~ The North, the Wolfswood ~
~ Draegon Targaryen Stark - POV ~
Draegon stood amidst the clearing, surrounded by the bandits' ill-gotten spoils. Chests brimming with gold and silver, fine silks bundled in tightly woven bolts, and a scattering of jewels glinted in the moonlight. It was wealth enough to sustain a small noble house of the Westerlands for generations, all stolen from innocents who likely had little to spare. With a determined expression, Draegon began securing the treasures to Haedes. The dragon watched with patient, glowing eyes as his rider worked efficiently, hefting heavy chests and crates onto his massive frame.
"Ao've, issa raqiros." (You've carried worse, my friend.) Draegon murmured as he tightened the last strap around a set of crates. Haedes snorted softly, smoke curling from his nostrils, as though in agreement. Draegon stepped back to inspect his work, nodding in satisfaction. He patted Haedes' scaled side. "Ivestragī's return bisa naejot its drēje dīnagon. Yn ēlī, mirrī flight naejot gīda īlva heads." (Let's return this to its rightful place. But first, a little flight to clear our heads.)
Haedes launched skyward with a powerful leap, his massive wings beating against the cold air. The added weight didn't hinder him, and Draegon marveled at the ease with which the dragon carried the stolen goods. As they climbed higher, the clearing vanished beneath them, replaced by a panorama of snow-dusted trees and distant mountains.
The exhilaration of the flight banished any lingering tension. Draegon leaned forward in the saddle, letting the wind whip past his face as Haedes climbed above the clouds. They broke through into a realm of endless sky, the moon casting its pale glow on the dragon's dark scales. Draegon laughed as Haedes performed a sudden dive, the treasures tied to his back rattling but holding firm.
For a brief, weightless moment, they hung in the twilight, suspended between the earth below and the heavens above. Draegon felt the unshakable bond between himself and Haedes, a partnership forged in fire and blood, now soaring above all earthly concerns. This was freedom—a fleeting escape from duty, responsibility, and the shadows that always seemed to linger in the North.
~ Later, Winterfell ~
I stood in the Great Hall of Winterfell, the roaring hearth casting long shadows over the ancient stone walls. My return from the forest had been met with a mix of relief, curiosity, and unease from those who witnessed Haedes laden with treasure and the blood-stained scroll I carried. Now, as I prepared to face my family, I felt the weight of what I was about to reveal—and what I intended to keep hidden.
At the head of the hall sat my grandsire, King Eldric Stark, the Wise Wolf. His gaze, sharp and calculating, fell upon me as I entered. He was a man who had seen countless winters and wars, his wisdom forged in the crucible of time. Beside him stood Rickon Stark, my uncle and the Stoic Wolf, his expression unreadable as always, though the faint tap of his finger on the hilt of his sword betrayed his impatience. To my left, my aunt Argella, the Wolfs Fang, watched me with an intensity that mirrored the steel she wielded so expertly. My father, Barthogan, the Wandering Wolf, leaned casually against a pillar, though his eyes betrayed a father's concern. Lastly, my mother, Daenora Targaryen, stood regal and radiant, her violet eyes fixed on me with a mixture of pride and apprehension.
I knelt before the throne, the scroll in my hand. "Your Grace," I began, addressing my grandsire. "I have returned from the forest with more than just gold and jewels. I found a band of brigands preying on the innocent—destroyed them—but it's what I found in their possession that demands your attention."
King Eldric gestured for me to rise. "Stand, my boy. Speak freely. What is it you've discovered?"
I unrolled the scroll, the blood-stained parchment crackling in the silence. "A conspiracy, my king. These bandits were not mere thieves. They were agents of an unknown benefactor, tasked with destabilizing the North. The scroll speaks of planned attacks on caravans, sabotage of supply lines, and even whispers of inciting rebellion among the lesser houses."
The hall fell silent, the weight of my words settling over my family like a cold winter gale.
Rickon was the first to break the silence. "Who is named in the scroll?" His tone was measured, yet his eyes burned with quiet fury.
"None directly, Uncle," I replied. "But there are mentions of coded correspondence and payments sent through intermediaries in the Westerlands."
Argella stepped forward, her jaw set. "Cowards," she spat. "Using brigands to do their bidding. If this is true, we must root them out before they spread their rot any further."
Barthogan nodded in agreement, his casual demeanor slipping. "The boy's actions have bought us time, but we can't waste it. If these bandits were mere pawns, then their masters will be far more dangerous."
My mother approached me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. Her touch was warm, a stark contrast to the cold fire in her eyes. "You fought well, my son. I can see it in your bearing and the way you speak of the battle. But such battles are only the beginning. We will prepare you for what lies ahead."
I looked into her eyes and nodded. "Thank you, Mother. I am ready for whatever training and trials come next."
King Eldric rose from his throne, his presence commanding the room. "Draegon, your actions have proven your mettle, but they have also drawn us into a larger game. We must move swiftly and wisely. Rickon, prepare the ravens. Barthogan, I'll need your eyes and ears across the North. Argella, begin rallying the bannermen. As for you, Draegon…" He paused, his gaze softening slightly. "You've done well, but your journey is far from over."
The Wise Wolf's words resonated deeply. I felt the pride of my family's acknowledgment, tempered by the burden of the discovery.
As the meeting concluded, my father lingered, pulling me aside. "You've inherited more than our name, son," he said, his voice low but firm. "The fire of your mother and the cunning of the wolf. Use them wisely. The North will need you."
I nodded, absorbing his words. My family's faith in me was clear, but so was the road ahead—fraught with danger and shadowed by the conspiracies that sought to undo us.
But as I turned to leave, the scroll's most damning revelation remained locked in my mind. The Boltons—traitors in the shadows, lurking like vipers. Their name was etched in the scroll, alongside whispered plans to fracture the North's unity. I could not share this, not yet. I needed them complacent, their treachery allowed to fester until the time was right. The timeline must remain intact until the crucial years before Robert's Rebellion. Only then could their treachery be rooted out at its peak, ensuring that the North's future would be secured by fire and blood, and by the strength of wolves. By me. Until then...
~