"A man is a fool who puts aside his own house for the sake of another's."

―Thufir Hawat

…

The rain fell in sheets, driven sideways by the fierce winds that howled through the courtyard of Storm's End. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Lucerys adjusted his cloak, pulling the damp fabric tighter around him as he trudged behind his brother, Jace.

As they entered the great hall, the atmosphere turned heavier still. Lord Borros Baratheon sat on his great oaken chair, flanked by his daughters and bannermen. His broad face was a mask of disdain, his thick black beard glistening with wine. The hall was dimly lit, the torches sputtering in the storm's breath.

"You come at last," Borros intoned, his voice a drawl. "I had begun to think you dragon lords had forgotten my house entirely. But, of course, you remember the Stormlands only when of have need of us."

Luke felt the sting of the words even as Jace inclined his head respectfully. "My lord," Jace began, his tone measured, "we come not to demand, but to entreat. The crown requires steadfast allies, and none are more steadfast than you. My mother, the queen, values your loyalty above all others."

Borros snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Your mother values it now, perhaps. But where was her regard for the Stormlands when dragons flew high and peace reigned? It is a bitter thing, to be remembered only when the winds shift and the storm rolls in. Now you come again, asking for fealty. What does your mother offer that I should give it?"

Jace paused, his lips tightening. "The honour of standing with the true heir to the Iron Throne. My mother, the Queen Rhaenyra, is—"

"Spare me your titles," Borros interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Honour? Words are wind, Prince Jacaerys. My house needs strength, not platitudes." His dark eyes narrowed. "If I were to stand with Rhaenyra, which of my daughters would you wed?"

Lucerys froze. The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Jace hesitated, and Lucerys knew what his brother would say before he spoke.

"I cannot offer that, my lord," Jace said carefully. "I am my mother's heir. The matter of my betrothal lies with her."

Borros laughed—a short, derisive sound. "So, the queen's heir cannot offer his hand. You would have me pledge my strength to a woman who cannot even grant me the courtesy of a proper bargain? Go back to your mother, boy, and tell her the Lord of Storm's End is no dog to be called upon at her whim."

Panic flared in Lucerys' chest. The stormlands were vital. To lose them would be a blow from which their cause might not recover. Before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out of his mouth.

"I will wed one of your daughters, my lord."

The hall fell silent. Jace turned to him, shock and anger warring on his face. Borros raised a thick brow, his lips curling into a smirk. "You, boy? And why should I believe you'd keep such a promise?"

"I swear it," Lucerys said, his voice steadier than he felt. "If you will support my mother's claim, I will marry one of your daughters."

Borros leaned back in his chair, his laughter booming. "You have a spine, I'll give you that. Very well, boy. Tell me, which daughter you would have."

Luke's face burned as he looked toward the dais. The ladies Baratheon regarded him with varying degrees of amusement and disdain. He hesitated, his thoughts racing. Finally, he pointed toward the youngest; a safe gamble, he reasoned.

"Floris," Borros announced, his grin widening. "A good eye, boy. Floris is a fine lady, and she'll make a fine match for a prince."

Luke swallowed hard, his chest tightening with the weight of his impulsive offer. Borros's laughter filled the hall, the stormlord clearly pleased with the turn of events. "Go on, then," he said, waving a hand. "Take this news back to your mother. Tell her the stormlands stand with her—and her younger son."

Jace bowed stiffly, his face tight with controlled emotion. "We thank you, my lord," he said, his voice strained. "But before that, we must travel to Highgarden. House Tyrell's support—"

Borros cut him off with another laugh, this one darker. "Highgarden? Tyrell has already thrown his lot in with the Greens. You'll find no succor there."

Luke felt the blood drain from his face. Jace stood frozen for a moment before nodding stiffly. "Then we will return to our mother," he said, his voice quiet.

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It was late afternoon when the crimson shadow of Caraxes fell upon the Winterfell. The skies above the Wolfswood were an iron grey, heavy with the threat of snow. The dragon descended, wings beating heavily against the frigid northern winds, which carried with them the scent of pine and petrichor. Men and women alike paused in their labours to gape at the creature's immense, serpentine form. Yet, despite the dragon's overbearing presence, Daemon could feel his mount's displeasure as an undercurrent to their landing. Caraxes loathed the cold.

As the dragon's claws scraped against the packed snow and ice, a gout of steam rose from his nostrils, the heat of his breath hissing upon contact with the frostbitten ground. Daemon dismounted with the air of one who expected deference, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister. His boots crunched upon the snow, and his violet eyes swept over the gathered Northerners.

A few men approached, cloaked in thick furs. Their faces, wind-chapped and weathered, betrayed no awe nor fear—only the reserved caution of men accustomed to their own hardships. At their forefront was a lean, broad-shouldered figure, his hair as pale as fresh snow and his expression as stony as the grey walls of Winterfell itself.

