I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter 81: Hearth and Kin
The fire in the solar had burned low, casting a quiet orange glow across the stone walls of Winterfell. Daeron sat across from Benjen, elbows resting on the carved wooden table, his eyes still turned toward the fire, thinking of the western coast and the Iron Islands beyond it.
Benjen poured two cups of warm mead. "A good winter drink," he said, handing one across.
Before Daeron could reply, the door creaked open. Maester Luwin stepped inside with his usual calm, a scroll clutched in his hand.
"A raven arrived just now," the maester announced, his tone low but laced with interest. "Marked with the Cassel seal."
Benjen reached out and broke the wax, scanning the letter with sharp eyes. Slowly, a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
"Well," Benjen said, glancing up at Daeron. "Ser Rodrik sends good news."
Daeron straightened. "From Deepwood Motte?"
Benjen nodded. "You already knew he pushed the Ironborn back. But now it seems he did more than just drive them off."
He turned the letter so Daeron could see the last line. "He caught Asha Greyjoy. She's is captured. Shackled and under guard."
Daeron's brow arched. "The Kraken's only daughter."
"His last child," Benjen confirmed. "With two of his brothers dead, and now his heir taken, Balon has little left to stand on."
Daeron allowed himself a rare smile. "The Drowned God must be weeping."
Benjen chuckled. "Rodrik will bring her to Winterfell as soon as his wounded men can travel. He'll want to know what you intend to do with her."
Daeron leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching the silver threadwork of the direwolf and dragon on his black tunic. "That depends on how Balon reacts. If he still seeks to call himself king..."
"And if he bends the knee?"
"Then she lives." Daeron's voice was flat, final. "Either way, the Ironborn will learn: the North protects its own."
Benjen raised his cup. "To the North."
Daeron raised his own. "To the end of krakens."
They drank in quiet satisfaction.
The corridors of Winterfell were warm and busy as Daeron stepped out of the solar beside Benjen. Voices echoed ahead—laughter, boots, children's chatter. Home.
They passed through the great hall and into the family wing, where Daeron was met with a flurry of warmth. Catelyn Stark, overseeing the kitchens, looked up sharply. Her face shifted from worry to relief as she saw him.
"Daeron, Thank the gods." she said, stepping forward, her voice taut. "How are Ned and Robb?"
He clasped her hand gently. "Lord Stark and Robb are well. The Riverlands have all but cast off the lion's yoke. Robb has earned his name—The Young Wolf. And your Lord husband is as steady as the stones beneath this castle."
Catelyn's shoulders sagged in relief, and she nodded. "Thank the gods."
Then Dacey Stark—née Mormont—crossed the floor in three strides and wrapped Daeron in a firm hug. "You took too long, boy," she murmured gruffly.
Daeron hugged her back. "You know better than to think anything could kill me while you're still watching over me."
"I'm always watching," she said, pulling back with a grin. "That's the only reason you still have both ears."
Children's voices rang out then—Bran, Rickon, and even Lyanna. They surged toward Daeron, peppering him with questions.
"Is it true your dragon's bigger than the tower?"
"Did you burn the Lannisters all by yourself?"
"Can I ride your dragon?"
Daeron laughed as he knelt among them, letting them tug at his sleeves and ask their questions. "Lyrax isn't ready to accept passengers yet," he teased. "But when she is, I'll let you ride her. One at a time."
A chorus of squeals and cheers followed.
Catelyn smiled, watching the chaos unfold. Benjen leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, an easy smile on his face.
For a brief moment, it felt like peace had returned to the North.
The noise faded as Daeron stepped into the godswood alone. The quiet came quickly here, muffled by the thick curtain of leaves, moss, and snow. The great heart tree stood like a silent sentinel at the center, its pale bark glowing in the afternoon light, red sap trickling down its face like old tears.
And there beneath its boughs sat Arya with the direwolves.
She hadn't come to greet him with the others. Not that he'd expected her to. Arya had always been different—wild, headstrong, too much wolf in her blood for courtyards and pleasantries.
Arya sat cross-legged under the tree, her eyes closed. She must have heard him, but she didn't speak. Her face was set in a deep pout, and when she finally opened her eyes to look at him, she quickly turned her head and looked away.
Daeron stood in silence, unsure whether to speak or sit.
He decided on both.
Crossing to the heart tree, he settled a few paces away and rested his back against the trunk, feeling the cold seeping through his cloak. The wind rustled the red leaves above them.
"You're sulking," he said gently.
"I'm not," Arya replied, her voice sharp and petulant. She didn't lift her head.
"You didn't come to see me when I arrived."
"I didn't want to."
Arya finally looked at him then, her eyes bright with frustration. "You're King," she said, accusation thick in her tone. "Everyone has to listen to you. But when I asked to go with you and Robb, you still said no."
Daeron blinked, taken aback by the rawness in her voice. "Arya…"
"You could've taken me," she insisted. "You could've told Father or Mother or anyone. But you didn't. You left me here because I'm just a little girl."
Daeron looked down at his hands, rough and covered in blood from war. "I didn't leave you here because I thought you were weak," he said. "Or because I don't trust you."
"Then why?" she demanded, her voice rising.
"Because I've seen what war does to people," he said quietly. "And I didn't want it to do that to you."
"I'm not afraid of war."
"I know you're not," he said, turning to face her. "That's why I was."
Arya looked at him, her expression tight, and for a moment Daeron saw the storm of emotions she was holding in—anger, hurt, pride, longing.
"I could've helped," she muttered, folding her arms across her knees.
"You still can," Daeron said. "But not by picking up a sword and following me into fire. The North needs you here. Your brothers and sisters need you here. The people trust Starks, and you are one."
Arya didn't reply, but she didn't argue either. She shifted a little closer to him, her shoulder brushing his. After a long moment, she spoke again, her voice softer.
"You'll take me next time."
Daeron smiled faintly. "I'll think about it."
"I'll hold you to that," Arya said, and finally—finally—he saw the smallest hint of a smile tug at her mouth.