Black Wolf

FD 5

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF  and Marvel characters and all recognizable characters, plots, belong to GRRM and Marvel.  I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 5: The Beginning

82 AC

The Kings Solar

Baelon Targaryen

Baelon, along with his elder brother, was summoned by their father, the king.

"Your Grace," both of them bowed as they entered the solar, and the king waved away their courtesy. Baelon noticed a raven scroll lying on the table and the king looked devastated. He knew the king kept his emotions close to his heart, but even so, he could deduce that the news must have been saddening.

"My sons, this is the latest letter from the Vale. Daella is gone," the king whispered, and Baelon was struck by the sadness in their father's voice. Maybe old age was finally softening the cold heart of the king.

"No," Aemon whispered in anguish, as they had all loved their sweet sister. Baelon, who had been happy with Daemon's birth recently, immediately lost his joy.

"Father, who should go, and what about Gaemon?" Aemon asked hesitantly.

"I don’t know, Aemon. How Gaemon will react... He warned me of this, and I ignored it. He even threatened Arryn’s life right here in this solar, but somehow nothing happened," the king said, looking at them with a heavy gaze.

"Baelon," the king continued after a moment of thought, "you are close with Gaemon, and you should inform him. He should be in the training yard now."

"I will do so, Father, but I am not closer to Gaemon than you or Aemon. It’s just that he is close to Alyssa, and thus he appears closer to me. That’s it, nothing more. Should I bring milk of the poppy or a sleeping potion to placate his anger?" Baelon asked.

"No need for that, Baelon," the king replied.

Baelon nodded, standing up.

"Your Grace," he bowed and left the solar.

==========

Baelon observed the training yard as Gaemon sparred with a Kingsguard. Even though Gaemon was only ten, he already looked like a thirteen-year-old with his height and the beginning of muscles that promised greatness. No one else dared to spar with Gaemon except for Baelon, Aemon, and the Kingsguard soldiers.

He wanted to wait until the end of the spar, but he knew Gaemon would not tire, so he stepped into the yard and called out when there was a lull in the combat.

"Gaemon."

Gaemon immediately stepped two paces backward to disengage, and both the Kingsguard and Gaemon nodded to each other, signaling the end of the spar.

"Baelon," Gaemon said calmly. Baelon was impressed by how there was no visible strain in Gaemon’s voice despite the hard spar.

Baelon. Gaemon said calmly. Baelon was impressed that there was no visible strain of having a hard spar in Gaemon’s voice.

"Brother, come with me. I have to tell you something," Baelon said, turning to walk and leading his brother toward the Godswood.

============

Both the servants and some important lords whispered as they passed through the corridors, but Baelon noticed that his brother seemed entirely nonchalant about the whispers. Many thought he was escorting his wild younger brother to punish him or something.

They reached the Godswood, and Baelon turned to look at Gaemon, hesitating.

After several minutes, Baelon was interrupted by Gaemon's angry growl.

"Brother, what is it? Just spit it out already."

"Gaemon, there was a raven from the Vale, and I am heartbroken to inform you that Daella has succumbed to childbirth fever. They named the girl Aemma Arryn, who is little, but the healers and maesters assure that she will at least survive," Baelon said, carefully observing his younger brother.

Gaemon’s muscles tensed, and his face went eerily blank.

"Fuck you, Arryn, and fuck the king!" Gaemon yelled, moving toward the nearest tree, the weirwood, and began punching it in anger.

Baelon panicked as he saw the power behind the punches that made the tree shake. On the third punch, any form was gone, replaced by savage battering with both hands. On the seventh punch, Baelon could see blood appearing on the weirwood, as Gaemon’s hands were cut open by the broken wood.

On the eleventh punch, Baelon moved behind Gaemon, catching both hands to stop him. Baelon was surprised that he had to use almost all his strength to keep Gaemon from continuing.

"Enough, Gaemon. This is more than just a tree, and if you destroy it, our relationship with the First Men houses will be affected. Look at the tree—it's drinking in your blood and healing itself," Baelon said.

Gaemon shook Baelon off and sat down in exhaustion. He looked up, and Baelon saw that there were no tears in his eyes. They were bloodshot from anger, and the violet eyes had turned nearly black in rage.

"Leave, Baelon. I want to be alone," Gaemon said.

"Brother, she was my sister too. Father has requested that we go and keep company with Mother, who stays in the Vale. Whatever she says, and however you devalue it, our mother has a favorite son, and it has been you, just as she favors Gael among her daughters. Prepare yourself. We will go by Vhagar," Baelon said, turning to walk away. He knew his brother didn’t need to be handheld for preparing for the journey.

"No," Gaemon said.

Baelon immediately stopped, surprised beyond words. He turned and saw Gaemon lying against the weirwood with closed eyes.

"Valonquar, I heard a 'no'? Was I imagining it? Don’t you want to see Daella for the last time?" Baelon asked, intrigued by his younger brother’s thought process.

"You didn’t imagine it. I said no. I’m not coming. If I went there, I would gut the old Arryn where he stands, and I would follow through, killing everyone who defends him. I don’t care whether we are under guest rights or some inane rule about him being our vassal. I should have followed through on my threat to kill Arryn on our wedding day. Only Daella’s pure happiness stopped me, and I regret it now."

Baelon gaped at his younger brother hearing onlytruth for him.

Baelon gaped at his younger brother, hearing only the truth from him.

"I will inform Father that you declined coming to the Vale," Baelon said and walked away.

"Oh, you’re going to Father? Pass him my congratulations on successfully killing his supposed lesser child among us, all the while extracting the most benefit out of us," Gaemon snarled.

Baelon paused, unsure whether to reply, but in the end, he decided against arguing with Gaemon and walked away. Baelon reached the inner corridor and was out of the sun. he looked back to see what Gaemon is doing and was surprised to see an empty spot.

Baelon hoped that his father wouldn’t order him to find Gaemon as he didn’t want to go all the way to the Balerion’s lair in the Dragonpit

=====================

83 AC

Rhaenys Targaryen  

Rhaenys Targaryen frowned as she remembered the offer her uncle Gaemon had given her. Even though she knew Gaemon was only one year older than her, he seemed perfect in everything he set his mind to. Rhaenys knew that people whispered that Gaemon was perfect in every way, especially compared to her and Viserys. Both of them had tried to match at least  when it came to talent and skill with Gaemon, but it was impossible. Even the servants of the Red Keep adored Gaemon because of his kind nature toward them, even working in the kitchens to make the weirdly tasty food he had invented.

Rhaenys knew that, even when she tried to follow Gaemon, as he was a child the same age as her, he always seemed to dodge her. Maybe it was because of her open jealousy—jealousy of his freedom, the way he could do whatever he wanted. But deep down, she knew the real reason for her jealousy was Gaemon’s effortless access to dragons. Or rather, how much the dragons loved him. Rhaenys had flown on Silverwing, Vhagar, and Caraxes, but they never indulged her the way they did with Gaemon. She still heard that many dragonkeepers had begun calling him the "Dragonwhisperer."

She didn’t know whether Gaemon loved her and Viserys the way he loved his specific siblings, but she knew Gaemon cared for them. It was because of this that she believed the words Gaemon had spoken to her last day.

=============================

The previous day.

"Rhaenys, niece. I am glad you came as I asked in the note," Gaemon said as she entered the godswood.

Rhaenys frowned as Gaemon didn’t even use her honorific of princess and didn’t even open his eyes as he sat back on the thick white bark of the weirwood. She wondered how he knew it was her who had entered. She looked at the red leaves of the weirwood and felt out of place, just like she felt in a sept. She had tried to escape the septas, just like Gaemon, but she was not at all successful. She observed Gaemon and saw that he was relaxed more than ever except for when he was in the company of the dragons.

"Prince Gaemon, what do you want?" Rhaenys asked, not wanting to waste time. Ever since she heard that her father was going to war when the Dornish attacked with ships, she had been spending all her time with the crown prince, learning everything from him. It was a nightmare of hers that her father leave in Caraxes and only Caraxes return, mourning. She had tried to stop her father from leaving, but she was dismissed.

"I heard that you were worried about Aemon going with the king and my other brother Baelon two weeks from now to burn the Dornish armada and end the war before it begins. By the way, very foolish of them to attack in wooden ships when we have fire-breathing dragons."

Rhaenys frowned again at the disrespect toward her father, the crown prince. She could ignore Gaemon not using her honorific, as Gaemon was her uncle and older by one year and position, but still, Aemon was his senior in every way. Rhaenys knew that no girl just nine name-days like her worried about things like this, but she knew it was Gaemon’s maturity and wild nature that made her grow up faster than her father and mother anticipated. She started lessons at age five, and even if she paled before Gaemon's speed, everyone was impressed by her progress at the hardwork she put to catch up with Gaemon.

"Uncle, it is Prince Aemon, and you are casually using my father’s name when he is senior to you in every way, even before servants and other lords. You are not even calling him 'brother' like Uncle Baelon or other siblings, just Aemon. It is sending an image to our vassals." Rhaenys tried to enforce this to her uncle.

Gaemon looked at her in surprise, then snorted and waved his hand.

"What is the need for titles between family?" Gaemon ended with a shrug.

"Anyway, I am not here to have that conversation with you, niece. I have a solution for you to end your worries about your father going to war," Gaemon said.

Rhaenys looked hopeful. "What? You can convince him to stay back? Only grandfather and Uncle Baelon will go?"

Gaemon shook his head. "Of course not. Just like you said about the titles, the crown prince not going to defend the land from the Dornish invasion will send a message to the vassals, even the slaver scum on the other side of the Narrow Sea."

Rhaenys sighed in tiredness, as she expected another rant about the cruelty of slavery and her uncle's hatred for that institution, even above every Westerosi’s disdain for that system.

"So, what is your solution, Uncle? Have you finally decided to produce a miracle for our house’s benefit instead of random orphans or catering to your selfish whims?" Rhaenys snapped back.

Gaemon grinned at that, and Rhaenys could see her uncle liked it very much.

"Of course not, Rhaenys. Why would I do anything for this house when my father doesn’t want to do a simple task I asked of him when I was little? A thing he wanted to do himself, but couldn’t do because of foolishness and paranoia."

Rhanys nodded. “I see. I tire of this. Inform me now, or I shall leave.”

Gaemon studied her intently, scrutinizing her every move. After a moment, Rhanys saw him nodding to himself, as though coming to a decision.

“I have a way to ensure that all three of our family will return to us after we burn the Dornish armada,” Gaemon said. “Caraxes and Vermithor haven’t seen war, but the damned dragonpit has my Balerion. He wants to end the Dornish as much as anyone else, especially since the death of his companion, Meraxes. He’ll burn the Narrow Sea for that, even without a rider. The pit also holds an unclaimed Dreamfyre, an experienced dragon. Aunt Rhaena spent more time on her back than on land, and Dreamfyre is no stranger to battle.

“On the second day they leave, you only have to cause a distraction. Play a prank, as I’ve planned, and hide in the tunnels I’ll show you. My mother and sister Alyssa will be preoccupied looking for you while I free Balerion and Dreamfyre. Dreamfyre will fly to the Red Keep, and you’ll only need to be there to claim her.”

Rhanys gaped at the plan, and she might have laughed had anyone else suggested that a dragon would follow instructions without a bond. But she knew her uncle had a way with animals—dragons included. Her father had once said that their grandfather had banned any Targaryen women from claiming dragons without his permission, and this was her chance to defy that.

She paused, wondering why Gaemon hadn’t claimed Balerion himself. It wasn’t as if anything could stop the dragon from flying off.

Gaemon must have sensed her hesitation, for he spoke again.

“Rhaenys, I know you’re more mature than most at your age when it comes to the matters of court and rulings. Perhaps I played a part in stealing your childhood with my own achievements. Let this be my recompense. I know Aemon won’t have another child, and you should be the future queen. But Westeros, especially the Andal lords, are backwards when it comes to a woman ruling them. Imagine how they’ll have to keep silent if the future Crown Princess claims a dragon at ten and goes to defend her people.”

Rhaenys smiled at that. Gaemon was right. Finally, she made her decision.

“I agree, Gaemon. What is the plan?”

Gaemon grinned, and for a moment, Rhaenys couldn’t help but wonder what Gaemon was truly after. It wasn’t about claiming Balerion—she knew nothing could stop that. Even though the King had expressed disapproval to Gaemon personally, and through their grandmother and brothers, the King had never ordered the Dragonkeepers, Kingsguard, or the City Guard to stop Gaemon from entering the dragonpit.

“Well, this is what you have to do…” Gaemon began.

==========================

Authors note:  for those who wonder about ADS 25 being published: I got a malfoy tier patron and thus ADS 25 is early for that tier. It will be available for potter tiers as usual on 12 or 13 th.  I published fd earlier so that my dear readers will have atleast this. 

readers!! I am sad to inform you that FD will not be added to monthly schedule as of now. There are mainly two reasons for it.

