Chapter One
The stone corridors of Winterfell were colder than usual, or perhaps it was just Daena’s imagination. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that seemed to whisper along with the murmurs of the servants she passed. She could feel their eyes on her, sense the weight of their curiosity and anxiety. Words of warning and speculation clung to the air, too quiet for her to catch fully, but their meaning was clear. They all knew. And they were afraid.
Her heart raced, though she forced herself to keep a calm exterior, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if holding herself together. She could not show them her fear. Not here, where every stone seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm that was bound to break.
Finally, she reached her door. Without hesitation, Daena pushed it open and slipped inside, the solid oak shutting out the prying eyes and murmurs of the castle behind her. The sound of the latch clicking into place was a small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. For a moment, she leaned back against the door, closing her eyes, trying to steady her breath.
The room was familiar, yet tonight it felt almost foreign, as though it no longer belonged to her. A large, fur-covered bed dominated one side, with a simple wooden chest at its foot. A hearth, now only glowing embers, provided a faint warmth that barely reached the far corners. Above the fireplace hung a tapestry depicting the sigil of House Royce, her mother's house. The rest of the chamber was sparsely decorated, save for a small table with a worn chair beside it, where she often sat to write.
This room had been her sanctuary for years, a refuge from the cold and often harsh realities of life. Yet tonight, it felt oppressive, the walls closing in around her as if they too were bracing for what was to come.
Daena moved to the window, her fingers brushing against the rough stone as she reached for the latch. She pushed it open, letting the cool night air wash over her. The courtyard below was bathed in silver moonlight, the outlines of the castle walls stark against the inky sky. The silence outside was almost eerie, broken only by the distant cry of a lone wolf and the whisper of the wind.
As she stared into the darkness, her mind drifted back to the meeting with Lord Stark earlier that day. His words had been measured, his tone grave. Aemond Targaryen was coming, flying north on his dragon. The news had sent ripples of unease through Winterfell.
The North had sworn allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra, and Stark’s men were already on the march, bound for Dragonstone. Aemond’s arrival was unexpected, his intent unclear. Many feared the worst — an attempt to force the North into submission. Yet Daena knew it wasn’t a simple matter of war. The King might hold the throne, and he might command the largest dragon alive, but even he wouldn’t dare provoke the North in its own territory. Not here, where the harsh reality of winter outweighed the ambitions of men.
No, it had to be something else. The glances exchanged in the hall earlier that day had told her as much. Everyone had their suspicions, and they were not far from the truth.
She had spent years imagining what it would be like to be claimed by her kin, to be taken from the Vale, or the North, and brought into the fold of her Targaryen blood. Yet the reality was nothing like the dreams she’d nurtured. She had never expected it to be her cousin, Aemond, who would come for her. His reputation preceded him — ruthless, unyielding, a man as cold and calculating as the dragon he rode.
Daena shivered, though not from the cold. The stories that surrounded Aemond were dark, whispers of cruelty that made her stomach churn. Some said he had killed his own brother to take the throne, a tale so vile she wanted to reject it outright, yet it lingered in the back of her mind, refusing to be dismissed entirely. Why now? Why had he taken an interest in her after all these years? What could he possibly want from her, here in the far reaches of the North? The uncertainty gnawed at her, filling her with a sense of foreboding. Nothing good could come from his visit — of that, she was certain.
Daena’s gaze dropped from the stars to the stone courtyard below, her thoughts spiraling into dark possibilities. She had longed for belonging, for the warmth of family. But this… this felt more like the prelude to a storm, one that would leave her world shattered in its wake.
With a sigh, she closed the window, shutting out the night, but not the unease that had taken root deep within her. In two days, everything would change. And she feared that whatever Aemond Targaryen brought with him, it would leave her world in ruins.
A sharp knock at the door startled Daena, her thoughts scattering like leaves in a gale. She turned just as the door creaked open, revealing a young maid whose name she had come to know well — Elsa, the girl who had attended to her since her first days in the North. Elsa’s face was pale, eyes wide with urgency.
“Lord Stark wishes to see you, my lady,” Elsa announced, her voice barely above a whisper, and with a quick curtsy, she backed out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Daena straightened, her pulse quickening as she smoothed her gown and turned to face the door. As Lord Cregan Stark entered, his presence seemed to fill the room with a weighty seriousness. She offered a small bow of her head. “My lord.”
He was young for the Warden of the North, only a few years her senior, yet he embodied true leadership. His demeanor was typical of the northerners — marked by a subtle austerity and a quiet, unassuming manner. Daena observed the way women in Winterfell sighed over him, and she understood why. His features were striking, with high, chiseled cheekbones, a strong, defined jawline, and deep, penetrating eyes.
