my wolves along with Ghost. After all, that place belongs only to giant wolves." Daemon was saying, but then he had a better idea.
"Wait!" he said before the man could turn.
He had seen all of them hiding when he was in the crypts.
But why should he have cared about those men at that moment?
He'd deal with it when the opportunity came.
They thought they'd be safe, hidden down there, profaning a sacred place of the Starks.
And it would be a good idea to send the wolves.
He didn't want to shed blood in that place.
So spectral wolves would be a great way to frighten them.
After all, they looked like ghosts, and would be the manifestation of the Kings of Winter against those who dared to walk over their tombs uninvited.
With that thought, he simply raised his hand, and more than six portals began to appear.
Everyone was startled, as always, by his magical displays, while six wolves began to emerge.
Without any warning, the wolves ran out.
Other men were left confused.
Daemon turned to them.
"Right now, I want you to wait for them at the entrance. Soon you'll hear screams.
Frightened screams, saying they're seeing ghosts," Daemon said calmly, with an amused smile on his face.
The man left after that, and Daemon stood up.
He wanted to go to a few more places in the castle.
First, he went to his uncle's solar...
It was quite devastated after Theon had burned the place.
It needed some repairs, but it could still be used.
He checked the condition of the room, and the letters and documents — all had been removed.
They were probably with the ironborn on their way to Pyke, or had been with the Boltons when the camp was swept away by the cold breeze of Winter...
Either way, he'd never stayed there much.
He'd write some letters there later.
He moved on to another place, one farther away from the hot springs beneath the castle...
It was the coldest room in the entire castle, as he approached it once again.
It was his old room.
A gift given by Lady Catelyn since he had turned five namedays...
He had hidden there the last time he came to Winterfell.
Daemon slept there while everyone was searching for him due to the murders and thefts happening during those days.
No one thought to check there.
No one ever looked for him — that room seemed cursed to everyone in Winterfell.
The room was empty when he entered it, and like the first time, memories of hunger and solitude filled his mind...
He had stayed there, suffering, for three years.
Now he commanded the entire castle, and no Stark would have stood in his way if they were there.
Ironic...
In any case, Daemon's idea of dwelling on the past there didn't last long — he soon left the room.
He would take his uncle's chamber for now, but first, he needed to bathe.
That's what he did when he finally went to the hot springs and bathed, asking not to be disturbed.
He delighted in the water which, in his former life there, had been off-limits to a bastard — while even servants had access to some of the tubs, he had never been granted that privilege.
His uncle had truly placed him in a despised situation, denying him even the basics that the servants had.
Daemon stayed there a while, and finally stepped out, grabbing some clothes from his dimensional space, and emerged with a few men waiting for him.
"I want some of the servants put back to keep the castle running — they know how it works. I also need some of the men to be willing to follow their orders, just temporarily, until others take their places.
Also, tell the old nurse that I need her to look for people willing to work as servants in the castle.
We need to increase their numbers quickly."
Daemon began speaking to his men as he walked through the corridors.
"Most of the men will still camp outside Winterfell.
I'll soon head to White Harbor for our supplies, so keep the men under control.
They may continue relations with widows — but no rape.
Am I clear?" Daemon said.
"Yes! Daemon!" the man replied.
"Good. Place only a proper group as guards inside Winterfell.
We need men guarding the interior of the castle and the walls.
I need the disciplined ones...
Now, do not disturb me until dinner. I'll be busy." Daemon said.
He headed to the godswood — one of the places he wanted to visit today.
More memories came to his mind upon seeing the sacred tree.
The atmosphere was calm and pleasant.
He used to come there to cry alone as a child.
He stayed for a while, staring into the eyes of the tree, while it still seemed to weep.
He had once asked the old gods for help — he didn't know what to think of that now.
There was no more sympathy for them in that moment.
Daemon stared at the face as if challenging them.
But the question in his mind was — were the so-called old gods the ones who had sent him to the other world when he was only eight namedays old?
A strange question in his mind.
Regardless, he remained there for an hour, staring at the tree before turning away.
He turned and returned to the castle, entered the solar once more.
He called the maester and requested many scrolls, ink, and quills.
The nervous man fulfilled his request, and in the next moment, Daemon began to write on the papers — letters of summons to all the northern houses.
Winterfell now flew under the banner of the dragon.
All were invited to discuss the future of the North — from the northernmost house to the southernmost.
Those who refused the call would be considered enemies of House Targaryen.
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