3. Arrival

In the Courtyard of Winterfell
Gaemon POV
103 AC

The snow had not yet begun to fall, but the sky threatened it. Pale clouds hung heavy over Winterfell, and the wind came in restless bursts—sharp enough to sting the skin, though not yet bitter enough to chase boys indoors.

But Gaemon Targaryen was no ordinary boy. In truth, he was no boy at all—he was a man reborn in the body of a child.

He stood in the training yard, cheeks flushed and breath rising like a hatchling dragon’s smoke. His brown curls clung to his brow, slick with sweat, and his small fists trembled at his sides, muscles quivering from strain.

Bennard Stark, his cousin, watched him with arms crossed and legs planted like the roots of a weirwood. At ten-and-four, Bennard bore the frame of a young warrior forged in cold—broad-shouldered, sturdy, and shaped by years of harsh Northern training. His face was not cruel, but carved from expectation.

“Again,” Bennard said.

Gaemon’s legs screamed in protest, but he turned without complaint and began another lap around the yard. Boots pounded against packed dirt and frozen patches where snow had yet to settle.

Ten laps. Stones strapped to his back. Squats, lunges, push-ups. Exercises that made older boys weep. But Gaemon pressed on, silent through the pain. Perhaps it was that stubborn Northern blood from his Stark mother—or the ever-burning Targaryen fire that refused to flicker out. Or perhaps it was the quiet knowledge that he was meant for something far greater.

Even now, after a month of punishing training, his body healed itself overnight—an unnatural vitality pulsing in his veins. His strength returned each dawn, granted by the bloodlines of dragonlords and wolf-kings. It was the only true gift from that being that had dropped him into this world.

When he finally stumbled to a halt, chest heaving like a bellows, Bennard gave a short nod.

“Enough.”

Gaemon collapsed, limbs folding beneath him. He drank greedily from the waterskin Bennard handed him, spilling half of it down his chin.

“That’s your first lesson,” Bennard said, his voice low and firm. “A sword means nothing if your body gives out. Strength before steel.”

Gaemon nodded, too winded to speak, eyes glassy with fatigue.

“Come,” Bennard said, rising. “Time to learn the blade.”

He picked up a child-sized wooden practice sword—still too large for Gaemon’s hands—and held it out. Gaemon took it, his arms trembling from the effort of simply lifting it.

Bennard stepped behind him, guiding his stance with strong, callused hands.

“Feet apart. Knees bent. Not like a chicken, Gaemon—bend, don’t wobble.”

The boy adjusted, wobbled, readjusted. Just standing took effort.

“Good,” Bennard muttered after a long pause. “Now remember what I showed you.”

He stepped in front of Gaemon and drew his own wooden blade—longer, heavier, held with ease. He moved slowly, deliberately.

“Slash,” Bennard instructed.

He swept his blade from right to left in a clean arc. Gaemon mimicked him. His swing wobbled like a reed in a storm.

“Again.”

“Slash.”
“Slash.”
“Slash.”

Ten times. Twenty. Until the motion stopped looking like guesswork and began to look like memory.

“Now, stab.”

Bennard stepped forward just enough to demonstrate—a short lunge, the point of the blade moving in a straight line.

Gaemon thrust. It was more a shove than a stab, but it carried weight.

“Better.”

“And now—parry.”

Bennard lifted his blade and tapped lightly at Gaemon’s, showing how to angle the sword defensively.

“Not too hard. You don’t stop the blade. You turn it. Let it slide off like rain off stone.”

Gaemon tried. The sword slipped from his grip once, twice—but he picked it up again, jaw clenched, brows drawn.

They practiced beneath the grey sky, wind humming through the stones of the yard, until the sun climbed higher and Gaemon’s arms felt like molten lead. Still, he continued, face pale, lips pressed tight against the pain. When he finally dropped the sword, it wasn’t from choice—it was because his strength had given out.

Bennard knelt beside him.

“You did well today.”

Gaemon looked up, not pleased. “Not enough.”

Bennard rested a hand on his cousin’s narrow shoulder—firm, reassuring.