But it hadn’t always been like this. Daena recalled the tall, lanky boy, often disheveled, who had taught her to ride horses with simple bridles and how to shoot a bow and arrow. Maybe that’s why, as they grew older, her feelings for him remained rooted in simple affection.
His eyes, usually so direct and composed, darted around the room, taking in the feminine touches — the soft furs draped across the bed, the delicate embroidery on the pillows. He seemed a man out of place, a wolf strayed into unfamiliar territory.
“Lady Daena,” Cregan replied, his voice deep, though there was a slight edge to it, a hint of something unspoken. He did not meet her eyes immediately, instead glancing toward the fire, then to the window where the night pressed close against the panes. Finally, his gaze settled on her, a flicker of concern shadowing his features. She studied him, noting the slight furrow in his brow, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as if searching for words that eluded him.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” she asked, her tone cautious. “Something beyond what we already know?”
He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his words tumbled out, as if he'd been holding them back for a while. “I have long known that the North was never truly your home,” he began, his voice low and strained. “Your blood is of the Dragon, forged in fire, not in the cold winds of this land.”
His words struck her with a pang, a bittersweet truth she had always known but never fully embraced. “Winterfell has been more of a home to me than anywhere else,” she replied, her voice soft, almost wistful. “I am deeply grateful for the kindness I have found here.”
Cregan’s eyes softened, but the unease remained, a shadow in his gaze. He stepped closer, but only slightly, as if wary of overstepping some invisible boundary. “Even so,” he continued, “I've always harbored a hope, a foolish hope, that perhaps…” He trailed off, his eyes softening as they lingered on her.
Daena felt a tremor of fear ripple through her, her breath hitching as a dreadful realization dawned on her. She searched his face, hoping for reassurance but finding none. “You mean to send me away, don’t you?” she asked, her voice wavering with the desperation of the thought.
Cregan’s eyes widened, and he stepped forward, shaking his head. “No,” he said firmly. “I would never do such a thing. But I fear for your safety. I have thought…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Perhaps it would be best if you were to go into hiding. There is a place, far from here, on the road to the Wall. A shelter, hidden from prying eyes. I could make up some story for when the one-eyed king arrives…”
Daena’s heart ached at the suggestion, at the lengths he was willing to go to protect her. “That is too dangerous,” she whispered, shaking her head. “To defy Aemond Targaryen in such a way — it is treason, my lord. He would have you executed.”
Cregan’s jaw tightened, a stubborn resolve hardening his features. “I’m not afraid of him. He’s no true king. He’s done nothing to earn the power he wields.” His voice was thick with contempt, and Daena felt a pang of uncertainty.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold reality closing in on them. She averted her gaze, her mind racing as she struggled to comprehend the gravity of the situation. “I wonder what he wants with me?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“Whatever it is, it can’t be good,” he murmured, his tone grim. “You have Targaryen blood, and that alone makes you valuable — dangerously so.”
Daena nodded, the truth of his words heavy on her heart. “I have come to the same conclusion,” she admitted. “But I cannot flee. The North has taken me in; I can’t put it in danger. Besides…” She swallowed hard, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “There’s a bit of the North in me too now, and northerners don’t cower in fear.”
Cregan’s stern expression softened into a small, proud smile. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, before finally reaching out to take her hand in his. The gesture was tender, almost reverent, and Daena felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “If you were to marry a northern lord,” he began, his voice almost a whisper, “then you would truly belong here. Aemond Targaryen would have no claim on you.”
Her breath caught at the suggestion, color flushed her cheeks. Gently, she withdrew her hand from his, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. “I cannot escape my heritage.” She reached up, instinctively brushing her fingers through the silver strands of her hair. “I am a Targaryen, my lord, no matter where I go. No northern lord would willingly wed the daughter of a kinslayer.”
Cregan’s gaze remained unwavering as he took in her words. After a long, contemplative pause, he finally spoke: “You are not your father’s sins, Lady Daena. And I wouldn’t mind at all… calling you Lady Stark.”
Daena’s heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words leaving her both startled and embarrassed by the sudden intensity of his words. “My lord… please…”
“Just consider it,” he urged, his voice firm but kind. “As the Lady of Winterfell, you would have the protection of the North. Neither Aemond Targaryen nor anyone else could threaten you. I would declare war on him if need be, make the North independent. Make you Queen of the North if I must.”
