Part 1: The New family
Two years had passed since the end of the Dance of the Dragons. Two full winters had swept across the lands of the North, covering them in a white mantle that, for many, symbolized a rebirth. In Winterfell, life moved to a different rhythm. The air, always cold, now carried a new kind of energy – a whisper of scales against stone, the low rumble of living furnaces resting in adapted courtyards, and the distinct smell of sulfur and smoke emanating from the realm's new winged companions.
King Theon Stark's decision to intervene in the Targaryen civil war, once questioned by lords like Umber and Bolton, had revealed itself as a masterstroke. The Kingdom of Winter had not only emerged unscathed; it had exited the conflict with something infinitely more valuable: dragons. And not just dragons, but the seeds for a new order. Two new houses were formally established under the protection of the Crown of Ice.
On one side was Helaena of House Targaryen of the North. She had kept the name, but it now meant something new: loyalty to the North, not the Iron Throne. Her sigil was a clever recreation of the old: a three-headed dragon, representing her three children, but in a deep blue against a silver field, symbolizing the Ice of the North. Her words were a silent reminder of her past and her new function: "From the skies we watch." She, once a tragic queen of the south, had found an unexpected refuge and a new identity.
On the other side was Nettles, the Lady of House Truefyre. Her sigil was a reflection of her history: a single, fierce, and practical brown dragon, holding a white sheep in its jaws, on a field of grey stones. Her words complemented Helaena's, speaking of action and protection: "With true fire we protect." The bastard who had tamed a wild dragon with nothing but patience and courage was now a Lady of the North.
The existence of these houses was a constant thorn in the pride of the southern lords. Spy reports spoke of deep resentment in King's Landing. The fact that the North controlled the future of dragons was a humiliation that the young King Aegon III was forced to swallow. The "Ice Letter" had become an infamous document. The North's advantage was overwhelming; their wargs, men with the ancient ability to see through the eyes of animals, acted as perfect and undetectable spies beyond the Neck. Through them, Theon Stark had eyes and ears in all the southern kingdoms, while the south was blind to the North. As the King in the North himself had told his lords, "Let them try to spy on our snow. They will only find the winter wind."
In the North, the atmosphere was one of contained triumph. The same lords who had once grumbled now rejoiced in private. King Theon, with his characteristic coldness, had not only led them to victory in a war that wasn't theirs but had brought home the very instruments of the power he had defeated.
However, this new strength brought with it a unique set of problems, centered on the two women who were the key to everything. A great hall in Winterfell was full. Lords and their heirs from all regions of the North were gathered. The real spectacle was the two Lady Dragonriders.
Helaena Targaryen moved through the hall with a reserved grace. Her Valyrian features still caused admiration, but it was her body that caused the biggest stir. In the south, her plump figure was viewed with disdain. But in the North, where health and strength were valued, Helaena was considered stunning. "She is like a fertility goddess," whispered the young Karstark heir. "Imagine having a dracarys like that by your side." "Imagine having a three-headed dragon by your side," corrected his uncle, with a calculating glint. Helaena, however, seemed completely oblivious to the frenzy. Her eyes were fixed on her children or on the affairs of her new house. The courtships bothered her; they were a headache she had not foreseen.
On the other side of the hall, the situation was intense. Nettles, Lady Truefyre, was a different spectacle. Her dark skin was a magnet. Her beauty was wild, earthy, and dangerous. "She's not a lady, she's a she-wolf," commented a young Manderly, fascinated. "Exactly. And who wouldn't want to tame a she-wolf? Especially one who commands a dragon." Nettles seemed amused by the attention, maintaining an unpretentious posture that earned respect. But behind the facade, her astute mind was working. She knew the value of her blood. A reckless marriage could dilute the legacy she was building from scratch.
Both women reached the same conclusion: they needed guidance. And there was only one person they could turn to. In King Theon's sanctuary, a place of silence and power, the two Lady Dragonriders bowed before their king.
"Helaena. Nettles," Theon greeted, his voice a calm echo. "Your suitors are making Winterfell louder than a dragon pit."
Helaena was the first to speak. "Your Grace, I... thank you for the refuge. But these courtships... it's not what I need now. My focus is my children and my duty."
Nettles was more direct. "They see the dragon, not the woman. I want to marry, Theon. I want a family. But I don't want an ambitious lord using my blood."
