The Kingsroad became cleaner after the snow. The crisp clop-clop of hooves on the frozen surface, mixed with the low hum of dragon wings sweeping the cold wind, was exceptionally clear in the Northern wilderness.
When Daemon rode The Cannibal at the front of the retinue, distant Winterfell finally pierced the morning mist—that ancient castle built by Brandon the Builder. Two heavy grey stone walls hugged the inner keep like giant arms. Between the crenellations flew the direwolf banners of House Stark. The silver-grey wolf silhouettes against white snow exuded solemnity and majesty.
"That is Winterfell." Willam Dustin pulled his reins, awe in his voice. "Heart of the North. Eight thousand years, never breached."
Gael rode Dreamfyre alongside, pale blue wings folded slightly to shield Mysaria in her arms. "More magnificent than imagined. Heard there are hot springs inside?"
"Yes!" Beren looked up from his book, snow particles on his glasses. "Books say Winterfell's hot spring water flows through pipes into rooms; warmer than Southern castles in winter."
Reaching the gate, the expected Duke Ellard was absent. Welcoming them was a man in brown-grey leather armor, face resolute, jawline tense, wearing a longsword adorned with direwolf crest—it was Ser Benjen Stark, who arrived late at last year's tourney due to his wife's childbirth.
Beside him stood a woman in a brown dress, holding a toddler wrapped in swaddling clothes and furs. The Locke crest was embroidered on her hem—Benjen's wife, Lady Lysa Locke.
"Prince Daemon, Princess Gael." Benjen bowed, voice steady. "When my brother Lord Ellard went to the tourney last year, he fell into water crossing the Neck. I went instead. Unexpectedly, my brother's legs suffered frostbite returning, bedridden since, relying on a wheelchair. Unable to welcome you personally, please forgive." He stepped aside. "This is my wife Lysa, and son Rickon, just turned one."
Lady Lysa curtsied holding Rickon. The toddler's face was rosy, round eyes staring curiously at The Cannibal, small hand unconsciously grasping his mother's collar.
Daemon's gaze landed on the child, heart moved—he remembered clearly, this swaddled Rickon Stark was the father of Cregan Stark, the future "Wolf of the North" who would lead armies south in the Dance of the Dragons.
"No need for formalities." Daemon dismounted, Blackfyre's scabbard tapping lightly on flagstones. "The Lord's health is priority; how could we mind?"
Looking at Benjen, he suddenly understood Roderick Dustin's parting entrustment—Lord Ellard's first two sons died early, wife died in childbirth, now bedridden without heir. Brother Benjen was the first heir. Northern lords' minds inevitably wandered. House Dustin's "axes ready anytime" was both loyalty and backing for Benjen.
Last year, Brandon Stark mentioned House Stark's succession troubles: former Lord Edric was eldest grandson of former-former Lord Alaric, but died heirless early. The title fell to Ellard, eldest son of Alaric's second son. Now Ellard bedridden made the succession line even more fragile.
"Little Brother Daemon! You really came!"
A hearty shout from inside the gate interrupted Daemon's thoughts.
A burly man strode over in black leather armor, a direwolf bone-handled dagger at his waist—it was Brandon Stark, who sparred with Daemon and gifted him the dagger last year.
Before Daemon could react, he grabbed the boy's shoulder from behind, force making Daemon stumble slightly.
"Why didn't you send word ahead?" Brandon laughed, patting Daemon's back. "Thought you'd come in midsummer; had the kitchen marinate venison leg specifically to drink with you!"
Daemon slapped his hand away laughing: "Afraid you'd miss business for drinking like last time."
"Not this time!" Brandon pointed to Benjen. "Promised Benjen, today just accompany you, no drinking!" Though saying so, his gaze drifted involuntarily toward the city, clearly missing ale already.
Benjen shook his head helplessly to Daemon: "Brandon is my distant nephew, most straightforward nature. We usually address by name; don't take offense, Prince." He led the way. "Come in. My brother waits in the hall. Hot springs ready, warm up first."
Entering Winterfell, Daemon truly felt the uniqueness of this ancient city—unlike the ornate Southern castles, Winterfell's architecture exuded ancient heaviness. Cold-resistant vines climbed grey stone walls. Flagstones underfoot were worn smooth by time yet remained solid.
Courtyards were arranged orderly. Several boys practiced swordsmanship in the yard, stopping to stare curiously at the two giant dragons upon seeing the retinue.
"This way." Benjen led everyone through an arch. A lush godswood suddenly appeared—unlike elsewhere, weirwoods here grew exceptionally stout, trunks gleaming silver-white. Sunlight leaking through leaves fell on snow, casting dappled shadows.
The giant tree in the center was especially conspicuous. The face carved on the bark was blurred but still exuded ancient aura.
"This is the heart of Winterfell." Benjen looked at the godswood with awe. "For eight thousand years, every Stark lord prayed here."
Gael held Mysaria's hand, whispering: "More spiritual than Riverrun's godswood."
Passing the godswood, the Great Keep ahead became clear.
Unlike the heavy outer walls, small pipes were faintly visible on the keep's walls, steam seeping slowly from cracks—hot spring pipes keeping this Northern castle warm in winter.
