At this moment, Daemon's smile turned dangerous, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.
Maester Roderick hurried forward, his chain clinking. "My lords, pray keep your tempers."
"Remember, the courtesies owed between guests…"
Daemon released the hilt. Then he suddenly laughed, and there was, unexpectedly, a trace of genuine appreciation in that laughter.
"Good. Good—what a Stark," he said, shaking his head. "At least you dare to speak, dare to say the truth to my face."
"Not like those petty men who only slander behind one's back."
He walked to the long table, where a jug of warmed ale and several rough clay cups had been set.
Daemon poured himself a cup without asking and drained it in one go, his throat bobbing.
"You are right, Lord Cregan," Daemon said, wiping his mouth. The cup gave a soft clink as he set it down.
"Some of us Targaryens are indeed like that."
"Proud, volatile, mad, and treating rules as if they were nothing."
"Maegor the Cruel was so."
"I am so. And Aemond, now, is even more so."
"But do you know where that arrogance comes from?"
"Because Targaryens truly can do what ordinary men cannot."
Those violet eyes turned back, fixing on him.
"Aegon Targaryen, my ancestor, conquered the Seven Kingdoms with three dragons."
"Why?"
"Not because Stark, Lannister, Harren the Black, the King of the Reach, or the Storm King were not strong enough."
"But because dragons changed the very rules of war."
"A thousand knights, ten thousand soldiers—none can match a single dragon's fire."
Cregan fell silent.
The sound of rain softened, turning into a fine drizzle.
The young lord walked back to the high seat, but did not sit.
With his back to Daemon, he looked at the Stark greatsword Ice hanging upon the wall.
"Prince, what do you wish me to do?" Cregan did not turn. His voice echoed through the hall.
"Summon your bannermen," Daemon said, his tone turning serious.
"But not to march on King's Landing—at least, not yet."
"I want you, in the name of Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell—"
"To send a formal demand to King's Landing. You will dispatch envoys to seek an audience with the king and confirm the health and freedom of Viserys."
Cregan turned.
"They may refuse."
"That would make it all the more interesting," Daemon said with a faint smile.
"If the Greens refuse, would that not prove to all the realm that His Grace is being confined, that they have usurped power?"
"At that time, not only the North—the Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands—every force dissatisfied with Green rule will have cause to rise."
"So long as they deny us sight of the king, every decree issued under Queen Regent Alicent is nothing but unlawful command."
"What we need is not only swords, but rightful cause."
"You have already contacted the other regions?"
"The Vale—House Arryn, Rhaenyra's mother's kin—Lady Jeyne has already declared her support."
"In the Riverlands, old Lord Tully leans toward the Greens, but his sons incline toward us."
"In the Stormlands, Lord Boremund is an old friend of ours. He has long disliked the Hightowers' dominance in King's Landing."
Daemon stepped closer.
"Cregan, this is not merely a struggle within House Targaryen. It is a choice that will shape the future of the Seven Kingdoms."
Cregan closed his eyes in thought.
The fire in the hearth dimmed. Maester Roderick adjusted the logs with iron tongs, and the flames leapt up again, illuminating the young lord's face.
"If I agree to send envoys to King's Landing…" After a long while, Cregan opened his eyes, resolve within them.
"I will need guarantees."
"Speak."
"I will need a joint declaration from the other four regions."
"Not the North acting alone—but representatives of four regions going together."
"The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands."
"In the name of the protectors of the Seven Kingdoms, we will demand an audience with the king to verify the legitimacy of royal command."
Daemon's smile became genuine. "A wise move. I have already sent word to the other three."
"In one month's time, representatives of the four regions may gather in King's Landing."
"Lastly," Cregan said, meeting Daemon's gaze directly, his eyes like drawn steel, "if… if it turns out that the king is indeed clear of mind—"
"That all decrees come from him personally, and Aemond merely acts on his command?"
"If all of this is truly the will of King Viserys?"
Daemon's eyes grew deep.
"I will go to the Iron Throne myself and beg forgiveness."
"Then I will take Rhaenyra and the children east, and never return to Westeros."
He paused, his voice low. "Cregan, you know that is impossible."
"I know my brother. We grew up together."
"He might name Aegon as heir—but he would never remain indifferent to the deaths of his grandchildren."
"Nor would he strip and attack his own daughter Rhaenyra's lands."
Cregan drew a deep breath.
"Very well," he said, his voice landing firmly in the stillness. "In one month, I will send envoys to King's Landing."
"But before that, I must see formal letters from the other three regions' lords, bearing their seals and stating the same demand."
"Of course," Daemon nodded.
With the negotiation concluded, the tension in the hall eased somewhat.
Daemon sat again. Servants brought stew and black bread.
The food of the North was simple and coarse. Thick meat broth with floating turnips and onions; bread so hard it could knock upon the table—but once soaked in the broth, it softened warmly, driving the chill from one's bones.
"I hear your lady wife is with child," Daemon said casually, cutting bread.
Cregan paused. Knife and fork gave a faint sound against the plate. "Yes. Three months now."
"The maester says it will be a strong child."
"Congratulations," Daemon said sincerely, raising his cup.
"The blood of House Stark continues in the North—this is a blessing to the Seven Kingdoms."