Theon watched them, his ice-blue eyes seeming to read their souls. "Blood is important," he confirmed. "Dragons bond to the magic in the blood. Ignoring that was the mistake of the southern Targaryens." He stood up, walking to a stone table. "Here is my decree for you. To preserve the mastery over dragons and avoid the dilution of common blood, the lineages of Targaryen and Truefyre must be kept pure. Therefore, marriages are to occur only within your own house or between the two dragon houses. Helaena, your children may marry amongst themselves when they come of age, or with a descendant of Nettles. Nettles, the same applies. In this way, the dragon blood will remain strong and concentrated, under our control, and will not be dispersed for the lesser ambitions of Northern lords."
It was a radical decree that further isolated the two houses, elevating them to an almost divine and untouchable status within the kingdom, binding their futures to one another. Helaena's eyes widened, a weight lifting from her shoulders. The solution was clear. She nodded, grateful. A slow, understanding smile spread across Nettles's face. It was the security she needed for her legacy. "It is just," she said, bowing her head.
In the months that followed, the construction of both Houses' castles progressed at a pace that left the realm astonished. Using the excavation and construction runes of the First Men and the brute strength of the giants, what would have taken a decade was completed in a single year. Two imposing fortresses rose from the northern landscapes.
As the walls went up, the suitors for Nettles became more persistent, ignoring the new royal decree in hope of an exception. She listened to all proposals with patience, that same challenging smile on her lips. The news of her final decision spread through Winterfell like wildfire. She did not choose a lord. Nettles, Lady Truefyre, announced her engagement to Alaric, a simple, quiet man with an easy smile who was a shepherd from the lands near where her castle was being built.
The scandal was palpable. The fury among the nobility was icy. "A shepherd?!" roared Lord Cerwyn. "She prefers a sheep-smeller to the blood of a hundred lords?" "It is an insult to the King's decree!" shouted another.
The news reached King Theon in his sanctuary. For a moment, there was no reaction. Then, a rare, low sound echoed in the room – the King in the North laughing. It wasn't a loud laugh, but a deep, genuine chuckle of pure irony. "Lady Truefyre... the founder of a lineage of dragonlords... marrying a shepherd of sheep," he said to himself, humor evident in his voice. "The poetry of it is... perfect." He knew the decree would still be followed in the marriages of future generations, but the irony of the founder's choice was delicious. It was the ultimate proof that Nettles understood the spirit of her new home perfectly. In the North, a man's worth was not just in his name.
While the southern lords fumed with rage and the northern lords licked their wounded pride, the two Lady Dragonriders of the North looked to the future. Helaena, with her blue three-headed dragon, would watch from the skies. Nettles, with her brown dragon and her sheep, would protect the land with her true fire. The North, under the watchful eye of its Ice King, was not just surviving. It was flourishing in a way that no one, not even Aegon the Conqueror, could have imagined, with two new dragon houses whose words and destinies were forever intertwined.
Part 2: The Heir of the South
The air in the Neck was heavy, damp, and cold, a different kind of cold than Prince Daeron knew in King's Landing. This was a cold that seeped under silk and velvet clothing, that made bones ache and carried the smell of swamp and wet earth. At twelve years old, Daeron Targaryen, heir to King Aegon III, sat straighter in his saddle, trying to project a royal dignity he didn't fully feel. The royal retinue, composed of one hundred Crown knights and two members of the Kingsguard, moved slowly along the muddy road that cut through the sinister swamps.
His heart, however, raced not from discomfort, but from anticipation. Finally, after years of pleas and arguments, his father and the regency council had allowed him to go North. The official goal was to "strengthen ties" and "honor the agreement." But for Daeron, it was a reclamation mission. King Theon Stark had stolen the dragons that were rightfully the Targaryens'. That sorcerer king of ice thought he could dictate who was worthy of the heritage of Valyria? Daeron already saw himself riding a great dragon, perhaps even the fearsome Cannibal, flying over Winterfell and making the King in the Winter kneel before fire and blood.
"Are we close, Your Grace?" asked Ser Willam Royce, one of the kingsguard, his voice echoing inside his helm.
"According to the maps, the Neck's checkpoint must be just ahead," replied Daeron, trying to disguise the emotion in his voice.