“It’s more than most. Boys your age would still be chasing cats or throwing snowballs. But you—you're already working harder than men twice your age. That matters. Don’t forget that.”

Gaemon sat up straighter. “Will I be the best swordsman in the realm, someday?”

Bennard’s lips curled into a rare smile.

“You will, if you keep working like this. A dragon with a wolf’s discipline? That’s a dangerous thing.”

And in that quiet, snowless yard beneath the threat of winter, Gaemon Targaryen nodded.

Because he had already made a vow. He would not stop. Not until he rose so high, they would name entire generations after the legend he would become.

So good… that men would tremble not at the idea of fighting him, but at the work they'd need to do to even come close.

o0o0o0o0o0o

One Moon later

“…I know the old tales, Gaemon, but there are no more wargs in the Seven Kingdoms,” said his cousin, Lord Rickon Stark, voice firm with the quiet certainty of a man who bore the weight of Winterfell.

“Not on this side of the Wall,” Bennard chimed in, ever the more talkative of the two Stark brothers. He tore a piece of venison with his teeth as he continued speaking mid-chew. “But north of it? The Night’s Watch brothers say there are wargs, greenseers… even direwolves.”

Gaemon caught the subtle shift in the room—Lord Rickon’s sharp glare, silent but scolding, shot toward his younger brother. Bennard had spoken too freely, and Gaemon knew it. But that was precisely the point. He wanted him to.

He leaned forward, affecting a spark of curiosity that flickered in his silver eyes. “Truly? There are direwolves alive beyond the Wall?”

Bennard nodded.

“That’s incredible,” Gaemon said, letting a practiced grin curl his lips. “Why don’t you capture some, Cousin? Imagine that—a direwolf in the Winterfell kennels, standing guard beside us. House Stark bearing its sigil in truth, just as the Targaryens ride their dragons into battle.”

Rickon made a dismissive sound. “There’s no nee—”

He never finished.

A roar—deep, thunderous, terrorizing. Not the cry of any beast born of earth, but something otherworldy, something magical. It rolled across the sky like a mountain splitting in two. The very air seemed to shudder with it. The stone beneath Gaemon's boots vibrated, the flagons on the table rattled, and every conversation in the hall was torn away like dry leaves in a gale.

Until the doors slammed open and a guard stepped inside, his face pale, his voice almost reverent.

“…Dragon.”

That was all Gaemon needed.

He was the first to move, bursting from the hall with heart thundering in his chest, the cold biting into his cheeks, forgotten. The others followed, footfalls fast behind him as the snow crunched under their boots.

And then he saw it.

The sky had darkened, not with cloud, but with wings—vast, leathery, crimson wings that blotted the sun and cast the world in blood-red shadow. A great serpentine shape twisted through the air with a predatory grace. Its roar came again, louder, closer, so immense it seemed to devour all thought.

Its long, whip-thin tail lashed through the air like a scythe of living flame. Its neck curved like smoke, jaws aglow with inner fire, eyes burning with alien intelligence. Snow flurried in its wake, dancing in the vortex left by each slow, powerful beat of its wings.

Caraxes.

Gaemon didn’t need his memories of Earth to feel the primal fear and awe rising in his chest. He didn’t need to remember the name of the Blood Wyrm.

He knew.

This was no spectacle conjured by green screens or pixelated flame. No fantasy he’d ever read or dreamt could measure to the real thing.

This was magic made flesh.

Terror, and wonder.

A dragon.

As Caraxes circled above Winterfell, red scales shimmering like garnets under the pale sun, Gaemon’s gaze rose to the dark figure astride its back—silver-haired, black-armored, a rider carved of fire and fury. He couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. That could only be one man.

Daemon Targaryen.

His father in this world.

Rickon turned sharply to one of his men. “Send Dywen with a dozen riders. Escort Prince Daemon to the courtyard.”

Bennard nodded and dashed off without a word. Rickon’s jaw had tightened, his face slipping into the cold, noble mask Gaemon had come to associate with the duties of his lordship.

“Gaemon. Come. We will receive your father properly.”

There was no room for argument in his voice. No need to wait for permission or response.

