CERSEI LANNISTER — POV
Cersei locked the chamber door behind her with trembling fingers.
Just hours ago she faced him in the stables with perfect poise — cold, controlled, untouchable.
But now?
Gods.
She pressed a hand to her stomach again.
Stop it, she told herself savagely.
It's far too soon. It means nothing.
But her body felt… different.
A dull warmth deep in her belly.
A strange heaviness.
An instinct, primal and ancient, whispering that something had changed.
She moved to the mirror.
Her reflection stared back — perfect, composed, golden.
But her eyes… her eyes had a shine she didn't recognize.
Happiness.
Hope.
Disaster.
Cersei slammed her palm against the wooden table, rattling goblets and sending a pitcher sloshing wine across the surface.
"This is madness," she hissed.
She should not want him.
She should not trust him.
She should not let him touch her, whisper to her, claim her.
And yet—
She closed her eyes as memory surged:
His hand on her throat, commanding but not cruel.
His breath against her ear.
His certainty — We take the realm together.
He looked like Rhaegar.
He spoke like Rhaegar.
He moved like Rhaegar.
Aeryon wasn't Rhaegar.
But he was close enough to resurrect a ghost she had buried decades ago.
And worse — he chose her.
Not Lyanna.
Not a Stark.
Her.
For the first time in years, Cersei Lannister felt… wanted.
Not for her birth.
Not for her children.
Not for her crown.
For her.
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
Not Jaime's knock.
Not Robert's heavy pounding.
Smaller. Lighter.
"Tommen?" she called softly.
The door cracked open and Tyrion walked in.
Of course.
"Good morning, sister," he said cheerfully, though his eyes immediately narrowed. "You look pale. How unusual for you."
"I'm fine," Cersei snapped, turning away.
"Are you?" Tyrion said lightly. "You've been… distracted. Glowing, even."
Her stomach clenched.
"Leave," she ordered sharply.
Tyrion studied her for a long moment.
Then — softly:
"Is it about the southern-looking newcomer? The one Father would have burned alive for daring to resemble Rhaegar?"
Cersei's breath froze in her chest.
Tyrion's eyes sharpened.
"Ah," he murmured. "So it is him."
"Get. Out."
The words were a hiss, full of venom she didn't quite have the strength to back.
Tyrion bowed theatrically.
"As you command, dear sister. But be careful."
His voice dropped.
"There are many ways for history to repeat itself… and even more ways for it to go worse."
The door closed.
Cersei gripped the table until her knuckles whitened.
Aeryon was leaving the North.
But he wasn't leaving her behind.
And gods help anyone who tried to take him from her.
She touched her stomach again.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then she pulled her hand away.
AERYON — POV
"The Man Who Wasn't Supposed to Notice"
Aeryon guided his horse toward the Winterfell gates, finally ready to depart.
But as he approached the archway, someone stepped directly into his path.
Short.
Sharp-eyed.
Drinking from a cup far too early in the day.
Tyrion Lannister.
Aeryon slowed the horse, raising an eyebrow.
Tyrion grinned.
"Going somewhere, my princely friend?"
Aeryon froze.
He didn't like that word.
"What did you call me?" he asked calmly.
Tyrion sipped his wine.
"Oh, relax. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm merely… observant."
Tyrion's eyes drifted up and down Aeryon's face.
"You have that look. The silver-gold hair, the sharp angles, the way the light seems to catch you differently. It reminds me of someone."
A dry smirk.
"Someone tall, handsome, and inconveniently dead."
Aeryon kept his expression unreadable.
"And?"
Tyrion shrugged.
"I enjoy puzzles. And you, my friend, look like a riddle carved into the shape of a man."
He stepped closer.
"And I find it… interesting… that my sister has suddenly begun wearing furs long enough to hide her throat and wrists. So no one sees the marks."
Aeryon inhaled slowly.
Tyrion lifted his cup.
"Don't worry. I'm not your enemy."
"Why?" Aeryon asked.
Tyrion's smile faded.
"Because anyone who threatens Cersei terrifies me."
A pause.
"But anyone she wants? Truly wants? That frightens me more."
He gestured grandly.
"And I have a feeling you're about to become a problem far bigger than Robert Baratheon."
Aeryon leaned down slightly.
"Are you warning me?" he asked quietly.
Tyrion shook his head.
"No."
He lifted his cup again.
"I'm telling you that when the time comes… I may be the only Lannister you can trust."
Aeryon studied him a long moment.
Then he nudged his horse forward.
"Goodbye, Lord Tyrion."
Tyrion called after him:
"Not goodbye. Just… until King's Landing."
Aeryon paused at the gate.
Tyrion smirked.
"Oh yes. I know you're heading there. Men like you don't ride north. You descend."
Aeryon rode out of Winterfell, cloak snapping behind him.
Behind him, Tyrion stood at the gate, watching with sharp, calculating eyes.
"The game just changed," Tyrion murmured to himself.
"And none of them have noticed."
The snow still whispered behind him.
The last curl of smoke from the dragon's breath faded into the darkening sky, and Aeryon urged his horse back onto the road, cloak snapping in the same icy wind. He didn't look back — not at the clearing, not at the treetops still trembling from massive wings.
He simply rode.