And soon, he saw it. It wasn't a wall like King's Landing's, but an impressive construction nonetheless. A low but extensive fortification made of black stone and ironwood logs, blocking the narrowest passage of the Neck. And along the parapet, he saw weapons that made him frown. They were like scorpions, but smaller, sleeker, with polished steel bows that gleamed even under the cloudy sky. Curious, he thought. What use would such small ballistae be against a dragon?
When the retinue approached within a hundred meters, the answer came suddenly and terrifyingly. The weapons, previously inert, moved by themselves. With a soft mechanical whir and a click of perfectly lubricated gears, the small ballistae rotated on their bases, and their sharp steel tips aimed with supernatural precision directly at the center of the royal group. The horses reared, nervous, and even the most experienced knights held their breath.
"Steady!" ordered Daeron, his voice sharper than he would have liked. "They will not dare."
Ser Willam advanced, raising a banner with the three-headed dragon emblem.
"Open the gates!"he shouted, his voice echoing against the palisade. "His Grace, Prince Daeron Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, demands passage!"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a single man appeared on the parapet above the gate. He was an older man, with close-cropped gray hair and a face marked by scars and weather. He wore a simple but well-made dark blue tunic, with several cold metal medals pinned to his chest. His eyes, the color of steel, scanned the retinue with a disdain so profound it was almost physical.
"And I am General Dustin," the man said, his voice rough like dragging stone. "Commander of the Southern Frontier. And you, southerners, request passage, you do not demand it. Wait."
The coldness and lack of ceremony left Daeron stunned.
"General,"he said, forcing a tone of authority. "I come on the King's business. Order your men to open these gates. I have come to claim a dragon for the Crown."
General Dustin looked at him for a long moment, and then laughed. It was a dry, harsh, and insulting sound.
"Boy,you enter the North when I say you enter. Not a second before. And if you want to try to force your way through..." He paused dramatically, and an almost predatory smile appeared on his face. "Well, that would be even better. I could finally convince the King to put an end to your race of Andal invaders."
"We are Valyrians!" Daeron retorted, indignant.
Dustin was already turning to leave.
"Currently,in the south, it's the same thing," he tossed the phrase over his shoulder, disappearing behind the parapet.
The fury that took hold of Daeron was so hot he almost ordered the attack right then and there. But the sight of the automatic ballistae, still perfectly still and aimed at them, cooled his impulse. He swallowed his pride, his fists white on the reins.
After a few minutes that felt like hours, the heavy gates of iron and oak creaked open with a solemn groan.
"You may pass!"shouted the General from his position. "But before you go anywhere, wait for your escort. Do not stray from the main road. The swamps have... an appetite."
The retinue entered, and Daeron felt as if he were crossing into another world. The atmosphere changed immediately. The air seemed cleaner, but colder. The surrounding forest was denser, older. And the feeling of being watched was intense and constant.
Part 3: The Northern Cousins
The wait lasted hours. The sun was already beginning to set in the sky when a new sound filled the air, making all the southerners look up. It was the beating of wings, powerful and rhythmic, followed by a roar that was not of fury, but of announcement. Two dragons descended from the skies, gracefully weaving through the low clouds.
One was a light, almost sky blue, its scales shining like a lake under the sun. The other was green, a deep color of moss and emerald, smaller than the first, but agile and elegant. They landed in the designated clearing with a grace that the royal party's horses lacked, who whinnied and stirred with fear.
From the blue dragon descended a young man. He looked about sixteen, with the classic Valyrian appearance: silver-gold hair, purple eyes, and sharp features. But there was a vitality and warmth in him that was lacking in the pale family portraits in King's Landing. He wore a stunning armor of dark blue steel, with silver engravings forming patterns of wind and clouds. From the green dragon descended another young man. His skin was the color of dark bronze, but his hair was pure silver-white, pulled back into a tight ponytail. His eyes were an intense violet. He wore simple but functional gray armor, with burnt brown details.
The young man in blue approached with an easy and open smile, completely ignoring the tension of the southern knights.
"Cousin!"he called, his voice full of genuine joy. "Welcome to the North! I am Lucerys. Lucerys Targaryen. It's an honor to finally meet you!"
Daeron was paralyzed. "Targaryen?" He looked at the other young man, who merely nodded his head in a formal and reserved greeting.
"And this is my constant friend,Vaelor Truefyre," Lucerys introduced, giving the other young man a friendly slap on the back. Vaelor maintained his serious posture.