The hall doors were open. Faint conversation mixed with crackling firewood came from inside.
"My brother is inside." Benjen stopped, signaling Lady Lysa. "Take the Princess to the guest room first; I accompany the Prince to see Ellard."
Lady Lysa nodded, smiling at Gael with Rickon in arms. "Princess, please follow me. The hearth in the room is lit, hot milk ready."
Gael glanced at Daemon. Seeing him nod, she left with Lady Lysa. Mysaria hesitated, telling Daemon: "I'll check on the Princess, then find you in the hall."
Daemon nodded, following Benjen and Brandon into the hall. It was more spacious than imagined. Portraits of Stark lords hung on stone walls, from Brandon the Builder to former Lord Edric, each exuding Northern resilience.
The central hearth burned vigorously. A man in a wheelchair watched the door—about forty, pale face, hair greying, but youthful heroism still visible. Lord Ellard Stark.
"Prince Daemon." Ellard's voice was weak but held lordly dignity. "Welcome to Winterfell. Northern winter is cold; sit quickly, drink hot ale to warm up."
Daemon stepped forward, bowing: "Lord Duke need not be formal; we impose."
"Not at all." Ellard smiled, pointing to a seat. "House Stark and House Targaryen have always been allies. King Torrhen's kneeling bought peace for the North. Your coming now is also for this peace."
He looked at Brandon. "Brandon told me about the tourney last year. The Prince's martial arts are superb; even this Northern 'Wild Wolf' couldn't stop praising."
Brandon chimed in immediately: "Indeed!" He patted the dagger at his waist. "This bone-handled dagger was a pair; the other was my 'Warrior's Gift' to the Prince."
Ellard shook his head helplessly, telling Daemon: "Laughable to the Prince; Brandon is just like this." Tone turning serious, "Heard the Prince resolved the Bracken-Blackwood dispute in the Riverlands and repelled Ironborn at Seagard?"
"Just did what should be done." Daemon drank the hot ale served by a servant; warmth flowed down his throat. "Riverlands stability is good for the North too." Benjen Stark added silently, "At least most grain for the North's long winter is bought from the Riverlands."
"True." Ellard sighed, looking at his legs. "My body fails me. Northern affairs rely on Benjen and Brandon. Benjen told me Roderick Dustin's words. House Stark remembers House Dustin's sentiment."
Benjen added: "Some lords discussed succession privately lately. With Dustin support, those thoughts should be retracted."
Daemon nodded. He knew Ellard needed lordly support most right now. House Dustin's "axes" undoubtedly added security to Northern stability.
Just then, Gael walked in, followed by Beren—the boy still holding his book, apparently not putting it down even in the guest room.
"Lord Duke." Gael curtsied slightly, pale violet eyes sweeping the hall. "Winterfell is warmer than I imagined; hot spring pipes live up to their name."
"Glad the Princess likes it." Ellard smiled. "Dinner is ready, Northern specialties: roast venison leg, stewed beets, and bread made with hot spring water. See if it suits your taste."
Twilight deepened; Winterfell's hall grew lively.
Firewood crackled. Mellowness of ale and aroma of roast meat intertwined. Stark kin, Daemon's followers, and Dustin boys sat around the long table, chatting about Northern customs and Riverlands anecdotes.
Brandon toasted frequently, talking about the tourney, drawing laughter;
Benjen listened quietly, occasionally adding Northern customs;
Lord Ellard, though weak, spoke occasionally, telling ancient Stark legends.
Daemon sat at the table, watching the scene, suddenly feeling Winterfell's warmth came not just from hot springs, but from Stark family candor and enthusiasm.
This eight-thousand-year-old city witnessed countless storms, yet guarded its warmth and resilience in the cold like a direwolf.
Late at night, the banquet dispersed. Daemon stood on the keep's terrace, watching The Cannibal and Dreamfyre in the distance—black and blue dragons curled in the clearing, breath condensing into white steam, echoing Winterfell's lights. The Northern starry sky was exceptionally bright; the Milky Way spanned the sky like a silver ribbon.
"What are you thinking?" Mysaria walked over, wearing a thick black cloak, lowering the hood to reveal platinum-blonde curls.
"I'm thinking," Daemon withdrew his gaze from the starry sky, turning to look at the girl's face—skin once fine as cream and white as first-melted milk, now blushed shallow red by Winterfell's winter night and wind, even nose tip pink. "Will the snow of Winterfell let one see oneself more clearly than the rain of the South?"
Mysaria's laughter was light as wind-blown cotton. She moved closer to Daemon, shoulder almost touching his arm. "At least people here won't hide thoughts like House Frey." Others might take this as casual comment, but she and Gael knew clearly—in those days after leaving the Twins, regret hidden in Daemon's eyes when silent by the fire couldn't be covered by a word of "mercy."
Night bird calls came from the distant godswood, mixing with the cold wind's whisper, as if recounting Winterfell's past and future.
And Daemon knew their tour was only half done, and the snow of Winterfell and warmth of House Stark would become one of the most unforgettable marks in this journey through the Seven Kingdoms.
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