Chapter Text
Slicking back his hair, Prince Daemon Targaryen took a deep breath of the watery air and began to stalk down the damp ground, strolling through the winding pathways that led to the shore of God’s Eye Lake. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve laughed at the ridiculous weather. Somehow, it matched his stormy thoughts. He wiped the rain off his face, clearing it for a split moment. The torrential downpour continued with relentless fury, slamming ice-cold against his skin and turning the night-dark of Harrenal impenetrable.
“What an accursed night,” he swore under his breath, a frown working between his pale brows. All the frustrated anger, the inability to understand why His Grace had done what he did—he was still the King of Westeros; a Dragonlord.
Daemon was mostly tired of his grandsire toying with the fate of the realm. Tired of the bloody fight for the Iron Throne. He had no plans to become a co-conspirator in this foul act to seize power. He didn’t care about the Great Council or its nonsense. What would one expect from a decision made in a dilapidated castle? Harrenhal had been ruled by many Noble Houses. However, each had been extinguished. Shouldn’t that be a sign?
He understood that King Jaehaerys wanted to legitimize his successor by calling for the major Houses in Westeros and asking for their opinion. As Daemon saw it, his grandsire was setting a dangerous precedent by allowing the nobility a say in the succession. He was all but undermining House Targaryen’s position. Aegon the Conqueror had forged the Iron throne from the thousand swords of his defeated enemies, melted together by Dragonfire. The imposing and uncomfortable seat served as a constant reminder to all who saw it of the consequences of opposing House Targaryen but now…His Grace made them look like weaklings.
Daemon scowled and pushed back his hair again. He had no destination in mind but he was too restless to retire to his bedchamber and wait for the morrow. Unfortunately, he had his brother to consider. Viserys spent a fortnight gathering support. On the other hand, he did not exult in Rhaenys’ fate, but, on the contrary, commiserated her. Jaehaerys had bypassed the established line of succession again and turned a blind eye to her.
“They could kill each other for all I care.”
So infuriated, he couldn’t hear anything but the surge of his own blood. He fought his Dragonblood’s primal urges for too long, hid what he thought and tried to please his family. Daemon knew without conceit that no one could guess he was having trouble maintaining an easy composure while watching Old Valyria’s essence disappear day by day. Luckily, he had honed the skill of pretending. He played the role of the incorrigible rogue to perfection and buried his thoughts and dreams deep down. No one could blame him, independence, boldness and stubbornness were etched into his Dragonblood. Nevertheless, while he enjoyed chaos for the most part, he strongly believed that hierarchy was the solid core of ruling the realm.
Amethyst eyes dangerously intent, he stopped abruptly, his hand going stealthily to Dark Sister. The short hairs at his nape stood to attention and his heartbeat escalated in alarm. Danger…He tasted it in the very frigid air he drew into his lungs.
He cocked his head to the side and let his inner dragon rise to the surface.
Daemon could hardly believe his eyes. He heard-like everyone else- that Harrenhal was cursed but this…
Swathed in the silken shadows of the deep night, a lone girl was kneeling next to a huge Direwolf. He swore low under his breath. A Direwolf in Harrenhal?
Undeterred by the monster tracking her every move with lethal purpose, the girl put her fingers on its jaw, anchoring it with touch and whispered. “Maybe we should head back. Ellard won’t be pleased if he notices our absence. Should I blame it on the stupid visions again?”
The Direwolf’s sodden pelt melted with the night as it shook her grip with care and licked her hand lovingly. When she surged to her feet, its tail raised in a gesture of dominance as it closed its very dangerous teeth around her wrist. She remained immobile, quiescent for a moment then laughed as she stared straight into its silver-grey eyes. “I know. We don’t fear Ellard but I don’t fancy another lecture on how the Lady of Winterfell should behave. Who told him to bring us to Harrenhal? We can do without the Targaryens and their dramatics.” She lowered her hood but her cloak was already drenched, it could barely hide her trim, petite figure. The lightning emphasized the uncommon prettiness of her features…a button nose, a soft, ripe-looking mouth and gleaming eyes he couldn’t yet determine the colour. What caught his attention most was the sparkling liveliness of her character. She smelled of sin and temptation and all kinds of wicked.
Tremendous fascination coiled beneath his calm exterior the moment he guessed her identity. The girl must be Lord Ellard Stark’s sister.
“I’m glad to hear that, my lady,” he commented lazily as he made his presence known, appreciating the way the lightning struck off her pale face. She was unbearably tempting. “My family can be quite entertaining as you, so eloquently, put.”
