Fire and Ice

Winterfell

The cold air of Winterfell's courtyard was alive with the clang of swords and the bark of commands as the Stark household trained. Daeron watched from the sidelines, his cloak pulled tight against the chill.

His time in the North had been peaceful so far—Rickard and Gilliane treated him like family, and Baby Cregan had quickly grown attached to him.

"Careful, lad," Rickard's booming voice brought Daeron back to the present. The Stark lord approached with a hearty laugh. "You'll freeze standing there like that."

Daeron smiled. "I'm still adjusting to the cold. It's quite… invigorating."

Rickard chuckled, slapping Daeron on the back with a force that nearly toppled him. "You'll be a true Northman soon enough."

Over the following days, Daeron spent much of his time with Rickard, learning about the North's customs, its politics, and its people. Gilliane, ever the warm hostess, insisted Daeron join her in the solar as she tended to Cregan.

The boy was endlessly fascinated by Daeron, often reaching for his Valyrian steel sword or the pendant Daeron had gifted him.

"You've made quite the impression," Gilliane said one evening as Daeron gently rocked Cregan to sleep.

"He's a remarkable child," Daeron replied softly. "There's something about him; I feel he'll grow up to do great things."

Not everyone in Winterfell shared Rickard and Gilliane's warmth toward Daeron. Bennard Stark, Rickard's brother, and his other uncle watched him with thinly veiled disdain.

His jealousy and suspicion festered, and one evening he finally acted on it.

Daeron was enjoying a quiet moment in the great hall when Bennard sauntered in. He poured himself a goblet of ale and took a seat nearby, his smirk as sharp as a blade.

"So," Bennard began, "our southern guest. You must feel quite at home, being treated so kindly by my brother."

Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Your family has been gracious, and I am grateful for it."

Bennard's smirk widened. "Gracious indeed. Especially considering your mother's... humble origins. A lowborn bastard, wasn't she? Just like you."

The silence and calm was gone immediately . Daeron set his goblet down and rose slowly, his gray eyes cold as winter. " I don't care if you say these things to me; your opinion means shit to me. But If you speak ill of my mother, Bennard. I will not tolerate such disrespect."

Bennard leaned back, feigning nonchalance. "I only speak the truth."

Daeron stepped closer, his voice steady but cutting. "Truth? The truth is that my mother was ten times the person you'll ever be.

Her worth wasn't measured by her birth but by her strength and kindness—qualities you seem to lack entirely. A disgrace for someone holding the Stark name."

Bennard's smirk faltered, and Daeron leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Be careful, Bennard. Wolves that snap at dragons often get burned.

Just because you are my kin doesn't mean you are my dragon's kin, and dragons are hungry and wrathful creatures by nature ."

Bennard glared at him, but said nothing more, retreating with a huff. The tension lingered, but Daeron sat back down unbothered.

In the Red Keep, Otto Hightower stood before King Viserys, his expression grim. "Your Grace, I must speak plainly. Prince Daeron's travels across Westeros are concerning. He visits lords privately, gains their favor—it could be perceived as... an attempt to build a power base."

Viserys, lounging on his throne with a goblet of wine, waved a dismissive hand. "He's a boy exploring his homeland, Otto. Let him see the realm. He's done nothing to suggest treachery."

Otto frowned. "Even so, your Grace, allowing him to move freely—"

"Enough, Otto," Viserys interrupted. "Daeron isn't like the Westerosi nobles. Let him enjoy his youth."

The Hand's face tightened, but he bowed. "As you wish, your Grace."

 Daemon Targaryen lounged in a brothel in Kings Landing as usual , a cup of wine in his hand. One of his spies had just delivered a report, and Daemon laughed heartily.

"So, my bastard cousin spent a month in Runestone? And my bronze bitch hosted him generously?" He shook his head, his grin wolfish. "Poor lad must have terrible taste. How did he even tolerate watching that sheepfaced woman for a month?"

The spy hesitated. "There were some whispers, my lord, that their relationship was more than friendly."

Daemon waved it off with a laugh. "Rhea Royce? With him, a bastard barely of age? Can't say she has better standards, but she doesn't have the guts to betray me even if I never go back there.

She's probably trying to provoke me through these cheap methods. Anyway, I'll go there once my father-in-law dies to claim my power."