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped Daena’s lips, the absurdity of the notion almost too much to bear. “I am no queen, my lord.”
But her amusement faded quickly, replaced by a deep sense of gratitude. She reached out, touching his arm lightly. “Thank you, truly, for your friendship and your protection. Perhaps nothing terrible will happen… But whatever does… I ask that you respect my decision.”
Cregan’s expression darkened slightly, but he nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing as he accepted her words. “As you wish, my lady.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Daena managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. The storm was coming, and they both knew it. But for now, all they could do was wait.
**a day and a night later**
The boy clung to the ledge, his small fingers numb from the biting cold, but he didn’t dare let go. Winterfell’s stone walls were freezing against his cheek as he leaned out as far as he could, trying to catch a glimpse of what everyone had been whispering about all day. A dragon, they said. A real dragon, like the ones in the stories, with scales harder than steel and fire hotter than a forge. The boy had heard tales of them, of course — who hadn’t? But those were stories, distant and far-off, the kind told around the hearth to make the long nights shorter. He’d never thought he’d see one, not with his own eyes.
His mind wandered as he waited, imagining what it would be like. He pictured a great beast, black as night with eyes that burned like hot coals. Or maybe it would be red, the color of blood, with wings so large they could blot out the sun. He shivered, but not from the cold. What would it be like to stand before such a creature? Could a dragon really be tamed, or was it always wild, with fire in its belly and the sky in its heart?
He didn’t know, and that’s what made his heart race. The men had said it would be here soon, the dragon of the south, ridden by a king with silver hair. He wondered if his dragon would be as majestic as the songs claimed.
And then, in the distance, the boy saw it — a small, dark speck against the overcast sky. He blinked, thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the speck grew larger, steadily, stretching wide and powerful. The sky seemed to crack open, and the shadow unfurled itself like a great, monstrous bird. He gasped, his eyes widening as the creature grew even larger, its massive wings beating the air with a power that shook the very ground beneath him.
The dragon emerged from the clouds. It wasn’t black or red, but a deep, dusky gray, like the color of an approaching storm. Vhagar. The name whispered through the air like a ghost, carrying with it the weight of a thousand stories. She was larger than he could have ever imagined, so large that he couldn’t see where her wings ended or where her body began. Her wings stretched out, each one as wide as the great walls of Winterfell, and with every beat, she stirred up gusts of wind that tore through the courtyard, making the banners snap like whips.
The boy’s mouth fell open as she descended, her great bulk filling the sky until it seemed there was no room left for anything else. She landed with a thunderous crash, her talons digging deep into the ground, sending flurries into the air. For a moment, the courtyard was filled with nothing but the sound of her breathing, a low, rumbling growl that made the boy’s heart leap into his throat. She was the stuff of nightmares, and yet, in her terrifying presence, he saw something beautiful — something ancient and powerful. She let out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through his bones, and he wondered if the very earth feared her.
And then he saw him. The rider who sat atop the dragon’s back, so small in comparison, yet there was something about him that made the boy’s breath catch. He slid down from Vhagar with a fluid motion, landing softly in the ground, as if the earth bent to his will. His hair was silver, shining like moonlight against the dull gray of the world around him, and it reminded the boy of the lady who sometimes visited the stables. She had hair like that too, hair that looked like spun silk, so different from the dark, coarse hair of the northerners.
The boy’s heart raced as he watched the king approach Lord Stark. He moved with a kind of quiet power, like a wolf on the hunt, and the boy knew, without understanding how, that this man was someone to be feared. The man’s eye, only one of them visible, gleamed cold and sharp like a blade.
The boy’s fingers ached from the cold, but he held on tighter, unwilling to miss a single moment. Everything about the scene felt otherworldly, like he was watching a story unfold from one of the old tales the maester sometimes told. A dragon and its rider, come from the farthest reaches of the world, to the heart of Winterfell. It was the kind of thing that only happened in songs, in the wild dreams of children too young to know better. And yet, here it was, real and solid before his very eyes.
And then, the king turned, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met — one lilac eye locking onto the boy’s hidden face. The boy’s breath caught in his throat, and for a split second, he felt as though the man could see right through him, as though he knew every thought, every dream, every fear that filled his young mind. Then the king turned away, his attention returning to Lord Stark, and the boy released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Just as he thought he might have a moment to catch his breath, he felt a sharp tug on the back of his coat. “Get down from there, you little fool!” came the gruff voice of the stablemaster, pulling the boy off the ledge and setting him firmly on the ground. The boy stumbled, still dazed from what he’d seen.
