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HOGWARTS: REGULUS LORD OF THE STARS
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American Horror: Grind Edition
The Red Keep dungeons fell quiet again the moment Daeron walked out.
Eddard sat against the cold stone, eyes empty, like someone had scooped the life right out of him.
Lyanna's fate was still a mystery. He was chained in the dark.
And once Roose Bolton became Duke of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North, Winterfell itself might not even exist anymore.
"Benjen… you need to hide," he whispered.
Sleep finally took him. Fever burned through his dreams. He saw his little brother Benjen dragged into the Bolton dungeons, pale eyes watching from the shadows.
He tried to scream at Benjen to run for the Wall and take the black. Anything to keep him alive.
The cell door slammed open with a heavy clang. Torchlight danced across the bars.
Robert noticed but didn't move. He lay flat on the dirty straw, staring at the ceiling, lost in old memories while he waited for the end.
The hinges creaked. A plump, pale steward stepped inside.
Varys looked at Eddard, saw the fever-sweat on his face, and frowned with something close to real concern.
"Lord Eddard," he said softly. "Wake up."
Eddard stirred, blinking through the haze. "Lord Varys?"
"It's me." Varys set the torch in a bracket, reached into his wide sleeve, and pulled out a fat silver-star carrot. "Eat this. It'll help."
Eddard didn't reach for it. He stayed wary of the eunuch. "You're the king's master of whisperers. What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?"
The nightmare still clung to him—Rickard and Brandon covered in blood, screaming curses at the Targaryens. Unfamiliar faces in the crypt. And Benjen joining the Night's Watch, exactly as Eddard feared.
He hadn't dreamed of Lyanna at all. That terrified him more than anything. Maybe she'd already died of childbed fever.
Any wrong word right now could make the Targaryens punish House Stark even harder. So he trusted no one—least of all Varys.
Varys sighed. "You don't need to worry. I'm here on Prince Daeron's orders."
"Which prince?"
"Prince Daeron."
Daeron had already decided the fates of the two rebel leaders. But a ruler didn't handle every little thing himself. Varys had come to play messenger—and to say goodbye.
"One moment." Varys stepped back, spoke to a servant outside, and a full tray of hot food and a jug of good wine appeared. He set it in front of Robert.
Robert sat up fast, eyes bright for the first time in weeks.
"This is from Prince Daeron, Lord Baratheon," Varys said quietly.
Robert wasn't stupid. A feast like this for a prisoner could only mean one thing: last meal.
He tore into the meat anyway.
"What about Stannis?" he asked between bites. "He surrendered. How's he doing?"
Varys hesitated, then answered, "He's serving in the new Constabulary Knights under Prince Daeron."
Robert barked a short laugh. "He's still alive, then."
"And Renly? Maester Cressen?"
"Both safe. Renly's in Pentos finishing his studies. Prince Daeron showed mercy to every soul at Storm's End."
Robert let out a long breath and actually smiled. "Rhaegar… Daeron… If Daeron had been the Prince of Dragonstone, none of this would've happened."
Varys said nothing. There were no do-overs.
"Tell the prince thank you," Robert said, mouth still full. "Not because he spared my brothers. Not because of the meal. Because he made me see there's still something worth saving in House Targaryen. I can die knowing that."
Varys nodded. He'd pass the message.
Robert laughed again, loud and rough. "Ned, my friend, looks like I'm eating alone tonight!"
He attacked the tray like a starving wolf, grease running down his chin.
Eddard's eyes stung. He forced a weak smile. "Eat up. You've been starving for half a month."
Robert knew he was going to die. The difference in their meals made it obvious.
Varys turned back to Eddard and offered the silver-star carrot again. "Lord Eddard, you understand what's coming for Winterfell."
"I do."
"In my opinion, if you kneel the way your ancestor Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror, Prince Daeron might still let you go home."
Eddard's heart jumped. A chance to live?
Varys leaned in. "You would keep Winterfell, but you would never again be Warden of the North. Can you swear to serve the Iron Throne—and Prince Daeron—faithfully for the rest of your days?"
Eddard remembered the dream: his father weeping, begging him not to follow the same road.
He swallowed hard. "My father and brother died in a trial by combat. That was the Seven's judgment. I don't blame House Targaryen for it. I will kneel. I will serve."
Varys looked pleased. "Rest and heal. The Targaryens will have need of you again one day."