"Prince Daemon," the man said, inclining his head. "Welcome to Winterfell."

Daemon's sharp eyes narrowed as he surveyed the speaker. "And where is Lord Stark?"

"Lord Cregan rides in the Wolfswood," the man replied evenly. "He is overseeing preparations for the coming winter and will return on the morrow."

A flicker of irritation passed across Daemon's features. It was not in his nature to wait, much less for an audience with a lord whose allegiance should already be secured. "I trust Winterfell's hospitality will suffice in his absence," he said, his tone edged with faint annoyance.

The man bowed slightly. "You will be well cared for, my prince. If you will follow me."

Daemon nodded curtly, casting a final glance at Caraxes. The dragon settled uneasily, his tail sweeping the frigid earth as the men stationed nearby kept their distance. One brave stablehand approached cautiously to see to the dragon, but Caraxes let out a low growl, sending him scurrying back. Amused, Daemon turned and followed his escort through the gates of Winterfell.

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The guest quarters were humble by the standards of King's Landing, but they bore the mark of Northern practicality. Thick stone walls shielded against the wind's bite, and a modest fire crackled in the hearth, though its warmth felt fleeting in the vast chamber. A servant girl entered quietly, carrying a tray laden with roasted venison, dark bread, and a flagon of spiced ale.

"Warm water has been drawn for your bath, my prince," she said softly, her eyes darting to his face before lowering respectfully.

Daemon eyed her for a moment before dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. "The chill would undo the effort," he said, his tone clipped. "Leave it."

The girl hesitated but nodded, retreating from the room as silently as she had entered. Alone, Daemon seated himself at the table, tearing into the venison without ceremony. His thoughts drifted, restless and impatient, to the task ahead. The North was vast, its strength undeniable, but its isolation bred a stubborn independence. Securing their loyalty was paramount, and yet he could not shake the unease that curled at the edges of his mind.

When the meal was done, Daemon shed his travel-worn cloak and eased himself onto the bed. The furs were coarse but serviceable, and though the fire in the hearth burned steadily, the cold seemed to creep into his bones nonetheless. Sleep did not come easily, and when it did, it was fitful, plagued by dreams of shadowy wolves and distant storms.

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Morning broke with a pale, wan light filtering through the narrow windows of Winterfell. Daemon rose, his movements deliberate as he dressed and fastened Dark Sister at his hip. Stepping into the corridor, he caught sight of a passing servant in the hall, a boy of no more than fourteen, and demanded, "Where is your lord?"

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The boy blinked, startled, before stammering, "In the yard, my lord."

Without another word, Daemon strode down the hall, his boots echoing off the stone walls. Outside, the air was sharp and bracing, the sun casting long shadows over the snow-dusted yard. Men were at work tending to horses, sparring with dulled swords, and hauling supplies to the storerooms. Amid the bustle stood a figure that could only be Lord Cregan Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell was broad-shouldered and grim-faced, his dark hair swept back and bound loosely at the nape of his neck. He had the look of a man accustomed to hardship, though he bore it without complaint. As Daemon approached, Cregan turned, his grey eyes locking onto the prince.

The lord dismissed his men with a nod and strode forward, extending a hand in greeting. "Prince Daemon," he said, his voice steady. "I must apologize for not receiving you sooner. Winter is no time for idleness in the North."

Daemon inclined his head but did not take the offered hand. "And yet, it is no time for delays either," he replied. "I trust we can dispense with formalities."

Cregan's hand fell to his side, and a shadow passed over his features. "Come," he said, gesturing toward the Great Hall. "We can speak within."

Daemon followed, his gaze flickering over the men in the yard. Though he said nothing, a small knot of unease tightened in his chest.

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When the servants brought breakfast, Daemon waved them off impatiently. "I won't be staying long. What I require is your word, Lord Stark. Will the North rise for Rhaenyra?"

Cregan regarded him steadily, his face unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. "You are direct," he said finally. "I respect that. Then allow me to be the same."

Leaning forward slightly, Cregan rested his forearms on the table. "I have thought long and hard on this matter, Prince Daemon. I have spoken with my bannermen, weighed the risks and rewards, and considered what is best for the North. After much deliberation, I have concluded: involving my people in you southerner's game of thrones is not in the North's best interest."

The words hung in the air like a frost-laden wind. For a moment, Daemon did not react, his face an impenetrable mask. But the silence was deceptive, for beneath it his temper surged, a dragon's rage tethered by a fragile chain.

"How much?" Daemon asked, his voice low and sharp as the blade at his side.

Cregan frowned, his brow furrowing. "How much, my prince?"

"How much did it cost?" Daemon pressed, his tone rising with each word. "What did Aemond promise you? Gold? Ships? Titles?" His words spilled out in a torrent, each one more accusatory than the last. "Tell me, Stark, what price did you place on your honour?"