"Prince Heir,"he greeted, his voice deep and contained.
Lucerys sighed, with a playful air.
"For the love of the Old Gods,Vaelor, he is our distant cousin! Show a little hearth-side warmth!"
"He is the heir to the Iron Throne. Protocol is clear," Vaelor replied, his expression unchanged.
Daeron, still recovering from the shock, pointed at the dragons.
"What dragons are these?They are not in the Dragonstone records."
Lucerys laughed, a clear and carefree sound.
"Ah,cousin, what a silly thing to say! Of course they're not. These lads weren't born on that dusty mound in the south. They are sons of the Grand Mountain."
"Grand... Mountain?" asked Daeron, confused.
It was Vaelor who answered, his voice clear and informative.
"It is the mountain that King Theon created with the help of the Children of the Forest.A home for the dragons that survived the..." he made an almost imperceptible pause, "...idiocy of the south. It is there we will take you, so you may attempt your bond, as per the agreement."
The march resumed, but now with the two young dragons flying over the retinue and the two dragonriders riding sturdy northern horses beside Daeron. The contrast was stark. The northerners, even those of Valyrian blood, were more reserved, their eyes always watching the forest. That night, they camped in a higher, drier area of the swamps. Around a campfire, Daeron's curiosity overcame his wounded pride.
"So... you are..." he began, hesitantly.
"The children of the survivors," Lucerys completed, with an understanding smile. "My mother is Jaehaera. My father is Jaehaerys. Yes, the twin children of Lady Helaena. My grandmother is still the head of our House, House Targaryen of the North."
Daeron was dumbfounded. He had heard stories, of course, but hearing it from one of them was different. These were not names of legends or traitors; they were the family of this carefree young man.
"And I," said Vaelor, looking into the flames, "am the son of Bella Truefyre, the heir of Lady Nettles, and Maelor Targaryen. A marriage between the Dragon Houses, as decreed by King Theon."
"To keep the blood strong," Lucerys added, as if reading Daeron's thoughts. "And our dragons are Blue Sky" — he pointed to the blue one — "and Green Day." — he pointed to Vaelor's green one.
"Unusual... names," commented Daeron.
"They are the names they let us know," explained Lucerys, with a shrug. "That's how it works. It's a conversation, not a baptism."
The next day, they arrived at Moat Cailin. There, they were received by Cregan Stark himself, the Fist of the North. An old man, but still as imposing as a mountain, with eyes that seemed to see through Daeron's soul.
"The King has been informed of your coming,boy," Cregan said, his voice a low growl. "Don't cause trouble. Northern hospitality is sacred, but its patience is not infinite."
And then, finally, after more days of travel, they reached their destination: the castle of House Targaryen of the North. It wasn't a fortress of slender towers and ornaments, but a powerful construction of gray granite and steel, with wide courtyards adapted for dragons and ancient runes carved into the walls, pulsing with a soft light.
Part 4: The Rejection and the Truth
Inside the great hall, Daeron found himself before Lady Helaena. She must have been about fifty years old, but time and the runes of the North seemed to have treated her kindly. Her face was soft, her violet eyes, once full of madness and pain, now held a deep serenity. Her silver hair was tied in a simple bun, and she wore warm woolen robes, with the emblem of the blue three-headed dragon embroidered on her chest.
"Prince Daeron," she said, and her voice was warm like honey. "May the Old Gods bless you. It is strange to see my nephew Aegon's blood so grown."
She approached and, to his profound discomfort, placed her hands on his shoulders and kissed his forehead. It was a maternal, intimate gesture that made him feel both welcomed and violated. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, not a grandson to be received.
"Thank you, my lady," he replied, stiffly, taking a step back.
Helaena did not seem offended. Instead, her eyes grew serious.
"Blue Sky and Green Day have already told you the essentials.But let me repeat: you do not choose the dragon. The dragon chooses you. You can offer yourself, you can call, you can show your courage. But if it refuses, do not try to force the bond. The only thing you will force is your own death. Many before you learned this lesson the hard way."
Daeron knew she was referring to the Targaryen-blooded bastards who had tried their luck in the North over the years. He was no bastard. He was the blood of the Conqueror.