"Thank you, Lord Varys."
As Varys turned to leave, he added one last thing. "Lady Catelyn is safe at Riverrun. She's seven months along. When you're free, you'll have your family again."
Eddard's throat closed. He thought of his hasty wedding, the wife he barely knew, and the child on the way. Guilt and relief crashed over him. He buried his face in his hands and laughed through tears.
Three days later.
In the throne room, Daeron announced the final judgments on Eddard and Robert—and the reward for Roose Bolton.
Robert refused the black cloak and walked to the block with his head high.
Eddard knelt, confessed his treason, and kept the title Lord of Winterfell. He lost the Warden of the North title and half his lands.
Daeron rested Dark Sister on Eddard's neck. "I spare your life, but House Stark forfeits half its holdings as punishment for rebellion."
"I accept," Eddard said quietly.
Daeron moved to Roose Bolton. "Lord Bolton, you turned your cloak at the right moment and helped end the rebellion. I name you Duke of the Dreadfort and Warden of the White Knife. Your lands run from the Lonely Hills to the White Knife. You and House Stark will share rule of the North."
"Thank you, Regent Prince," Roose whispered, pale eyes shining.
Eddard felt the weight of it all settle on his shoulders. He had kept Winterfell. He had lost the North. But he was alive.
"Dismissed," Daeron said. "Return north at once."
Roose offered to send his eldest son Domeric to King's Landing as Daeron's page—proof of loyalty.
Eddard hesitated, wondering if he should offer Benjen the same.
Daeron waved them both off. "House Stark is already thin on men. No need to send anyone."
He had no use for a Stark hostage. Keeping Eddard alive was already a mercy—for the Long Night that was still coming.
Back at the Dragonpit, Daeron carried a bucket of water and scrubbed Caraxes's crimson scales, washing away the dragon-stink the way he always did.
It wasn't necessary. He just liked the ritual. It kept the bond strong.
"War's finally over," he muttered, wringing out the cloth.
The four-kingdom rebellion had ended with Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully dead, Robert executed, and Eddard broken but breathing.
One chapter closed.
"But the new fight's already starting," he added, voice hardening.
Centralizing the Crownlands came first. Full royal control over the Riverlands and Stormlands. Real power.
Fixing King's Landing? That was small work. A good leader, steady pressure, and the city would slowly improve.
The real trouble waited across the Narrow Sea.
Daeron frowned, thinking of the letter from Prince Rhaeton of Pentos. The entire eastern continent was coming apart.
The Triarchy was tearing itself—and the Stepstones—to pieces. Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh weren't just fighting outsiders; they were gutting each other. Pirates, slavers, and sellswords swarmed the Summer Sea like flies on a corpse.
Stormlands lords were already sending frantic ravens about coastal raids.
Even Dorne had been hit. Prince Doran was scrambling to reinforce the Greenblood.
"The east is where the money is," Daeron murmured. "And the magic."
Melisandre had said the eastern magic tide was stronger. The Zuni apple had sensed faint dragon-egg echoes in Essos and Sothoryos.
No wonder the old Valyrian dragonlords had built their empire there.
Daeron's eyes gleamed with hunger. "If I could raid one Free City the way I took the Vale…"
The gem mines of the Stepstones alone were mouth-watering. A single wealthy city could fund doubling the army and still leave the treasury fat.
But he shoved the daydream aside. "Dragon eggs in the east. Black-wall families in Lys and Volantis with old Valyrian blood. Can't ignore that."
He'd keep writing to Prince Rhaeton. Stay informed. If the chance came, he would take it.
And Rhaegar…
Daeron stared out over Blackwater Bay toward the distant Narrow Sea. His voice was cold.
"Big brother, you'd better stay gone. Lys, Volantis—wherever. Just don't come back to King's Landing."
Rhaegar's performance during the war had been pathetic. If he still had any sense, he'd give up any claim to the Iron Throne.
If he showed his face again, Daeron wouldn't be gentle.
A Dragon Guard hurried in. "Prince, Lord Lucerys requests an audience."
Daeron straightened. "Bring him."
Moments later Lord Lucerys Velaryon stepped into the Dragonpit, bowing low.
"Prince, as you ordered, I have taken back command of the royal fleet and secured Dragonstone."
Daeron smiled. "Good. The board is finally set."
The real work of ruling—and the next war—was just beginning.