A crash course on medieval ghosts, and arrival on Winterfell

The journey north had been long and arduous, but soaring above the Riverlands on Acnologia's back gave Daeron a unique vantage point over the lands below. The mighty Trident River snaked through the land like a silver ribbon, and from above, he could spot the various castles and keeps dotting the landscape.

But it was Harrenhal, the infamous ruined fortress, that caught his attention. Even from the skies, its melted towers stood like the charred bones of a once-great beast, a monument to Targaryen wrath and folly. Daeron smirked to himself. Might as well stop for a bit and stretch.

Landing inside the vast courtyard of the ruined castle, Acnologia's wings stirred up dust and debris. The place was eerily quiet, with only the wind whispering through the empty halls. Daeron dismounted and looked around, his breath visible in the crisp air. "Well, Acnologia, they say this place is haunted. Let's see if the ghosts have the guts to bother us."

Acnologia, unimpressed, merely huffed a stream of smoke from his nostrils and curled up beside the ruined Great Hall.

The steward of house Strong did his best to ensure his welcoming, but Daeron waved him of with grin, " I'm here to get the haunted house experience mate, lead me to your main attraction of this theme park," The steward kept cursing him in mind as he led him to a more secluded side of the castle.

Daeron found an old, dusty chamber that seemed sturdy enough and settled in, leaning against his pack and closing his eyes for a quick nap. That was, of course, until he was rudely interrupted.

A chilling voice echoed through the chamber. "Leave this place... lest you suffer the fate of those who came before..."

Daeron cracked an eye open. "Mmm, yeah, I don't know about that. I think I'll stay. Pretty comfy here."

A ghostly figure materialized in front of him—pale, wailing, and clearly trying its best to look menacing. "You do not fear me, mortal?"

Daeron sat up and stretched. "Fear you? Look, I've met sellswords scarier than you. What's your name? Or should I just call you Sir Screams-a-Lot?"

The ghost, clearly taken aback, flickered slightly. "I am Ser Byron the Dread! Terror of Harrenhal!"

Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Terror, huh? What exactly did you do? Scare people with bad fashion choices?"

"I drowned a man in his own soup!" the ghost bellowed.

Daeron paused, then burst into laughter. "Soup? That's your big claim to fame? What was it, onion broth? Did he slip and fall in?"

The ghost hesitated. "It was... a very thick stew."

"Right, right," Daeron said, wiping away a tear of laughter. "I hope they put that on your tombstone. 'Here lies Ser Byron, slayer of men and destroyer of hearty meals.'"

Another ghost appeared beside Byron, an older woman draped in tattered robes. "Byron, stop trying to intimidate the living. It never works."

"Who's this? Your mom? She's pretty hot if you ignore the missing chunk of stomach. " Daeron smirked.

The ghost woman sighed. "I am Lady Menara Harrow of Harrenhal, cursed to walk these halls for eternity. Byron's been trying this whole scary ghost thing for centuries. He's terrible at it."

Daeron grinned. "I can tell. Why don't you guys just... I don't know, do something more productive? Like haunt a tavern and scare drunkards? Or help with tourism? 'Come to Harrenhal, see the world's most embarrassing ghosts!'"

Byron crossed his spectral arms, looking genuinely hurt. "We're trying our best!"

"Your best sucks, Byron," Daeron shot back. "I mean, I'm just sitting here, eating dried meat, and you're out here flailing around in the dark like a bad stage play."

Lady Menara floated closer, rubbing her temples. "See? This is why people don't take us seriously anymore. We're a joke."

Daeron patted Byron's translucent shoulder. "Look, Byron, maybe you're just not cut out for the whole 'doom and gloom' thing. Have you considered taking up something else? Maybe a friendly ghost routine? Casper's got the market cornered, but I'm sure there's room for another."

Byron groaned. "A friendly ghost? What am I, a child's bedtime story?"

"Better than being a soup assassin," Daeron replied, smirking.

Byron floated away, muttering, "I hate my afterlife..."

Lady Menara sighed deeply. "I'll be having an existential crisis in the crypts if you need me." She drifted off into the walls with the air of someone who regretted all her life choices, and also all her afterlife choices.

Daeron shook his head, settling back down. "Ghosts these days... no commitment."

As he dozed off once more, a faint voice echoed through the halls, "I'm not just a soup assassin..."

Just as he was contemplating how this place was considered cursed rather than condemned, another frigid chill rolled through the room.

"Bewaaaaaare, traveler!"

Daeron didn't even look up. "Uh-huh." He tore another piece of jerky and chewed.

"Doooom comes for you!"

He sighed, looking around. "Yeah? Where is it? Can you hurry it up? I'd like to get some sleep."