One: even when I have entirely planned this scene,  this was damn hard to write because I keep mixing the characters of ADS baelon, Rhaenys with FD baelon and Rhaenys and how they should behave.  It confused me as I wrote something and during editing I could see that it was ADS baelon or Rhaenys behaviour and not from FD one.  I am not entirely happy how this chapter turned out…

If it is like that for this two, then I don’t know what will happen with king Jaehaerys.  Similiarly I don’t want to use similar backstory or history as ADS and thus I decided to halt this for now.   I will only start writing when ADS is half over, or atleast I could establish the differences between characters without confusing the hell out of me.

Second reason:  I have exams in may and I want to prepare seriously this time. my only form of entertainment will be writing and reading 2-3 fanfiction updates of my fav fics.  So ADS and GLH will be the one updated as scheduled.  Also by may, ADS will be so far in timeline that I could write FD.  Don’t worry, I will write till 83 ac and Gaemon claiming balerion which will be next chapter before the brief haitus. 

ADS 25

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 25: War of the Wolves

90 AC

Bear Island

Daemon  Snow.

I looked at the bustling small town near Bear Keep as I arrived at Bear Island. The port had developed once again, attracting people from the North seeking greater opportunities. The Mormonts were already known for selling their whale products along the entire west coast, except for Dorne. These products were in high demand in both the Reach and the Westerlands, where the wealthy paid exorbitant prices for them. Even the quarrelsome mountain clans near the shores of the Bay of Ice had begun trading with the Mormonts. Their offerings included fish, grains, and even fierce mounts.

I had to personally handle negotiations, as the mountain clans only respected a Stark—or someone with Stark blood. Finding a few wargs to scout for ships and avoid Ironborn ambushes had been an unexpected blessing.

As I entered the keep silently, I noticed new defenses made from reinforced metal. Fenrir, who had stayed behind to watch over the only acknowledged child of mine—and because having a warhorse-sized direwolf would draw too much attention—had already sensed my arrival. Joy radiated through our bond. My initial plan was to sneak into Lyra’s room unnoticed, but it was thwarted by my own daughter.

"Stop right there, thief! You’ve been caught by the mighty she-bear of Bear Island!" A cute voice rang out from behind, accompanied by a light poke at my back.

I turned slowly, only to find my almost six-year-old daughter standing there. The bear cub she used to play with had grown to the size of a small man. I could sense the warg bond between them; the bear's heightened senses had sniffed me out. Looking at my daughter, I was utterly floored by her sheer cuteness. Thankfully, she resembled her mother more, but traces of my inhuman beauty were budding within her. Her silky hair, flawless skin, and the way she stood with a sword in hand spoke volumes. No child, not even with training, should have such a poised stance. Clearly, my children had inherited my accelerated learning abilities.

I wondered how much more extraordinary the children I had fathered over the past two years would become. I had left money for their upbringing and paired each with an animal to watch over them. Breaking ordinary animals to serve such purposes had been straightforward, and I checked on them every few weeks using my greenseeing abilities. My own bloodline resonated strongly when seeking power through the weirwoods, making it easy to monitor them all.

It was cruel, I admitted, to repeat what my own father had done to me. But the situation demanded planting the seeds now. The wights, after all, had been amassing an army for eight millennia, along with having more powers. Raising the collective strength of humanity in Westeros was the only way to eliminate the Others.

Lyanna stood before me, holding a large knife that served as a short sword in her small hands. Despite her wariness, the bear beside her—aware of the true predator here—was visibly hesitant to attack. Scenarios flashed through my mind as I considered how to handle this. She was only six, and though I could see a rudimentary stance in her posture, challenging a grown man was foolish. Likely, she felt confident because the bear was with her. Still, she needed to understand that far greater threats existed in the world.

Before I could teach her a small lesson in caution, she frowned and attempted to stab my thigh. Her strength wasn’t enough to pierce my durability, and the sheer surprise on her face made me laugh.

"So, you’re the defender of this castle, little lady?" I asked with amusement. Lyanna, still trying to stab me, huffed in frustration.

"This is not possible!" she exclaimed, her face scrunching up in thought before a mischievous smirk appeared. "Thief, surrender now, or my teddy will kill you and eat you!"

I was impressed that she hadn’t taken her eyes off me despite her bold claim. "Oh? Is that so, little lady? But look at her—she’s afraid of me and isn’t attacking," I said, pointing at the bear while projecting a calming presence toward it.

Lyanna looked confused and glanced at her bonded bear. That was my opening.

Within seconds, I disarmed her, sending the sword clattering to the ground, and scooped her up into my arms. "Don’t you remember me, Lyanna? It’s only been two years," I said, holding her tightly.

The girl protested, punching me with surprising strength—more than any child her age should have. Fenrir appeared from behind me, drawing Lyanna’s attention. She stopped struggling and grinned.

"You’re defeated, thief! Now is the time to run! My bear may be lazy, but my direwolf will defeat you and eat you!" she declared confidently. 

I raised an eyebrow, realizing she was referring to Fenrir. Her lack of fear in my arms surprised me. Perhaps she instinctively recognized I meant her no harm, or maybe she sensed the calming aura I had directed toward the bear.

Feigning betrayal, I turned to Fenrir. "Traitor! When did you abandon me to join this little lady?"

Lyanna’s smirk faltered, replaced by apprehension. "What? Your wolf? You’re Daemon Snow—the Stark everyone talks about? Are you my father? I overheard people whispering, but my mother wouldn’t tell me anything except that my father was a bear in the woods."

Her innocent, pleading expression broke my resolve to remain distant. With a defeated sigh, I nodded.

A squeal of happiness erupted from the little girl as she hugged me tightly. Smiling peacefully, I carried her toward Lyra’s room.

===================

I lay in a cuddle after two rounds of coupling with Lyra. Sex had almost become a chore for me, but having it with someone you genuinely like was an entirely different experience. It was surprisingly more satisfying than anything I'd felt in a long time. Lyra was asleep beside me, but my mind was restless, lost in thought.

I had lost almost a year dealing with the Skagosi rebellion and their development, but it had been necessary. With the advantage of my prior experience developing Bear Island, and thanks to having enough money and manpower, the initial stages of Skagos’s development had taken only six months. The three lords of Skagos respected and feared me, though it was clear they didn’t appreciate my overall authority. They tolerated it only because I had decreed that I would remain in control until I deemed the development self-sustainable.

After those six months, I had grown weary of the task and decided to gamble. If the lords followed my orders and methods, the island would thrive. If not—well, that would become Cregan’s headache, not mine.

My thoughts were interrupted by hurried knocking on the door. I sighed, reluctantly getting up.

Pulling on a pair of pants and a shirt, I opened the door to find Lady Dacey Mormont herself standing there.

Before I could ask a question, she whispered urgently, “Come with me.”

I shrugged, following her without further inquiry.

She led me to her solar. As I stepped inside, I was surprised to see my cousin Cregan there, along with Winter. No one else was present.

I hadn’t contacted him in weeks, but I couldn’t imagine why he would be here unless the foolishness of canon Bennard had repeated itself in this world.

Cregan stood as soon as he saw me and closed the distance to embrace me tightly.

I was stunned for a moment before awkwardly patting his back.

When he released me, I observed him carefully. He looked weary, as if he had endured a harsh journey to get here. Though still a head shorter than me, he carried himself like a seasoned warrior. I knew his physical prowess was exceptional, heightened by the abilities I had shared with him.

“I’m glad to find you here, Daemon,” Cregan said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “My uncle has lost his wits. He planned to assassinate me to hold onto his authority. The same hypocrite who warned me about you is now betraying me.”

His cold fury was palpable. The ancestral greatsword Ice leaned against the wall of the solar, emanating an almost tangible chill that seemed to mirror Cregan’s temper.

“I see,” I said calmly. “What happened, and how did you discover this?”

“I have the same control over Winterfell that our grandfather had. Nothing happens there without my knowledge,” Cregan replied pointedly. I understood that he had learned this through the cats and rats that roamed the castle. “I fled in the night after sending my mother, my sister Sara Snow, and Brandon to the Glovers, accompanied by trusted guards.”

“Well then,” I said, leaning back slightly, “what do you plan to do, Cregan? This is your moment to decide how you will rule the North. You have three choices, and I’ve taught you enough to know them without my guidance.”

Cregan looked thoughtful before he spoke. “I will not use subterfuge, nor will I rely on you to kill my uncle. You’ve proven yourself as a battle commander twice now—it’s my time to take up that mantle.”

Turning toward Lady Dacey, he continued, “My lady, I need your raven and your raven master. I am going to call the banners and summon them to Winterfell. I’ll ask for your forces, Lord Glover’s, and the mountain clans to muster with me. Let the other lords decide for themselves where their loyalties lie.”

Lady Dacey looked as though she wanted to protest, but before she could speak, I interjected.

“A bold move, brother. You’ll have my support, and I’m certain the majority of the lords will stand with you. You’ve already impressed them during the campaign against the Skagosi.”

Cregan looked momentarily relieved before nodding in thanks.

=====================

Winterfell

Bennard Stark

He looked at the letter delivered by raven from Bear Island.

To the North,

It is with regret that I must inform you that my uncle Bennard has lost his wits and decided to usurp my rightful position as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I was forced to leave Winterfell before I found myself compelled to strike down my own men should they act against me. As such, I call my banners to Winterfell. Every lord is commanded to attend with their army in four months and pledge fealty to me. Let the North itself bear witness and put an end to my uncle's madness.

Lord Cregan Stark

Bennard Stark's hands trembled as he read the letter. His blasted nephew, who had slipped away from Winterfell just after his sixteenth name day, had now reappeared on Bear Island.

“Of course, it’s there,” Bennard muttered under his breath. “Cregan ran like a masterless dog to that bastard.”

He hadn’t wanted this. Never in his life had Bennard imagined himself trying to usurp the rightful Lord of Winterfell. But the events of the Skagosi rebellion had changed everything. They had proven, to his mind, that Cregan would always remain a puppet to the bastard dragon on Bear Island.

Bennard had even offered his apologies at the tombs of his father and brother for what he now intended to do. The plan had been simple—take Cregan on a hunt, make him swear before the gods that he would take the black upon their return, and thus ensure the stability of House Stark and the North.

It wasn’t ambition that drove Bennard but necessity. He told himself it was for the future of the North and House Stark.

Now, just as Cregan had done, Bennard prepared to call his banners. He was confident that the powerful lords, like the Boltons and Karstarks, would support him. They had been the most vocal in their anger toward the bastard dragon, who had somehow ignored their lands entirely in his travels and assistance.

Bennard knew he had other advantages as well. The men-at-arms of Winterfell had not abandoned their posts and still followed his commands, just as they did for years now. He  decided to spread word that Cregan had promised to take the black before the gods. Now, Cregan’s flight from Winterfell would be seen as breaking that sacred vow.

Every move Bennard made was calculated to secure his claim. After all he needed a legitimate reason to be recognized as the rightful Lord of Winterfell.

==============

4 moons later.

Outskirts of Winterfell

Daemon Snow

I looked at the assembled armies and already knew that, except for the Karstarks and Boltons, everyone intended to bend the knee to Cregan. There were murmurs about my influence over the Lord of Winterfell, but loyalty to the true line of succession from my grandfather was deeply ingrained in the northern lords. Cregan would have to fail spectacularly to lose that loyalty, and he had done nothing of the sort.

Nearly half the lords, those who could think for themselves, recognized the wisdom of granting me Ice and command during the Skagosi rebellion. It wasn’t due to my influence or my bloodthirsty nature as rumours whispered about me. It was a matter of practicality: using the best resource for the task—nothing more, nothing less.

I shook my head as I entered the command tent late. The lords were grumbling among themselves, and Lord Bolton regarded me warily. Even I was surprised that Bolton decided to follow Cregan. Before arriving at Winterfell, he had planned to side with Bennard, but the overwhelming support of the other lords—along with my presence—likely stayed his hand. Cregan had already warned everyone to be wary of the Boltons, informing them that Bolton had pledged his allegiance to Bennard until his arrival at Winterfell. I had laughed hard when intelligent lords like Manderly and Dustin realized Cregan had anticipated their every move.

I shook my head as I entered the command tent late. I walked as the lords grumble among themselves while Lord Bolton looked wary of me.  it was a surprise even for me how lord bolton decided to folloe cregan as I saw he was planning to side with bennard before arriving at winterfell. maybe the overwhelming support of lords except for the karstarks and my own presence stayed his hand.  Cregan has already contacted everyone else and warned to be wary of boltons informing them that bolton said that he will bend the knee to bennard till he arribed in winterfelll.  I had laughed hard as the intelligent ones like lord Manderly,  dustin  realised that the lord of winterfell knew their moves even before them.

Cregan stood at the center of the table, with my dear friend Aethan Reed to his left. I took the place on his right. My reunion with Aethan was bittersweet and we had reminisced our various adventures. Though we were still thick as thieves, I couldn’t ignore that he looked like he was in his early twenties now. The lack of my blood had evidently returned his aging to resume.

"Lord Stark, when are we storming Winterfell and dragging the traitor out?" Roderick Dustin asked with a mad grin. Though he looked to be in his thirties, the man’s love of fighting and bloodshed was as strong as ever—something I had witnessed firsthand during the Skagosi rebellion.