“But I want to see the dragon!” he protested, craning his neck to try and catch another glimpse of Vhagar over the heads of the adults who crowded the courtyard.
The stablemaster grunted, giving the boy a shove toward the stables. “Let the lords deal with their dragons. You’ve horses to tend to. Go on now, before I tan your hide.”
The boy wanted to argue, to beg for just one more look, but the stablemaster’s stern glare left no room for discussion. Reluctantly, he turned and trudged toward the stables, but not before casting one last, longing glance back at the dragon.
**
The courtyard of Winterfell was eerily silent, the cold biting into every corner of the space. Vhagar, the ancient dragon, had already landed, her massive form dwarfing everything around her. The air itself seemed to tremble with her presence, her breathing a slow, steady rumble that sent clouds of steam rising into the frigid air. Daena watched from her place in the line of lords and ladies, her cloak pulled tightly around her, but it did little to ward off the disquiet creeping through her veins.
Dragons had always felt like legends to her. Stories from her youth, warnings whispered from the mouths of wet nurses. And yet, she had known they were real. Some of her own kin commanded the beasts. She had heard tales of her father's own dragon, Caraxes. But knowing and seeing were entirely different things. As the massive figure of Vhagar appeared, wings beating against the air like the relentless waves of the Narrow Sea, Daena realized no story could have prepared her for this.
All around her, men stiffened and shrank beneath the heat of the dragon’s breath, even from a distance; she could feel the tension in their postures, the instinctive need to retreat in the face of such power. But for Daena, the sight of the creature was hypnotic, almost magical. Something in her blood seemed to stir, an ancient pull that drew her toward the dragon’s overwhelming presence, as if there was a song only she could hear — a song sung by the dragon herself. It was as if her entire being wanted to take a step closer, to get nearer to the beast that had loomed in the sky. And yet, despite the pull, Daena planted her feet firmly on the ground.
The courtyard was filled with Winterfell’s finest, the northern lords lined up in their heavy furs, standing proud beneath the ancient walls. She stood further back, not hidden, but positioned with care. In truth, her place felt uncertain — an outsider, even after all these years. Lord Stark stood at the forefront, his expression unreadable, though Daena had learned to see the flickers of his thoughts. His jaw was tense, but there was no fear in his eyes, only cold resolve.
She tugged her cloak tighter around herself, its woolen warmth a meager defense against the biting cold. Beneath it, she wore one of the few dresses she truly liked, a deep blue velvet gown trimmed with silver — a gift from Lady Arryn, who occasionally sent her gifts as if trying to remind Daena of her roots. The dress mirrored the colors of the Vale, a quiet symbol of where she had spent her early years, though the heavy northern cloak around her shoulders told another story.
Daena stiffened, watching with a mix of fascination and disgust as Aemond Targaryen dismounted.
He was tall and lean, yet his presence commanded attention. Handsome, yes, in the way a finely forged blade is beautiful — sharp, cold, and deadly. He looked built for war, though unlike Cregan Stark’s broad, powerful frame, Aemond was more lithe, his steps quick and precise. There was a predatory grace in the way he moved, like the mountain lions that prowled the Wolfswood. His long silver hair — so like her own — was unmistakable, gleaming unnaturally bright against the dark backdrop of the north. To see another with hair like hers felt strangely unreal.
There was nothing of warmth or kindness in him, and yet, despite the disdain curling in her stomach, Daena couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was as if the very blood in her veins stirred at the sight of him — this living embodiment of everything she had tried to deny about her Targaryen heritage.
She despised him for what he was: arrogant, cruel, a man who took what he wanted without regard for others. And yet, she couldn’t deny the strange pull he had over her, a dark fascination she hated herself for feeling. He was dangerous, but there was something about the way he held himself that made her wonder what lay beneath that cold, calculating exterior.
Her eyes flicked to his face, tracing the path of the jagged scar crossing from brow to cheek, the black patch covering where his eye once had been. He seemed both familiar and foreign, a living reflection of the blood she shared but had never known. His remaining eye scanned the line of nobles with cool indifference, stopping only when he reached Lord Cregan Stark. They exchanged curt nods. Stark did not bow.
“Lord Stark,” Aemond’s voice cut through the winter air, sharp as a blade. “I trust you’ve been expecting me.”
"I was," Cregan replied evenly, his voice low and steady. "Though Winterfell is rarely so graced with the presence of dragons.”
Aemond’s mouth curled into a slight smirk, though it held no warmth. “Not even a welcome feast for a king?” he drawled. “Or do you only roll out your halls for Rhaenyra’s bastards?”
