The fire crackled in the hearth of Lord Rickon's solar. Bennard stood before his brother's heavy oak desk, a cup of ale in his hand, having just finished his account of the day's events.
"So," Rickon said, his voice a low rumble as he stared into the flames. "The prince used his fire magic. He killed the direwolf and saved Benjen's life." He finally looked up, his gaze settling on Bennard. "And now you owe a debt to a Targaryen prince."
Bennard met his brother's look with a wry smile and a slight shrug. There was no point in denying it. He sighed and continued. "There is something else, too."
Rickon gestured for him to go on. "Hmm?"
"My men and I examined the beast's wounds," Bennard said, his eyes distant. "Each cut from the prince was bone-deep, through fur and muscle both. It was as if he swung a woodsman's axe, not a longsword. He severed one of its limbs cleanly with a single blow."
Rickon's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "His strength matches his magic?"
"My men were stunned," Bennard confirmed. "I warned them all to keep their tongues behind their teeth. The last thing we need is wild rumors spreading across the North."
Rickon steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing in thought. "The boy can fight as well, then." He let the statement hang in the air, heavy with implication.
Bennard's voice lowered. "And yet the King sent him here for protection." The unspoken meaning was clear.
"...then the Faceless Men are even more dangerous than rumor claims," Rickon said, his gaze hardening.
After a moment, his features eased into a faint smile. "Anyhow, I will ask the guards to be more careful and strengthen the patrols. As for you, Bennard, the debt is a small price. Benjen is safe. That is what matters." He took a sip from his own cup. "We must thank the prince properly. I will see if we can arrange his trip to the Wall sooner than planned. Perhaps in a few weeks, if the weather shows any mercy."
He paused, a slight frown creasing his brow.
"What is it?" Bennard asked.
"It's nothing important," Rickon said, placing his cup down. "I had thought to hold a small feast. Just the Cerwyns, the Hornwoods, and mayhaps the Manderlys. A modest gathering for the prince while the roads remain half-frozen. But news spreads quickly, even in winter. A raven came this morning from the Dreadfort."
"Bolton?" Bennard asked. "What does he want?"
"Lord Bolton writes that he has learned of the royal guest in Winterfell," Rickon said, his tone even.
"He wishes to pay his respects and present gifts to the prince."
"And?"
"I plan to approve it," Rickon stated. "I will not refuse him. My first thought was to keep it simple with our closest neighbors. But if the Lord of the Dreadfort wishes to make the journey in this cold, he may come. It is better to have him where we can see him."
Bennard nodded slowly, agreeing with his brother's cautious approach.
"Good," Rickon said, concluding the matter. "We will hold the feast within a fortnight." That would give enough time for his reply to reach the Dreadfort and for Lord Bolton to make the journey.
The pre-dawn chill clung to the castle walls as a cloaked figure slipped through the castle gate. A patrolling guard, spear in hand, turned at the sound of footsteps, his face showing surprise before settling into recognition. He gave a slight bow.
"My prince."
Aegon nodded, his breath misting in the cold air. "I am going for a ride. Inform Lord Stark when he wakes."
The guard nodded. "As you command."
Aegon moved past him, his boots crunching softly on the frozen ground as he headed toward the clearing where Dreamfyre slept.
The great blue dragon was sound asleep. Aegon placed a hand on her warm flank. "Wake up, partner. Time to go."
A wave of sleepy annoyance flowed through their connection, a sense of being roused too early from a comfortable rest.
I know, he sent back, his thought carrying a light apology. But this is important.
Dreamfyre rumbled deep in her chest but complied, uncoiling her massive form. Soon, the steady, powerful beat of her wings carried them up into the pale sky, leaving Winterfell shrinking below.
The flight was brief. Aegon guided Dreamfyre to a small, wooded hill opposite the still slumbering Harebrook. He slid from the saddle and patted her neck. "Rest here. I will return."
He turned and faced the dark line of the Wolfswood, its shadows now softening with the first grey light of morning. As he walked, his mind turned over his purpose.
His latest class had been leveled to its maximum and the definition for his next Tier 3 class was ready and waiting. But the sudden appearance of this new opportunity was too significant to ignore.
The creature was dangerous, but it offered him a chance to complete the life-and-death prerequisite. If he succeeded, the [Ironblood Knight] would be activated; if he failed, he could simply fall back on his original, planned progression, creating the new Tier 3 class.
As Aegon entered the tree line, the [Mirror Disguise] spell shimmered around him, bending light to make his form blend with the deep shadows and tree trunks. He had already cast his spirituality outward, sensing the life around him: the scurry of a fox, the presence of an owl in a pine. He had no intention of being ambushed by another direwolf or any other predator.