The others began voicing their opinions until Cregan raised his hand to silence them.

"Enough. There will be no storming of Winterfell or unnecessary fighting. Have you all forgotten? This is my home and my men. I will call my treasonous uncle for a parley. I intend to resolve this with as little bloodshed as possible."

Though many looked disappointed at the lack of promised bloodshed, they all nodded in agreement as no one wanted to stay in the  tent for extra time as both Fenrir and Winter looked feral while they observed every single lord.

==============

The parley spot was chosen just outside the arrow range of Winterfell. Cregan was accompanied by the lords, myself, and his direwolf. Bennard arrived with Lord Karstark, the captain of Winterfell’s men-at-arms, and a few other senior men at arms of Winterfell. All men who personally know me and half of them was with me in war against the wildlings.  They all looked at me in reverence and I could feel no fear from them.

Before I could needle my uncle, he snapped at Cregan, completely ignoring me and refusing to even look in my direction.

‘At least he knows his weaknesses.’ I thought as I saw Lord Karstark glaring at me and Cregan.

"Nephew, surrender now and take the black as you should. I do not wish to spill the blood of those trying to take Winterfell—my people."

Cregan scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is that the excuse you've concocted to usurp me? Pitiful, uncle. Aside from your traitorous allies, no other lords support your claim. It’s a testament to the folly of this endeavor. The men who initially pledged themselves to your cause saw sense before the battle even began and joined my side. Yet here you are, hiding behind the walls of my home."

He straightened, his voice hard and commanding. "Surrender now, and I will show mercy. You and Lord Karstark will take the black. My cousin will remain my heir until I have a child of my own, and Lord Karstark’s line will retain their lands under a loyal branch. No further bloodshed is needed."

Cregan's sharp gaze flicked to Karstark. "This is your chance as well, my lord."

Bennard merely shook his head in silent disappointment, while Karstark snarled, defiance etched into his features.

"Nephew," Bennard began, his tone patronizing, "it seems you’ve failed to grasp reality. One man on the walls of Winterfell is worth ten on open ground. This castle is impregnable. You do not have the numbers to breach it. That the men who know us both follow me only proves why I should be Lord of Winterfell."

Cregan smirked, a cold, confident expression. He turned to the captain standing by his side.

"Captain Arthos, have you followed my orders?"

Without hesitation, Arthos knelt, followed by the Winterfell guards, their collective submission leaving Bennard and Karstark visibly stunned.

"Yes, my lord," Arthos confirmed. "I personally spoke to every soldier and gave them a choice—between you and Lord Bennard. The majority didn’t hesitate to choose you, and the rest followed once they heard that Daemon Snow is marching with you. No man who accompanied him beyond the Wall would dare stand against him."

Bennard looked like he was about to die of a heart attack. His teeth grinding was so intense that I could hear the sound even above the winds.

"Well, well, dear uncle, it seems you are not just a fool but a blind fool living in an imaginary world," I said to needle him.

Bennard snarled as he finally looked at me. His hand rested on the sword hilt, but he wasn’t far gone enough to break a parley. Too bad, I whispered.

"Uncle, it seems there shall be no need for needless bloodshed. I can see that you genuinely believe I am not worthy of these lands. You are surprised beyond reason by the men-at-arms of Winterfell honoring their vows to me as they should. I don’t want to spill a single drop of good northern blood by storming the castle or when my men inside turn against the Karstarks. Let us end this like the First Men, in the old ways. A one-on-one duel against me. If I lose, you can be Lord of Winterfell."

Bennard’s face lit up with the hope he needed, and he agreed. The other lords protested, but a growl from Winter stopped them in their tracks.

Vows were exchanged, and I felt proud that Cregan had cleverly avoided saying what he would do when he won.

I had tried to dissuade Cregan from this, but he was adamant. I had sparred with him for the last four months, and I had to admit that unless Bennard had suddenly become Ser Arthur reborn, Cregan would win—especially since he had bonded with Ice.

==================

We entered Winterfell as the Karstark men were disarmed. The training yard of Winterfell was cleared for the fight, and the surroundings were full of viewers.

The fight started, and I immediately realized one thing: Bennard had become weaker due to age and lack of practice, while Cregan was in the prime of his life and enhanced by my own blood from the time he was in the womb. The only people who could be more powerful would be my own children and maybe Lyra, due to consuming more than just my blood for years now, I thought with a grin.

I felt a harsh poke to my ribs from an elbow on my side, where Aethan was standing.

"Do you really want to increase the rumors of your bloodthirst by grinning like a loon while your cousin and uncle fight for their lives and the fate of the North? Get out of your head and enjoy the fight as Cregan wins."

I grimaced as I felt eyes on me and quickly cleared my grin to make a serious face. I saw both Starks panting from the exertion at the furious pace of slashing, parrying, and dodging.

I observed the viewers, and many lords and men, except for Mormonts, Umber, and Karstark, were whispering in wonder at the speed of the fight. They were gaping at the almost inhuman speed of Cregan and the skill, along with the speed of Bennard, as they fought against each other.

"This is spectacular. I want to cross swords with Lord Cregan after this," Dustin murmured with a grin of pure wonder.

I could see many warriors, who knew fighting like the back of their hand, looking at me and the fight in awe. They all had heard of the Red Death. They could see that the people who knew me personally were not surprised by the speed of the fight between Cregan and Bennard.  And they only had one logical conclusion to reach.

I was just more...

I grimaced at all the wonder, awe, and even fear they aimed at me and Cregan. Maybe I should have played the entire Skaggosi rebellion differently. It still amazes me that the foolish skagosi lords, after the first one, claimed their rival was just incompetent in executing the Old God’s order and followed the dream from the Old Gods of where and how to attack in open ambush instead of focusing on their strengths. The fools who would have hidden in their mountain caves were eager to follow the way to win shown by the Old Gods. And thus, the men of the North hadn't seen me unleashed during that rebellion because it was the arrows and ambushes that won the rebellion for us.

No wonder there as I know otherwise the idiots should have followed my advice in the first place and implement my plans to develop the islands by building ships for whaling and even trade, just like I did for Bear Island. Instead, the arrogant fools spat on my help and tried to kill me. It was just luck for me that a trade ship under the Karstark banner, going to Eastwatch, almost crashed into Skagos. It took me only ten minutes to kill everyone on that ship and later start a rumor that the Skagosi had killed a northern ship in rebellion against House Stark.

Envoys were sent and killed by wild unicorns, but that was enough for the North to bay for blood. Old hatreds on both sides don’t die so easily. At least I made Cregan pay double for whatever the men would have earned in their lifetime after the rebellion, for their valuable service to the North. The fact that they were killed by me was irrelevant.

The yelling of the men broke my thoughts as I registered the fact that Cregan had his sword at the neck of Uncle Bennard. I wondered what he would do in this world.

"Uncle, you have been defeated," Cregan kicked the sword away from Bennard. "Surrender now, so the North can see you admit defeat." Cregan yelled above the cries of the crowd baying for blood.

I looked at my uncle and felt only pity. The man could have been lord of a keep, as my plans for the North restarted under Cregan, but hatred can lead even the loyal and mighty to fall. For some reason, I felt I had to really take this lesson to heart myself.

"I surrender, and I will take the Black!" Bennard yelled as he fell to the ground in defeat, exhausted from blood loss from various cuts.

"You and my cousins are sentenced to the Wall for betrayal." Cregan snapped and withdraw Ice from the neck of Bennard

"No!" Bennard yelled in despair and continued murmuring something  about his sons.

 "Daemon shall be my heir until I have a child of my own," Cregan continued, louder than before. "Lord Karstark and his two sons shall take the Black, and Alys Karstark will be my ward. She will marry a loyal lord who shall take the name Karstark."

The Karstarks looked enraged, but they knew they were defeated and must pay the price of betrayal. Cregan finished and turned to walk back to us

It happened in seconds as the defeated Bennard jumped to his feet, kicking the air and leaping toward Cregan's back with a knife. I felt anger envelop me even before my own feelings reached me and realized that Fenrir's emotions were overwhelming me, making me look through my bond with him.

The direwolf had been lounging near the Mormonts on the side and would have seen Bennard preparing for the attack. The moment I connected, I saw myself biting Bennard’s hand holding the knife. Bennard was still mid-air in his jump. The armor on the hand crumbled under my teeth, and the iron taste of blood hit my tongue. My sharp hearing caught the sound of his legs breaking as his brother had already bitten his legs. The two opposite forces had broken the man in half, making his legs scream in agony. I immediately shook myself free from the bond and saw Fenrir spit the arm to the ground while a leg landed on the ground from Winter's mouth. Even before anyone could do anything, Fenrir’s teeth sank into Bennard's neck, ending his misery.

Even Cregan looked nauseous at the end of our uncle as the blood splashed on him.

Everyone was stunned into silence until I broke it shortly with a loud laugh. Everyone looked  stunned at me and I shrugged,

"Well, my sorry excuse of an uncle has just proven all the shit he was peddling about the strength of the North, weak Cregan, and other things was just that—absolute shit and excuses for hiding his power-hungry nature. I am actually glad my grandfather is not here to see this failure of a son. Let this be a lesson to all traitors: betrayal shall be punished most harshly, and we have a strong Lord Stark in my dear brother Cregan here," my voice echoed around Winterfell in the silence.

Applause erupted along with the shouting:

"Cregan! Cregan! Stark! The Red Death! The Red Death! Winterfell!"

==============================

Authors note: I had spend much time thinking should I kill bennard or just make him take the wall and live…. But this came to me as I was writing and I felt it was good and appropriate. 

Also if anyone think this is being speed run, the thing is I never planned to writing this period and every normal war like this is almost boring because of daemon’s presence.   Thus two battles like skagossi rebellion and war of the wolves is over in two chapters.    

GLH 11

Disclaimer: This is a story based on Harry Potter, Marvel, DC and Image comics characters and all recognizable characters, plots belong to Jk Rowling,Marvel, DC and Image comics. I claim no ownership to it.

Chapter 11 : The Grim

The Ministry of Magic

Amelia Bones was not having a good day—or even a good couple of weeks. The delicate balance between the British Ministry, the ICW, and the Muggles had shattered. It all began with the explosion in Surrey, London. Even now, her Aurors were scrambling to uncover the cause of the explosion while attempting to Obliviate any witnesses and suppress any mention of magic. Thankfully, the Muggle world had attributed the incident to either the activation of mutant powers or a terrorist bombing, both explanations spreading like wildfire.

Despite their efforts, her Aurors couldn’t trace the magical source or the strange energies detected at ground zero. Amelia had reviewed every record, only to confirm there were no registered wizards living in that house. And yet, something undeniably magical had happened there.

Today marked a critical meeting between herself, Minister Fudge, a representative from the Department of Mysteries (DOM), and the Chief Warlock. She sighed, opening the potions cabinet in her office and downing a dose of Pepper-Up Potion. She needed to stay sharp—especially with Dumbledore involved.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. With a flick of her wand, the door opened. She looked at the person entering behind the minster and almost snarled. It was Malfoy and the son of bitch strutted into her office like he owned the place.  Amelia's lip curled, but before she could speak, Albus Dumbledore and a cloaked representative from the DOM followed them inside.

Amelia’s gaze shifted to the mysterious DOM agent. Usually, Croaker attended such meetings, but this time it was someone different.  There was something unsettling about him—a subtle, potent presence that put her on edge. It was not up-to the level of Magical Lords like Dumbledore or even the Dark Lord.   Even now she could feel the wariness in her magic as it was rapidly informing her about the superior being in the room. Across the room, she saw Dumbledore scrutinizing the man with equal intensity. His blue eyes twinkled sharply, blazing with wandless magic as he attempted to pierce whatever veiling enchantments the agent employed.

“Interesting.”  Dumbledore murmured, his voice laced with curiosity. “It has been rather some time, when someone could stop me from seeing what I wish to see.”   

The agent snorted, his tone nonchalant as he replied, “Well, I am the Director of the DOM. If I couldn’t maintain my own protections, I’d have no business holding this position.”

Fudge and Malfoy exchanged startled glances, while Amelia noted with grim satisfaction how even Dumbledore appeared intrigued. It was rare to see the Chief Warlock fail at anything, let alone breaching another’s magical defenses.

Amelia observed Dumbledore. Despite the apparent tension in the room, his usual carefree demeanor was still evident. It was the most enraging and irritating aspect of the headmaster—the apparent disregard for others, whether it stemmed from his vast knowledge or sheer brute power. Others might fall under the sweet whispers of the facade of an old wise man Dumbledore had perfected over decades, but Amelia was a Bones. She was above such basic manipulation.

Deciding to break the tension and start the meeting, Amelia addressed the minister directly.

"Minister, I was informed of the three of you attending, but I fail to see why Lord Malfoy is here for this important meeting," she said, her voice calm yet pointed.

Lord Malfoy merely smirked as Fudge responded hastily, "He is an important advisor to me and, more than that, he possesses information that may be crucial to understanding the situation in the Muggle world—or matters that could become significant in the coming months."