Cregan’s eyes darkened, but his response was measured. “You are welcome, Your Grace. Winterfell does not forget its duties of hospitality, no matter the king.”
The tension between them was palpable, a silent contest of wills that stretched across the icy courtyard. Daena’s breath hitched, though she stayed perfectly still, observing as the scene unfolded.
Aemond’s gaze shifted then, falling directly upon her. His pale eye narrowed, as if studying every inch of her, from her carefully braided hair to the dress that fluttered slightly in the wind. “And this,” he said slowly, his voice taking on a more amused tone, “must be my cousin.”
Daena took a short step forward, lifting her chin in a pose she hoped conveyed arrogance. “Your Grace,” she replied shortly.
His eyes traveled deliberately down her body, lingering with an intensity that made her skin crawl. But Daena held her ground, her back straight, refusing to flinch under his scrutiny. If this was a game of power, she would not be the first to falter.
“I expected you to be younger, but it seems you’ve grown into a woman.”
She didn’t reply, her silence a quiet defiance. His eye lingered on her for a moment longer than it should have, and when he finally turned away, Daena felt a strange knot of unease settle in her stomach.
Cregan’s voice broke the silence. "Come inside, Your Grace. The night is cold, and you must be weary from your journey.”
Aemond inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment more than acceptance, but as they turned to head into the castle, the tension remained thick.
The great stone walls of Winterfell loomed over them as they entered the warmth of the keep, the fire crackling in the hearth casting flickering shadows across the walls. The hall was vast, lined with long wooden tables, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread still lingering in the air from the evening meal. Cregan ordered one of his men to bring wine and food for the king, his tone curt but respectful.
"Leave us," he ordered, once the wine was poured. The nobles and servants began to file out and Daena moved to follow, her hand brushing the rough wood of the table as she made to leave.
“She stays.” Aemond’s voice cut through the hall like a whip, sharp and commanding.
Daena halted mid-step, her heart racing. As she turned back slowly, Cregan’s eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, she thought he might argue. But instead, he gave a curt nod, and the room emptied, leaving only the three of them in the dimly lit hall.
Daena took her seat at the long table, her hands resting in her lap as Aemond sat across from her. His eye met hers briefly, a flicker of something dark passing through his gaze before he turned to Cregan.
“May I inquire the true reason for your visit, Your Grace?”
Aemond took a slow sip of wine before setting the cup down. "I've heard Winterfell has had no shortage of visitors. I found myself wondering why."
The shadow of a smile flickered across Lord Stark's face as he replied, "You must have been deeply curious to travel the length of the kingdom.”
Aemond leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. “I hear your halls were recently graced by my own nephew, Jacaerys. I also hear you hold a certain fondness for the so-called Queen. Hoping to see her usurper’s crown upon her head, are we?”
Cregan’s gaze remained unwavering. “My father swore an oath to Rhaenyra when she was named heir by King Viserys. The North does not forget its oaths.”
Aemond’s lip curled into a smirk. "Oaths," he said again, with that same mocking tone. "So many oaths. But what use are they if it leaves you cold and starving in the winter? If it buries your people beneath the snow?"
Daena’s breath caught in her throat at the sharpness of his words, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. There was something terrifying in the way Aemond spoke, something that hinted at the depths of his ruthlessness.
Cregan’s response was measured, calm. "The North has always endured. We will continue to do so, no matter who sits the Iron Throne."
Aemond’s eye narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "Endurance is one thing. Survival is another. Does an oath mean enough to be worth your death?”
Daena felt the air grow heavier, her stomach twisting with the weight of his words. But Cregan’s reply came swiftly, his tone calm yet unyielding.
“For an honorable man, there is no death more worthy.”
Aemond shifted in his seat, leaning back slightly as a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. His gaze slid between Cregan and Daena before he finally spoke again, his voice smooth and measured. “It doesn't matter,” he drawled. “I’m not here to demand that you bend the knee. The North is... untamed, but honest. I know you will obey the true ruler of the realm in the end — oaths or not.”
Cregan’s eyes narrowed, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair, but he held his silence. Aemond’s words hung in the air, simmering. “My visit here is political,” he continued, his voice dropped into something almost conspiratorial. “But not with you.” His gaze lingered, deliberate and heavy, on Daena.
She said nothing, her expression carefully composed, refusing to play into whatever game he was setting. That silence, though, only seemed to amuse Aemond. His smile sharpened as he leaned forward. “Has the North frozen your tongue, cousin? Or were you born mute? That would make things… interesting.”