The insult landed like a blow. Cregan's jaw tightened, and a flicker of anger lit his storm-grey eyes. "Do not presume to question the honour of House Stark," he said coldly.

Daemon's lips curled into a sneer. "Then explain yourself," he demanded, his temper rising. "What possible justification can there be for breaking your oaths? Why cast your lot with a usurper?"

Cregan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "I will remind you, prince, that the North's oaths were sworn to the crown, not to a single claimant. It is my duty to protect my people, and bringing war to their doorstep would betray that duty. You ask me to fight for Rhaenyra, but what do the people of the North gain from her victory? More southern meddling? More blood spilled in the name of kings and queens who do not understand our ways?"

"You would abandon the rightful queen to curry favour with a usurper?" Daemon shot back. "You think Aemond and his cronies will respect your borders, your traditions? They will bleed you dry, just as they will the rest of the realm."

Cregan's jaw clenched, but he did not raise his voice. "You presume much, Prince Daemon. You come here seeking allies, but you act as though the North owes you our lives. We are not your lap dogs, and we will not be treated as such."

Daemon rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "You forget yourself, Stark. Do you think the North can stand alone when the dragons of the South take to the skies? When the fire spreads across the realm, do you think your walls will protect you?"

Cregan stood as well, his movements slow but deliberate. He was taller than Daemon, his presence as solid and unyielding as Winterfell itself. "The North remembers, Prince Daemon," he said quietly, the words heavy with meaning. "And we choose our battles carefully."

Daemon's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his mind racing through his options. He could feel the weight of his failure pressing down on him, the sting of rejection cutting deeper than he cared to admit. But he was no fool. He knew that to escalate the confrontation here would be disastrous, both for himself and for Rhaenyra's cause. Adopting a calmer tone, he attempted a different approach.

"House Stark has always valued honour and justice," Daemon said, his voice deliberate, almost imploring. "Would you truly turn your back on an oath sworn by your House? Would you sully the legacy of Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, by supporting a usurper who seized the throne through treachery?"

Cregan's expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, perhaps, or irritation. Daemon pressed on.

"The Greens do not respect you," he said, his tone hardening. "To them, you are nothing more than a barbarian lord from a frozen wasteland. They will smile to your face and spit on your name the moment your back is turned. But Rhaenyra—she understands the value of loyalty. She will honour her allies, and the North will prosper under her reign."

For a moment, it seemed as though Cregan might yield, his gaze dropping to the table as he considered Daemon's words. But then he straightened, his expression hardening into one of unyielding resolve. It was clear the Lord wasn't about to be swayed.

Daemon's hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white as frost. His fiery temper simmered beneath the surface, and when he next spoke, his tone was sharp enough to cut. "If it is gold that sways you, Lord Stark, name your price. Whatever Aemond has promised, I will see it doubled. Treble it, if need be."

Cregan Stark regarded him with a composed, almost languid air, as though the prince's heated words had amused rather than unsettled him. He allowed a pause to linger before responding, his tone as even and deliberate. "You speak generously, my prince, but forgive me if I question the practicalities of such a pledge. The North is not a bauble to be purchased, nor are its loyalties so easily swayed by promises of coin. And even if we were inclined to entertain such an arrangement, might I inquire how you propose to outmatch the coffers of the Dragon's Bank, the Lannisters' gold, and the Hightowers' wealth combined?"

Daemon's lips pressed into a thin line, the heat rising to his cheeks. The truth of Cregan's challenge lay bare before him, and for the first time in their conversation, the prince seemed at a loss. Cregan's grey eyes bored into his own, and in their unflinching steadiness, Daemon again felt the sting of defeat.

The moment stretched, tense and bitter, before Daemon straightened with a sudden, forceful motion. "When the dragons roar, and fire sweeps the Seven Kingdoms," he said, his voice low but tinged with unmistakable steel, "remember this moment, Stark. Remember who offered you friendship, and who you turned away."

Cregan's eyes flashed with anger, but he did not rise to the bait. "The North remembers, my prince," he said quietly, his voice laced with meaning. "It always does."

Daemon's violet eyes burned with the promise of retribution, but he knew better than to make threats he could not yet deliver. The North was vast, its people unyielding as its winter, and to fight them, even with dragons, was to fight the land itself. He spun on his heel and strode from the hall, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.

Outside, the cold air bit at his face, and he found himself greeted by Caraxes, who trilled low in his throat, his irritation mirroring Daemon's own. And as Daemon climbed into the saddle, he cast a final glance at the grey walls of Winterfell. The cold, unyielding bastion stood resolute, indifferent to the storm brewing within him.

The spurned prince did not linger. With a sharp command, Caraxes leapt into the air, his wings beating against the frozen sky. The winds howled in protest, but neither dragon nor rider paid them any mind. Below, Winterfell faded into the distance, its rejection seared into Daemon's memory.

He would not forget this slight. Nor would he forgive it.