Amelia scrutinized the minister, and a smirk threatened to form as she noted the feeble man almost wilting under her gaze, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"Well, let’s hear what the honorable Mr. Malfoy has to inform us," she replied coolly, shifting her attention to Malfoy.

She couldn’t help but notice Dumbledore sitting casually, as though enjoying the minor spat between them. His twinkling eyes betrayed his amusement, as if this was the best entertainment he’d had in some time.

"Director Bones," Lord Malfoy began with an air of feigned deference, "I will share my information after hearing what you, the headmaster, and apparently the director of the Department of Mysteries have to say."

Amelia recognized the futility of pushing further, knowing the minister would defend his advisor and his financial benefactor. With a curt nod, she turned her focus to Dumbledore.

"Chief Warlock, you requested this meeting between me and the minister. The Department of Mysteries also asked for a discussion. Both of you indicated the matter concerned the explosion in the Muggle world. Now would be an appropriate time to elaborate—if you have any concrete information. According to our records, no magical person was present, and tracking is impossible due to contamination by foreign energies."

Dumbledore looked at the Director, the tiredness etched in his face evident to all. He had used every resource at his disposal, alongside considerable magical methods, to locate the young Potter, but he had achieved no results. It was time to inform them about the missing Boy-Who-Lived and another anomaly. According to Charles, Harry had somehow activated mutant powers. However, he had no intention of disclosing that information in the presence of the Department of Mysteries (DOM).

“Well, if the respected Director of the DOM is here, it would be better if he informs us first,” Dumbledore said, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth.

Amelia, knowing the old man's stubbornness, glanced at the Director, who sighed, recognizing the futility of refusing.

The Director engaged three parallel streams in his Occlumency, modifying the report. The DOM was aware of Harry Potter's existence, but Dumbledore was unaware of this. The boy's name had to remain unmentioned to achieve today’s objectives.

“Regent Bones, the explosion in Surrey not only triggered Ministry equipment but also alerted the DOM to an anomaly. The energy discharge was immense, registering as the highest since our revered Headmaster's last battle with the Dark Lord Voldemort.”

Lucius Malfoy and Minister Fudge flinched at the name, but the Director’s Occlumency masked his reaction. He didn’t even glance at Dumbledore, knowing the man was immune to such fear.

“Furthermore,” the Director continued, “the energy was entwined with a foreign source, making it unclear whether it originated from a single entity or multiple sources. The Muggles, unsurprisingly, are in disarray. We have identified the Dursleys as the victims. Interestingly, Petunia Dursley was the sister of one Lily Potter née Evans.”

“What?” Fudge exclaimed, while even Malfoy and Bones looked surprised. “How did your Aurors miss that crucial detail for weeks, Bones? This is incompetence at its peak!”

Anger slammed against Amelia's Occlumency barriers, but she took a deep breath before replying. “It’s not my fault the Muggles are so abysmal at record-keeping, nor was there any mention of Petunia Dursley having a sister. How did you know this, Director?”

“Well, not many are aware, but Lily Potter was once a recruit for the DOM and occasionally a free agent. Isn’t that right, Director?” Dumbledore interjected smoothly.

“Yes, of course,” the Director acknowledged. “Lily was one of my favorite students and could have contributed immensely to the magical world if she had lived.”

“You are correct,” Dumbledore said. “At least she rendered great service by destroying Voldemort.” Before anyone could mention the Boy-Who-Lived, he continued, “Now, I must inform you there was a fourth person in that house. I placed Harry Potter under protection powered by that sacrifice. Only Lily’s blood relatives could maintain that protection…”

The Director had to stifle a laugh when Dumbledore went on waxing the quality of ancient sacrificial magic and such things. But he knew that was barely enough to stop the killing curse, but to work as said by Dumbledore, it is impossible without using blood wards, which is highly illegal.  It amazed him that even Bones and Malfoy bought the shit Dumbledore was peddling without questioning. 

‘The result of reputation of often thought as Merlin Reborn.’ The Director thought. 

“You placed the Boy-Who-Lived the saviour of Britain with muggles?” Lord Malfoy snapped in incredulous and outraged. “You do that when the muggles themselves are starting to notice the weird things infront of them and question them including magic. Outrageous! Minister, and this calls the sanity of the man that is going to protect my son into question. I will be informing the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Regent Bones, surely you don’t want young Susan under his care. If this is how Britain’s most famous child is treated, what about our normal children?”

Amelia frowned in thought of agreeing with Malfoy but she nodded. Dumbledore, however, remained silent, knowing that removing him would be politically costly for everyone involved and this is just bluster from the leader of the traditional houses of the Wizengamot.

“Albus,” the Minister asked in a horrified whisper, “is the Boy-Who-Lived… dead? The rest of the Dursleys were vaporized in the magical outburst.”

“No, Cornelius,” Dumbledore reassured him. “All my tracking methods indicate Harry Potter is alive. I even checked with the Hogwarts Registrar; his name remains, waiting to generate a letter next year.”

“Then where is he?” Amelia snapped. “Is he the cause of this crisis? The deaths of dozens of Muggles may be irrelevant, but this breach of the status quo is intolerable. My Obliviators worked thrice as hard this past week to contain the fallout!”

“I have no idea where he is,” Dumbledore admitted. “Only Harry can tell us what happened in that house.”

The Director, leveraging considerable DOM resources, had also tried scrying and blood-tracking the boy, but all methods failed. The protection around him was formidable. That even Dumbledore admitted failure was, in itself, exhilarating for the Director.

“This is a disaster,” Fudge muttered, despair evident. “The Boy-Who-Lived missing, dozens of Muggles dead, and I had to Obliviate the Muggle Prime Minister!  The ICW is pressuring us about the breach of the Statute of Secrecy. I want oaths from all of you—no one, and I mean no one, informs anyone else, especially the Daily Prophet.”

The Director looked at the buffoon and scoffed behind the mask. Obliviating and confounding the Muggle Minister was such a foolish move—it would undoubtedly be noticed by the Royal Mages.

Well, the Ministry doesn’t seem to know about the mages sworn to the British Royalty and their protective duties.

The Director debated whether to inform them immediately or let the matter run its course.

"I will only proceed if an exception is granted to me and Regent Bones regarding this matter, as we will be informing the Board of Directors," Malfoy said.

"Additionally, I will begin my own investigation into how the Potter boy ended up with Muggles when he has so many living magical relatives," Amelia added.

The Minister agreed to their terms.

After the oath was taken, Albus turned to Lord Malfoy.

"Now would be the best time to share your news, Lucius," Albus said calmly, though the silent pressure in his tone was palpable to everyone else.

Lucius had hoped to end the meeting without revealing anything, but the look on Albus’s face convinced him to comply. One does not needlessly provoke a Magical Lord, after all, Malfoy thought as his Occlumency worked overtime to decide what to say.

"Well," he began, "I heard that one of the old accounts at Gringotts is being liquidated into Muggle money—American currency, no less. The goblins are ecstatic because this allows them more freedom to operate in the Muggle world, as one of the Lords has requested their service for it."

both minister and bones was deeply uncomfortable thinking what  they want to do woth so much money. 

"I fail to see the connection between this and the Muggle explosion," the Director asked, frowning.

Malfoy shot him a look of disdain. "Who liquidates all their wizarding wealth into Muggle money unless they are planning something significant in the Muggle world? They’ve already started by causing an explosion and making noise. What if a wealthy individual approaches the highest authorities and offers to fund or assist them"

"A clever theory, Lord Malfoy," the Director snapped back, "but you forget that Harry Potter’s location was known only to our esteemed Headmaster here."

"That is correct," Albus acknowledged thoughtfully. "The magical world doesn’t know, but anyone inclined to mingle with the Muggle world to such an extent would have access to Muggle information. Finding Harry through those channels would be feasible, especially since he attended a Muggle school from the age of five."

"The animals send their children to school as young as five?" Malfoy asked incredulously. "And you allowed our national treasure to grow up as a Muggle?" he finished, his voice rising in anger.

"Yes, Muggles have shorter lifespans than us and must start early to achieve more. I am Harry’s guardian, and it is none of your business what he learns," Albus replied dismissively.

"Oh, but you are wrong, Headmaster," Bones interjected coldly. "It becomes our concern when a disaster occurs under your watch. I will personally conduct an inquest to determine whether you officially filed the paperwork for the guardianship of Harry Potter, which is locked under the Chief Warlock’s authority."

"That is your prerogative, dear Amelia, if the Wizengamot orders it. I will, of course, assist you by presenting the locked papers should such an order come," Albus replied with a calm, almost patronizing smile you give to young children.

It was a smile Amelia despised with every fiber of her being.

Bang!!!

The door burst open with force.

Four wands were immediately pointed at the rookie’s face, but the angry, insistent yell of the rookie was faster, and no spells erupted.

"Director Bones! Attack in Azkaban! A mad old man claiming to be Baron Black is threatening me and others with death while freeing Sirius Black, the traitor!" the rookie exclaimed, panting as though he had run all the way from Azkaban. He handed over a file labeled “Black,” which had been housed in Azkaban.

Amelia Bones took the file, quickly flipping through its contents, her grimace deepening with every page.

Dumbledore sent a calming charm toward the young man, and Amelia noted that both Albus and Lucius Malfoy appeared particularly intrigued by the situation. However, it was the pale, angered expression on Lucius Malfoy’s face that she enjoyed the most.

"What madness is this, Auror Rookie?" the Minister of Magic bellowed, coming out of his initial surprise. "No one would dare attack Azkaban under my rule! And Lord Black is a bedridden man, unseen by anyone for over a decade!"

"Now, now, Minister," Malfoy interjected smoothly, "let the young man explain what happened, and we’ll proceed from there."

"As much as I hate to agree with Lord Malfoy," Amelia said, nodding toward the rookie, "I must hear this."

The rookie gulped, gathering his thoughts. "The old man came with a guard, claimed the title of baron or something, and declared his authority to inspect any ministry office."

"What nonsense!" Fudge scoffed, his disbelief evident.

"Ah, Cornelius," Albus interrupted before Fudge could rant further. "If the old man is indeed Lord Arcturus Black, then he is correct. Both Black and Charlus Potter, Harry Potter's grandfather, were bestowed the title of Baron of Britain in both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds for their defense of British interests during the Great War against Lord Gellert Grindelwald. As Barons, they are duty-bound to intervene in the defence of British citizens, barring the rulings of the Wizengamot itself. They have the right to inspect any ministry building which serves the people of Magical Britain to ensure that the people is served rightfully. It was awarded to them alone because they joined the war even before Wizengamot ordered in defence of our people."

"This is…" Fudge stammered, his face turning an unpleasant shade of green in anger and confusion.

"Amelia," Albus said, turning to her, "summon the Sirius Black transcript. Let us resolve this matter by visiting Azkaban and presenting it to my old comrade from the Great War."

Before Amelia could respond, the Director of the Department of Mysteries laughed softly, drawing everyone's attention.

"What’s so amusing?" Amelia asked sharply.

"Don’t waste your time, Bones. There is no transcript because there was no trial," the cloaked man said coolly. "I know this because I personally investigated everything from that night and the days following regarding every party involved in that magical night. There was nothing—no trial, no hearing."

Albus Dumbledore’s expression darkened in horror for a moment, but his features quickly smoothed through his practiced Occlumency.

"That’s impossible," Albus whispered, his voice betraying his disbelief. "Even Barty Crouch Jr. was given a trial. I was preoccupied stabilizing Harry and the wards around Privet Drive at the time, but this… this is illegal."

"Headmaster," the Director said with a sharp edge to his tone, "I always thought Sirius’s lack of a trial was your doing, especially given his position as Harry’s godfather and rightful guardian—a role you usurped three days before Sirius Black was arrested. But it seems even you were unaware of this. This sort of casual cruelty to persons who followed you reminds me of the way you once treated someone else close to you —Gellert Grindelwald."

A heavy, suffocating magical pressure descended on the room as Albus Dumbledore’s anger flared, rooting everyone in place. It vanished as quickly as it appeared when Albus regained control of his emotions.

"Enough," Lucius Malfoy snapped after a few tense seconds. "This is not the time for blaming. Let us all head to Azkaban and stop Sirius Black from escaping. Lord Black has not been involved in the political arena for decades and thinks he can do as he wishes? If he wanted to address this matter, he should have gone to the Wizengamot, not resorted to threatening Ministry employees. Minister, order the Aurors to accompany you to Azkaban."

Minister Fudge, still sweating from the magical outburst of the Headmaster, shook his head and then nodded as though grasping a lifeline. Before Fudge could issue an order, Amelia Bones interrupted.

"Minister, the DMLE answers to me, and this falls under my authority. The rookies here will search for the court transcripts, along with others. Meanwhile, I will go with Alastor Moody to sort out this matter. Even if there was no trial, Sirius Black can be held in Ministry custody and given one. Breaking the Statute of Secrecy has no time limitation. Luckily for us, he was originally arrested only for betraying the Potters. If the Ministry apprehends him again, we can hold him accountable for the Statute violation and other charges."

