In the heart of winter, when the world should have been shrouded in snow, a rider approached the ruin, her cloak snapping in the cold wind. It was Daella Snow, a bastard of the North, though her name was more whispered than spoken in noble halls. Dark hair framed her face, streaked with snowflakes that melted as soon as they touched her pale skin. Beneath her furs, a sword rested against her hip—a blade forged in the cold of Winterfell, carried south with a heart brimming with secrets.

The stories of Summerhall had haunted Daella since she was a child. Her father, Lord Stark, had told her the tale of the place as though warning her against something inevitable. There were always ghosts in the past, he said, and some ghosts were better left unprovoked. But Daella had never been one to heed warnings, and now the whispers that had once seemed distant felt as though they called to her, drawing her south as if she had no choice but to come.

The castle loomed ahead, little more than a skeleton of what it had been. Its towers, blackened and broken, reached toward the pale sky like grasping hands. The cold was biting here, an unnatural chill that crept through her furs and armor, settling in her bones. She had been told it never snowed in the Reach, but a thin layer of frost coated the ground, shimmering under the gray sky.

As her horse picked its way through the ruined gates, Daella dismounted, her boots crunching on the frost-covered ground. The air smelled of burnt wood, as though the fires that had destroyed Summerhall had never truly gone out. Her breath misted in front of her, curling in the stillness.

She stepped forward, toward the heart of the ruins, where the great hall had once stood. The stone walls were crumbled, half of them lost to the flames, and yet there was an echo here, a memory of voices long silenced. They whispered as the wind blew through the hollow corridors, as though trying to tell her something she could not yet understand.

Summerhall's ghosts were said to be restless, forever tied to the Targaryens and the fire that had consumed them. But Daella wasn't here for the old king's folly or the doomed birth of a dragon prince. She was here for something older, something darker.

"Daella Stark," a voice said from the shadows.

She spun, hand on her sword. The voice had come from a figure standing at the far end of the hall, where the light barely reached. Cloaked in black, the stranger was tall and gaunt, with skin that seemed to have been drained of warmth. His eyes were dark, almost unnaturally so, as though the shadows themselves had taken residence there.

"You've come," he said. His voice was like the cracking of ice on a frozen lake—quiet, but capable of shattering the silence.

"I didn't think anyone still lingered here," Daella said cautiously, though her grip on the hilt of her sword remained firm. "Summerhall is abandoned."

The man smiled—a thin, humorless smile that never reached his eyes. "Abandoned by the living, perhaps." He took a step forward, and she could see him more clearly now. His features were sharp, angular, like a man cut from ice. "But some things linger, especially where fire has left its mark."

Daella tensed. She had expected ghosts, perhaps, but this man was no specter. He was real, and there was something about him that felt wrong, as though he belonged neither to the world of the living nor the dead.

"What are you?" she asked, her voice steady despite the cold that seemed to wrap tighter around her with every moment.

The man's smile deepened. "I am the last remnant of a long-forgotten house, one that perished before even the Targaryens rose to power. Summerhall was built atop something ancient, something that should have stayed buried."

She had heard rumors, whispers of things beneath Summerhall—an old magic, perhaps, or a curse that predated the Targaryens. Some claimed it was the land itself that was cursed, while others spoke of a great power that had been sealed away long ago. None of the stories had ever been clear, but now, standing here, Daella felt as though she was on the edge of understanding something terrible.

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

The man's dark eyes gleamed. "You are of the North. The blood of the First Men flows in your veins. You are closer to the old powers than you realize."

Daella's pulse quickened, though she did not show it. "I have no interest in power."

"Perhaps not." The man tilted his head, considering her. "But power is interested in you. The Starks have always been tied to the ancient forces of this world, whether they wished to be or not. You are no different."

The wind howled through the ruins, and for a moment, Daella thought she could hear the crackle of flames, though no fire burned here. Her grip tightened on her sword, though she did not draw it.

"I didn't come here for you," she said, her voice firm. "I came for answers. There is something buried here, something that doesn't belong in this world."

"And yet here you are, standing before it." The man's smile faded, and his expression became more serious. "You seek to bury it again, to return it to the darkness. But you will not succeed. Not alone."

Daella narrowed her eyes. "And you'll help me?"

The man shook his head. "No. I will watch. I will bear witness to what comes next, as I have always done."

Before she could respond, the ground beneath her feet trembled. A low rumble, like distant thunder, echoed through the ruins. Daella's heart raced as the frost-covered stones shifted, as though something far beneath the earth had stirred.

