Game of thrones: A storm is coming

** A large chapter over 3,500 words. Now I can safely vanish till weekend and rest 😂**

The wind howled across the white expanse of the far North as Daeron soared above sprawling forests and frozen rivers on Acnologia—a dragon whose immense wings sliced through the frigid air with the majesty of a ruler of the skies.

The landscape below, untouched by the petty intrigues of South, stretched out in an endless quilt of ice and shadow, evoking memories of ancient battles and whispered promises of loyalty.

As Winterfell's looming walls came into view, carved from cold gray stone that stood defiant against the relentless winter sky, Daeron's heart softened with a mixture of relief and yearning.

The sight of the ancestral fortress of Winterfell—home to House Stark—brought back memories of days filled with warmth, laughter, and familial warmth .

Acnologia landed with a measured thud on the frozen courtyard, stirring swirling gusts of snow that danced around its colossal form.

At the gates, Rickard Stark awaited his nephew with the exuberance only a proud patriarch could muster. Rickard's imposing figure, draped in a heavy fur-lined cloak that whipped in the wind, broke into a smile that bore both amusement and genuine curiosity.

His eyes crinkled as he caught sight of Daeron, and without missing a beat, he strode forward and wrapped him in a crushing, heartfelt embrace.

"Look at you!" Rickard boomed, his laughter echoing against the stone walls. His hand patted Daeron's shoulder affectionately. "Still alive, still reckless, and still managing to return with a dragon bigger than half my keep!"

Daeron returned the smile with a quiet smirk as he released himself from Rickard's robust grip. "Acnologia's grown since you last laid eyes on him, Uncle," he said, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes as he gestured to the magnificent beast.

Rickard grunted in mock disapproval. "Seven hells, boy, he's nearly big enough to swallow my entire stable!" he declared, eyeing the resting dragon with a mixture of admiration and wary humor. Acnologia snorted as if sharing in the mirth, then lumbered off in search of a quiet, warm nook within the courtyard.

Before Daeron could indulge in more greetings, his attention was gently captured by another familiar presence. Gilliane Glover, Rickard's warm-hearted wife and his aunt, approached with her usual doting smile.

Her kind eyes crinkled in a smile as she enveloped Daeron in a gentle hug, her voice tender and welcoming. "Welcome home, Daeron. You look well," she murmured, her embrace radiating the comforting heat of home after a long, cold journey.

Daeron's smile deepened as he returned her embrace. "I feel as great now that I'm far away from politics and among family , Aunt Gilliane" he replied with a smile.

As the family reunion continued, a small figure peeked from behind Gilliane's skirts. Young Cregan Stark, his bright gray eyes wide with wonder and curiosity, clutched a tiny hand to his mother's side.

The boy's excitement was palpable as he watched his older cousin , a heroic figure in his own right, with a mixture of awe and childish glee.

"Do you remember me, little wolf?" Daeron asked, crouching down to the boy's level with a gentle smile that could melt the harshest winter frost.

Cregan's face lit up as he carefully produced a dragon-shaped pendant from within his coat—a treasure he had guarded since birth, a gift from Daeron that he never strayed far from his heart. "I love my dragon," the boy said shyly, his voice barely above a whisper as if sharing a secret with the wind. "I keep it close always."

Daeron chuckled and scooped the child into his arms, feeling both the weight of responsibility and the joy of family. "And I love my adorable little nephew," he replied warmly, his voice rich with affection. "Now tell me, Cregan, what have you been up to since you're all grown up? Hope you're not being too much trouble for Aunt Gilliane."

The boy gasped with delight, his dark curls bouncing as he nodded vigorously. " No, I'm a good boy! Can he take me flying?" he pointed at Acnologia pleaded, his eyes sparkling with dreams of adventures that stretched as far as the horizon.

Rickard's face, usually animated with mirth, took on a look of concern. "He's too young—" he began, but Daeron cut him off with a hearty laugh and a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Of course he can, Uncle. Nothing is impossible for the brave," Daeron said proudly, his tone both teasing and determined. "Anything for you, little wolf."

Rickard sighed in exasperation, though his eyes shone with a fond smile as he muttered, "You're a bad influence, boy."

Daeron only grinned wider. "An excellent influence," he corrected, sharing a conspiratorial wink with the assembled family.

Later that day, the great hall of Winterfell was transformed into a haven of warmth and mirth, a stark contrast to the harsh winds outside.

The hall was filled with the savory aroma of roasted meat, spiced wine, and freshly baked bread. Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of bannermen and household members, each face eager to hear the tales of Daeron's distant adventures. The clamor of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the occasional burst of laughter created an atmosphere of communal joy and shared destiny.