"Brilliant, Bones!" Minister Fudge exclaimed. "Once he’s arrested again, we can try him for those charges, even if the original accusation of betrayal against Lord Potter cannot be added anew."

"An excellent strategy, Amelia, but you’ve overlooked something," Albus interjected, his voice calm but firm. "As of now, Sirius Black has effectively been kidnapped by the Ministry and is being held in Azkaban. While he remains there, Arcturus Black is honor-bound and within his rights to fight his way in. I’m certain he has come prepared, and any such conflict will lead to significant losses on your side.  Lord Black is one of the few who crossed wands with Gellert and stayed alive long enough for help to arrive, usually Charlus Potter. Even if he is old now, there is no guessing what instruments of war he has taken to Azkaban. I’ll accompany you to prevent that and attempt to convince Arcturus to accept our terms."

"What do you want?" Amelia hissed, angered by the unspoken price behind Albus's assistance. She knew there were no free Galleons with him.

“You will not investigate me as you told earlier and of course you will not inform the board of directors at all.  Call it off and I will assure you Sirius Black will be in ministry holding cells in 10 minutes.”  Albus said with tingling eyes. Amelia's anger only grew as Albus cast a meaningful glance at Malfoy.

Lucius grimaced as realization dawned. Sirius Black was still the heir, as he had not been officially charged by the Wizengamot. Any child of Sirius's could have a claim on Draco's inheritance. The Headmaster was clearly playing a dangerous game, forcing Malfoy into a no-win situation.

"Amelia, Lucius, let’s focus on the present," Fudge snapped. "We cannot allow anyone to think they can simply walk into Azkaban and leave with a prisoner due to a legal oversight."

"Fine," Amelia hissed through gritted teeth, while Lucius nodded reluctantly.

Albus Dumbledore simply smiled as he rose from his seat and summoned Fawkes.

A majestic phoenix of red and orange hues appeared on his shoulder.

"Come with me," Albus said gently. "If we walk to the Apparition point, it will be too late. This is much faster. And there’s no need for additional Aurors, Amelia. Two of us will suffice."

Amelia swallowed her angry retort at his patronizing tone but accepted his reasoning with a reluctant nod.

"Wait, wait! I’m coming too!" Fudge exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. "Lord Malfoy, please join us and try to talk some sense into the old man. You are married to his granddaughter, after all."

Malfoy grimaced internally at the idea but, thanks to his Occlumency, maintained a calm and agreeable expression as he nodded.

"Well, well, this is shaping up to be quite the entertaining group. I’ll accompany you as well," the Director of the Department of Mysteries declared with a sly smile. "If nothing else, I’m a good wand in a fight."

Everyone gathered around Albus, each placing a hand on him as Fawkes flared brilliantly in bright orange flames, transporting them all in an instant.

=================

Azkaban

"What is happening?" Sirius exclaimed as he was escorted by the warden and his grandfather through the halls of Azkaban. The warden's Patronus had sent the Dementors flying away.

Arcturus Black, walking in front of Sirius, cast a sharp glance at his grandson. Anger surged through him, his handsome features now gaunt and sunken. Though his appearance had changed, the one bright spot was that, despite the numerous potions he had administered to Sirius after the warden released him and handed over his recovered wand—stored in a warded room in Azkaban—his grandson somehow seemed to show the least amount of symptoms from the Dementor exposure. His pride swelled at the sight of Sirius walking on his own, having retained his wits despite his harrowing ordeal.

"You have not had a trial, my grandson, and I learned of this recently. For that, I apologize, my heir. It is time I right my wrongs and do my duty as Lord of Black," Arcturus said.

Sirius didn’t know what to say but remained quiet as he walked. Arcturus Black was in front of him, and the warden was ahead of Arcturus. Sirius was followed by a cloaked figure, the apparent bodyguard of his grandfather.

They reached outside the prison, and Sirius looked up to see the sky. But he snarled in anger as the sky was hidden by the hundreds of Dementors who hovered just above the light of the Patronus.

It was then that a bright red fire appeared in the courtyard, dozens of meters in front of them.

The hopeful melody of the Phoenix song filled the air, and the Dementors shrieked in anger and fear. They flew away, and many escaped back into the dark fortress. The collective hissing tried to drown out the Phoenix song, but it was not effective enough.

Sirius watched as the fire cleared and saw Albus Dumbledore, Amelia, and old Lucy standing there. Anger started building as he realized that Albus had made him suffer without even a visit while standing alongside Death Eaters like Lucy.

Arcturus Black stepped forward as he realised that they are here to stop him. 

“Well, well, it seems the bureaucracy moves faster to hide its incompetence and malicious intent than to do anything lawful. The Chief Warlock, the Minister of Magic, and his chief bootlicker—the Director of the DMLE. I am honored you’ve come to register the freeing of my grandson and heir. It would be far more appropriate than the Warden of Azkaban alone to do so.”

Albus observed the three figures before him, his brow furrowing in confusion. Since their arrival, Fawkes had been eyeing the cloaked figure with open interest, and Albus sensed something shifting in the air. The rage in Sirius’s eyes was undeniable, and Albus realized that the bond between them had been severed. Even if Sirius were freed in the upcoming trial, he was lost to him. Albus’s gaze then shifted to the third figure—the bodyguard. His Occlumency flared,  it nearly faltered under the surprise.

During his adult life, Albus had felt the awe and faint fear that others instinctively directed toward him. It was not something he consciously cultivated, but rather the inevitable consequence of having honed his magic to its utmost potential, and of being blessed by Lady Magic herself. Yet, there was always one exception. Gellert Grindelwald had never been intimidated by him. And now, this cloaked bodyguard stood before him, displaying a similar disregard.

Albus could feel the weight of the magic surrounding this figure, a palpable presence that seemed to hum with the promise of imminent conflict. The air itself seemed to stiffen, and Albus’s own magic—always under the tightest of control—responded with an unexpected jolt. It was as though the very essence of his being recognized the readiness for battle in the other’s aura, and it stirred something deep inside him. The war drums started beating in his mind, awakening old instincts.

Memories of past duels, of unleashing magic beyond measure and feeling the rush of power in battle, flooded his thoughts. The Elder Wand in his grasp seemed to pulse with a life of its own, its whispers growing louder—urging him to strike, to kill the man before him. The notion gnawed at him. The wand, whispered that killing this man will make him the true master of the wand.

 Albus shook his head and tried to talk before breaking this overconfident upstart.

“Baron Black, I assure you, this gathering was due to other important discussions. It is good to see you out and about,” Albus began, attempting to regain control of the situation. “I know you’ve suffered an injustice with the lack of a trial, but I assure you that Sirius was the Secret Keeper. James himself told me so.”

Albus felt a sudden Silencio from the cloaked man hit Sirius as he was starting to yell. He ignored it and continued.

"More than that, he killed 13 Muggles to kill one Peter Pettigrew. We have witnesses and sworn statements. Hand over Sirius to us, and he will be held in Ministry cells for the trial." Before Black could argue back, Albus added, "He was never charged for breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and that will be the charge now."

 "Impressive, as always, Dumbledore," Arcturus sneered. "You've found the perfect legal excuse to have your way, with your own personal power to back it up. But I digress. The Ministry has kidnapped my heir, and we are on Ministry property. I assure you, if you don't allow me to leave with my grandson now, you five will not like the consequences."

Albus could see the madness in those grey eyes.

"Lord Black," Fudge began hesitantly, "the Director of the DMLE is here, and she will authorize the release of Sirius from Azkaban, and then he will be taken to a Ministry holding cell for the charge of breaking the Statute of Secrecy. He will face trial, and we can return to the proper order of things. Please co-operate and follow the rules."

It started with a snort and then a full-blown eruption of laughter from Arcturus Black.

"You stand behind that French ponce’s skirt and assure me of my heir’s safety? You are an absolute fool," Arcturus laughed. "You want to charge him for breaking the Statute of Secrecy? Well, the important people are here, and the very basis of the Statute charge—magic before Muggles—has not been violated. Warden, which wand is in the hands of Sirius Black right now?"

The warden looked confused before replying, "It is the wand of Sirius Black, confiscated when he was arrested. No magic has been performed with it."

"Guard, if you would," Arcturus said, his voice smooth.

The cloaked figure moved forward and took Sirius' hand, holding the wand. With a whisper, "Priori Incantatem,".

A shield erupted from the wand, followed by a series of tracking charms.

Fudge looked confused, but the others realized what had just happened.

Arcturus smirked. "I’m sure, as the Director of the DMLE herself can attest, there is no probable cause for breaking the Statute of Secrecy. My grandson didn’t cast the Blasting Curse. Now, we will be going peacefully. Do not stop us again."

"Impossible!" Fudge blurted out. "Something is wrong, and we must investigate it. The warden could be Imperiused or Confounded. I am the Minister of Magic! Surrender now, and I won't charge you for threatening Aurors and Ministry employees. Your house is nearly extinct, and the lords are circling like vultures. No one will support you. The price of vanishing from political space for decades and having insane Death Eaters as grandchildren—"

"You dare speak of that when you are sucking up to the chief Death Eater, Fudge?" Arcturus sneered.

"Enough!" Albus snapped, fed up with the byplay. "As much as I respect your prowess, Arcturus, I alone outmatch you. I don’t want to attack my old comrade, but Sirius Black should not be allowed to go free on a technicality, especially now."

"Oh? That is very interesting to hear," Arcturus retorted. "What happened? My heir’s heir escaped the prison you set up in the Muggle world?" Arcturus smirked, and the Minister gasped loudly.

Malfoy cursed internally as his son just lost third place for the position of Black fortune.

Magical pressure descended as Albus scrutinized the Blacks. "What did you know about Harry Potter?" he demanded. "No, it wasn’t you who was behind the happenings in the Muggle world. It wasn’t a prison, and it was for the safety of your sister’s grandchild—"

"Oh, I know enough about Harry Potter," Arcturus interrupted. "And I know what happened to the stupid Muggle family, just like I know Sirius here  is innocent of all the crimes he was accused of."

Albus looked sharply at Arcturus for a moment, considering that possibility.

"You absolutely believe it, don’t you, Lord Black?" Amelia asked, her voice calm.

Arcturus nodded.

Then hand over Sirius, and I will grant him a trial in an emergency Wizengamot meeting, allowing you to prove his innocence," Amelia suggested.

"No," Arcturus snapped. "Wizarding Britain lost that right to trial when my grandson was illegally tortured by the Ministry. You will suffer the humiliation of a prisoner walking out of the inescapable prison of the Wizarding world. You will suffer the consequences as I sue every single one of you in front of the Wizengamot. Even if I have to level this island to escape, it will happen."

"Enough of this insanity from this old madman," Malfoy sneered. "Stun him and let this end here."

Malfoy flicked his wand, thinking Stupefy. He really wanted the fight to break out so he could accidentally kill Sirius Black.

But no red light flashed. Instead, blood erupted from the stump of Lord Malfoy's arm, ending at the elbow, with the major portion hitting the Minister in the face. A sudden yell of panic erupted from the Minister and Malfoy was shocked to silence.

Even Albus was impressed by the speed. Only his instinctive magic reacted to shield him from the attack by the bodyguard. A parallel thought stream opened in his mind, analyzing the attack. He was impressed by the bodyguard's prediction, the only thing, which made the speed of casting and timing just as the wand appeared in Malfoy’s hand possible.

But it was enough for all hell to break loose.

Albus had to summon an Atlas shield and transfer it to his off-hand as four Black family curses came at him. Albus saw Amelia and Fudge struggling to defend against the onslaught from the bodyguard. Albus summoned a flock of birds to send back at Arcturus, while swatting away six prank spells from Sirius Black. The speed of casting from Sirius, even after this time, showed how ingrained those spells were. It was a huge hindrance for even Albus when he was simultaneously attacked by the darkest magic the Black family had to offer.

He sighed as the wand of Cornelius Fudge broke in half, and both Amelia and Fudge were thrown back as raw magic overwhelmed their bodies. Albus winced as he heard the bones breaking and the sound of heads hitting the floor.

"Enough!" he yelled, unleashing his magical might. The Deathstick hissed in pleasure as a magical sphere of pure force erupted like a bullet. Even before the Blacks could raise a shield, the bodyguard somehow appeared in front of them. Albus scoffed. He knew that anyone short of a Magical Lord would be overwhelmed. He had dozens of stunners following behind the blast.

To his utter surprise, the magical sphere of power hit an invisible half-moon shield with an ear-splitting sound. Both pressure and wind exploded, and the whole island shook as the powers clashed. For a moment, Albus thought his will would overwhelm the bodyguard before raw power erupted from the figure. Albus briefly thought it was telekinesis, but he realized it was just raw power channeled through the bodyguard’s hands—or so he assumed. 

The stunners were shielded by the Blacks, and dozens of curses fired at Albus from all three wands.

He felt immense energy building up from the bodyguard, and Albus prepared a shield in his parallel thought process, just in case. He swatted away curses, conjured dozens of objects to absorb spells, all while charming and transfiguring to retaliate.