Rickon turned, his dark cloak sweeping behind him, his wife already disappearing down the corridor with measured grace. Gaemon lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes still locked on the sky.

But Caraxes had vanished behind the battlements, descending beyond the walls. It seems the Blood Wyrm has no intention to rise again—not yet.

Gaemon exhaled, slow and heavy. Disappointment laced his breath like frost.

He wanted to see it again. To feel that roar one more time. To witness that impossible creature again.

But that moment had passed.

So he turned, boots crunching softly in the snow, and followed his cousin toward the courtyard—where dragon's rider would come.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Gaemon stood with the Stark household in the courtyard, the cold wind biting at their cheeks as they awaited Dywen’s return. The sound of hooves on stone broke the silence, and the great gates of Winterfell creaked open to admit Prince Daemon Targaryen.

He rode at the front, Dywen and his men trailing like shadows behind him. Gaemon had to admit—however grudgingly—that the tales and portraits hadn’t lied. Daemon was every bit as striking as the stories claimed.

His posture was regal, shoulders squared, spine straight, as if the weight of a thousand years of Targaryen blood had been carved into his very bones. A long sable cloak flared behind him with each measured step of his stallion, the crimson three-headed dragon stitched upon it seeming to writhe with every gust of wind. His silver-blond hair shimmered like moonlight, untamed yet immaculate, not a strand daring to fall before his sharp violet eyes.

He was clad in black plate trimmed with red—armor forged in the Dragonpit itself, sleek and brutal, as though shaped from shadow and flame. At his hip hung Dark Sister, its obsidian hilt gripped casually in one gloved hand. It was a blade with a history, and Daemon wore it like a second soul.

On his face, he wore that infamous rougish look: a half-smirk, half-snarl, as if he were always on the verge of laughter or violence. His eyes burned bright with a wildfire gleam, scanning the courtyard like a conqueror appraising foreign soil. It was the look of a man who had danced with death, commanded dragons, and washed his hands in the blood of his enemies—and relished every moment of it.

He dismounted in a fluid motion, boots striking the ground with purpose. His eyes locked onto Gaemon.

Gaemon didn’t flinch.

He stood tall, matching the prince’s stare with one of his own. Violet clashed with violet—father and son, bound by blood but unfamiliar as strangers. The intensity of Daemon’s gaze deepened, probing, testing. But Gaemon held firm, unblinking. Whatever the prince saw there must’ve pleased him, for he gave a single, curt nod.

Then Daemon turned his attention to Rickon Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell bowed, just enough to meet royal expectation—and not an inch more. Daemon’s frown twitched, catching the subtle insult, but said nothing.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Daemon,” Lord Rickon said coolly. “I trust your stay will be… uneventful. Bring bread and salt.”

“Spare me your hollow courtesies, Stark,” Daemon replied, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. “I’ve not come for pleasantries. I’ve come for him.” He pointed directly at Gaemon.

There was a beat of silence.

“He and I leave as soon as he’s packed his things. And I’ve eaten something.”

“If I may,” Rickon said, unfazed, “I would like to know the reason.”

“You may ask,” Daemon said, smiling thinly, “but I’m not obliged to answer.”

The silence that followed was taut. Even the wind seemed to pause. Gaemon didn’t need to look to know it was Bennard grinding his teeth nearby, fury simmering in his jaw. Before his cousin could do something reckless, Gaemon stepped forward.

“I’d like to know the reason myself,” he said evenly.

Daemon’s eyes returned to him. For a long moment, he said nothing, weighing something behind those sharp eyes. Then he exhaled—whether it was weariness, irritation, or amusement, Gaemon couldn’t tell.

“My grandsire, the Old King Jaehaerys, took his last breath the day before yesterday,” Daemon said flatly. “My brother wants the family gathered for the funeral. That includes you. So—here I am.”

Shock rippled through the courtyard. Even Rickon’s composed mask cracked, if only for a heartbeat.

“Now,” Daemon added with a flick of his cloak, “go and gather your things. We leave in a few hours.”

And just like that, he turned away, standing tall in the courtyard of a lord he didn’t respect, in a keep that wasn’t his—and made it feel as though it was.