Cregan Stark sat heavily in his chair, the old oak groaning beneath his weight. His hands trembled as he pressed a rough towel to his brow, wiping away the cold sweat that clung to him despite the warmth of the hall. For a long moment, he did not rise.
Could such a thing truly exist… a real dragon?
His gaze unfocused, drifting back through the memories of the Targaryens he had known since boyhood.
King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, silver-haired and measured, his voice always calm.
King Viserys, genial and weary, more fond of feasts than fire.
Prince Daemon, dangerous and brilliant, a sword always half-drawn even when he smiled.
Princess Rhaenys, proud as a mountain peak and just as unyielding.
They had all been dragonriders. True blood of Old Valyria.
And yet, every one of them had felt unmistakably human.
Only Baelon was different.
When Cregan allowed his thoughts to linger on him, the word that surfaced was not man.
It was dragon.
He shifted in his seat and cast a guarded glance across the hall. Baelon stood near the long table, speaking quietly with Cregan Karstark. His tone was even, almost mild, one gloved hand resting loosely at his side while the other gestured toward a map spread between them. His posture was relaxed, his face composed, betraying no hint of strain.
And yet, the sense of danger coiled tighter in Cregan Stark's chest.
Men were not frightening.
Dragons wearing human flesh were.
Because one never knew when such a creature would bare its fangs and consume everything before it.
Cregan's fingers curled slowly into his palm. Then, after a heartbeat, he forced them to loosen.
At least Baelon was not his enemy.
For that mercy, small though it was, the North should be grateful.
When his business at Winterfell was concluded, Baelon mounted Tyraxes and rose into the grey sky, turning northeast toward Bay of Seals. The wind grew sharper the farther they flew, cutting through fur and wool alike.
Baelon drew his cloak closer, his jaw tightening. "Something is amiss," he murmured, more to himself than to the dragon.
By the time Bay of Seals came into view, the storm Cregan Karstark had warned of was gone. What remained was worse.
Ice lay strewn across the land, glimmering dully beneath the pale sun.
Not ice born of ordinary cold.
Tyraxes shifted beneath him, wings beating unevenly. A low rumble vibrated through the dragon's chest.
Baelon leaned forward, pressing a calming hand to the warm scales at Tyraxes's neck. "Easy," he said softly. "What troubles you?"
The answer came not in words, but in feeling. Wariness. Tension. And beneath it, something colder.
Fear.
Baelon's brow furrowed. Tyraxes had faced fire, steel, and storm without flinching. Never this.
He guided the dragon down, boots crunching against the frozen ground as he dismounted. His eyes swept the area, sharp and searching.
Among the scattered ice, something caught his attention.
A shape too deliberate.
He crouched and lifted a jagged block from the ground. It was formed like a horseshoe, every curve too precise to be chance. Even through thick gloves, the cold bit deep, piercing and wrong.
Baelon sucked in a breath and let it fall at once.
He moved on, slower now.
Ice shaped like claws.
Ice shaped like limbs.
Ice shaped like bodies broken in half.
Then he saw the shore.
The Karstark fleet lay in ruin, smashed against the rocks. Hulls were split open, masts snapped, sails torn to ribbons. Ships meant for war reduced to driftwood.
The men were still aboard.
Every one of them dead.
They sat frozen where they had fallen, eyes wide, mouths twisted in silent screams. Frost coated their beards and lashes like white ash. There were no wounds. No blood. No sign of struggle.
They looked as though the cold itself had reached into their chests and stopped their hearts.
Baelon straightened slowly, dread settling heavy in his gut.
He had read of this.
Of corpses left behind by beings of ice and night.
The difference was clear enough.
None of these men stirred.
"Did they truly freeze to death," he whispered, his voice swallowed by the wind.
Tyraxes growled.
The dragon lifted his head sharply, wings unfurling, his intent unmistakable.
Baelon mounted without hesitation.
They flew west, the Wall rising like a pale scar across the world. When they finally descended near its shadow, Baelon felt his breath leave him.
The ground below was carved with tracks.
Hooves. Paws. Claws.
He recognized horses, wolves, bears, even great cats. Others were alien. Long, straight grooves cut deep into the ice. Massive impressions pressed into the earth as though something enormous had passed through without slowing.
Baelon stared, his hands tightening on the saddle.
"…A great migration."
For the first time since setting foot in the North, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with winter.
"When did so many beasts come to the North," Baelon murmured, his voice low beneath the wind, "a land famed for its emptiness?"