He grinned as he started to enjoy the fight, and the shield he prepared erected itself, sensing the heavy magic released by the bodyguard.

Albus was momentarily surprised when the attack didn’t come at him. Instead, it went to the upper floor of Azkaban, where the Dementors roosted. The magical wave passed, and the upper area crumbled, hitting the wards, breaking them. Albus casted Anti-Apparition Jinx just as the wards failed, but it was useless as immediately, portkeys activated, and both the Blacks and the bodyguard vanished from Albus’ senses.

Albus looked up at the sky, where the wards had broken, and smiled. His third thought process had been analyzing who this new magical lord could be ever since the sphere was defended. Now, the answer to all his questions over the past few weeks became clear.

"Welcome to the past, Harry James Potter," Albus whispered, before turning to cast stabilizing charms on the injured people around him. He was thankful that Fawkes was with him, so he could transport them to St. Mungo’s immediately.

===============

Authors Note:  yeah, so those of who know enough magical theory and see harry’s power level could easily guess he is a time traveller. Just like Arcturus guessed last chapter, Albus here took a educated guess that someone who could barely match him magic to magic as well as interested AB and SB is harry potter who is missing after another unexplained magical event.  Well the prophecy also plays a important role to come to that guess.  “Equal to dark lord.”

ADS 24

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 24: The Schism

86 AC

The Red Keep

Queen Alysanne Targaryen sighed in exhaustion and frustration as she left her daughter Viserra’s chambers. Somehow, Viserra had learned that even the aged Lord Manderly was being considered as a potential suitor for her hand. Alysanne was certain her ladies-in-waiting and staff were utterly loyal, yet Viserra had still discovered the matter Septon Barth had suggested to her two days prior. Alysanne might have seriously considered Lord Manderly had it not been for old Theomore’s betrayal of her trust. He should have sought her counsel before choosing to support Lord Stark and her grandson’s reckless schemes to amass power and wealth.

Whoever had informed Viserra had conveniently omitted her sharp rejection of the idea. As a result, Viserra had attempted to seduce Baelon. The mortified prince dragged a naked Viserra before Alysanne and her royal husband. While her husband was not visibly angry—after all, Viserra had tried to seduce a Targaryen—Alysanne was livid. She understood the deep love Baelon bore for Alyssa and how devastating her loss had been for him. Loss was something Alysanne knew intimately—daughters and sons lost in childbirth left scars that never fully healed.

In hindsight, Alysanne regretted dismissing Aemon’s grief over the loss of his love. He had barely been a man then, and she had thought he couldn’t possibly be not affected considering the magnitude of loss she and her husband had endured in their youth. Yet, she was proud of the man Aemon had become, having turned his pain into strength. She even knew of his failed attempt to meet his bastard son, thwarted by the distance and the cursed Wall.

As she entered her chambers, she found solace in the presence of her six-year-old daughter, Gael. Her sweet, obedient child was a balm in these trying times, a comforting listener for all her woes—whether about her husband, her sons, or even her bastard grandson. Alysanne couldn’t understand why her love for some of her children and grandchildren felt so natural, while for others, it was an effort. Her frown deepened as her wild grandson, Daemon, barged into her chambers, calling out for Gael. Perhaps it was the boy’s name that soured her feelings, or perhaps his casual arrogance and his face, which reminded her too much of her accursed uncle.

"Daemon, how many times have I told you not to barge into my room?" she said coldly, satisfied to see the headstrong boy looking at least mildly chastened.  

=================================

Rhaenys Targaryen grinned as she slipped through the secret door near her chambers, eager to escape her septa and the drudgery of lessons. She had discovered the hidden passage only recently and was determined to explore it fully. Her dress would surely be ruined by cobwebs, but she cared little. Clutching a ball of thread from her sewing lessons, she tied one end to the door handle to mark her way back, should she fail to find another exit.

Exploration was thrilling, but what she loved even more was overhearing the secrets of adults. Her Cousin, Vissy, loved hearing her discoveries, though he was far too timid to venture into the secret passages himself. Dim light filtered through cleverly concealed holes in the walls, designed for spying on the rooms beyond.

Rhaenys was growing tired when her mother’s voice reached her ears. Stifling a squeal of excitement, she hurried toward the sound, eager to eavesdrop.

"How could you do this to me, Aemon?" Jocelyn’s voice rang with anger. "You swore Daemon would never be allowed south, and now you, the King, and the Queen discuss betrothing him to Viserra, as your idiot brother baelon suggested?"

Rhaenys froze. ‘Daemon? But he was already here!’

 She pressed her ear to a small hole in the wall, straining to catch every word.

"But that is not happening," Aemon replied. "Viserra is to be betrothed to Lord Cregan Stark, not my son."

Son? Rhaenys felt her heart stop. She had a brother? Wariness and anger surged within her as she jumped to the conclusion that he must be a bastard.

"Because your mother—my half-sister—had the sense to deny it vehemently," Jocelyn retorted. "And you? You didn’t even reject the proposal, not once! Is it because it was your precious brother Baelon who suggested it? Does Baelon have more loyalty to your bastard son because the boy saved my nephew Aegon?"

"Enough, wife!" Aemon’s voice turned cold, sending a chill down Rhaenys’s spine. "Never question my valonquor’s loyalty. Baelon would die for me before going against my wishes. He named his second son Daemon in my honor and because I asked it of him."

"Perhaps," Jocelyn said icily. "But that doesn’t change the facts. You went north against your promise to me, and now you’re discussing a royal marriage for a princess with a bastard. To make it happen, the King would need to legitimize him. Perhaps you truly want Daemon legitimized, and Baelon is your catspaw in this scheme."

"I had no choice, Jocelyn," Aemon snapped. "I didn’t want to go north, but I was forced."

Jocelyn snorted in derision. “Forced? The Crown Prince who defied orders whenever it suited him claims he was forced to go north? No, you went for her. For her damned son!”

“No!” Aemon snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding. “I went for Rhaenys.”

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Jocelyn’s anger faltered, her sharp retort caught in her throat. Aemon took a deep breath, his tone softening as though the admission had drained him.

“I never told you what happened that day when my father sent Baelon and me to the Dragonpit,” he began quietly. “This must not leave this room, Jocelyn.” He paused, his gaze heavy and burdened. “The King threatened me. He demanded I renounce my inheritance, Rhaenys’s inheritance, and any claim to the throne if I refused to go north. He was furious when I said no in the small council, that I ran away from my duties. He made it clear that any rebellion against his orders would have dire consequences—for us all. Do you understand, Jocelyn? The fact that we are dragonlords meant nothing to him in that moment. So tell me—what was I to do? Should I have cast aside our daughter’s future?”

Jocelyn’s anger ebbed away, replaced by a dawning realization. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Aemon exhaled, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Then you understand why I went north. It wasn’t for her. It wasn’t for him. It was for our daughter.”

Jocelyn reached for him, her hand brushing against his arm.

But Jocelyn, ever sharp, wasn’t entirely placated. “Even so,” she said, her voice regaining a measure of its edge, “you still allowed Baelon to suggest betrothing Viserra to that bastard.”

“Baelon only suggested it because he was furious over Viserra’s foolish seduction attempt,” Aemon countered. “The King would never allow Daemon Snow to come south, let alone legitimize him. You know that better than anyone.”

Jocelyn hesitated, her lips pursed in thought. “Do I?” she said at last. “We’re talking about the same King who humiliated his own half-brother, Lord Baratheon, before the entire realm by publicly confirming our great-grandfather Orys’s bastardry. This is a man who proclaimed that House Targaryen will reward loyalty greatly, even to bastards. What’s stopping him from legitimizing the boy to make a spectacle of it? After all, what greater reward could there be for saving his grandson?”

“Ah, but it was Cregan who traded the cure, not Daemon and it was House Stark who negotiated the deal.” Aemon replied. “I don’t see why you care about him, when you have not even seen him atleast once and he is banned from the south till called upon. No one is going to support him over my own trueborn daughter.”

"You foolish man. You dare ask me this? You don’t see why I would hate the living proof of my beloved’s love for another girl—a northern heathen at that? A love so strong that you lost your sanity for over two years after the death of that stupid girl!" Jocelyn snapped. Even in her anger, the sadness was evident in her voice.

Rhaenys’s eyes began to water as she grew sadder and sadder at her mother’s heartbreak, as well as witnessing the first argument between her beloved parents.

Aemon gaped at Jocelyn, processing her words.

"You are jealous? Jealous of a girl who died in childbirth almost eighteen years ago? This is unbelievable," Aemon said.

Jocelyn scoffed, her sadness suddenly vanishing. "What of it? I might have forgotten about her entirely if not for your blasted son. She gave you a son, and as much as I love Rhaenys, she is a girl—not a boy. More than that, your son has got to be some kind of prodigy, some gifted person. I knew he was trouble the moment I first heard whispers of his involvement in the northern fleet and their ventures. The only relief I’ve had is that, at least, my kinsman Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, is still more renowned and superior in that field. And here you are, still making me take moon tea to prevent me from conceiving again because of your fears, while I want to bear a son for you."

Rhaenys had to cover her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobbing, making sure her parents didn’t hear her. Tears streamed down her face as she processed her mother’s frustrated words. Anger at her supposed elder brother began to take root in her heart. She vowed to become better than her bastard half-brother.

Aemon remained silent for a time, struggling to find words to appease his wife.

"Jocelyn, Rhaenys is my heir and will be queen after me. I am already training her for that role, along with Baelon. She will claim a dragon next year and she will trained by me and Baelon.  Know this—my father will never summon Daemon here, as he fears anyone laying claim to Balerion, even in the dragon’s sickly state. Even if my father does what you fear, I will ensure Rhaenys remains my heir when I become king."

Rhaenys felt a glimmer of relief and gratitude that her father supported her…

=================================

Viserys Targaryen was glad to have his cousin Rhaenys as a companion growing up. Even though she often dragged him into trouble, their bond was a lovely one. Rhaenys was vibrant, even during lessons with the septa she hated. But for the last three days, she had been absent-minded and sad. Their parents might not have noticed, but Viserys, who spent so many hours with her, could see it plainly.

They were sitting in the library, reading Valyrian texts, when Viserys decided to break the ice.

"Rhaenys, cousin, what’s wrong? Why have you been so sad and angry these last few days?" he asked, fed up with her mood.

Rhaenys looked up from the book she was reading, frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. She glanced around to ensure their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.

"Come with me, Viserys. Let’s go to the godswood, where no one can overhear us and we can see anyone approaching."

Viserys nodded.

The godswood was beautiful as always. The red leaves of the weirwood provided shade from the sun’s heat. Viserys often felt a sense of being watched here, though he dismissed it as his imagination.

"Vissy, you must promise me not to speak of this to Uncle Baelon, my father, or anyone else. Do you know of my brother Daemon?" Rhaenys asked.

Viserys was pleased that Rhaenys considered his brother as her own, even though they were only cousins.

"I’m happy you see my brother as your own, Rhaenys, but what kind of question is this? Of course, I know my brother," Viserys replied, perplexed.

Rhaenys closed her eyes to calm her exasperation.

"Not Daemon Targaryen, you idiot. I’m talking about my elder brother—a bastard my father had with someone in the North, Daemon Snow. I overheard my mother arguing with my father about him being a threat to my status as heir. Father even said that Uncle Baelon named his second son Daemon because he asked him to."

Viserys’s eyes widened comically.

"But… but… we’ve never heard of him before. How could this be possible? And what threat does a bastard from the North pose to us here?"

"I don’t know, Vissy. That’s why I’m asking you. Is there anyone trustworthy enough to find out without anyone knowing?"

Viserys thought for a moment and brightened.

"I know someone. Ser Otto Hightower has always been helpful to me in the library. Unlike other adults, he doesn’t treat me like a child when explaining things."

Rhaenys looked thoughtful.

"Let’s see if he knows something. Arrange for him to meet us here tomorrow."

Viserys agreed to do so.

=======================

Ser Otto Hightower grimaced as he entered the godswood to meet with the young prince. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why Prince Viserys had asked him to meet in this heathen place of worship. This was not the first godswood Ser Otto had seen, but no other godswood had given him the unsettling sensation of being observed. The foolish heathens in the North might believe it was the Old Gods watching them, but a clever and learned man like Otto knew better. It was vile sorcery—man, not gods—doing the watching.

Otto had once discovered an ancient parchment in the Hightower vaults detailing the magic of greenseers and the dangers they posed. Initially, he had scoffed at the notion of such terrifying power to spy upon important people. But when he visited this godswood, he understood. The warnings about the feeling of being observed, sometimes overwhelming, sometimes absent, made sense now. It terrified him beyond belief when he realized he had no idea who was watching, where they were, or, more disturbingly, when they might be doing so.

After being knighted by Ser Ryam, Otto had ventured back to Oldtown to visit his family and was permitted to come back under the pretext of learning from the Grand Maester himself. Ser Ryam had been persuasive enough to convince the king to allow Otto’s extended stay, and the opportunity to meet the young Prince Viserys was merely an added benefit. Otto smiled to himself, knowing he had made a strong impression on the impressionable prince. With his marriage drawing near, Otto was preparing to leave King’s Landing, but whatever the prince had to discuss so secretively would surely leave a favorable impression as he departed.

