The Alpha

*Daeron Targaryen POV*

"By the Seven, I will not believe such lies from creatures that should have been extinct!" shouted Lord Tollet, his voice echoing through the great hall. Daeron recognized him from the long and drawn-out gathering they are having right now. After the Vale lords had bent the knee and sworn fealty to House Targaryen. At the North's request, this meeting had been called—to warn the Vale of the threat beyond the Wall and to present the plan for taking the Twins, the stronghold of House Frey.

Yet, the moment Daeron revealed what loomed beyond the frozen wastes, some lords—especially those of Andal descent, like Lord Tollet—refused to believe it. Not only did they scoff at the notion of the Others' return, but some even demanded the heads of the Earthsingers. Daeron had chosen to call them such rather than the longer, formal title of 'Children of the Forest.'

Patch, the Earthsinger who had introduced himself to Daeron, stood tense with barely concealed fear and anger. His large, luminous eyes darted toward Daeron, searching for assurance. In response, Daeron gave him a slight nod—one that promised protection. Let any lord or knight dare draw steel against him, and their head would be severed before their sword left its sheath.

Not all in the hall reacted as Tollet had. The noble houses of the Vale who still carried the blood of the First Men—houses like Royce and Redfort—looked upon the Earthsinger with a mixture of wonder and reverence. But more importantly, their faces turned grim upon hearing of the doom creeping southward from the Lands of Always Winter.

Daeron rose from his seat, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Sit down, Lord Tollet."

"Your Grace, I—"

"I said sit down. I will not repeat myself a third time."

The gathered lords turned their attention to Tollet, whose face burned red with fury. His gloved hand clenched the pommel of his sword, but one look into Daeron's unyielding violet gaze was enough. He hesitated—then sat back down, seething in his seat.

Daeron surveyed the lords before him, ensuring every pair of eyes remained locked on him. "I know some of you are devout followers of the Seven, and I know you dismiss the Others as nothing more than ghost stories meant to frighten unruly children. But proof of their existence has always been there. We simply chose to ignore it, consumed by our petty struggles and ambitions."

He let the words settle before continuing. "Tell me, my lords—why do you think Brandon the Builder raised the Wall so high that it nearly touches the sky?"

A hush fell over the hall.

"Do not delude yourselves into thinking the Wall was built simply to keep out the Free Folk. A people strong, yes, and large in number, but hardly so different from us that they would warrant such a grand barrier. No. The Wall was built for something far worse."

Daeron stepped forward, his voice rising. "For centuries, the Red Priests and Priestesses have preached of the return of Azor Ahai—the hero who will stand against the second Long Night. Even in the far east, in Asshai, they believe the Long Night will come again. Would so many believe in a mere children's tale?"

He paused, his gaze hard as steel. "You believe in the Age of Heroes. You believe in the men who shaped our world—Bran the Builder, Garth Greenhand, Symeon Star-Eyes. But have you ever asked why they became legends? Was it simply for building castles? For having gifts that others lacked?"

Daeron shook his head. "No. They became legends because they stood together against the dead and ended the Long Night."

He slammed his hand on the wooden table before him, making goblets rattle. "And now, my lords, we must do the same. We must finish what they started so that our descendants will never again fear the cold or the dead!"

By the end of his speech, his voice was near a shout, ringing through the hall like a war horn. The effect was immediate. A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered lords before swelling into a roar.

"Aye!"

"Honor demands we do our duty!"

"We stand with you, Your Grace!"

"End the cold fuckers once and for all!"

That last voice belonged to Tormund, whose booming declaration was met with sneers from some Vale lords. To them, he was little better than the mountain clansmen who plagued their lands. Daeron ignored their disdain, same as Tormund who only grinned broadly at them. Soon enough, they would see. Soon enough, all of Westeros would know the truth. And when the Long Night came, they would have to stand together—or they would perish.

"But Your Grace, how are we to defeat enemies that even our most powerful ancestors failed to vanquish?" asked Lord Belmore, a grey-bearded man whose heavy frame was reminiscent of Lord Manderly, though not as formidable in stature. His question reflected the silent concerns of many present—those sharp enough to recognize the dire reality they faced.

"You need not fear, Child of Man," came the melodic voice of Patch, the Earthsinger. "The enemy is far weaker than it was in the time of the Builder and the Age of Heroes. This time, we have a great fire to wield against them… and the Song of Ice and Fire itself, blessed by the gods of nature."

His words drew every eye, confusion flashing across the faces of the Vale lords—until realization set in. One by one, their gazes shifted toward Daeron, now regarding him with a newfound sense of awe.

