The North had seen hard winters, wildling raids, and storms that swallowed entire keeps in snow.

But nothing—nothing—had ever made Winterfell fall silent the way a dragon’s scream did.

It came without warning.

A sharp, shrieking roar ripped across the gray morning sky, echoing over the frozen towers and snow-covered courtyards. The sound shook the walls themselves, sending ravens bursting from the rookery in panicked swarms.

And above it all—

A beast of crimson scales cut through the clouds.

Massive wings beat against the cold northern wind, scarlet membranes stretching wide enough to cast a shadow over the entire castle. Smoke curled from its nostrils.

Caraxes.

The Blood Wyrm.

Nightgaze lunged to the edge of the courtyard beside you, black fur bristling violently. The direwolf’s lips curled back in a snarl so deep it rumbled through his chest.

“Easy,” you whispered, though your own pulse hammered wildly.

The dragon circled Winterfell once.

Twice.

Then descended.

Snow exploded upward as Caraxes landed beyond the gates with enough force to shake the ground beneath your boots. Men stumbled. Horses panicked.

The dragon folded his enormous wings slowly, smoke coiling from between jagged teeth.

And seated atop the monstrous creature was a man dressed entirely in black.

Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Even from the battlements, he looked dangerous.

Silver hair whipped in the northern wind, pale as moonlight against the dark leather and armor he wore. A sword rested at his side—Dark Sister, if rumors were true—and he sat upon the dragon like he had been born there.

Beside you, your father’s expression darkened immediately.

“Open the gates,” he ordered grimly.

The heavy doors creaked apart.

Daemon dismounted before anyone could greet him, boots crunching against snow as he stepped away from Caraxes. The dragon lowered his head behind him with a low growl, smoke drifting from his nostrils like fog.

The prince did not bow.

Did not kneel.

He simply walked forward like Winterfell belonged to him already.

Guards tensed as he approached, but Daemon ignored every one of them. His pale violet eyes swept across the courtyard once before landing on you.

And stopping.

You felt it instantly—that stare.

Sharp. Assessing.

Interested.

Nightgaze moved closer to your side with another warning growl.

One corner of Daemon’s mouth twitched upward.

“A direwolf,” he mused aloud, voice smooth and dark. “Now that is something worth flying north for.”

Your father stepped between you slightly. “Prince Daemon. Winterfell welcomes you.”

Daemon finally looked away from you.

“Does it?” he asked lazily.

The air grew tight.

Every man in the courtyard knew Daemon Targaryen’s reputation. Rogue prince. Dragonrider. Warrior. A man as dangerous as the beast waiting behind him.

Your father remained stiff. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

Daemon removed a rolled parchment sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

“A proposal from His Grace, King Viserys.”

The courtyard fell silent.

Your father took the parchment carefully but did not open it immediately.

Daemon glanced toward you again.

“The Crown seeks stronger ties with the North,” he said. “An alliance.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And the king sent you himself?”

A smirk pulled at Daemon’s lips.

“No,” he answered. “The king wished to send ravens.” His gaze flicked back to you, slow and deliberate. “I volunteered.”

Snow drifted between you in the cold silence that followed.

Nightgaze pressed against your side protectively, ears pinned flat.

Caraxes let out a low, rumbling growl from beyond the gates, as though sensing his rider’s interest.

Daemon stepped closer.

Not enough to breach propriety.

Enough to make your heartbeat quicken.

“You are the Stark daughter,” he said, his voice quieter now. “The one whose hand every northern lord seeks.”

Your father’s jaw tightened immediately.

Daemon noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His eyes gleamed with amusement.

“I can see why.”