Erlad Stark stood upon the stone steps of Winterfell, lost in thought, when a shadow swept across the courtyard. The sound of wings, vast and thunderous, rolled through the sky. Soldiers tightened their grips on spears, and servants froze where they stood.
From above descended a colossal form. A dragon—its scales glimmering with a metallic sheen beneath the pale sun—circled once before lowering itself toward the walls. Its wings stretched so wide that they seemed to swallow the daylight, a dark cloud falling upon Winterfell.
Atop its back sat Rayder, small in comparison to the beast he commanded, yet radiating a presence no less overwhelming.
When the dragon alighted on the city wall, a violent gust tore through the courtyard, sending banners snapping and snow swirling. The force of it staggered men where they stood.
Rayder dismounted with calm ease, walking down the dragon's wing as if it were a stair carved for him alone. Each step he took seemed deliberate, steady, and unshaken by the storm he had brought with him.
Erlad, to his credit, did not flinch. He stepped forward, his face composed. "Rayder, welcome to my castle," he said, his tone warm, though his eyes watched carefully.
Rayder's lips curved in a faint smile. "Thank you for your invitation, Erlad."
The pleasantries exchanged, Erlad led him inside.
The Warmth of Winterfell
The contrast struck Rayder at once. Beyond the gates, snow and wind clawed at flesh, the bitter bite of the North ever-present. Within the great hall, however, warmth radiated from the very walls. The heat of Winterfell's ancient hot springs pulsed through the stone, banishing the chill.
Rayder inhaled slowly. It was not oppressive heat, but a gentle, steady warmth, the kind that seeped into one's bones and made the body relax in spite of itself.
Servants hurried about, carrying trays laden with food. Platters of roasted venison, steaming joints of beef, soft bread still warm from the ovens, golden combs of honey, and even rare fruits preserved from the south. The hall filled with the aroma of feast.
Erlad gestured for Rayder to sit beside him at the high table. Together, they ate and drank, speaking at first of matters light and easy—of hunts, of weather, of the roads that stretched south toward King's Landing. Slowly, as wine loosened tongues, the atmosphere turned more cordial, almost as if two old companions had reunited after years apart.
But beneath the surface, both men were measuring each other.
Treasures of the North
When the first hunger had passed, Erlad gave a signal. The steward entered, carrying several items wrapped in cloth. Carefully, he laid them upon the table before Rayder.
"These," Erlad said without ceremony, "are what I promised you."
Unwrapped, the collection revealed itself: maps of the far North, brittle from age but meticulously preserved; tomes written in fading ink, chronicling sightings of strange creatures and lands of eternal frost; sketches of mountain ranges, rivers, and lakes beyond the Wall.
To Erlad, these were curiosities—records kept by ancestors who had ventured where few men dared. To Rayder, they were priceless treasures.
He gathered them with care, each page and parchment handled as though it were gold. His eyes gleamed as he examined the marks and lines. Here lay clues to the mysteries he sought, the hidden land that had haunted his imagination since first hearing whispers of the Eternal Winter.
Yet as the feast continued, Erlad's demeanor cooled. His earlier warmth gave way to a more distant reserve. The words he spoke became fewer, clipped, and deliberate.
Rayder understood at once. Erlad believed the game was already decided. Corlys Velaryon had been sent back to Driftmark by King Jaehaerys; Viserys Targaryen's favor was not something Erlad could risk offending. The North was stable, and Rayder, though powerful, was still a dangerous outlier.
Rayder set down his goblet, his smile fading. "This is your last chance, Erlad. Will you agree to my proposal, or will you refuse me outright?"
The words fell like a stone into silence.
Erlad dismissed the servants with a wave, and the hall emptied, leaving only the two men—and the dragon waiting just outside, its growl reverberating through the stone.
For a moment, Erlad said nothing. Then he exhaled, slow and steady. "Rayder, I cannot risk the entire Stark name on your gamble. The North is bound by oath and blood. I will not take my house down a road that may destroy us."
Rayder's expression hardened. "So you refuse."
"I do."
Rayder scoffed, rising to his feet. "Very well. I hope you do not come to regret today's decision."
He gathered the maps and books, tucking them away. Without another word, he strode from the hall.
Erlad remained, his hand resting on the table, his eyes following Rayder's retreating form. His voice, soft and resigned, escaped him. "You should not have come here, Rayder. You should have gone to Dorne. The princes there might have welcomed such a scheme. They have never bowed willingly to the Iron Throne."
But Rayder did not hear. Already he was mounting his dragon, already the wings beat the air, lifting him skyward.
Toward the Great Wall of Despair
Rayder soared north, the wind biting sharper with every league. The cold deepened until snowflakes as large as goose feathers swirled around him, clinging to his cloak and beard. The further he went, the more merciless the air became.
Even the dragons felt it. Through the bond of his mind, Rayder sensed their agitation. Their scales shuddered against the icy wind, and their deep, rumbling growls betrayed discomfort. The frigid air cut through them, dampening their flames, making their flight heavy and restless.
Rayder gritted his teeth. There was no choice. If he was to uncover the truth of the wights, if he was to glimpse the secrets of the Eternal Winter, he had to cross the Great Wall of Despair.
The frost grew so thick that his eyelashes and brows froze together. Each breath stung like knives in his chest. Forced by the brutal cold, Rayder guided his dragons lower, slowing their pace to survive the journey.
Kidora, ever the lazier of the three, yawned mid-flight, its great head bobbing as though drowsy despite the hostile skies. The other two beat their wings rhythmically, straining to keep balance in the buffeting winds.
Rayder clutched the maps tighter. He traced the lines with his gaze, orienting himself by the land below. Mountains like jagged teeth, frozen lakes, and dense forests spread out beneath the blanket of white.
According to the old records, the Frostfangs stood as a natural barrier. Beyond them, lakes and rivers divided the Haunted Forest from the Eternal Winter. The maps ended at the Gorge of Thenn. Beyond that point, only blank parchment remained, as if the world itself ceased.
Rayder's heart burned. That blankness called to him like a promise. He would see with his own eyes what lay beyond.
The Wolf Forest
The sun dipped low, painting the horizon with fading crimson. Darkness crept swiftly across the land, and Rayder realized he had already crossed far from Winterfell. Below him stretched the Wolf Forest, vast and ancient, the trees heavy with snow.
Night was falling fast. Even dragonfire could not banish all dangers that lurked in the dark.
He guided his dragons down, settling them in a clearing. Snow scattered as they landed, the earth trembling under their weight.
Kidora leapt down eagerly, restless from the long flight. Like an overgrown hound, it bounded between the trees, snapping at branches and tossing snow into the air. Rayder, dismounting, scowled at the display.
"Enough," he shouted, waving a hand. "Go play over there, but stop wrecking my camp."
Kidora snorted, tail swiping a tree aside as though in protest, but it obeyed, lumbering off into the shadows to amuse itself.
Rayder set about raising a tent and striking a fire. Sparks caught the dry wood quickly, and soon flames crackled, sending warmth into the frigid night. He sat by the fire, cloak drawn close, the dragon maps spread across his lap.
The forest around him grew darker, the bonfire casting long shadows that flickered across the trees. From the distance came the faint howl of wolves, but Rayder only smiled.
"Let them come," he murmured. "They'll find which predator rules this night."
The wolves, after all, were not the ones to be feared. Not with three dragons slumbering nearby.
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