Winterfell – Godswood
The snow had come early to Winterfell, a soft, silent shroud that muffled the world in white. Beneath the weirwood, where the red leaves clung stubbornly to black branches, Vaeron Targaryen knelt alone.
The godswood was still.
Steam curled from his mouth with each breath, and frost laced the shoulders of his dark wool cloak. His gloved fingers were pressed into the soil beneath the heart tree, as if trying to feel some forgotten heartbeat.
He whispered not to the gods of fire or sky, but to the ones that watched from bark and bone.
"I do not ask for a throne," he murmured. "Nor glory. I only ask to be seen."
The face carved into the heart tree stared back—ancient, impassive, bleeding red sap from its eyes.
It did not speak.
But something stirred inside him, like a wind under his ribs. Not warmth. Not cold. Something older than both. It did not answer him, but it listened.
---
Winterfell Courtyard
Steel rang in the air as Robb Stark's wooden sword clashed with Arya's. She darted around him like a snow fox, nimble and wild, tongue stuck out between her teeth in concentration.
Vaeron leaned against a post at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, his violet eyes following their movements without truly watching.
Arya noticed him first.
"Vaeron!" she cried, sword still raised. "Come spar with me! Robb's getting slow."
Robb grunted, "I heard that."
Vaeron gave a half-smile. "I'd hate to embarrass the Young Wolf."
Arya stomped up to him. "You won't. I've been practicing."
"I can see that," he said, crouching down. "Let me see your grip."
She handed him the sword proudly. He corrected the way her thumb wrapped the hilt and the angle of her stance.
"You'll be dancing like a Braavosi soon," he said.
"Do you think I'll ever ride a dragon?" she asked, eyes wide with hope.
Vaeron paused.
"I think dragons choose," he said softly. "But if I were a dragon, I'd pick you."
Robb came up behind them, grinning. "Come on, Arya. Let's leave him be."
As they turned to leave, Robb hesitated and reached into his cloak.
"I carved this," he said, holding out a small wooden wolf pendant, smoothed with care. "For your nameday. I know it's early."
Vaeron took it with something close to reverence.
"Even dragons need a pack," Robb said.
Vaeron nodded, voice thick. "And you're mine."
---
Great Hall, Later That Day
The hall was warmed by roaring fires and filled with the scent of venison stew. Lords and bannermen sat at the long tables, their conversations low and steady. Snow clung to their boots and shoulders, melting into puddles on the stone floor.
A raven arrived during supper, black wings soaked from the storm.
Maester Luwin cracked the seal with practiced fingers, eyes darting across the parchment before handing it silently to Lord Stark.
Ned's jaw clenched.
"What is it?" Catelyn asked quietly.
Ned read the letter aloud, his voice heavy.
> "His Grace Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, invites the Great Lords of Westeros to attend the naming of Prince Aegon as Prince of Dragonstone. It is the King's will that all loyal subjects be present."
There was silence.
Vaeron sat three seats down from Catelyn, flanked by Northern lords who avoided his eyes. The letter made no mention of him. Not as guest. Not as kin. Not as son.
Not even his name.
Catelyn's eyes flashed.
"He names one son heir," she said coldly, "and forgets the other exists."
Ned's face was unreadable. "He does what he thinks best for the realm."
"For the realm," Catelyn repeated, voice thick. "What about Vaeron?"
Ned stood abruptly, folding the letter and feeding it into the fire. The flames ate the parchment hungrily.
"We protect our own," he said. "Whether the South remembers or not."
Catelyn's hand found Vaeron's beneath the table. She squeezed.
He did not speak. His silence was louder than any scream.
---
Skagos – The Cannibal
Snow fell in slow, slanted sheets across the jagged cliffs of Skagos. The wind howled through broken peaks, a voice older than men, older than fire.
Beneath the cliffs, the Cannibal stirred.
Its wings unfolded with an ancient groan, stretching wide enough to blot the moonlight. Obsidian black, streaked with veins of emerald light—like molten crystal cooled too quickly.
The dragon breathed, slow and deliberate.
It had slept, yes. But not idly.
Muscles rippled beneath scaled flesh. Claws dug into the mountain stone. It had trained itself in solitude, hunted krakens in the deeps, challenged the mountain winds. No rider commanded it. No chain could hold it.
Soon, its thoughts whispered. The boy nears. The blood remembers.
Green eyes glowed in the dark.
Then the Cannibal folded back into the rock like shadow, watching. Waiting.
---
Winterfell – Crypts of the Kings of Winter
The air beneath the castle was chill and thick with age. Torches guttered in their sconces as Vaeron descended the ancient stone steps, his footsteps echoing like whispers.
He walked past the statues of kings long dead—Starks of old with wolves at their feet and swords in their laps. And finally, he found her.
Lyanna Stark.
Her statue was younger than the rest, her face softer. A crown of winter roses rested at her feet, now brittle with time.
He knelt before her.
"I don't remember your voice," he whispered. "But I remember your face in my dreams."
He placed a small snowflake-carved token at the base of her tomb. It was made of pine. Arya had given it to him once, saying, "For your real mother."
He didn't weep. He had learned not to.
But when he placed his palm against the cold stone, he felt something warm.
A pulse. Faint. Forgotten.
Behind her tomb, tucked into a niche barely visible in the dim light, was a stone no larger than a raven's egg. Obsidian black, etched with veins of green like trapped lightning. It burned to the touch.
He held it close.
---
Winterfell – Tower of the First Keep
His chamber was lit by candlelight, books and scrolls scattered across his table. Maps of Valyria. Legends of Old Valyria's dragonlords. Stark myths of skinchangers and winter magic. Targaryen records of dragons who once bonded with their riders in dreams.
The obsidian egg-shaped stone sat in a bowl of snow, untouched by the cold.
Vaeron wrote with deliberate care in his journal.
> "He named his heir today."
> "Not the son of the wolf, only the dragon."
> "But wolves are not silent. And dragons remember."
He paused, dipping the quill again.
> "I do not seek his crown."
> "Only his gaze."
> "And when I fly, he will have no choice but to see me."
---
Winterfell – Godswood (Again)
The godswood was even quieter at night. The heart tree loomed red and still.
Vaeron walked to its base and knelt. He dug with his bare hands into the frozen earth and placed the obsidian stone within it.
He whispered, "Grow with me."
He covered it again, pressing snow and soil together.
"I will not be forgotten."
The wind shifted.
For a moment, he thought he heard something—a low rumble in the trees, like the breath of some distant beast.
---
Far North – The Night Sky
High above the mountains of the North, beyond the Wall and far from men, the sky flickered.
Not with lightning.
But with fire—green and black and terrible.
The Cannibal lifted its head.
Thirteen years, it thought.
Soon.