“My prince, I am here as you asked,” Otto said as he approached. He found Prince Viserys standing by the weirwood tree. As the prince stepped aside, Otto saw Princess Rhaenys sitting at the tree's roots. Fortunately, the oppressive sensation of being watched was absent.

“Princess Rhaenys, this is a surprise,” Otto said, bowing as tradition dictated. He studied the young princess and noticed she seemed troubled.

“Ser Otto,” Rhaenys began, her voice firm, “I have to know something, and Prince Viserys has assured me that you are knowledgeable and trustworthy enough to ensure that no one else will hear of this conversation.” Otto detected the arrogance typical of a young royal, and it took all his self-control not to scoff or roll his eyes. Whatever had happened, it was clear the princess had shed some of her childish innocence and naivety. Yet she still failed to grasp one fundamental truth about royalty: arrogance and pride only led to foolish actions and made one an easy tool for others more cleverer than you.

Ser Otto bowed again and replied, “I will be honest, Princess, and share whatever I know about the topic you wish to discuss. I am, after all, a humble servant of the royal family.”

Princess Rhaenys inclined her head and said, “That you are. I want to know everything about my bastard half-brother, Daemon Snow.”

Otto’s eyes widened in surprise, though he quickly masked his reaction, suppressing the smirk threatening to form. The Seven have truly blessed me, he thought. Here was an opportunity to influence the future King Consort and Queen of the realm regarding one of the greatest threats to House Hightower’s goals. Perhaps he could even persuade them to deal with Daemon for him. Otto’s mind burned with anger as he thought of Daemon’s knowledge of sorcery, including miracle cures that defied explanation.

“My princess, this is a delicate matter,” Otto said, injecting a note of reluctance and feigned panic into his voice. “I must ask for your promise—and your prince’s as well—that neither of you will ever reveal that it was I who informed you, especially not to your father.”

Rhaenys scoffed. “I already told you that no one will know about this, and yet you ask for a promise from your prince and princess?”

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Otto said humbly. “But I know how unpredictable an angered Targaryen can be, especially from the tales of your father and your  bastard elder brother. You might shout my name in anger after learning the truth when you discuss this with Prince Aemon.”

“We promise that no one will know of this, Ser Otto,” Rhaenys said, and Prince Viserys nodded in agreement.

Otto began his tale. “It all started when a thirteen-year-old Prince Aemon was seduced by a fifteen-year-old bastard daughter of the previous Lord Stark. Prince Aemon fell deeply in love with the girl, enough to ask the king for permission to marry her. However, the girl was punished by the Seven for her lustful ways—she died in childbirth. Your father, enraged and grief-stricken, blamed Daemon Snow for her death. The king proclaimed Daemon banished from the South. Lord Benjen Stark raised Daemon as a trueborn Stark, with all the privileges that entailed.”

Otto paused, giving the royal siblings time to absorb the story. He deliberately glanced around, as if uneasy.

“Why are you looking around, Ser Otto?” Prince Viserys asked.

“My prince, I am merely being cautious,” Otto replied. “There is a reason you have never heard of Daemon Snow in the Red Keep, not even from servant gossip. Everyone fears Prince Aemon’s wrath. He once proclaimed he would personally punish anyone who insulted his love or her son by calling them bastards. He proved his resolve during a tourney held in your honor, Princess Rhaenys. Your uncle, Lord Baratheon, was conversing privately when your father overheard Lord Connington insulting Daemon. Prince Aemon silenced him by cutting out his tongue in full view of the realm. When Lord Baratheon tried to intercede, the king declared that if they feared Aemon overhearing, they should stop speaking Daemon’s name altogether.”

Rhaenys stared wide-eyed, anger and disbelief warring in her expression. “This happened during a tourney celebrating my birth?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes, my princess,” Otto replied. “Daemon was a frequent topic of conversation at the time. He had insulted Queen Alysanne by devising a method to reclaim the Gift for the North from the Night’s Watch. He has since accomplished remarkable feats, solidifying the North as a powerful base and demonstrating his martial prowess during wildling attacks. The people call him the ‘Red Death’ for the bloodshed he unleashed against the wildlings when they killed his Stark grandfather. Your grandmother is wise to be wary of him. But the king himself proclaimed he would reward bastards if their service to House Targaryen were remarkable enough.”

Otto smiled inwardly as he observed the doubt and fear for the magical abilities of Daemon creeping into the young royals’ minds. He continued his carefully crafted narrative about the things happened in the realm due to that bastard.

===================================

The Sunset Sea

Harlan Pike watched the Mormont ships as they hunted down a leviathan—a whale. He had to admit they had turned this into an art in a remarkably short time, almost rivaling the Ibbenese he had encountered during his long years of reaving. The Ironborn had initially dismissed rumors of the destitute Mormonts venturing into shipbuilding. But as whispers persisted and several Ironborn ships, disguised as pirates reaving along the northern coast, were lost, the truth became harder to ignore. By the time the Ironborn took the threat seriously, it was too late to sabotage the shipyards at their roots.

Even now, Harlan marveled as the Sea whispered to him of the sheer number of vessels in these waters. The count was far higher than ever before, and the Drowned God was clearly displeased. Harlan Pike, the most powerful Ironborn captain outside the lords of the Iron Islands, had built a fearsome reputation. His exploits and success in raids had attracted many free captains eager to try their luck under his banner. Only the support of the drowned priests and his own cunning had kept him alive this long. The assassins he had sent to meet the Drowned God numbered too many to count. To challenge him now, any Ironborn lord would have to call their banners—something few dared, fearing the scrutiny of the Dragonlords and the end of their golden age.

Being a vassal to the Targaryens had its advantages, particularly when selling stolen goods to the Westerosi markets. For all their pride in the iron price and their ethos of taking what they needed, even the Ironborn traded when it suited them.

Harlan observed the Mormont crew through a Myrish lens, his attention drawn by the constant whispers of the Drowned God urging him to destroy these heathen vessels. Lord Greyjoy himself had issued a challenge, commanding the greatest reaver of the age—Harlan—to put an end to the Mormonts’ audacity in Ironborn waters. Between his god and his lord, Harlan had ample reason to act.

Through the lens, Harlan studied the bastard grandson of the King in the North, who barked orders to his crew and even joined in hauling the slain whale aboard. Rumors of the bastard’s martial prowess had reached even the Iron Islands, along with that insufferable song, The Red Death. Harlan begrudgingly admitted the northern version of the song was at least tolerable—Daemon Snow had paid the iron price, even in the least exaggerated versions of the tale. Harlan could believe the story; ambushes were often decisive, he should know as his own success stemmed from overwhelming his enemies through ambush and numbers, even without betrayal or a stab in the back and thus that the thousand northmen survival shows the truth of the tale.

What truly enraged the Ironborn, however, was the Riverlands’ version of The Red Death. The Tullys had dared to twist the tale, changing wildlings to Ironborn in the legend, attributing the name to their red hair. The insult was unforgivable as they were given their power by Aegon The Dragon.

Harlan’s musings were cut short when Daemon Snow turned his head and smiled directly at him. At first, Harlan thought it couldn’t be directed at him, but the arrogant smirk and a casual wave left no doubt. Bewildered, Harlan tried to make sense of it. There was no way the bastard could see him, hidden as he was.

“Skinchanger.” 

The eerie whisper chilled his spine. He immediately looked up and spotted an eagle circling among the clouds. His gaze dropped back to Daemon, who smirked again, this time with a knowing shrug.

Harlan’s instinct was to order an attack, but an overwhelming sense of fear and caution swept over him. The Drowned God’s will was clear. He signaled his crew to relay the message to the other ships. With reluctance, Harlan ordered a retreat back toward the Iron Islands.

=================================

3rd Moon, 87 AC

Bear Island

It had been several moons since the Ironborn came sniffing around the Mormont boats and retreated when their leader realized I am a skinchanger. Maybe he was afraid that I could skinchange into him and control him. I hadn’t started my journey to the North in disguise, as I kept postponing it. The Mormonts are now at a stage where they could maintain the new whaling and shipbuilding efforts without my leadership, but I didn’t want to leave Bear Island now.

The only thing missing is having my friends Aethan and Cregan here. Even though we were in contact through warging, I missed them dearly. One of the reasons I delayed going AWOL was the discussion on betrothing Cregan to Viserra. After years of practice, I can now finally enter the Red Keep and look for the specific meeting in my greenseeing using the weirwood in the Godswood. Earlier, I had to manually search through memories, but now it has improved drastically enough that I can will myself to specific words or times. Whatever magic King Maegor had enshrined in the stone didn’t keep out Targaryen blood from scrying.

I was delaying my travel, as I didn’t want to meet the Targs at all if the marriage happens in Winterfell. Cregan would be devastated, but I didn’t want to meet them and show false respect when I had none for them. To disrespect them boldly when I have no dragon is utter foolishness, even for me. Just by staying silent and away from them, I am achieving what I envision.

I was broken from my thoughts by the shouting of Lyra as she called for our daughter, Lyanna.

I looked at the angry and sad face of my paramour and raised an eyebrow in query.

"Lyanna is missing from her room. She has wandered off somewhere, and we have no clue where she is," Lyra said.

"Well, she is more handful than me if that is so. Let's see where Fenrir is, and he could easily find her."

I closed my eyes, even though it wasn’t necessary, to connect with my direwolf.

I felt exasperation and wariness as Fenrir immediately showed me what he was seeing.

My two-year-old daughter was wrestling with a cave bear cub. By the looks of it, it was only two to three moons old, yet bigger than Lyanna and stronger too. Still, I could see my daughter laughing as she landed on the overturned bear cub. I was so engrossed in my daughter’s antics that Fenrir had to nudge me to notice the humongous cave bear a couple of meters away, watching its cub and my daughter.

Now that I saw the bear, I can see Fenrir was wary and had tensed muscles to intercept if the bear attacked Lyanna.  I left a mental order to continue the vigil and retreated so I could personally arrive at the place.

I opened my eyes and saw a frowning Lyra looking at me impatiently.

“She is with Fenrir in a cave and playing with a bear cub,” I said as I started walking toward the location.

“Oh, that’s good,” Lyra said, her posture relaxing and tension leaving her body.

“The mother bear is watching from a couple of meters away,” I said casually.

“What? How are you not running there then?” Lyra exclaimed.

“Don’t worry. The bear cub will be bonded with her, and the mother knows it. Also, the bears in these forests know to fear Fenrir by now. He is standing guard quite near Lyanna.”

“Well, let’s hope you are correct. If something happens to her, it will be very painful days ahead for you.”

==================================

The Skagosi Rebellion of 87 AC was nothing but a brief event for the people of the South. Even Prince Aemon waved away any concern when he heard it was his son, Daemon Snow, who was leading the armies of the North. Lord Cregan Stark, in his idiocy, had gifted the bastard his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Ice, for the duration of the campaign. Furthermore, this is assumed to have been the final straw for Regent Bennard Stark and the true reason for the War of the Wolves in 91 AC, as Cregan went to the Iron Throne to make Daemon the leader of the northern army and went as a squire for the duration of the campaign.

It was known that Daemon was not on Bear Island at the time the banners were called and that he joined Cregan alone in Winterfell. It is speculated that Daemon and Lord Cregan had a secret way of contacting each other, but there is no way of knowing the truth. All the lords of the North were eager to answer the call, as all of them hated the Skagosi and their cannibalistic ways. The war, if it could be called that, lasted eight moons, and by the end of it, the three lordly houses of Crowl, Stane, and Magnar were ended in the male line. The ancient cruelty of the Starks was evident as their daughters were given as brides to a Karstark, Umber, and Dustin, respectively. It is said that they were happy to accept the lordship but not the daughters, but no one was foolish enough to protest against the It is said that Daemon Snow volunteered to oversee the growth of the land, just like he did on Bear Island, along with the gold granted by Winterfell. There were grumbles in the Small Council as the North assembled another fleet on the eastern shores, but The King Jaehaerys dismissed any voices of protest.

"Wooden ships burn faster than even stone castles. Winterfell has paid taxes for the building of ships. They will pay the tax for trade done by them. Let them do it."

Even though no one has confirmed it, Maesters has speculated that King Jaehaerys was always impartial regarding his bastard grandson and looking back it explains what he did later in his reign along with the consequences of such actions.

Excerpts from The Bastard King. Chapter 2: Years in Exile. Written by Maester Theon in 200AC  

=======================

Authors note: 87 AC is over and daemon participated in another battle.  Also decided to tease things as we are reaching the first chapter I have ever written on this story…  by my calculation by chapter 30 it will be 100 AC.

FD 4

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF and Marvel characters and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM and Marvel. I claim no ownership to it.