Daena straightened in her chair, her chin lifting slightly. “I’m sorry for your trouble, Your Grace,” she replied coolly, her voice steady. “But whatever it is you're looking for, I have nothing to offer you.”
Aemond’s eye flickered, and his smirk deepened. “I doubt that,” he murmured. “You see, ruling the Seven Kingdoms can be... tiresome. Especially when half my kin plots to steal my crown, to see me toppled. And to do it alone... well, that’s even more taxing.” He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle in the room. “I am in need of allies. And as you know, blood calls to blood.”
Cregan’s posture stiffened. “Lady Daena was raised far from King’s Landing. She has no part in this.”
Daena’s eyes flicked to Cregan, but she nodded slightly in agreement. “He’s right. I would make a poor ally for you. My loyalties lie elsewhere.”
Aemond let out a soft laugh, his head tilting as he studied her. “That’s nonsense,” he said, his voice rich with amusement. “You are as much Targaryen as I am. The blood of Old Valyria runs through your veins. We are kin. And we must stand together.”
Daena’s pulse quickened, but she kept her composure, her gaze unwavering. We are kin. We must stand together. The words lingered, and for a moment, she could almost believe them. But not now. Not with him. “Why now?” she asked, her voice hard. “You’ve known of me all these years, but no one reached out until today. Why?”
Aemond’s smirk softened into something more calculating as he leaned back, crossing his arms. “Because the realm requires your help now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What help could I possibly offer you?”
Aemond’s smile widened, a slow, predatory grin as he glanced sideways at Cregan before turning back to her. “I want you to become my wife.”
The room froze. Cregan shot up from his seat, his muscles tensing, as though ready to launch himself toward Aemond. “You can’t be serious—”
Daena’s hand shot out, stopping him with a glance. Her eyes flashed with indignation, and she looked straight at Aemond. “That is a joyless joke, Your Grace.”
But Aemond didn’t flinch. His eye gleamed with cold determination. “It wasn’t a joke. Ruling alone is a lonely affair. The throne room is vast... as is my bed.”
Cregan’s fists clenched, his voice like a low growl. “As Warden of the North,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, “I swore to protect Lady Daena when my father took her in from the Vale. You can’t take her.”
Aemond’s lips curved into a dangerous smirk, his gaze glinting with mischief. “It takes a brave man to tell a king what he can and cannot do. Anyway, I don't intend to force her,” he said softly, his tone almost mocking. “But she will say yes.”
Daena’s heart pounded in her chest, but she held her ground, her voice steady as she challenged him. “And how can you be so sure?”
Aemond’s smile grew cold, his eye flashing with dark amusement. “Because,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing drawl, “if you refuse me, I’ll burn Winterfell to the ground. I’ll burn every man, woman, and child with it. You’ll watch your home turn to ash before your eyes. And Lord Stark with it.”
The room seemed to shrink around them, the firelight flickering as the tension grew unbearable. Daena’s breath caught in her throat, and she could feel Cregan’s rage simmering just beneath the surface. But Aemond didn’t stop. “I’ll have to kill them all,” he continued, his voice cruel and unrelenting. “Because the North remembers, and I have enough enemies as it is.”
Cregan surged to his feet, his face twisted in fury. “How dare you come into my home to make threats against my people?”
Aemond stood slowly, his smirk fading into something darker. “I am your King,” he said, each word deliberate, edged with menace. “And I will burn anyone who stands in my way.”
Before Daena could react, Cregan’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword, the steel ringing as it sliced through the air. “Not in the North, you won't.”
The clash of steel exploded through the hall as Aemond parried, his sword meeting Cregan’s mid-strike. The impact sent a shockwave through the room, the fire in the hearth crackling wildly as the two men collided. They moved in a brutal dance, each strike faster, deadlier. Cregans raw powert met Aemonds precise, calculated movements.
Chairs toppled, the wooden table splintering as Cregans sword slammed into it, missing Aemond by inches. Aemond spun, his sword in a blur of silver as it slashed across Cregans side. Blood blossomed on Cregans tunic, but he did not falter.
“You have no men to protect you, Stark!”, Aemond shouted over the clash of swords, his voice filled with cold, triumphant fury. “The two thousand men you sent to Rhaenyra must have met my forces by now and been already dead!”
The words cut through the chaos and Daena's stomach turned. Two thousand men… dead. The weight of his threat pressed down on her chest like a stone. He meant it. If she refused to go with him, he'd burn Winterfell. All of those people that had taken her in, all of the innocent lives of northerners, lay in balance. But what would it mean for her to go to King’s Landing with him, to become his queen? Could she live that life, bound to a man só ruthless, so adept to cruelty in order to get what he wanted?