The next day, he was taken to the base of the Grand Mountain. It was a sight that took his breath away. A imposing mountain, not naturally symmetrical, with cave openings from which heat emerged and the sound of wingbeats and low growls. Dragons of all sizes and colors rested on the slopes or circled the skies. There were playful hatchlings, young and agile dragons, and elders with thick scales whose eyes shone with ancient intelligence.
For three days, Daeron tried. He approached a golden-scaled hatchling, offering a piece of meat. The hatchling sniffed his hand and then spat fire on the ground near his feet, moving away. He tried with an emerald green female, humming the ancient songs of Valyria his mother had taught him. She ignored him completely, focusing on cleaning her wings. He tried with a large bronze male, staring into its eyes and projecting his proudest thoughts. The dragon snorted a cloud of hot smoke into his face, making him cough and retreat, his eyes burning.
Frustration turned to anger, and anger to despair. He was the heir of Aegon the Conqueror! Why didn't any of these beasts recognize him?
"And Cannibal?" he asked, turning to Vaelor, who observed him impassively. "Where is Cannibal? Perhaps he respects strength."
Vaelor shook his head, his serious eyes fixed on Daeron.
"Cannibal accepts no one.The King guaranteed him that peace. None of us approach his cave, and you will not either. Forget that thought, Prince. It is a path to death."
That was the last straw. The humiliation was complete. He, a prince of the blood, had been rejected by every creature, and was even protected from the only one that could give him the power he deserved. Blind fury took him. As he turned to march back to the castle, his eyes fell on Lucerys and Vaelor, who were talking calmly near their dragons.
An insane and venomous thought formed in his mind. If he couldn't have a dragon, then no one should. The knights he brought were the best of the south, trained by himself in secret tactics. They would easily overcome these spoiled northerners. If he killed the two dragonriders here, perhaps the shock and the void would allow him to bond with one of the orphaned dragons. Or, at the very least, he would eliminate two of the North's trump cards.
He was in the main courtyard, night had fallen. His mind seethed with plans of betrayal, calculating how to order the surprise attack on his "cousins." He was a few meters from the castle's great gate when a voice spoke from above, calm and clear, cutting through the darkness like a blade.
"That would be a foolish notion, young prince."
Daeron froze. The blood seemed to stop in his veins. He slowly looked up. There, seated atop the gate's arch, like a giant raven, was a figure. The clothes were gray and dark, blending with the stone. The cloak was of giant wolfskin, black as a starless night. And on its head, shimmering with a faint, icy inner light, was the Crown of Ice.
It was King Theon Stark.
His eyes met Daeron's. They were the color of blue ice in the heart of a glacier, and in them there was no anger, no disdain, not even interest. There was only an absolute cold, the void of the deepest winter. A chill ran down Daeron's spine, so intense he almost fell to his knees. It was a primal fear, the instinct of prey before a predator that was beyond its comprehension.
"Now that you have finished what you came to do in the North," Theon's voice was soft, but each word sounded like the creaking of ice underfoot, "it is time to go home. Let me help you."
Theon raised his right hand. There was no dramatic gesture, just his fingers moving slightly. His palm glowed with a pale blue light.
And suddenly, the world collapsed around Daeron. It wasn't a sensation of movement, but of dislocation. The sight of the castle, the sleeping dragons, the King on the gate, everything dissolved into a vertigo of colors and shadows. An instant later, he was standing, staggering, on the muddy road in front of the Neck's wall. General Dustin was looking down at him from the parapet with a sarcastic smile.
Looking around, his heart pounding uncontrollably, he saw that his entire retinue was there, one hundred knights and two kingsguard, all with the same expression of shock and disorientation. The horses were agitated, whinnying in fear. They had been teleported, in the blink of an eye, over hundreds of leagues.
The reality of the situation hit Daeron like a bucket of ice water. He had been a fool. An arrogant and presumptuous fool. He had thought of conquering the North, of burning Winterfell, when the King of the North himself could toy with the world as a man toys with chess pieces. The power of the Targaryens, once absolute, was now a shadow compared to what he had witnessed.
The fury and ambition drained away, replaced by a humble and frightening understanding. The North was untouchable. His conquests, if he were ever to have any, would have to be elsewhere. Perhaps in Dorne, whose deserts and wars were things a man could understand.
Without a word, Prince Daeron turned his horse south. The retinue, still stunned, followed him in silence. He did not look back. The lesson of winter had been taught, and he, finally, had learned it. There were powers in this world for which fire and blood were no answer.