He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, eyes tracing the countless tracks carved into the frozen earth below.
"And why do they all move together," he continued, brow knitting, "so calmly, toward the same end?"
A breath escaped him, half a scoff, half a sigh. He reached down and patted the warm scales beneath his palm, drawing comfort from their steady heat.
"Hah. One mystery atop another, Tyraxes." His fingers lingered there a moment longer. "We rest now. You've flown far enough. Once you've recovered, we'll follow the trail again."
Caution won out over curiosity. Tyraxes was strong, but even dragons had limits, and pressing on while his mount was weary would invite disaster. Whatever awaited them had already passed this way. It would not vanish overnight.
The hunt could wait.
Harrenhal
Far to the south, within the vast black bulk of Harrenhal, Princess Helaena Targaryen sat unmoving before her dressing table.
A single candle burned beside her reflection. Behind her, a maid worked carefully, combing her silver-gold hair stroke by stroke, afraid to tug too hard. The other maid stood nearby, hands folded, watching with quiet unease.
Helaena's face was pale as milk. Her eyes did not focus on her reflection, nor on the room, but on something far away, something only she could see. Her lips moved, shaping words that drifted through the chamber like mist.
"The northern winter is waking," she whispered. "But not yet. Not now."
Her fingers curled against the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
"You cannot stay there," she went on, breath quickening. "You must come back. You must."
The comb paused for a heartbeat.
"The Dragon King of Blood and Fire," Helaena murmured, her voice trembling, "he still needs time. Time to grow."
She drew in a sharp breath, as though stung by sudden pain.
"I… I can go... He can help me."
Without warning, she rose to her feet.
The abrupt movement made both maids gasp.
"P-Princess?" one ventured, a plump girl with a round face and anxious eyes.
Helaena turned and pointed at her, gaze sudden and piercing. "You. Come with me. We are going to find my uncle. Prince Daemon."
Then she faced the other maid.
"And you," she said, her tone leaving no room for question, "have a carriage made ready at once. I am going to the Dragonpit, in King's Landing."
Her hair lay half-combed down her back, pins scattered across the table. She did not look at them. Gathering her skirts in both hands, she hurried from the chamber.
"Princess! Princess, wait!"
The maids exchanged a glance, alarm plain on their faces. Neither dared refuse. One rushed off toward the stables. The other gathered her courage and followed close behind Helaena.
They passed from Blackheart Tower into the Flowstone Courtyard, the echo of their steps swallowed by the immensity of the castle. Soon, the clang of steel rang out ahead.
The training yard was alive with motion.
Prince Daemon Targaryen stood at its heart, dark cloak thrown back, helm under one arm. His presence alone kept the men sharp, eyes forward, movements crisp. None wished to earn his attention.
Not far from him, one unfortunate soul already had.
Prince Aegon Targaryen staggered through the yard, shirt soaked through with sweat, breath coming in ragged gasps. Under Daemon's merciless instruction, he had been driven past exhaustion into something approaching discipline.
Barely.
"Helaena?"
Daemon turned at the sound of her steps, surprise flickering across his sharp features as he took in her state. Loose hair, flushed cheeks, eyes too bright.
"What are you doing here," he asked, lowering his voice as he approached, "and what in seven hells happened to your hair?"
Behind him, Aegon stumbled past once more, nearly tripping as he forced himself into another lap.
"I need to go to King's Landing," Helaena said at once. "I need a cavalry escort."
Daemon blinked, then frowned faintly. "Back to King's Landing?" He considered for a moment, then shrugged. "Easy enough. Brayden's free. I'll have him take Baelon's guard south with you. They've been hounding me for work."
In his mind, it was nothing dire. A fit of restlessness, perhaps. Or one of Helaena's strange moods.
With Baelon's men at her side, little short of war could threaten her.
"All right," Helaena said, already turning away. "Thank you."
She did not wait for dismissal, hurrying back the way she had come.
Daemon watched her go, brow creasing.
"…Strange girl," he muttered.
Then his voice cracked like a whip across the yard.
"What are you staring at? Three more laps. All of you!"
Groans rose at once, followed swiftly by shouts.
"Dinner's got extra mutton tonight," Daemon added lightly. "First fifty to finish eat like officers."
The yard erupted in cheers.
"Oh," he said, almost as an afterthought, "except Aegon."
The cheers doubled.
Aegon, face twisted in misery, kept moving. He ran, stumbled, and when his legs failed, dragged himself forward through the dust, breathing like a man already half-dead.
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