"The blood of the winter wolf has never been broken."
The young lord glanced at him, gray eyes flashing with caution. "What are you getting at, Prince?"
Daemon set down his knife, folding his hands upon the table.
"Rhaenyra is also with child," he said, a softness in his voice barely perceptible.
Cregan understood.
A political marriage—this was the most common method the southern Andals had used to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.
"The blood of the winter wolf is worthy of the true dragon," Daemon continued seriously.
"My son, or the child in Rhaenyra's womb—whether boy or girl…"
Maester Roderick hesitated, his chain softly clinking.
The old maester understood what this meant.
Once such a marriage was made, the North would be fully drawn into the Targaryen civil war, with no possibility of neutrality.
Eight thousand years of Stark rule might end—or rise to the very height of power.
Cregan remained silent for a long time. He looked at the fire, at the portraits of his ancestors—those kings who had led the North through the Long Night.
Flames danced in his eyes. Light and shadow shifted across his face, as if within that flickering glow he glimpsed the future.
"The child is not yet born," at last, the young lord said slowly, every word carefully weighed.
"It is too early to speak of marriage. The North's custom is to see the person first, then decide the match."
"But…" he paused, "House Stark will consider all possibilities—for the future of the North."
That was enough.
Daemon knew that for the North, not refusing outright was the greatest sincerity.
These descendants of the First Men honored their word. Once they agreed, they would see it through, even unto fire and death.
The meal ended in a relatively calm atmosphere. Daemon was lodged in the guest keep, where a warm hearth and soft furs awaited.
Yet he could not sleep. He stood by the stone window, pushing it open, gazing at the night sky above Winterfell.
The rain had stopped. In the night sky, the stars shone.
"Prince."
An aged voice sounded behind him.
Daemon did not turn. Maester Roderick—the old man who had been silently observing all along.
The clinking of chains rang clearly in the quiet room.
"What counsel does the maester have?" Daemon asked, still looking out.
Roderick stepped to the window, his old hand resting against the stone wall.
"Lord Cregan is young," the maester said slowly. "But he is not a fool."
"While his father lived, he taught him that the duty of House Stark is to protect the people of the North, not to entangle itself in southern disputes."
"For eight thousand years, the Starks have been honored by their people for this."
"So you oppose his decision."
"I remind him of the risks," Roderick said, turning his head. His dim eyes were unnaturally clear in the darkness.
"Prince Daemon, what you said earlier—that the king is confined, that decrees are forged, that Aemond controls everything—how much of that have you seen with your own eyes, and how much is… inference and rumor?"
Daemon smiled. Speaking with clever men was always easier—especially those old scholars from the Citadel.
"Seven parts truth, three parts speculation," he admitted, turning to face the maester.
"Viserys I is indeed gravely ill. The small council has not seen him preside lucidly for half a year—this is true."
"Alicent does indeed act as regent. All decrees bear her signature—this is also true."
"Aemond indeed commands the military power of King's Landing. All forces answer to him—this, too, is true."
"As for whether the king has been drugged, whether decrees are forged—based on what I know of my brother, that is certainly true."
"And the battle at Dragonstone?" Maester Roderick asked curiously.
Daemon's gaze darkened.
"That battle…"
"Caught us all by surprise. Those bastards Jacaerys trained in secret—those bastards with only a thin trace of dragon's blood."
"But Aemond… that madman. In the midst of two dragons clashing at high speed, he leapt from Vhagar onto the Bronze Fury and personally drove his sword through that bastard."
The old maester sucked in a breath, his chain rattling violently. "A boarding leap at such height? That… that is suicide."
"It is a madman's act," Daemon nodded, voice low.
"But he succeeded."
"Aemond himself—he does not fear death. Or worse—he believes he will not die."
"A man who does not value his own life—will he value the lives of others?"
He turned, facing Roderick, violet eyes glinting in the dark.
"Maester, you have read history. You have taken so many links from the Citadel."
"You know what kind of madmen House Targaryen has produced."
"Maegor I—he slew his own nephew, butchered the Faith Militant, and died alone upon the Iron Throne."
"Aemond may be even more dangerous than Maegor."
"Because he has not only madness—but intelligence, and patience."
"I was once a madman myself. So I understand."
Roderick fell silent for a long while. Only the sound of breathing lingered in the room.
"So you want the North to stop him."
"I want all in the Seven Kingdoms who still possess conscience and foresight to stop him," Daemon said.
"This is not for Rhaenyra, nor for myself. It is for the future of Westeros."
"A prince who, at sixteen, dares to slay his kin, bathe Driftmark in blood, and seize Dragonstone—when he holds unmatched power over the Seven Kingdoms…"
"What do you think he will do?"
The old maester did not answer.
The answer was too obvious—so obvious it was terrifying.
"I will counsel the lord to act with caution," Roderick finally said, his voice weary with age.
"But the decision rests in his hands."
"For eight thousand years, House Stark has served the North—from the Long Night to the dawn, from Kings of Winter to lords of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I believe Lord Cregan will make the choice that best serves the North."
"Even if that choice means many will never again return to this land of ice and snow."
He bowed. His chain clinked softly as he turned and departed, his footsteps fading into the stone corridors.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---