Winterfell – Morning
Snow blanketed the castle in a fresh layer of white, pure and unbroken, as if the North itself were offering Vaeron Targaryen a gift for his nameday. The chill air was laced with the scent of pine smoke and roasting meat, and the walls of Winterfell echoed with the laughter of servants and the stamping of boots.
Within the Great Hall, preparations were in full swing. Tables groaned beneath the weight of meat pies, honeyed turnips, and golden loaves. Sansa stood by the hearth arranging ribbons of blue and silver—colors she insisted reflected both Winterfell and House Targaryen.
"It's his thirteenth nameday, Sansa," Arya muttered beside her. "He doesn't care for ribbons."
"He's still a prince," Sansa sniffed. "He should be treated like one."
"He's our prince," Arya said with defiance. "He belongs here, not in some court full of peacocks and liars."
Catelyn Stark, standing above them on the dais, smiled softly at her daughters' bickering.
"He belongs to us," she said aloud, silencing them both. "And today, we show him that."
---
The Godswood – Midday
Vaeron stood beneath the weirwood, the boughs above him heavy with snow and blood-red leaves. His violet eyes—so stark against the black of his hair—stared into the carved face of the tree.
He did this every year on his nameday. Not out of prayer, but remembrance.
"I don't know if you'd be proud of me," he whispered to the tree. "I don't know if you even knew what I'd become."
His fingers brushed the damp earth where he had once buried the obsidian stone. The soil felt warmer than it should in the dead of winter. And beneath his fingers, he felt something faint—like a pulse. Or a heartbeat.
A single raven croaked above him. A black wing beat once—twice—and then it was gone.
---
Winterfell Courtyard – Afternoon
Robb Stark approached his foster brother with a sly grin.
"Come on," he said. "Your gift's not going to chase itself."
Vaeron blinked. "What?"
Robb tossed him a thick fur cloak. "You'll see."
Beyond the walls of Winterfell, snow-dusted woods stretched endlessly. Robb led a small hunting party—Theon, Jory Cassel, and a few of the older squires. Their prey: a great elk spotted near the Wolfswood.
But this was no ordinary hunt.
When they found it, it was already half-frozen near a brook, too old to run. Robb loosed the first arrow, and Vaeron loosed the last.
They knelt together beside the beast after it fell.
"Father says the Starks always share in the kill," Robb said.
"I'm not a Stark," Vaeron replied softly.
Robb looked at him. "You're my brother. That's more than enough."
---
Great Hall – Evening Feast
The hall was alive with music. Harp strings danced and pipes sang old Northern songs. Roasted elk was served on silver platters, alongside honeycakes and fresh-baked bread. Goblets of hot spiced wine passed from hand to hand.
At the high table, Lord Stark sat in his dark wool, stern but content. Beside him, Catelyn radiated quiet pride, her hand resting lightly on Vaeron's shoulder.
He was dressed in black velvet trimmed with silver, his sword at his hip—one of Ned Stark's own making. Around his neck, Robb's wolf pendant hung, polished smooth.
"To Prince Vaeron," Lord Stark said as he stood, goblet raised. "May he walk with honor, speak with wisdom, and never forget the blood of both dragon and wolf."
"To Prince Vaeron!" the hall echoed.
For a moment, he let the warmth of the hall settle into his bones. Laughter. Love. Even Theon smirked in camaraderie.
And then the raven arrived.
It flapped down to the dais, wings dusted with snow, bearing a scroll sealed in red wax—three-headed dragon.
Maester Luwin received it and passed it to Lord Stark.
Ned broke the seal, eyes scanning the letter.
His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked—once—to Vaeron.
And then, without a word, he tucked the parchment into his sleeve and resumed his seat.
No announcement. No message.
Vaeron's heart clenched.
---
Later That Night – The Fire and the Letter
Vaeron found the letter in the hearth.
Half-burned.
He pulled it from the embers, fingers trembling. The wax had melted, but most of the words remained. He read them in silence, lips unmoving.
> "Let it be known that His Grace, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, names his son Prince Aegon as heir to Dragonstone, Blood of the Dragon, future protector of Westeros."
> "A feast will be held in King's Landing for all lords and loyal houses to attend."
> "The wolf-spawn will remain in the North."
No mention of Vaeron by name.
Not even a whisper.
The letter curled in his grip. The ink smeared in tears or soot. He tossed the parchment back into the flames.
Behind him, the wind howled.
---
Vaeron's Chamber – Dreaming
That night, he dreamed.
He stood in the crypts of Winterfell, torches flickering in the stale air. The statues of the dead Kings of Winter lined the walls—but they wept blood from stone eyes.
He walked among them, barefoot, swordless.
And then he saw her.
Lyanna.
She stood beside her tomb, clad in a gown of frost, her hair wild with snow.
"Do you see me?" he asked.
She did not speak.
But she turned—and behind her, the earth split.
From the broken stone rose a massive beast. A dragon.
Not the gold of Rhaegon, nor the red of Meraxes.
Black as night. Green as poison.
The Cannibal.
It unfurled its wings and shrieked—and the sound shattered the crypt, shattered the dream.
And then—
> "I come for you," the voice said. Not Lyanna's. Not human. "Thirteen fires light your path. Wake."
Vaeron gasped, choking on air.
He was back in his chamber. The fire had gone cold.
And he was no longer alone.
---
Winterfell – Godswood (Second Visit)
Something pulled him to the godswood.
He found the soil where the obsidian stone had once been… disturbed. Dug up. Clawed.
The stone was gone.
In its place: a scale. Black, with green veining like emerald lightning.
He touched it.
Heat flared beneath his palm—but it did not burn.
And carved into the frozen roots beneath the tree was a single mark.
A claw, three-taloned, scorched into the ice itself.
He dropped to his knees.
It was real.
The dream.
The dragon.
---
Skagos – The Sky Breaks
Across the narrow sea from the North, the wild, jagged mountains of Skagos trembled.
The Cannibal stood atop the highest peak, wings spread wide. The sky around it shimmered with green fire. A storm churned above it, clouds parting like curtains before its might.
It screamed into the night—and took flight.
Its wings beat the air into thunder.
Below, seals fled the shore. Mountain goats vanished into crags. The sea boiled in its wake.
It was not flying south.
It flew home.
---
White Harbor – Midnight
Fishermen in White Harbor cried out.
They saw it—just a glimpse—a black shadow against the moon, wings vast enough to blot out stars. It passed in silence, and yet the air shook with its passage.
Children wept. Septons prayed. Men dropped to their knees.
In the towers, ravens scattered from their perches.
---
Winterfell – Dawn
Vaeron stood atop the battlements, the wolf pendant warm against his chest.
He watched the eastern sky.
He felt it before he saw it.
The wind shifted.
Some primal part of him stirred.
Then a roar split the heavens.
And there—on the far horizon—came the shadow of wings.
---
End of Chapter Five