A translucent figure phased through the crumbling wall—a gaunt man in rusted armor, wisps of hair clinging to his skeletal face. "I am Ser Garrick the Grim, Lord of Despair, Bringer of Nightmares!"

Daeron blinked. "Lord of Despair? You look more like the Lord of Malnutrition."

Garrick's spectral eyes narrowed. "Mock me at your peril, mortal!" He stretched his arms menacingly. "I have haunted these halls for generations, driving men to madness with my unholy wails!"

Daeron leaned back against the wall, smirking. "Alright, give me your best shot. Let's hear it."

Garrick took a deep, ghostly breath and let out an eerie, echoing wail.

"WOOOOOOOooooOOOoooooo..."

Daeron raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "That... that's it? I've heard dying goats that sound scarier."

Garrick sputtered. "You—you mock me?!"

Daeron nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. I was expecting more... oomph. Some real terror. Maybe some spine-tingling screams, or at least some dramatic floating."

Garrick fumed. "I do dramatic floating!" He began hovering mid-air, arms wide. "SEE?"

Daeron clapped sarcastically. "Bravo, terrifying. Truly, the Riverlands tremble before you."

Garrick threw up his translucent hands. "You know what? Fine. I don't need this. I'm haunting the library."

Before Garrick could leave, another ghost drifted in—a woman in an elaborate, if see-through, gown. Her voice was nasal and high-pitched. "Garrick, are you complaining again?"

Daeron turned to her, amused. "And who might you be? The Ghost of Nagging?"

The woman floated haughtily. "I am Lady Maelara, Mistress of Secrets, Keeper of Sorrows."

Daeron grinned. "What secrets? What sorrows? The only thing you're keeping is a lot of dust."

Maelara gasped, clutching her spectral chest. "Rude!"

Garrick muttered beside her. "See? He's terrible. No respect for the dead."

Daeron rolled his eyes. "Okay, listen. Let me give you some feedback. You ghosts are seriously underperforming. I expected screaming chains, floating objects, maybe some creepy chanting in High Valyrian. Instead, I get a guy who wails like a sick chicken and a lady who probably haunts the gossip circle more than the castle."

A new ghost popped his head through the wall—an old, disheveled man with wide, nervous eyes. "Uh, excuse me, but... um... is this the haunting meeting? I'm new here..."

Daeron groaned. "Great, a rookie."

Garrick sighed. "No, you dolt, we're trying to terrorize the Targaryen prince!"

The old ghost squinted at Daeron. "Targaryen? Ooh! Are you Aegon the Conqueror?"

Daeron laughed. "No, but close enough. I'm Penndragon now though. And you're terrible at recognizing faces, aren't you?"

The ghost cackled. "I had bad eyesight when I was alive... and well, death hasn't exactly improved it."

Maelara sighed. "Honestly, this whole haunting thing is going downhill. In my day, ghosts struck fear into the hearts of men!"

Daeron smirked. "Lady, in your day, they were probably scared of things like poor hygiene and bad harvests. Times change."

Garrick groaned. "You know what? Maybe we're going about this all wrong." He turned to Maelara. "We should try a different approach. Maybe... haunting with positivity?"

Daeron choked on his jerky. "You're gonna haunt me with kindness?"

Maelara brightened. "Yes! Encouraging haunts! Imagine... 'Ooooooo, believe in yourself, mortal! You're destined for great things!'"

Daeron stared at them, deadpan. "You're ghosts. You're supposed to be scary, not motivational speakers."

The rookie ghost nodded. "He's got a point. Maybe we should stick to wailing."

Garrick sighed dramatically. "I'm so bad at wailing though!"

Daeron shook his head in disbelief, standing up and dusting himself off. "Well, as much fun as it's been coaching you lot, I need to sleep. You can go back to failing at haunting now."

Maelara huffed. "We'll improve, you'll see! Next time, you'll be terrified!"

Daeron waved dismissively as he walked toward his bedroll. "Sure, sure. I'll make sure to leave my nightlight on."

As he drifted off, he heard Garrick muttering, "I don't know... maybe I should try scaring travelers with tax audits instead."

Daeron grinned into his pillow. Harrenhal might be haunted, but it certainly wasn't terrifying. More like a bad comedy troupe.

The cold winds of the North howled around him as Daeron descended on Acnologia, his black dragon cutting an imposing figure against the stark white of the snow-covered plains. The towering walls of Winterfell stood ahead, a testament to the resilience and strength of House Stark. The dragon's shadow stretched long over the battlements, and despite their famed stoicism, the guards on the walls could not help but stare in awe and trepidation. The massive gates creaked open, revealing a courtyard bustling with activity, though the presence of a prince and his dragon had slowed the usual pace.Lord Rickard Stark and his wife, Lady Gilliane Glover, awaited him at the steps leading into the great hall. Gilliane held a small, swaddled boy in her arms, the child seemingly unbothered by the biting cold. As Daeron dismounted, the black dragon let out a low rumble before retreating to the edge of the courtyard, where a handful of stable hands stared in horror, uncertain whether to approach. The prince approached the Starks with measured grace, his violet eyes scanning their faces with curiosity and respect.