At the head of the hall, Daeron took his place amid a throng of admiring listeners. Cregan, sitting beside him, absorbed every word like a sponge. His little hands gripped his goblet of milk tightly as Daeron recounted tales of battles fought in the treacherous Stepstones, duels with brazen warriors in far-off Essos, and the sumptuous splendor of the Free Cities. Each narrative was woven with the threads of bravery, sacrifice, and an enduring sense of adventure.

"And then," Daeron said with a dramatic pause, "with one final, resounding blow, the last pirate fell, and victory was ours."

Cregan's eyes widened in astonishment. "You fought pirates? Real pirates?" he gasped, his voice trembling with the thrill of the imagined battle.

Daeron laughed, the sound echoing like a warm breeze through the hall. "The worst kind, my little wolf. They were as ruthless as they were cunning, but not cunning enough to defeat us."

Rickard chuckled, his gaze softening as he watched the young boy's face light up with admiration. "You're going to give him ideas, Daeron," he teased, a glimmer of warning mingling with his amusement.

Gilliane, ever the nurturer, smiled softly. "Let the boy dream," she said. "It's rare enough he gets to see him regale us with his adventures."

As the feast continued and the revelry grew louder, Rickard's expression turned pensive. In a quieter moment away from the raucous laughter, he leaned in towards Daeron by the side of the great fire, his tone lowering to one of grave seriousness.

"What truly happened in King's Landing?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken truths and hidden betrayals.

Daeron's easy smile faltered, replaced by a somber look that hinted at dark secrets. "Just the usual stuff , southern schemes and lies." he replied, almost too quietly.

"Not tonight, Rickard. Let the boy enjoy his homecoming," Gilliane interjected gently, her protective glance shifting between her husband and nephew.

Rickard sighed, his eyes softening in reluctant acceptance. "Fine," he conceded. "But don't think I'll let you leave without telling me everything."

A wry smirk crept back onto Daeron's face as he clinked his goblet against Rickard's. "I wouldn't dream of it."

After the feast had dwindled and the great hall emptied into the silent corridors of Winterfell, the night deepened into a cloak of introspection and whispered conspiracies.

Daeron and Rickard found themselves alone by a dying fire, the embers their only witness. With strong northern ale warming their spirits, Rickard leaned forward, his tone demanding quiet revelation. "Now. Tell me everything."

Daeron exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the dancing shadows along the stone walls. "The realm is rotting, Uncle," he began in a measured voice. "King Viserys grows weaker by the day, while Otto Hightower ensnares the court in his tangled web of schemes. If left unchecked, the Hightowers will rise from the shadows to control everything."

Rickard's eyes narrowed in anger. "And the king? What does he do when all this happens ?" he demanded.

"He does nothing," Daeron replied. "He sees the storm coming and chooses to close his eyes, as if ignorance could shield him from the inevitable."

Rickard took a long sip of ale, his expression darkening as he processed the implications of his nephew's words. "And you? What is your part in all this chaos?" he asked, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

Daeron met his uncle's piercing gaze with resolute determination. "I am leaving Westeros for now, Uncle. But there is a task I must complete before I go—I need to journey Beyond the Wall."

Rickard's brow furrowed with disbelief. "For what possible reason?" he demanded, his tone laced with both concern and outrage.

Daeron hesitated for a heartbeat before speaking , "To escort the wildlings to Essos," he declared, his voice low and resolute. "They are humans too, and they must be saved."

Rickard's face flushed with fury as he nearly shouted, "Have you gone mad?! The wildlings are savages! Why in the name of our ancestors would you lead them away somewhere , and why would they ever follow you?"

The crackling fire filled the tense silence that followed as Daeron's gaze drifted towards the flames. Finally, he spoke the truth that had been etched into his very soul, "Because the Long Night is coming. And in an ironic twist of fate, I have been chosen as the prince that was promised, to fight the icy death that comes for us all."

Rickard went still, the weight of Daeron's words settling like a shroud between them. The fire's glow seemed to dim in response to the grave portent. "You're certain Daeron?" he finally whispered, his voice a fragile thread barely audible over the crackling embers.

Daeron looked surprised and asked, " You don't doubt my words? "

Rickard snorted, " I'm a Stark , boy. Our ancestor didn't build the giant wall for fun . We know that Winter is coming, be it in 10!years or a hundred. I'm just not certain if it'll be in my lifetime or my descendants."

Daeron's eyes met his uncle's, filled with both conviction and sorrow. "I've seen the visions, Uncle. I know what's coming. And if we do nothing, the world as we know it will fall—not merely to the treachery of men, but to the dark forces that have slumbered for ages."

Rickard's jaw tightened, and after a long, pensive pause he asked, "How long do you suppose we have?"