She looked at Cregan, there was blood all over him. Was there even a choice for her to make?
The fight raged on, vicious and fast. Cregans blade got Aemonds arm, drawing blood, but Aemond barely flinched, retaliating with a kick that sent Cregan staggering back. They grunted, their movements growing desperate, the room a blur of violence. The doors to the hall slammed open, two guards rushed in. They stoped in their tracks, their eyes wide, unsure whether to intervene.
“Stop this!”, Daena's voice trembled with desperation, but the men didn't hear her. They were locked in combat, oblivious to anything else.
Aemond pushed Cregan back, driving him toward the wall with a series of ruthless blows. His smirk returned, blood streaking down his arm. He swund hard, and Cregan’s sword flew from his hand, clattering across the stone floor. With a vicious shve Aemond send Cregan to his knees, the tip of his blade pressing againsf Cregan’s throat.
“You see now?” Aemonds voice was cold as ice. “You could never win. Say the word and I'll end you here.”
“No!” Daena’s voice rang out, desperation clawinf at her throat. “I'll do it! I'll marry you! Please, don't hurt him.” Her heart slammed her chest, and her breathe came in shallow gasps. She couldn't let him die. She couldn't let none of them die, even if it meant chain herself up to a life of unhappiness.
Aemond’s gaze snapped to her, his eye gleaming with triumph. He was panting, his chest heaving from the exertion of the fight, but a victorious smirk curled his lips as he withdrew the sword from Cregan’s throat. “Wise choice,” he said, his voice cold, but his victory was clear.
Cregan, still on his knees, raised his bloodied face toward Daena, desperation in his eyes. “Don’t go with him. Please... you can’t.”
But before he could say more, Aemond delivered a brutal punch across his face, sending him sprawling onto the stone floor, blood spilling from his mouth as his head hit the floor wkth a sickening thud. Daena’s cry of anguish filled the room. Her knees buckled, tears streaming down her face as she rushed forward. “Stop! I said I’d go with you! Just stop hurting him!”
Aemond stood over Cregan for a moment, his lips curling with contempt before he sheathed his sword. Without another word, he stepped over Cregan’s crumpled form and strode toward the hearth. Daena watched, her heart pounding, as he picked up Cregan’s fallen sword. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the fire. The flames crackled and consumed the blade as if it were nothing more than kindling.
“If there’s anything you deem indispensable,” Aemond saidl, his voice eerily calm, “go and collect it now.”
Daena blinked, her mind spinning in disbelief. “Now?” she asked, her voice hoarse with shock. “You expect me to leave... now?”
“I’m not spending another second in this goddamned frozen land.” Aemond snapped, turning to her, his expression hard as stone. “I’ll be waiting by my dragon.”
He strode past her, the air between them thick with tension. As he moved, he leaned close, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “If you’re not there in five minutes,” he murmured, his lips brushing the edge of her ear, “or if you try anything foolish... I’ll show everyone here just how hot a dragon’s fire can burn.”
Daena stood frozen, trembling with fear and rage, as he strode out of the hall. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving only the sound of her ragged breathing and the crackling fire consuming Cregan’s sword.
Her mind raced, every thought a blur of pain and helplessness. She glanced at Cregan lying on the floor, groaning in pain. Her chest tightened. She wanted to scream, to fight, to claw her way out of this nightmare, but what could she do? Aemond held all the power, and he was ruthless enough to burn everything she loved to ash if she defied him.
She knelt beside Cregan, her heart heavy as she looked over his injuries. Blood stained his cheek, and his eye was already swelling shut, the sharp outline of Aemond’s strike clear on his bruised skin. He struggled to speak, words of apology barely forming on his lips, but Daena shook her head, her voice tight with emotion.
“I’m the one who needs to apologize,” she said, her words trembling but resolute. “When the Dance of the Dragons began, anyone else would have sent me away without hesitation. You knew keeping me here was dangerous, But you…” Her throat tightened as she spoke. “You never abandoned me.”
Cregan’s hand reached for her, his voice barely above a whisper. “You can still run.”
Daena sighed, her gaze fixed on the floor as if searching for strength. “Winter is coming. We all have to make sacrifices. This is mine.”
The fire crackled softly in the background, the sound filling the heavy silence between them. His eyes pleaded with her, but she had already made her decision. With a final, trembling touch to his arm, she whispered, “I’ll miss you.”