"Prince Daeron," Rickard greeted, his voice steady and polite. "Winterfell welcomes you. It's not often a southerner graces us with their presence, let alone a prince."

Daeron inclined his head respectfully. "Lord Stark, Lady Stark. It is an honor to be here. Forgive my intrusion into your lands."

Lady Gilliane smiled warmly, though her gaze shifted briefly to her child as she adjusted his blankets. "Starks are the loyal vassals of house Targaryen, Prince Daeron. And we are honored to receive a prince in these frigid cold of ours."

Daeron's eyes softened as he looked at the boy in Gilliane's arms. "And this must be your son, Cregan Stark?"

Rickard's chest swelled with pride as he nodded. "Indeed. Our heir, though still learning to command the wolves."

Daeron smiled. "Might I hold him?"

The couple exchanged a glance before Lady Gilliane carefully handed Cregan over. "He may fuss," she warned, though there was no real concern in her tone.

As Daeron took the child, he felt the surprising warmth of the boy despite the chill in the air. Cregan stirred, opening his gray eyes—eyes so reminiscent of his mother's northern lineage—and fixed them on Daeron. A small, toothless smile broke across his face, much to the surprise of his parents.

Lady Gilliane blinked in astonishment. "He… never reacts so kindly to strangers."

Daeron chuckled softly, gently rocking the boy in his arms. He hummed a quiet tune, a light lullaby that kids liked back on earth. Cregan's tiny hands reached for the hilt of FrostMourne, his curiosity evident. Daeron laughed and held the boy a little closer.

"You have good taste, young wolf, but this is no toy," Daeron said fondly. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a gold pendant shaped like a black dragon with emerald eyes. He fastened it around Cregan's neck with a smile. "But this, little lord, is for you. Keep it, and remember this day."

Cregan gurgled happily, and Daeron pressed a soft kiss to the boy's forehead. "You'll be a great man someday, little one. I feel it."

The moment was interrupted as Rickard cleared his throat, though his expression was warm. "Shall we head inside? The cold here is not so kind to southern blood."

The warmth of Winterfell's hearth greeted Daeron as he joined the Starks in the solar. After a meal of hearty northern fare—thick stew, roasted meats, and crusty bread—Rickard dismissed the servants, leaving only himself, Lady Gilliane, and Daeron.

Rickard's gaze turned serious. "Now, my prince, forgive me if I seem suspicious. No southerner comes this far north without a purpose. What brings you to Winterfell?"

Daeron sighed, his expression softening. "You may drop the formality, Lord Stark. My business is personal, not political." He reached into his satchel and produced a weathered parchment. "Perhaps this will explain."

Rickard took the letter with steady hands, but as his eyes scanned the page, his expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief and finally to sorrow. By the time he finished, his hands trembled, and his eyes glistened with tears.

He passed the letter to Gilliane, who read it with equal reverence, her own tears falling silently. Rickard composed himself and looked at Daeron with a mixture of grief and joy. "Is it true?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Are you truly her son?"

Daeron met his gaze resolutely. "I am. But I don't expect anything from you, my lord. I only wished to see my mother's kin and perhaps learn more about her. You owe me nothing."

Rickard ignored Daeron's words entirely. Rising from his chair, he pulled the young man into a bear hug so fierce that Daeron gasped for air. "Nonsense!" Rickard declared, his voice thick with emotion. "You're her son, my nephew! That makes you a Stark, no matter the name you carry. Look at those eyes—Stark eyes, through and through!"

Daeron, caught off guard, struggled to breathe under Rickard's iron grip. "I… appreciate it, my lord, but… air!"

Rickard released him with a sheepish chuckle, and Lady Gilliane stepped forward, wrapping Daeron in a gentler embrace. "You poor boy," she said tearfully. "To have endured so much… You're family now. Stay here as long as you like—forever, if you wish. I'll treat you like my own."

Daeron awkwardly patted her back, his cheeks tinged with color at the display of affection. "You're… very kind, Lady Stark."

"Maternal instincts," Rickard teased, only to earn a sharp glare from his wife that silenced him.

The evening continued with warmth and laughter, though Daeron noticed Bennard Stark—the second son—lurking in the shadows, his cold gaze fixed on him. It was clear that not all of his newfound family welcomed him.

As the hour grew late, Daeron retired to a modest chamber prepared for him. The fire crackled softly, and for the first time in years, he felt a sense of belonging. Despite the frigid northern winds outside, he was enveloped by an unfamiliar warmth—a family's love.