The man stepped back, fading into the shadows. "It awakens," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the growing roar. "It has been waiting for so long..."

Daella turned, her eyes scanning the ruins. The air had changed, thickening with an unnatural heat. Her breath, which had once misted in the cold, no longer did.

From the ground, the frost melted away, and from the cracks in the earth, a faint red glow emerged. It pulsed, rhythmic like a heartbeat, as though the earth itself was alive, waking from a long slumber.

Summoning her courage, Daella stepped toward the glow, her hand still on her sword. The heat grew more intense with each step, the air around her warping like the edges of a fire. The ruin seemed to pulse with the same red glow, as though the stones themselves were alive.

She reached the center of the courtyard, where the earth had split, revealing a deep chasm below. The glow emanated from within, a fiery light that seemed to call to her, beckoning her closer. She could feel it in her blood, in her bones—a pull that she could not resist.

This was what she had come for. This was the truth hidden beneath Summerhall.

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But what was it? A memory? A curse? Or something far older than any of that?

Before she could make sense of it, the ground cracked further, and from the depths of the chasm, a figure emerged. At first, it seemed to be made of shadow, a creature born of the darkness beneath the earth. But as it rose, its form solidified, revealing something altogether more terrible.

It was not a man, nor was it a beast. It stood tall, taller than any human, with skin like molten rock and eyes that burned with a fire that had never known the light of day. Its mouth opened, and from it came a sound like the roar of a thousand flames, a sound that made the air itself tremble.

The fire demon—if that was what it was—looked down at Daella with eyes that seemed to burn through her very soul. It was ancient, far older than Summerhall, far older than the Targaryens or even the First Men. This was something from the dawn of the world, from the time when fire and ice had battled for dominance over the earth.

Daella drew her sword. The cold steel glinted in the fiery light, a stark contrast to the heat that surrounded her. She did not know if her blade could harm such a creature, but she had no choice. She had come too far to turn back now.

The creature roared again, and this time, flames erupted from its mouth, a torrent of fire that rushed toward her like a living thing. Daella dove to the side, rolling across the ground as the flames scorched the earth where she had stood. The heat was unbearable, searing her skin even from a distance.

But she was not helpless. She had the blood of the North in her veins, and that blood had always been cold. Rising to her feet, she gripped her sword and stood firm against the blaze. The flames had turned the earth beneath her feet into smoldering ash, but Daella was unyielding. She could feel the cold within her, not just the frost of Winterfell but something older, deeper—an ancient chill passed down through her bloodline.

The creature, towering and wreathed in fire, hesitated for a moment, as if sensing this cold within her. It let out another deafening roar, the flames burning brighter around it, but Daella remained rooted to the ground, unmoving.

"Come, then," she whispered, her breath misting in the sudden contrast of heat and cold. "Let's see what fire can do against ice."

With a surge of adrenaline, Daella rushed forward, sword in hand. The beast swiped at her with a clawed hand, molten rock dripping from its limbs. She dodged, rolling under its strike and slashing at its leg. Her sword connected, but the creature's skin was as hard as stone, and her blade barely left a mark. The heat from the contact sent a shock of pain up her arm, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on.

The creature swung again, and this time, Daella was too slow. A fiery fist crashed into her, knocking her backward into the crumbling wall of the ruined castle. Pain exploded through her chest as the force of the blow drove the air from her lungs. Gasping, she struggled to her feet, the world spinning around her. The creature loomed closer, its fiery form casting long shadows over the blackened stones.

As it advanced, Daella's mind raced. The fire was too powerful, too old. She could feel it in the air—the creature wasn't just made of flame; it was flame. No ordinary sword, no matter how finely forged, could destroy something like this.

But Daella was not ordinary. She had never been ordinary.

She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to focus. In her veins ran the blood of the Starks, the blood of the First Men. The same blood that had once forged the bonds between man and magic. The same blood that had long ago whispered of power in the cold, in the heart of winter itself.

She had never learned the old ways, not truly. But she had always felt them, a distant hum in the back of her mind, a connection to something greater than herself. And now, standing in the ruins of Summerhall, with the weight of history pressing down upon her, she felt it stir.

The creature lashed out again, but this time Daella was ready. She ducked beneath its fiery arm, her fingers tracing the sigil etched into the hilt of her sword—an ancient rune of the North, one that had been carved there generations ago. She did not know its full meaning, but she had always known it was special, passed down through the Stark line for a reason.