"I don't know," Daeron admitted, the uncertainty in his tone belying the gravity of his resolve. "But we must be ready. The answers lie Beyond the Wall, among the Free Folk and the old magic. There is knowledge buried in the ice, waiting to be uncovered."

Rickard's expression was a tapestry of worry and resignation. "And then what?" he asked, his voice trembling with the enormity of the future.

"Then," Daeron's voice grew steady and commanding, "I will lead them to safety. I will take them across the sea, away from the encroaching darkness."

Rickard scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "The wildlings? They'd sooner cut your throat than follow you, nephew ."

"They will follow if they know the truth," Daeron insisted, his tone unwavering. "And they will follow because I have the strength—and the resolve—to lead them."

After a long, silent moment, Rickard studied his nephew with a mixture of admiration and despair before he sighed deeply. "You are a stubborn fool, boy," he muttered, the finality in his voice carrying the weight of a lifetime of losses.

Daeron's smirk widened as he replied, "It runs in the family, Uncle."

Rickard's eyes softened as he raised his goblet in a quiet toast. "Then I hope the old gods and new watch over you. You are the only family I have left after the loss of Bennard and his kin. I do not wish for you to suffer more grief , just be safe and healthy."

Clinking his goblet against Rickard's, Daeron replied with a light laugh, "I'll take care of myself, Uncle. I have a dragon, remember?"

Rickard snorted, shaking his head as the memory of past misadventures surfaced. "How can I ever forget when he emptied our rations for a month!" earning a chuckle from Daeron.

They talked more about Daeron's plan for future, and discussed some trade matters. Daeron thought it would be a good idea to transport grains from Essos via Sea to the North . He could send them from Bravos through the bite, which would save the North from being dependent too much on Reach and Riverlands.

As the fire burned low and the heavy silence of night reclaimed the ancient stones of Winterfell, Daeron's mind churned with the promise of destiny and the shadow of an impending storm.

He knew that his path, fraught with danger and uncertainty, would alter the course of history. And though the future loomed like a dark specter, one truth shone brightly within him: he would be ready for the storm.

The following morning, as the pale light of dawn crept across the frost-covered battlements of Winterfell, the echoes of the previous night's revelations lingered in the crisp air.

Despite the solemn conversation by the fire, a new day brought with it the promise of simple joys and familial bonds. Daeron, ever the embodiment of both duty and daring, had planned a special treat for young Cregan—a ride on Acnologia.

Rickard's initial protests were lost in the chilly breeze as Daeron, with an impish smile, corralled Cregan into the courtyard.

"Today, little wolf, you will see the world as it truly is—from the back of a dragon in the sky !" he declared, his voice carrying the excitement of untold adventures.

Cregan's eyes sparkled with excitement as he clung to his uncle's hand. "Really, Uncle? We're really going to fly?" he asked, his tone a mixture of incredulity and joy.

"You bet," Daeron replied, leading the way to where Acnologia waited, its scales glistening under the weak winter sun. The great dragon rumbled softly as if in anticipation of the day's exploits.

Before they mounted, Rickard called after them, his voice tinged with both caution and pride. "Be careful up there! The winds can be as cold as beyond the wall.!"

Daeron laughed heartily. "I promise to keep my little wolf safe," he reassured, ruffling Cregan's hair affectionately. "Today, you will learn what it means to see the world from above."

Climbing onto Acnologia's broad back was like entering another realm. The great dragon's warm, scaly hide contrasted sharply with the biting cold, and as Acnologia spread its vast wings, the pair ascended into the sky.

The view was breathtaking—a patchwork of white fields, frosted trees, and winding rivers that glittered like threads of silver in the early light.

High above the world, with the wind whipping past and the ground a distant memory.

Cregan watched with amazement and asked, " Can I also have a dragon in future, Daeron?" Daeron turned to Cregan. "I wish you could little wolf," he said thoughtfully, his gaze wandering over the endless sky.

"But remember this: dragons are the symbol of Targaryen royal blood, a bond that is not easily shared. Only those with Valyrian blood can truly form a bond with them."

Cregan frowned slightly, processing the meaning behind his uncle's words. "So I can't have one?" he asked, a tinge of disappointment softening his youthful voice.

Daeron's expression softened, and he ruffled the boy's hair again. "You're a true wolf of the North, Cregan," he said with a gentle smile.

"Your strength lies not in the possession of a dragon, but in your own spirit and determination. You will grow into a fine man, and if fate wills it, you may ride a dragon one day. But for now, remember—greatness comes from within."

As the dragon glided effortlessly among the clouds, Daeron continued in a lighter tone, "Or perhaps," he added with a teasing glimmer in his eyes, "you might marry my niece Laena and ride alongside the dragon she tames. What do you say, little wolf?"