Step after rhythmic step, the horse's hooves tapped steadily along the frost-crusted path. Frost-bitten pines leaned in from both sides, branches heavy with white. The entire North felt like it was holding its breath, watching him leave.
Good.
Let them.
Aeryon settled deeper into his saddle, letting the numb air bite at his cheeks. The silence gave him room to think — and plotting always came easier when no one was talking.
Daenerys first. King's Landing second. Cersei third. Jaime… well, Jaime could be dealt with.
He smirked at the order. If only the kingdoms knew how carefully he was arranging his pieces.
A murder of crows lifted from a nearby tree as he passed, cawing like the universe was laughing at his ambition.
"Mock all you want," he muttered, "I have dragons."
The road curved, dipping between frozen brush and half-collapsed stone walls from some forgotten holdfast. Every mile south seemed to peel away another layer of Winterfell's shadow. He could almost feel King's Landing ahead — hot, loud, corrupt, familiar in its treachery.
A perfect playground.
He reached a narrow stretch of the road when his horse flicked its ears sharply.
Aeryon slowed.
Hoofbeats.
Not hurried. Not panicked.
Deliberate.
From around a bend emerged two mounted men, wrapped in thick northern furs. Their armor wasn't official — not Stark guards — but the sigil stitched onto their cloaks showed a grey direwolf, faded and worn.
Probably landless knights.
Or ambitious watchers hoping to impress a lord.
They drew up in front of him, blocking the road in a lazy, almost polite formation.
The taller one eyed Aeryon's hair first.
Then his eyes.
Then the sword at his hip.
Finally, he asked, "You're far from Winterfell, stranger."
Aeryon kept his face bored. "I'm traveling south."
"Aye?" the second one said, leaning forward. "Funny. We were told a man with silver hair left the castle this morning. You wouldn't happen to be him, would you?"
"I might be."
Aeryon tilted his head. "Why do you care?"
The men exchanged a look — the kind men share right before doing something stupid.
The taller one turned back. "You look like someone important. We're thinkin' maybe Lord Stark forgot to ask you a few questions."
Aeryon smiled. Calm. Slow. Dangerous.
"Oh? Then you should ride back and ask him."
The second man's hand brushed the hilt of his sword.
"Or we ask you right here."
Aeryon sighed. "I really hoped you wouldn't choose the stupid option."
He moved.
Not with magic.
Not with flashy power.
Just pure, efficient speed.
He stepped off his horse, closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbed the second man by the cloak, and slammed him backward onto the frozen earth. The knight's breath shot out in a white puff as Aeryon planted a boot on his chest, pressing down just enough to make him panic.
The taller one scrambled for his sword—
Aeryon's blade was at his throat before he cleared the scabbard.
"Don't," Aeryon said gently. "You're not ready."
The man froze.
Snow drifted between them.
The only sound was the ragged wheezing of the man beneath Aeryon's boot.
"You two are going to stand up," Aeryon said, voice smooth. "You're going to get back on your horses. And you're going to ride north, not south."
The taller man swallowed hard. "…And if we don't?"
Aeryon leaned in an inch, voice dropping to a whisper:
"Then I'll show you what real northern cold feels like."
Something in his eyes — or maybe the complete lack of fear — finally broke them.
They backed away. One stumbled. The other kept nodding like a terrified bobblehead. They practically leapt onto their horses and bolted north, snow spraying behind them.
Aeryon watched them go until they vanished around the bend.
Then he exhaled, mounted up again, and resumed his pace south.
As he rode, he looked once — just once — to the sky.
A faint plume of smoke drifted high above the treeline, then vanished into cloud.
His dragon following.
Unseen.
Silent.
Aeryon smirked.
"Good. Let's make the world nervous."
He nudged his horse forward, eyes fixed on the southern horizon where a smudge of distant gold hinted at warmer lands.
Aeryon rode for another mile before the cold eased just enough that his breath stopped pluming as heavily. The trees thinned, the road widened, and the wind shifted southward — warmer, carrying the faint smell of wet earth instead of frozen bark.
He tilted his head.
Good. Even the air knows I'm leaving the North behind.
His horse snorted, stamping at the slush. Aeryon reached down, patting its neck.
"Relax. You'll be somewhere that doesn't try to kill you with the weather soon."
He pulled his cloak tighter against his shoulders and let the silence settle again. Only the crunch of melting frost and the steady rhythm of hooves kept him company. It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
Because behind him, far behind him, those two northern riders were already telling someone what they saw — a silver-haired stranger with a king's face and a wolf's confidence.
And that rumor would spread.
Whispers.
Speculation.
Curiosity.
Aeryon smirked to himself.
Good. I want them wondering. I want them unnerved. I want them waiting for the moment they realize what I really am.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his hidden powers humming just beneath his skin, ready to be unleashed at his whim.
Not yet.
Not until the board is set.
The breeze shifted again, warmer now, lifting the ends of his cloak like a herald's banner.
South.
Toward chaos.
Toward opportunity.
Toward Daenerys.
Toward the game he was about to break.
Aeryon clicked his tongue, guiding his horse down the long sloping path. The sun dipped low, painting the sky bruised orange.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
His dragon's shadow flickered across the treetops ahead — distant, watching, circling.
Waiting for his command.
Aeryon smiled.
"Good," he murmured. "Stay close."
And he rode on.