His versatile spell collection was his greatest tool. He reflected that even yesterday, he had subtly reinforced his sword strikes with the [Wind Blade] spell, making his cuts powerful and sharp enough to sever bone with ease. It was that hidden assistance that had made his display of swordsmanship so shocking to the Starks.
Unfortunately, for the trial he now sought, such spells were forbidden. This fight had to be won by steel and strength alone.
Soon, he reached the area where his spiritual sense had noted the footprint the day before. He knelt, his disguise flickering as he focused. There, pressed into a patch of half-frozen mud, was a footprint. It was far larger than the direwolf's, broad and heavy, with the clear imprint of five thick claws.
A bear. A very large one.
"It should still be in this area," Aegon murmured to himself, rising to survey the surroundings. The sun was cresting the horizon now, and the dawn light filtered through the branches, making the woods brighter and stripping away the cover of night. He took a deep breath, expanding his spiritual senses to their fullest extent, searching for the footprints of a large predator.
Aegon adjusted his grip on his sword, deactivated his camouflage, and began to move forward, following the trail that led deeper into the heart of the ancient forest.
King's Landing
The room was functional, dominated by a heavy oak desk. The banner of House Hightower hung on the wall. Lord Otto Hightower was reading a report when a knock came at the door.
"Enter," he said, without looking up.
A guard entered, closing the door softly behind him. He approached the desk and offered a small slip of parchment. "My lord, the details of Prince Daemon's movements over the past week."
Otto took the slip and scanned its contents. His eyes moved quickly down the lines. Prince Daemon's routine was tediously consistent: drills with the City Watch, followed by evenings in the seedier taverns and company of his lover. The report included fragments of his conversations, boasts and crude jokes, but nothing of significance. Nothing that could be used.
"Did the woman create any problems?" Otto asked, his voice calm.
"No, my lord. She is obedient," the guard replied. A faint, cold smile touched his lips. "Although, we reminded her a few more times of what would happen to her and her son if she was not."
Otto gave a slight, approving nod. "Good. But don't overdo it. Fear can make people desperate … and foolish." The guard bowed with understanding and left the room, leaving Otto in silence.
He rose from his chair and walked to the window, the parchment held loosely in his hand. His gaze lifted to the Red Keep, its towers stark against the sky. The great beast Balerion, the Black Dread, was dying. Prince Viserys, the King's grandson and his father Baelon's heir, had claimed the dragon, but his time as a rider was brutally cut short.
The death of the dragon would create a vacuum, not just of power, but of symbolism. A Targaryen without a dragon was a diminished thing, especially one who was the future of the dynasty. Viserys could not be allowed to remain low.
The Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, was the most formidable, a worthy mount for a future king. But it was also a prize his brother, Daemon, undoubtedly coveted. Daemon with a dragon like Caraxes would be a far more dangerous and unpredictable variable. That could not be allowed.
Otto's jaw tightened slightly. He would need to begin his work soon. He would have to approach Viserys with careful counsel, framing it as a matter of duty and strength, a necessary step to secure his legacy and reassure the realm. He would stoke any ember of ambition or anxiety in the prince, guiding him to see the claiming of a second dragon, after the death of his first, not as a choice… but as an imperative.
Back in the Wolfswood
The bear was a monster of muscle and fur, its shoulders rising in a great hump as it tore into the carcass of a young elk. Two hundred yards away, Aegon stood frozen behind a thick pine. "Found you," he whispered, the words swallowed by the forest. The beast's muzzle was slick with blood, and the sound of cracking bone and rending flesh was unnervingly loud in the morning quiet.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, in and out, calming the frantic beat of his heart. No magic, he reminded himself. But his spirituality, his heightened awareness of the world around him, that was a tool he could still use. It was the edge that might keep him alive.
He studied the terrain. This wasn't a clean arena. It was a forest floor littered with fallen trunks, thickets of thorny brush, and ancient, wide-bodied trees. Good, he thought. He watched the bear gorge itself, a part of him hoping it would eat so much it would become slow and drowsy. He knew it was a faint hope.
He had to get closer. Making sure each step was silent, Aegon began to creep forward. He used the trees as cover, his movements slow and deliberate, placing his feet with care on the damp leaves and frozen earth. He closed the distance until the bear's bestial presence flooded the outer edge of his spiritual senses: one hundred meters. He stopped behind a thick pine, locking onto the creature with his mind. He waited, his breathing controlled, as the bear stripped the last scraps of meat from the elk's ribs. It was almost finished. Now was the time.
He stepped out from behind the tree, planting his feet in a firm stance. He bent down, snatched up a fist-sized rock, and with a sharp, wordless cry, hurled it at the massive animal. It struck the bear solidly on its haunch.
"Come here, you big fat fuck!" he screamed, his voice cutting through the forest's quiet.
The bear's head snapped up from its meal. Its small, dark eyes locked directly onto him. The fight began... with a roar, and a sudden, terrifying charge.
***
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