Daena stood, her heart aching with every step she took away from him. His words of protest followed her down the corridor, but she didn’t stop. When she reached her chamber, the emptiness of the room overwhelmed her. It was as if she had never truly lived there at all. The sparse furnishings, the almost bare walls — none of it felt like home. It all felt so meaningless now.
For a long moment, Daena just stood there, her breath shaky. Then, overwhelmed by the weight of it all, she collapsed onto the floor, tears streaming down her face.
There was nothing important in that room. Nothing that tied her to Winterfell or its people. She had never truly belonged here, never put down roots, never gathered keepsakes. Everything around her was as cold and distant as the North itself. She was to be cast into the hands of another lord, another life she didn’t choose. Only this time, the weight of what was to come felt far heavier.
Her time in the North had been a fleeting chapter in her life, and now, she was being cast into the unknown again, into the arms of a man she feared, despised, and yet could not escape. The reality of her fate crashed down on her all at once.
Through her tears, she hurriedly gathered a few belongings — things that might matter on a journey but held little real significance. A small bag, a simple bundle. It was all she needed because, truthfully, she had nothing to leave behind.
As she stepped into the corridor, Elsa was waiting, her wide eyes filled with fear. The girl’s lips trembled as she tried to speak, her voice barely a whisper. Daena hugged her tightly, feeling her own chest constrict with emotion. “Send someone to tend to Lord Stark,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry, Elsa.”
Outside, the courtyard was eerily quiet. The cold wind bit at Daena’s skin as she crossed the cobblestone path, her eyes fixed on the towering figure of Vhagar, Aemond standing beside his dragon with a look of barely concealed impatience. The people of Winterfell watched her in silence, their faces a mixture of fear and sorrow.
The moment she neared, the dragon turned her massive head toward Daena, nostrils flaring as she let out a deep, bone-rattling roar. The heat of her breath washed over Daena like a furnace, whipping her hair back with the force of it. Her heart pounded in her chest, fear freezing her in place.
Aemond’s hand shot out to calm the beast, his voice sharp as he barked a command in High Valyrian: "Lykirī, Vhagar. Jevi!”
Vhagar snorted but lowered her head slightly, her massive form still tense but obedient to her rider’s command. Daena approached slowly, her face streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen. Aemond regarded her for a moment, a dark amusement flickering across his face. “You didn’t bring much,” he remarked with a cold smirk.
“There wasn’t much to bring,” Daena replied, her voice thick with anger. “And if there was, I wouldn’t want it where we’re going.”
Aemond’s smirk deepened, and with a sharp motion, he grabbed her wrist. Daena let out a groan of protest. His grip was firm but not painful, though it made her heart race in panic for a moment. He guided her hand toward Vhagar, pressing her palm against the dragon’s warm scales.
The heat of Vhagar’s body pulsed beneath her hand, a strange and unsettling sensation. It was as if the dragon’s ancient power coursed through her, vibrating under her skin. The raw energy of it, the primal force, sent a shiver through Daena. This was no ordinary beast — this was a creature born of fire and blood, a legacy she was tied to whether she liked it or not.
Aemond leaned closer, his voice low and commanding. “You are a Targaryen,” he whispered, his breath brushing against her ear. “You don’t belong to the North.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’ve never belonged anywhere,” she muttered bitterly.
Aemond’s smile turned cruel, his eye gleaming with dark satisfaction. “Now you belong to me,” he said, the words a sharp blade of finality. “And I’ll teach you what it truly means to be a Targaryen.”
He offered his hand, urging her to mount Vhagar. Reluctantly, Daena took it, allowing him to help her up onto the saddle. Vhagar’s saddle was wide, built for more than one rider. Aemond moved with practiced ease, securing her in place with leather straps around her legs. She found herself uncomfortably close to him as he settled in front of her. He wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling her close. “Hold on tight,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Daena’s skin tingled at the unfamiliar closeness. She had never been this near to a man before. The scent of him — leather, sweat, and something faintly metallic, like steel — filled her senses, unsettling her. She chastised herself for even noticing, swallowing hard as she tightened her grip around his torso.
“Soves, Vhagar!” Aemond barked, and with a mighty roar, Vhagar’s wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the courtyard as they beat the air. The ground trembled beneath them, and Daena’s heart lurched, her grip tightening around Aemond as the wind whipped against her face.
The ground beneath them fell away as Winterfell disappeared into the distance. Daena’s tears blurred her vision, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the place she had called home for so long. It was slipping away from her, as everything always did.