Cregan's cheeks flushed a deep red, and he mumbled, "I don't care about marriage, who wants a stinky girl who will nag you all the time ," eliciting a hearty laugh from Daeron.

"Give it ten years or more, kid," he joked, and the bond between them shone brighter than the clear winter sky.

The flight was filled with moments of shared silence and spirited banter. Daeron pointed out distant landmarks—a frozen lake that mirrored the sky, ancient pines dusted with snow, and even a small hamlet clinging to life amid the vast wilderness.

As the hours passed, the horizon began to darken with the promise of the coming night. With happy smiles and hearts full of joy , Daeron and Cregan descended back to Winterfell.

The return was a quiet one, the earlier exuberance tempered by the weight of the looming future. Once on the ground, Rickard greeted them with a mix of relief and playful admonishment. "So, did you fly close enough to steal the stars, or were they too far away?" he joked, his eyes twinkling despite the gravity of their earlier conversation.

Daeron clapped Cregan on the shoulder. "The stars are always within reach if you dare to look up," he said, his tone a mix of wisdom and gentle humor.

After a brief reunion in the bustling corridors of Winterfell, Daeron prepared for the next leg of his journey. His plans, as grave as they were ambitious, required him to travel even further north—to the Wall itself.

Before setting out, however, a familiar figure stirred with anticipation. Cryston Cole, Daeron's sworn shield. "My prince, are you going to the Wall? You really should consider the meaning of sworn shields." Cryston joked humorously.

Daeron smiled but shook his head gently. "Not this time, Cryston," he replied firmly. " you will stay back, and show young Cregan a few moves. He will 5 name days old soon, let's leave him some lessons to practice.

Teach him some footwork—how a proper swordsman maneuvers in battle. His strength must be honed, for the world ahead will demand nothing less."

Cryston's face fell momentarily, disappointment mingling with determination. "But I want to see the Wall, and protect you, my prince ," he protested softly.

Daeron placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The Wall can wait, and your time to visit there will come. For now, Show Cregan what it means to fight with honor, and to move with the grace of a wolf in the wild.

Although he can't wield a sword yet, he can learn to move as a warrior." His voice was gentle but carried the authority of a prince , leaving no room for argument.

Cryston nodded, accepting the instruction with a respectful bow. "Yes, My Prince . I'll do my best."

With the decision made, Daeron turned his attention back to Cregan, who had watched the exchange with wide, thoughtful eyes.

"Come now, little wolf," he said, beckoning the child to join him outside the training yard. "Let's practice a bit. I want you to learn whatever you can before I leave."

In the open courtyard, with the frosted grass crunching beneath their feet, Daeron guided Cregan through the basic footwork and postures that every swordsman should master. Although his movements were much more different as he learned from the swordsmanship guide.

With deliberate patience, he demonstrated each move—how to pivot, how to advance, how to hold a steady guard. Cregan listened intently, absorbing every detail, his young mind painting vivid pictures of future battles and noble deeds.

Rickard came by at one point, " You are seriously teaching a 4 name day old child and expecting him to learn?" He asked amused.

Daeron laughed, " He will learn Uncle, I'm just helping him get acquainted with the movements. He is a talented young boy."

Cryston, meanwhile, joined in, his own swordplay a graceful dance of precision and speed. He circled Cregan with a mentor's care, correcting minor missteps and praising every improvement. "That's it, lad, move with grace" Cryston encouraged him. His words were both an instruction and an inspiration.

Daeron watched with quiet pride as his nephew and Cryston practiced lightly in the crisp morning air. "Remember, Cregan," he said softly, "a true warrior does not merely wield a sword. He understands the rhythm of battle, the strategies of combat and the heart of his men. It is as much about wit as it is about strength."

Cregan's eyes shone with newfound determination as he repeated the movements, his small form emulating the practiced gestures of a seasoned fighter.

As the day drew to a close, Daeron gathered his belongings. "It is time," he announced with a tone that blended resolve and a hint of farewell. "I must fly to the Wall now. The path ahead is perilous, and there is much to learn there."

Cregan's face fell slightly, but he nodded, understanding both the weight of his uncle's responsibilities and the promise of future lessons. "I shall continue training, Daeron."

Daeron placed a hand on Cryston's shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "Your loyalty and dedication will be always treasured by me Cryston ," he said. "Teach Cregan well."

He replied with his usual smirk, " You are acting like you are placating your lover after try to sneak away in the morning."

Daeron laughed, " Looks like you have experience in this matter. Perhaps getting chased by an angry husband?"

With that, Daeron mounted Acnologia once more, the great dragon's wings unfurling as if embracing the coming challenge.

He took one last look at Winterfell, where the legacy of House Stark burned brightly in every stone and every soul within its walls, then soared off toward the distant, looming silhouette of the Wall.