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Chapter 83: The Message North.
The narrow solar of Castle Stokeworth was modest, the stone walls lined with faded tapestries depicting victories long forgotten. But today, the room was not filled with talk of the past. Around a heavy oak table sat Lord Eddard Stark, Queen Rhaella, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Brynden Tully, and Robb Stark. Outside, the sounds of a vast Northern-Riverlands host preparing for war echoed through the narrow windows—steel clashing in drills, smiths hammering out dents in armor, and the low hum of thousands waiting.
Ser Brynden leaned forward, his weathered face grave. "Scouts have reported more movement in Renly's camp. They're building more Scorpions, dragging archers and crossbowmen toward the south wall. They're testing us, little by little. Their commanders grow bold."
He looked around the table before adding, "Three days ago, everyone in the city saw the King flying north on that dragon of his. They know he's gone."
Robb's brow furrowed. "Daeron didn't leave on a whim. He had no choice. Moat Cailin was under attack by Victarion Greyjoy himself. If he hadn't gone, the Ironborn could've taken it—and cut the North off from the rest of the realm."
"I don't doubt his reasons, Robb," Brynden said, "but Renly and his men don't care about reasons. They see opportunity. Every day our King is gone, they grow bolder. And if they believe Daeron and his dragon won't return in time, they'll test us. Hard."
Rhaella, seated in a modest chair near the hearth, sipped from her goblet. Her silver-blond hair was tied in a loose braid, and her violet eyes studied the men around her. "Our forces are strong," she said calmly, "but not invincible. The North and Riverlands stand together, yes. But without Daeron, without Lyrax..."
Ser Arthur finished her thought. "A hundred thousand Stormlanders and Reachmen is no small thing."
Ned nodded. His fingers absently tapped the table. "If Renly attacks now, it will cost him dearly—but he may be willing to pay that price if it means destroying us here and maintaining his hold on the capital. The truth is, we need Daeron back."
Arthur frowned. "Even the fastest raven would take at least two days to reach Winterfell—more if he's flown somewhere else by now. And even then, it would take Daeron a full day on dragonback to return. The timing is tight."
Robb looked to Ned, something unsaid lingering in the air between them.
"There's another way," Ned said, his voice low but certain. "We don't need a raven."
Brynden blinked. "And how else do you intend to send a message across half the realm?"
"We send it through Ghost," Robb said quietly. "Daeron and I share a bond with our direwolves. Not of this world, perhaps. But it's real."
Arthur and Brynden exchanged looks. Rhaella said nothing, but her eyes flicked toward Ned, curious.
"The bond between them is strong," Ned explained. "It was strong even before Daeron claimed the dragon. Before he was King. I've seen it myself. Robb has too."
Robb nodded. "He'll hear us. If Ghost listens."
Brynden crossed his arms. "And what if he doesn't? What if Daeron's too far away? Or the bond isn't strong enough?"
"Then we've lost nothing by trying," Ned said.
No one argued after that.
The meeting broke soon after. As the others returned to their duties, Ned and Robb walked together through the cold halls of Castle Stokeworth. The corridors echoed with the faint sounds of marching feet and the rustle of armor. They reached Robb's chambers—a converted room near the keep's western tower.
Inside, a warm fire crackled in the hearth, and two great direwolves rested nearby. Ghost lay still as fresh snow, his red eyes half-lidded but alert. Beside him, Greywind stirred as Robb entered, tail thudding softly against the stone.
Robb knelt beside Ghost. "You ready, old friend?" he whispered.
Ghost stared back, ears twitching.
Robb leaned in closer, until his forehead nearly touched the direwolf's. He closed his eyes. "Daeron, brother," he whispered into the white fur. "Come back. We need you. Renly's getting restless."
Ned watched in silence, his heart heavy. There were some forces in this world he would never fully understand—bonds of blood and soul that defied ravens and logic. But he'd seen it once before, when Daeron was still Jon Snow, a quiet boy in Winterfell who had more in common with his direwolf than with most men.
Ghost's ears twitched. He let out a soft silent growl. Then he stilled again.
Far to the north, Winterfell basked in the pale light of morning. In his chambers, Daeron Targaryen stood by the window, brushing the sleep from his eyes. The cold northern air smelled of pine and distant snow.
He wasn't sure why, but something pulled at him—a whisper in his mind, a sensation crawling over his skin like gooseflesh. He turned from the window just as Ghost's presence echoed in his mind.
Daeron… Come back.
It wasn't a voice. Not quite. But it was there—urgent and unmistakable. He saw flickers of images in his mind: Robb's face, Castle Stokeworth, the distant sprawl of King's Landing.
He snapped into motion.
A hour later, the castle gate opened, and Daeron strode out fully armored, his black cloak trimmed in red silk. Men scurried aside. Outside, in the open lands, Lyrax was already ready and fed, as if she too had sensed the shift in the wind.
By the time Daeron climbed onto her back, the sky had begun to change. Grey clouds gathered. The smell of war lingered.
"Fly," he whispered.
With a thunderous roar, Lyrax leapt into the sky, her massive wings tearing through the air as she soared southward—towards Stokeworth, towards his army, and toward the war that was waiting for him.