Winterfell, 112 AC
Bennard parried an overhead strike and struck hard at the hand of his opponent, the one gripping the sword. His foe let out a muffled cry and nearly dropped his blade, but before he could recover from the blow, Bennard leveled the point of his own sword at the man's neck, a smirk curling his lips. Edwyn, Captain of his brother's guard, gave a curt nod of acknowledgment before stepping aside to discard the blunt sword and return to his duties.
Bennard, still standing in the yard, looked up to where two boys with long faces and a lady with soft brown hair and blue-grey eyes watched him with pride. Their smiles warmed him, and he returned the gesture before leaving the yard behind. He did not discard his padded gambeson— the cold grew sharper with each passing day. He would strip it off later in the bathing chamber, where the hot spring water would wash away both sweat and ache alike.
He walked slowly through Winterfell's corridors, the stone halls alive with passing guards who tugged their cloaks tighter about themselves against the chill. Bennard noted more than just Stark men among them—Karstark, Ryswell, Glover, and others besides. All had come to stand witness to the boy from the south who would soon arrive at Winterfell. They called him the Sea King, his ships said to have nearly sunk before reaching White Harbor.
All the North was abuzz with speculation. Tales spread by Velaryon sailors spoke of storms and waves held at bay, of a god glimpsed amidst the sea's fury. Poseidon, they called him—the sea god. Bennard scoffed at the thought. Small wonder so many gods are all around the world, for in times like these, folk would deify any sailor who dragged them from a storm. For him, the Old Gods of the North were the only true gods.
At last, Bennard reached the bath chamber, a place reserved for the Starks and those guests deemed worthy. He pushed open the iron doors, casting aside his cloak, then his armor and clothes, before lowering himself into the steaming pool. At once the aches of training and the bite of cold fled his body like prey before a predator. He sank deeper, until only his head broke the surface.
For a time, he allowed himself the simple pleasure of warmth. Thoughts of his duties drifted through his mind, along with plans to drink with his brother-in-law before the day was done. Bennard was just on the edge of dozing when a frantic knock echoed against the door. He groaned, half rising from the water.
"Who is it?" Bennard called, irritation sharp in his voice.
"It's me, m'lord. Sara," came the quick reply, the voice of one of his wife's servants. "Your lady wife sent me. The princess has arrived, m'lord—on her dragon. Lord Stark and Lady Stark are already in the courtyard. Your lady wife bids you come at once to welcome her."
Bennard sighed heavily. "Tell my wife I will be there shortly. Go."
Another guest. This one royal, no less. The Old Gods have mercy. Did Southerners know nothing of the North's struggle for food and survival when winter crept so near? Not to mention, whenever a Targaryen came to Winterfell, they took more than they gave, and seldom with respect. Bennard grunted as he rose from the water and began dressing.
Let us see, then, what this Targaryen wants now.
Dragonstone, A Week Later, 112 AC
Daemon sat brooding in his chair, watching his brother's son pore over a scroll with wide eyes. Since his niece's departure, no one remained to offer him fresh insight into his struggles with magic. After so many failed attempts, Daemon had decided it was time to rest from his fruitless pursuits. So here he was, performing the duty his brother had entrusted him with: teaching his son the ways of magic.
"Are you done, boy?" Daemon asked, his voice heavy with boredom.
"Just a moment, uncle, I am almost done," the boy replied nervously, burying his face deeper into the scroll as though hiding from his uncle's sharp gaze.
Daemon leaned forward, his tone turning hard. "How difficult can it be to remember one runic cluster? Are you so daft, boy? I wonder—" He broke off suddenly as the sound of raised voices carried through the door. A guard was arguing with someone outside.
Daemon was bored enough that moments earlier, he had seriously considered visiting Caraxes and tormenting the dragonkeepers with questions about whether his dragon had relieved itself. So when the argument reached his ears, he took the opportunity of relieving himself of boredom with both hands. He rose and opened the door.
His brows lifted, and a smirk curved his lips, his boredom vanishing as swiftly as half-blood sellswords when faced with Caraxes's fire on the Stepstones. There stood Daena Valarr, trading sharp words with his guard. She looked fiercer—and lovelier—angry, her eyes alight with the sort of restrained fury that made her seem ready to whip the guard bloody, though she cloaked it beneath her practiced grace and beauty.
"Here I thought you granted me but an hour of your time each day, my lady. It seems you grow generous, for if memory serves, we were together only moments ago. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" Daemon asked, amusement gleaming in his smirk as he gestured for the guard to withdraw.
"I believe the men of Dragonstone think too much. This one, for example…" Daena gestured gracefully toward the retreating guard, who turned and vanished from sight. "…thought I came to disturb Prince Aegon's lessons. In truth, I came to give something that may aid both you and the prince, my lord."
Cunning glittered in her eyes. Daemon thought either the Valarrs in particular are fools or Lys as a whole produced little beyond beautiful whores for their pleasure house. Because if this woman believed she could win something from him, she was mistaken. Still, he feigned curiosity.
"Forget that fool. I will see that he is punished for failing to treat our guest as she deserves. Now, Lady Daena, since you come bearing gifts, enter."
Daemon stood aside to let her into the chamber. Though called a library, it contained fewer than ten books, a dragonglass candle, and scattered parchments no outsider could make sense of. Perhaps it was this room, and Daemon's habit of bringing Aegon here for lessons, that had drawn Daena after him. Not that she would find much.
Daemon resumed his seat and gestured for her to do the same, watching the grace with which she moved. A Lysene, through and through. Soon, soon, she would be in bed with Daemon. But before that, he had to get every word of information that her family had of Old Valyria.
It was Daena who began. "Do you recall what you said to me about the exchange of knowledge, my prince? A week ago?"
Daemon remembered every word they had shared, but he still shook his head. Her strained smile only amused him further.
"You said you would only reveal your findings in magic to those who offered you something in return, however minor. Do you remember now, my prince?"
"Forgive me, Lady Daena. My words were meant for Andals." His tone carried not the faintest hint of apology.
"Oh, I took no offense, my prince. For the Valarrs have something to offer in return. Something I have learned that House Targaryen seems to have forgotten—or lost—with time." She drew a scroll from her sleeve.
Daemon's curiosity sharpened. He extended his hand.
"I hope you keep your word, my prince," she said with a smile.
Daemon studied her a moment longer, letting the silence draw until she grew restless beneath his stare.
"You think me a man to break my word?"
"Of course not, my prince. Here." Relief softened her voice as she handed him the scroll.
Daemon took it. The parchment was old, unmistakably Valyrian in make. Slowly, he unrolled it, eyes narrowing as he began to read.
The more he read, the more his earlier intention—to humor her and perhaps show her some small trick of magic—slipped away. Surprise and suspicion flickered across his face. It could be a forgery. He could burn it here and end her charade.
Yet he had spent his boyhood studying ancient Valyrian scrolls. If anyone alive could judge its authenticity, it was him.
And if it was true… then why had this woman come to Dragonstone on a ship by the sea and not the sky as Targaryens do, and why did her family wield so little power in Lys, a shadow of what Valyrian Dragonlords' family wielded?
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