I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 80: Winterfell
The wind rushed past Daeron's face as Lyrax soared high over the summer snow covered forests of the North. Below, Winterfell stood proud and ancient, her grey towers bathed in sunlight. Daeron leaned forward, and Lyrax responded, tilting her wings and circling once above the castle. Her roar echoed across the land, a sound that shook trees, startled birds, and brought the people of Winterfell to a halt in the yards and corridors, heads tilting to the sky.
Let them see, Daeron thought. Let them know the North is still strong.
He leaned down against Lyrax's warm, scale-covered neck. "Land just west," he said aloud, though they needed no words. Her wings shifted again, and with the practiced grace of a beast born of fire and sky, Lyrax descended beyond the walls, sending gusts of wind sweeping over the battlements.
The earth rumbled as she touched down.
Daeron slid from her back, his boots crunching on snowy ground. He had barely taken a few steps when hooves approached—Jory Cassel and a handful of Winterfell riders coming fast across the open field.
The men halted. Jory dipped his head low. "Your Grace," he greeted.
Daeron nodded in return, his breath fogging in the cold. "I take it Winterfell still stands?"
"As strong as ever, Your Grace," Jory said, offering him a horse. "Your uncle is waiting."
Mounting, Daeron gave Lyrax one final look. She watched him with one great golden eye, her tail twitching like a cat's. "Stay close," he told her through their bond. She huffed, content.
The castle walls of Winterfell always made Daeron feel... grounded. No matter how far he flew, or how high he soared with Lyrax, stepping into this keep brought a strange sense of quiet to his blood.
The solar was warm, the fire crackling. Benjen Stark rose at once from his chair as Daeron entered.
"You're here," Benjen said, voice thick with emotion.
Daeron strode forward. "Of course I am."
They embraced like kin long-separated. It lasted only a second, but Daeron held it longer than he meant to. The smell of fur, firewood, and snow clung to his uncle's cloak.
Then Benjen dropped to a knee. "Winterfell is yours, Your Grace."
"Enough of that," Daeron said with a half-smile, pulling him back to his feet. "You're family, Uncle."
"Family... and bannermen." Benjen's eyes twinkled, but the gravity remained. He gestured for Daeron to sit.
Once seated, the talk was easier.
"I'd heard," Benjen said, "about your dragon. Still had trouble believing it."
"I see her every day but she takes my breath away even now," Daeron admitted. "Every time."
Benjen shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "A dragon in the North again. My father would have laughed himself to death at the idea."
The smile faded quickly.
"I take it you've heard what happened."
Daeron leaned forward. "The Ironborn. How bad?"
Benjen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "They struck from the sea. I had the northern fleet patrolling the western coast—I gave the orders as soon as you marched south—and that let us act fast. They hit the Stony Shore first."
Daeron narrowed his eyes. "That far north?"
"It was a distraction. They hoped we'd send everything to repel that raid. A few longships, some reavers looking to burn and steal. The real targets were farther inland—Torrhen's Square, Deepwood Motte... and Moat Cailin."
At the mention of Moat Cailin, Benjen's voice grew tight.
"I saw the signs," he continued. "I expected attacks on Deepwood and Torrhen's Square. Got ravens out, sent what I could. We beat them back at both places. Sent them crawling back to their boats with fewer men than they landed with."
"But you didn't think they'd try for Moat Cailin," Daeron said, not accusing, just understanding.
Benjen's jaw clenched. "No. I should have. The damn Ironborn came down the Saltspear and Fever River. Avoided the coast entirely. I knew they wouldn't come from the south... but I didn't think they'd dare from the north. That was my failure."
Daeron said nothing. The fire crackled softly. Outside the walls, the faint roar of Lyrax reminded the people who now ruled the skies.
"If you hadn't come when you did..." Benjen went on, voice low. "If Lyrax hadn't scorched them..."
"They were already bleeding by the time I arrived," Daeron said. "Howland's crannogmen slowed them. Wore them down. We Northmen are strong, and more importantly, stubborn to a fault, Uncle. Moat Cailin still stands because of it."
Benjen looked away. "Still. I should've seen it."
Daeron rose and stepped over to the window. He looked westward, toward the distant coast. The Ironborn might have been pushed back, but they would come again. That was their way.
"You did what you could," Daeron said, voice soft. "None of us are gods."
Benjen chuckled despite himself. "Aye. And but thankfully, we've a dragon on our side."
Daeron turned to face him, firelight flickering across his black armor. "We'll strike back soon. I'll make sure the Ironborn remember what happens when they test the North."
Benjen nodded slowly. "What do you need from me?"
"Report for now," Daeron said. "We'll set up forward posts near the coast. I want to know if so much as a rowboat leaves the Iron Isles. If the Greyjoys want war, we'll bring it to them."
Benjen rose from his seat. "You'll have it."
They stood in silence a moment longer. Two men—uncle and nephew—bound by blood and war.
"I'm glad you came back," Benjen said finally. "It's been strange here... without you."
"I'm not going anywhere," Daeron said. "Not until the North is safe."
Benjen clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we'll make it so."
Outside, Lyrax let out another roar, and Daeron felt it echo in his bones.