Daemon dismissed the report, unaware of the truth—Rhea Royce had shared her bed with Daeron, a union born of mutual admiration rather than love, or maybe both. Daeron's charm had earned him not just an ally but leverage over his cousin's estranged wife.

In the warm baths of Pentos, Daena reclined, the steam rising around her as Albion, her growing dragon, curled by the edge like a loyal hound. She traced her fingers through the water, her mind drifting.

Her work in Pentos had been exhausting but fulfilling. Daeron had entrusted her with the city, and she was determined to prove worthy of his faith. Reforms had been enacted, trade routes secured, and unrest quelled.

She applied some of the Yitish methods of managing trade routes and showed great results. Pentos thrived under her care.

Every one of the free cities wanted to build good relations with Pentos due to their fair trade policies along with growing strength. Zhao Yun and Orlen managed two separate armies, each having 5,000 soldiers. The city was generating almost 50,000 gold in revenue monthly.

The unique food recipes made by Daeron with the spices brought a revolution to the Essosi palate. And once the chaos in Yi Ti is pacified, Daeron will literally hold the commerece of Essos in his palm.

Sareena and Spartan in Meereen and Volantis were also developing their forces. Sareena faced some problems as Meeren was nearly bankrupt after rebuilding the city.

Without a proper economy and trade, it would be difficult to sustain a large population. Not to mention the Dothraki's were approaching closer to the free cities from Vaes Dothrak for some reason .

But as she relaxed in the bath, her thoughts wandered to Daeron. What is he doing now? Is he safe in Westeros? When will we meet again?

Albion let out a low rumble, and Daena smiled, scratching behind his growing horns. "He'll come back," she murmured. "And when he does, we'll be ready for whatever comes next."

Her gaze drifted to the stars visible through the open window, her determination burning as fiercely as the dragon by her side. 

The solar of Winterfell was warm, the crackling hearth casting a golden glow over the stone walls. Daeron sat across from Rickard Stark, sipping mulled wine. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily in the cold Northern air, but inside, the warmth of kinship filled the room.

Rickard leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes distant with nostalgia. "Saera," he began, his voice soft, "was a wild one. Always full of life, laughter, and mischief."

Daeron listened intently, hanging on every word. He had never known his mother, but hearing these stories brought her to life in his mind.

"She was older than me by a few years," Rickard continued. "Fiercely protective, despite her size. I remember once, when I was just a boy, a dog bit me. Saera stormed over, dragged the beast away, and scolded its owner as if she were a queen reprimanding a disobedient bannerman."

Daeron chuckled. "She sounds fearless."

Rickard smiled wistfully. "Fearless and headstrong. But she had a tender heart. She'd braid my hair when I was little and sing songs to me when I couldn't sleep. She had a way of making everyone around her feel... seen, you know?"

"I wish I could've known her," Daeron said, his voice thick with emotion.

Rickard reached across the table, placing a hand on Daeron's shoulder. "You carry her spirit, Daeron. And her eyes. She'd be proud of you."

Later that night, Daeron sat alone in his chambers, the warmth of the evening replaced by a chilling stillness. His expression, once filled with curiosity and longing, was now cold and calculating. He stared out of the window, the moon casting its silver light over Winterfell.

From the shadows, Jax the Silent emerged, his pale face illuminated by the moonlight. He moved like a wraith, silent and unnerving.

"Jax," Daeron said, his voice low but commanding. "Bennard Stark... he must not see the next year."

Jax's lips twisted into a manic grin, his dark eyes gleaming with twisted delight. "How, my lord?" He signed .

"Poison," Daeron replied coldly. "Slow-acting, but painful . Administer it in small doses over time. Make it seem like an illness. No one must suspect."

Jax bowed deeply and signaled . "It will be done, my prince ."

As Jax melted back into the shadows, Daeron turned his gaze back to the moon. His voice was barely a whisper. "Rest well, Bennard. You'll never get the chance for much longer."

Nobody could imagine the cold and ruthless look from the usual charming prince who is always smiling and kind. That's what makes Daeron more dangerous than the rest.

Fire might be flowing through Daerons body, but his veins were made of ice, to hide the devasting might of flames within. He might seem like an innocent and kind boy with a heart of gold, but he was a dragon after all.

And dragons are known for burning their enemies mercilessly , for they are wrathful creatures.