"It is to face this threat that His Grace has claimed the throne—to unite the realm against the cold death that seeks to consume us all," declared Lord Cerwyn, his voice ringing with conviction and admiration.

Then, from a corner of the gathering, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

"Your Grace, if I may?" asked Petyr Baelish, who had remained silent until now, his expression troubled. Daeron inclined his head in acknowledgment.

"Why not bring one of these wights you speak of?" Baelish proposed, his tone measured but edged with skepticism. "If your goal is to unite the realm, then you will need the South, and without proof, they will brand you a madman. If such a thing is possible, of course."

Daeron could practically taste the doubt and barely concealed resentment in Baelish's voice. Something was… off. He inhaled subtly, trying to discern what lingered beneath the surface. And for a fleeting moment, something changed. He felt—not just Baelish's skepticism, but the emotions of every lord gathered around him, a tangled web of doubt, fear, conviction, and hope pressing against his senses.

His eyes shut instinctively, fingers rubbing at his temples. When he opened them, the moment had passed. The world was normal again. He tried once more to grasp the sensation, but it was gone. Pushing the thought aside, he returned his focus to the matter at hand.

"Lord Baelish, your idea has merit," Daeron admitted. "But the South will not require as much convincing as you might think. With the Riverlands secured, only four kingdoms remain. The Westerlands?" He scoffed. "So long as a Lannister rules, there will be no parley. The Stormlands? They have been gutted by war and can barely muster half their former strength. The Reach once backed House Targaryen in rebellion, and while I do not expect them to bow the moment I set foot on their lands, they will reconsider once they witness the return of dragons."

His gaze darkened slightly as he continued.

"As for the vipers and snakes of Dorne, I would sooner trust the Others than go seeking loyal allies among them."

A murmur ran through the gathered lords. Some nodded in agreement, while others exchanged uneasy glances. Then Lord Yohn Royce, his face set in grim determination, stepped forward.

"Your Grace, how much time do we have before the Others reach the Wall? Uniting the realm as you intend will take time."

Daeron met his gaze steadily.

"I cannot say for certain, Lord Royce. But my cousin, Bran Stark, will know when the time draws near. He will warn us before they strike."

Royce exhaled, nodding, though concern still clouded his eyes.

For a moment, silence settled over the gathering. Daeron's gaze flicked toward Patch, who stood apart from the lords, his presence an uneasy one among them. Sensing his discomfort, Daeron inclined his head.

"You may leave if you wish, Earthsinger."

Patch nodded in gratitude and slipped from the camp with barely a sound.

The lords remained deep in thought, the weight of the coming war pressing upon them. The Northern lords, more accustomed to such grim realities, regarded their Vale counterparts with a mixture of understanding and expectation.While lost in his own thoughts, Daeron suddenly recalled something he had neglected to mention—the Freefolk he had sent beyond the Wall to capture wights. In truth, it was not his idea; they had approached him first, seeking permission to venture into the True North in search of any surviving clans or individuals who had fled Hardhome and still endured in the frozen wastes.

He had tried to dissuade them, warning of the dangers, but their stubbornness prevailed. Relenting, he granted them leave and sent a letter bearing the Stark sigil to Edd, instructing him to allow their passage. Before they departed, he armed them with dragonglass weapons, ensuring they carried extra for the Night's Watch. The only request he made in return was that, if possible, they capture a wight. Though initially skeptical, they eventually agreed and set off toward the Wall.

 "Your Grace, I believe it is time you share your plan for taking the Twins," said Lady Maege Mormont, her keen eyes studying him with curiosity.

Daeron nodded. "Of course, Lady Mormont. At first, I considered reducing the castle to rubble, much like Aegon the Conqueror did to Harrenhal. However, I discarded that idea—for one, it would rob the North of its vengeance, and more importantly, countless innocents would perish alongside the Freys. Do not mistake me—I do not speak of the Freys themselves. But as for the keep's defenses, from all I've read, an assault from the ground would be costly and near impossible without laying siege from both sides. While feasible, such a siege would take time—time that could be spent securing the realm elsewhere."

Lady Mormont and the assembled northern lords nodded in agreement, though their curiosity remained. If neither siege nor dragonfire was the solution, how would they take the Twins?

"After much thought, I have settled on a different approach. With Caraxes, I will bring down the small part of one of the keeps, creating an opening for our forces to storm the castle. Once inside, I trust you all know what must be done."

There were raised eyebrows at that, followed by approving grins among the northern lords.