Her mouth pursed, her brows drawing together as she turned to face him. He caught her look, and smiled, allowing a touch of smugness to shine through. That, though, didn’t last long. The Direwolf made a growling sound of displeasure, its canines showing.
Smirking, she reached out and scratched behind its ear gently.
“Your Highness,” she eyed him thoughtfully then pushed back her hood, thrusting a hand through her damp hair. Daemon sucked in a breath when her emerald green eyes flickered while she eyed his approaching figure.
“What brings you here on this cold night, Lady Stark?” he asked, his eyes riveted to the Direwolf standing straight and stiff next to her. “And I see that you brought a friend to keep you company.”
A low growl hummed at the back of the Direwolf’s throat when he took another step forward.
Daemon flexed his hand on the handle of Dark Sister even though he knew it was futile. Only Caraxes could save his hide if the Direwolf decided to attack. The creatures of legend inhabited Winterfell, in the untamed wilderness but they had dwindled over the years until they were all but thought extinct. The bond between a Stark and their Direwolf was said to be similar to the one the Targaryens shared with their Dragons. For the Spiritual Guardian of the North to appear in this time of tumult…
Lady Stark extended her hand toward the castle. “Like you, we couldn’t sleep. A storm is about to brew on the horizon. Winter is coming. Aren’t you here because you can sense it, too?”
He glanced over his shoulder at Harrenhal before turning back at her with a wry smile. “It looks like you are quite versed in politics, Lady….”
She stared at him with knowing eyes. “I am Lyarra Stark. As for the storm, we can prevent it, you know.” Slits of green gleamed beneath her sooty lashes.
He laughed ruefully. “I heard that Lord Ellard Stark intends to support Rhaenys. He hasn’t forgiven His Grace after he transferred the New Gift to the Night’s Watch.”
“No one knows how the King in the North’s mind works. What you heard is nothing but speculations.” Her words seemed easy but there were an edge to them. The little She-Wolf had bared her teeth at last.
When he arched a brow in challenge, an amused smile tugged at the left side of her mouth. Daemon was riveted to the spot. She was completely immune to his charm. No maiden in King’s Landing could resist his flashing smile, no man dared to contradict and tease, and taunt as boldly as he did.
She ignored the Direwolf’s growl and approached him. “Do you want to see what we can do, Your Highness?” she said gravely, mischief dancing in her eyes. When he stared at her in amazement, she smirked. “I can help you. My only condition is that you do what you promised years ago.”
Daemon’s hand trembled and he felt a pang in his chest. How did she know about his greatest desire, his unspoken longing and the molten fire searing through his soul?
Years ago, after he got into a fight with Viserys because he refused to study the Seven Pointed Star, he ran to Aegon’s High Hill and swore that one day, he would bring the Faith down and make everyone worship the Gods of Old Valyria again.
But how did she know? Unless….
“You are a Greenseer.” It wasn’t a question.
She nodded slightly, her mysterious eyes moving over his face. “I’m much more than that.” There was no need for further words. They both understood all that was left unsaid. He stared at her with consuming eyes for what seemed to be ages. All the forbidden longing and greed in his heart was released in a torrent.
I could love this She-Wolf, he thought dazedly, if I let myself. And he already would, if she would have him.
Daemon shook it off, wondering why he was acting that way. He had never been the type to be made silly by a woman—not even when he was young. In fact, it had been the other way around.
“You deserve a chance to prove it. Trust in yourself, Daemon. The realm needs you. Take what you covet most. Let the dragon free.”
An ache of a new feeling swept over him as her words washed over his senses and made his Dragonblood run thick and hot in his veins. Unhurriedly, he brushed at her hair, and a smooth, dark wisp came tumbling free. “Only if I can have you by my side, Lyarra.”
“We’ll see about that,” she snorted. “Can the dragon handle the coldness of Winterfell?”
“You speak like someone who had never tried Dragonfire,” he taunted huskily. He was intent on knowing her better than she did herself. To strip all her secrets away; everything that was private and intimate.
“Come, Padfoot,” she beckoned.
He was in the midst of smoothing back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead when he froze. The Direwolf’s eyes burned holes through his skull.
“Isn’t the dog a bit overprotective?” he whispered, fighting the irresistible urge to pull her close.
Lyarra chuckled softly and looked over her shoulder at the Direwolf. “You have no idea. I’ll introduce you to Padfoot properly, later. After we bring about significant chaos to Harrenhal, that is.”