She whispered a word under her breath, a word her father had once told her, though he had never explained why. It was a word older than the Old Tongue, a word of power.

"Rohgund," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos around her.

The air around her changed. The cold within her surged outward, racing through her veins like a river of ice. Her sword glowed faintly, not with fire, but with a blue light, cold and sharp like the heart of winter.

The creature hesitated again, its fiery form flickering as if sensing the shift. Daella didn't wait for it to recover. She lunged forward, her sword cutting through the air with a force she hadn't known she possessed.

This time, when her blade struck, the creature let out a screech of pain. The blue light from her sword sizzled as it met the creature's fiery skin, steam rising where ice met fire. The beast staggered back, flames flickering and dimming as it roared in fury.

Daella pressed her advantage, her heart pounding as the cold spread through her body. She slashed again, and again, each strike pushing the creature further back. The blue light from her sword was now brighter, cutting through the heat and fire like a beacon.

But the creature was not so easily defeated. With a roar, it gathered itself, its flames burning hotter than ever. The heat was so intense that Daella could feel her skin blistering, even through the cold that flowed from her blade. The ground beneath her feet cracked, molten rock bubbling up from below as the creature summoned the full force of its ancient power.

Daella's strength was waning. The cold that had surged through her veins was fading, and the heat was overwhelming. But she refused to give in. She had come too far, and she had seen too much. She would not let this ancient fire consume her.

With one last surge of strength, Daella drove her sword into the ground at the creature's feet. The blue light from the blade pulsed outward, spreading across the earth in jagged lines of frost. The creature let out a final, deafening roar as the frost crept up its legs, freezing the molten rock that made up its body. The flames flickered, dimmed, and finally went out, leaving only cold, lifeless stone.

The creature stood frozen, its fiery form now a statue of blackened rock. Daella collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath as the last of the cold left her body. Her sword, still embedded in the ground, glowed faintly, its blue light fading into the darkening sky.

For a long moment, there was only silence. The wind had died, and the air was still. Summerhall, once consumed by fire, now stood quiet, the last echoes of battle fading into the distance.

Daella rose unsteadily to her feet, pulling her sword from the ground. The glow had faded completely now, leaving it as nothing more than cold steel in her hand. She looked up at the creature, now nothing more than a frozen monument to the power it had once wielded.

The man from the shadows stepped forward again, his face unreadable. He glanced at the frozen creature, then back at Daella.

"You've done it," he said, though there was no warmth in his voice. "The fire has been quelled."

Daella didn't respond. Her body ached, her mind still reeling from the battle. She had come to Summerhall seeking answers, but now, standing in the ruins, she realized that the answers were far more complicated than she had imagined.

"What was it?" she asked finally, her voice hoarse.

The man's dark eyes gleamed in the fading light. "A remnant of an age long forgotten. A power that should never have been woken."

"And you?" Daella asked, turning to face him. "What are you?"

The man smiled, that same thin, humorless smile from before. "A watcher. A witness to the old ways. I have seen many things in my time, Daella Stark. But even I did not expect to see the blood of the North prevail against such fire."

Daella frowned. "You knew this would happen."

"I suspected," he said, his voice growing softer. "The fires of Summerhall were always meant to bring something to the surface. The Targaryens merely hastened it. But it is not my place to interfere, only to observe."

Daella sheathed her sword, her mind racing with more questions than she could answer. The man's words offered little comfort, and she had the sense that there was far more to the story than he was telling her.

But for now, the fire had been defeated. Whatever ancient power had been buried beneath Summerhall was, at least for the moment, silenced.

"Will it come back?" she asked, glancing at the frozen statue of the creature.

The man's expression darkened. "Perhaps. The world has a way of awakening old powers when the time is right. But for now, you have done what needed to be done."

Daella turned toward the ruined gates of Summerhall, the sky above darkening with the approach of night. She could still feel the cold in her veins, but it was fading, replaced by the exhaustion of battle.

As she mounted her horse, she looked back one last time at the ruins of Summerhall. The castle, once consumed by fire, now lay silent and still. But she knew that the peace would not last forever.

The North called to her, and there were other battles to be fought. But for now, she had faced the fire, and she had survived.

With a final glance at the man in the shadows, Daella spurred her horse forward, leaving the ruins of Summerhall behind her.

But she would never forget the flames. And she would never forget the cold.