"Aye, I admit this plan is not without its risks," Daeron continued, his tone unwavering. "But every other option leads to a prolonged siege. And if my strategy fails, I will personally infiltrate the Crossing and lower the plank bridges myself."

That declaration was met with less enthusiasm, concern flickering in the eyes of some lords. But Daeron merely smirked. If need be, he could leap from Caraxes, cut his way through Frey soldiers, and lower the bridges—of that, he had no doubt.

Lord Hunter spoke up. "Your Grace, what of the women and children of House Frey?"

"I will not take their heads," Daeron stated firmly. "They will be free to go where they will. But hear me well—no descendant of Walder Frey, however distant, shall ever hold land, title, or knighthood. House Frey will be stripped of nobility, and once I am done, they will be no more." He let his gaze sweep across the northern lords before adding, "The North will remember, and it will ensure this, I presume?"

"Aye!"

"The North remembers!"

"Down with the weasel's line!"

Satisfied with their resolve, Daeron listened as the older lords, many of them seasoned warriors, offered advice and insights. He nodded, storing their words in his mind, absorbing every lesson.

When his stomach let out a low growl, he stood up. "Rest well tonight," he told them. "At dawn, we march toward the Twins."

*G*D*T*N*

Daeron sat atop a large rock near the Neck, far from the ever-growing sea of tents that made up his war camp. The Northmen had joined the Valemen, swelling their numbers, but here—away from the clamor of men—there was only the night. He gazed up at the sky, where the stars gleamed like scattered diamonds and the moon bathed the land in silver. The quiet, broken only by the rustling trees and distant calls of the wild, was a balm to his weary mind.

For nearly an hour, he remained still, drinking in the tranquility. Then, with a sigh, he shifted his gaze toward Caraxes. His dragon lay curled in the distance, his deep, rumbling snores carrying even to Daeron's ears.

His thoughts drifted back to something strange—something he had nearly forgotten.

"Aether," he murmured, addressing his soul companion. "What was that earlier? I could smell people's emotions."

[As I mentioned before,] Aether's voice echoed in his mind, [the ritual is designed to unlock every latent ability within your blood—and even more. The reason for this is that your two bloodlines were meant to merge. One enhances the magic within you, while the other strengthens the power of that magic. Until now, the abilities you've awakened were ones you already understood. However, from this point forward, you will begin to manifest traits from the magical creature blood that flows through your veins. For instance, the ability to sense emotions comes from your Stark ancestry, in case you were wondering.]

A small, excited smile tugged at Daeron's lips. He had expected new abilities, but the confirmation still sent a thrill through him.

That excitement deepened when Ghost emerged from the dark woods, padding toward him with his ever-growing wolf pack in tow. The direwolf's muzzle was still wet with blood, but Daeron paid it no mind—it no longer fazed him. As Ghost reached his side, Daeron scratched behind his ears, earning a pleased rumble as the great beast leaned into his touch.

Then he turned his gaze to Ghost's pack—nearly a hundred wolves, perhaps more. He wasn't about to count them. But something was… different.

Instead of their usual fierce, untamed presence, the wolves were lowering themselves to the ground. Tails tucked between their legs, ears flattened, some even rolled onto their backs to expose their bellies. Submission.

Daeron tilted his head, puzzled.

They had always answered to Ghost, never to him. If he wished them to act, he would command Ghost, who in turn led the pack. But now, they were submitting to him.

And Ghost—Ghost looked proud.

[Another magical burst,] Aether noted. [Manifesting in a different way this time.]

Daeron exhaled slowly, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. These bursts were exhilarating. And if they were a mere taste of the power that would soon be his to wield permanently…

Then he could hardly wait.

❄🔥❄🔥❄🔥❄🔥❄🔥❄🔥❄🔥❄🔥

I'm giving Jon some new abilities—nothing too overpowered, just enough to help him survive the snake pit of southern politics. These powers have started manifesting, but they won't become permanent anytime soon. Magic is resurging, but it's a slow process (think of it like an old maester making his way up the Citadel stairs). After all, we're only at the beginning of the second Long Night.

I already have a few ideas for what Jon's dragon blood should grant him, but if you've got something better (and balanced—no "Jon blinks and vaporizes the Red Keep"), drop it in the comments. If I like it, I might use it, and you'll get a shoutout in the chapter. Because, you know, manners.

On another note, I'm heading out on a trip with my friends. This means updates might be delayed for a week… or not, if I find time to write at night. No promises, though. If there's no update, consider this my advance apology.

See you soon (or not). Chao!