Chapter 4: Conflicts

Kingslanding

80 AC

The Queen

Alysanne Targaryen didn’t know what to do with her eleventh son, Gaemon Targaryen. She had always loved him more than her other children, especially after learning she had almost lost him to the Stranger. Yet, from the time he was a baby, he had been different from all her other children. He was even different from her grandchildren, Rhaenys and Viserys.

Every other moon, there was an argument between the king and Gaemon regarding the dragons and Gaemon’s wild nature. Even with guards, Gaemon managed to traverse the hidden paths and shadows of the castle like no one else could. The arguments about the dragons were changing them. Gaemon had repeatedly claimed that no dragon liked being chained and that they would behave if freed, but the king had taken no action.

She sighed in worry as she watched, alongside her husband, as Gaemon trained with the Kingsguard. It was his latest punishment from the king—training from dawn to dusk for a week. Even though her heart clenched at the reason for this punishment, she understood. Gaemon had gone completely feral upon hearing of the betrothal of his favorite sister, Daella, to Rodrik Arryn. How a child of seven could understand marriage and the age of reproduction was another matter entirely. Girls tended to marry young, and seventeen was considered an appropriate age. Yet, Gaemon had stormed into his father’s solar, barging in while the Hand, Septon Barth, her son Aemon, and she herself were present. She still remembered the look of pure rage on Gaemon’s face.

“Gaemon, what is the meaning of this?” Jaehaerys snapped.

Gaemon ignored the question, turning to the Septon. “This is a matter for our family. Send him away.”

Aemon laughed and teased, “Ah, brother, I thought we were just nuisances to you, and the dragons were your real family.”

Alysanne chuckled at the comment, but the king remained stony-faced.

“Gaemon,” Jaehaerys said coldly, “you will not presume to order your father and king. Moreover, Septon Barth is a valuable friend and advisor. He will stay.”

“So be it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you later, Father. Anyway, I want you to stop Daella’s marriage to an old man. Arryn is already forty, with four children to inherit the Vale. We gain nothing from this match, and Daella is too young to marry,” Gaemon said firmly.

Alysanne saw the flicker of rage in Jaehaerys’ eyes but was surprised when he didn’t explode.

“For a prince who seems so disinterested in the teachings of nobles, you are surprisingly aware of the rulers of the Vale,” the king replied. “But I have no choice in this matter, Gaemon. Your mother made a list, including a Lannister and a Baratheon, and it was your sister who chose the old man. I will not break that choice unless your elder brothers are willing to marry her. And you—” Jaehaerys paused, his voice softening only slightly, “—you are so young that I will not allow her to wait for you.”

Gaemon flinched, and Alysanne noticed the brief frown on his face when the subject of marrying sisters was brought up.

“Then make the marriage happen in two years,” Gaemon argued. “She should be at least eighteen before marrying. She’s sickly and not fully grown.”

Septon Barth snorted. “My prince, I am sure your mother knows more than you about the growth of females, and Princess Daella is mature enough to bear a child.”

The sound that escaped Gaemon’s throat could only be described as a growl, and Alysanne was taken aback by it.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Septon,” Gaemon said, his voice sharp. “And I have nothing to hear from a man who has vowed to serve the gods yet meddles in the affairs of men and plays the game of thrones like you. I was speaking to my father and mother—the heads of House Targaryen—not their lickspittle.”

Alysanne glanced at Septon Barth and was shocked to see a flicker of fear cross his face.

“Enough, Gaemon,” the king snapped. “You are speaking to the Hand of the King, who speaks with my authority. He is more than that—he is a dear friend. You will not disrespect him in front of me. His opinion is more valued than that of a seven-year-old prince.”

Alysanne braced herself, expecting Gaemon to be devastated by his father’s words. Instead, the boy seemed indifferent, scoffing in derision.

“And pray tell, Father,” Gaemon replied, “what does a man sworn off women and devoted to the gods know of women and childbirth? And what does he care for my sister when the Faith disparages her because of her inability to read their damned scriptures? You married Aemon to Jocelyn, your own half-sister, ensuring that no other house could use her as a bargaining chip. You married Baelon to Alyssa to secure her dragon for our house. You’ve used my siblings, Maegelle and Vaegon, to infiltrate the Faith and the Citadel, the soft powers of the Seven Kingdom.”

Septon Barth’s eyes widened, and he hissed in shock, but Gaemon continued.

“So, enlighten me. What use does marrying Daella to an Arryn serve? There will be no inheritance of the Vale; there are too many heirs. In fact, it seems to me that you’re simply trying to rid yourself of the burden of a supposedly weak, simple girl while increasing the Vale’s loyalty.”

Alysanne observed Jaehaerys, surprised and deep in thought.

“Gaemon, I am certain our sister is not marrying Arryn because she is an embarrassment to the royal family. As for Maegelle and Vaegon, they joined of their own will, not because our father pressured them. You are out of line suggesting otherwise. I assure you, I married Jocelyn because I loved her, not because my father commanded it,” Aemon said, attempting to calm his enraged younger brother.

“Aye, what a coincidence that Jocelyn, as a ward of the Crown, just happened to sit next to you after our mother realized Alyssa and Baelon were far too close for comfort,” Gaemon replied coolly.

“Enough, Gaemon,” The King snapped. “Your intelligence and observational skills surpass even adults, but here they are misused to imagine plots where none exist. Your sister is marrying one of the Lord Paramounts—a house that has been loyal to us since the beginning. There are only two others equal to Arryn, and yet this is her choice. There will be no change.”

Alysanne, knowing her brother’s mind was set, remained silent. She saw Gaemon tense further before sighing in defeat and lowering his gaze.

Before anyone could comment, Gaemon looked up again. His eyes—despite their Targaryen coloring—were not those of a seven-year-old boy. They seemed far older, reflecting a knowledge of bloodshed and war.

“I see there is no changing your mind, my king. It doesn’t matter; I’m leaving now before I say something unforgivable.”

“Oh? And where are you going, Prince Gaemon? I hope it is to reflect on your wild outburst and the disrespect you’ve shown me, your father, and the royal family,” Septon Barth interjected smugly.

Gaemon, who had turned to leave, paused. His shoulders tensed before relaxing completely. Slowly, he turned his head, then his body, to fully face the Septon.

“I’m glad you asked, Septon. I’m going to the nearest sept to pray to the Stranger. Arryn is an old man, after all—perhaps his heart will give out after fucking a young beauty like my sister on their wedding night. That would be quite fortuitous for her, wouldn’t it? She’d be free of the burden of childbirth and could remain as a widow.”

Eventhough it was said so casually, even Alysanne didn’t miss the threat in the voice and the absolute surety in it.    

And…

 This was the second day, and Alysanne noticed the Kingsguard assigned to train with Gaemon was nearing exhaustion, while the boy looked as fresh as ever.

“Husband, why are you punishing him more than any of our other children? He’s only doing what we’ve all done before, and his words—however sharp—are beyond the capability of a normal seven-year-old to accomplish.”

The king scoffed. “We never fought so stubbornly when our parents rejected something the first time. Gaemon outright refuses anything he doesn’t like. This is not a trait to nurture in someone of the royal family. He even defies me on matters of dragons, and you have faced the same. Hasn’t he vehemently denied learning about the Seven, claiming belief in fourteen gods at first and rejecting them altogether later? If this isn’t curbed now, what happens if Aemon denies him something crucial in the future? It could lead to treason or rebellion. I won’t allow it.”

Alysanne grimaced, recalling the bitter two-year struggle before she finally gave up. At least she had Maegelle, devout and obedient.

“I know you were pleased when I finally succeeded with Aemon,” she said dryly. “He’s been trained well enough to avoid problems with the Faith after our time.”

“Well, if something does happen, it will be far different from the first rebellion during our father’s time.”

Alysanne didn’t reply, knowing the king’s true feelings about the Faith.

“He is exceptional,” the king admitted as they watched their seven-year-old son outsmart even the seasoned Kingsguard training him.

“What if we assign him to the Kingsguard?” Jaehaerys asked suddenly.

Alysanne laughed mockingly but stopped when she saw he was serious. “No, brother. I lost my third son to the Citadel; I won’t lose this one too. Do you truly see Gaemon standing still for hours, bound by duty?”

Jaehaerys grimaced, knowing Gaemon’s restless spirit would never suit the Kingsguard.

"You know he is more knowledgeable than he lets on," Alysanne informed the king.

It was a relief for Alysanne that Gaemon was not another Daella. When he neither talked nor cried as the days passed, everyone assumed he was a fool—until they caught him speaking to the kitchen staff about an imaginary dish. When they tried his recipe, it turned out to be exceptionally good.

The king looked intrigued. "What do you mean? He has already proven himself more intelligent than even Vaegon by learning languages, reading complex texts, and grasping their concepts quickly."

Alysanne nodded. "Two years ago, during a visit to the orphanages, Gaemon made several suggestions for improving the health and safety of the children. His ideas were groundbreaking. For example, he proposed that multiple mothers should nurse multiple infants to strengthen the babies’ immunity against common illnesses. He also recommended that children bathe at least every other day and drink only boiled water filtered through a contraption he built using mud layers. The reports I received yesterday show that these measures have drastically reduced sickness and disease in the orphanages. And there’s more—many of his suggestions have been just as effective."

For a moment, the king wore a proud smile, but he quickly masked it with a regal façade.

"That is very interesting," he said. "What other methods has he proposed that might benefit me and the kingdom?"

Alysanne hesitated, knowing her next words would anger him. "I tried to persuade him to share his ideas for the betterment of the Iron Throne, but he saw through my ploy. He said he would not help you in any way until the matter of the dragons is resolved."

The king snarled briefly but managed to contain his temper.

"So he wants to bargain with his ideas, which may ultimately be worthless, against me, his king and father. Perhaps I should send him to the Faith as punishment," the king said calmly, though there was an edge to his voice.

"Enough, brother," Alysanne snapped. "What is it with you and our son? He’s right about the dragons, and you know it. Why not unchain them and be done with it? No one will complain after all these years."

The king looked hesitant, but a moment later, he appeared resolute.

"Sister, do you know why I worry about him?" His voice softened, taking on a rare vulnerability. "I was the one who pulled him from the ashes of that dragon egg on that fateful day. When I looked into his black eyes, I saw something I had seen only once before—the same look Maegor the Cruel had when he returned from the dark ritual performed by his pet sorceress till his death. But in Gaemon’s eyes, I also saw wildness and understanding no infant should possess. Now, as he shows exceptional intelligence and knowledge beyond his years, I cannot help but fear he may follow in our cursed uncle's footsteps—into madness and cruelty."

Alysanne was stunned into silence, her heart beating furiously as protective anger swelled within her.

"How dare you, brother," she said, her voice shaking with fury. "He is nothing like our thrice-cursed uncle! You only need to see the kindness Gaemon shows to those beneath him, especially the children at the orphanage, to understand that. Maegor never showed love to anyone but his mother. Gaemon already loves us—and his ardent defense of Daella is proof of that."

The king grimaced, recalling the injuries suffered by the Bracken boy, but Alysanne pressed on.

"You focus only on the boy’s injuries and disregard why Gaemon acted as he did. Your bias in comparing him to Maegor blinds you."

The king appeared thoughtful for a moment and gave a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps. But even his words the other day showed his ruthlessness. You all thought his comment about Arryn dying in my daughter’s bed was just a jest to mock the Septon, but I saw him. I understood. He meant it as plain, honest truth—and he believed he could make it happen. Only Daella’s affection for this match may stay his hand."

Alysanne frowned but replied, "You must be jesting, brother. How could a seven-year-old possibly accomplish what you imply?"

"That," Jaehaerys said with a shrug, "is the real question."

Seeing no point in continuing the argument, Alysanne changed the subject.

"You never answered my question, Jaehaerys. The dragons. Why?"

The king’s expression darkened. "Why, you ask? There are many reasons for chaining them, and placating the smallfolk or the lords of the realm is not one of them. Do you know how many Targaryen bastards reside on Dragonstone? How many descendants of Valyria are scattered across Essos? What if one of them claims Balerion—or any other dragon, for that matter?"

Alysanne gasped at the implications.

"I hate it every time Vermithor is chained," the king snarled, his anger flaring. "But we must maintain this façade for now. The world has forgotten dragonlore, and to ensure we are not usurped, I must keep Balerion under our control. I will not gamble with the fate of my children and risk them suffering as my niece Aerea did. Chaining the dragons has also given us an aura of strength. The smallfolk and lords alike see us as gods because we command and chain what they consider divine."

Alysanne considered his words, piecing together the implications.

"I understand, my husband," she said softly. Then her tone hardened. "But Balerion is fond of Gaemon, and Gaemon of him. He is willful enough to command the Black Dread, and I am certain nothing like Aerea's tragedy will happen to him. It would be better to let Gaemon claim Balerion and free him from his chains."

The king tried to mask his fear but failed under Alysanne's gaze.

"How dare you, Jaehaerys," Alysanne snapped. "Do you truly believe Gaemon would follow Maegor’s path if he claimed Balerion?"

The king didn’t deny it. "I simply don’t want to tempt someone so young with absolute power."

"Absolute power?" Alysanne scoffed. "I saw Balerion last month. He grows weaker by the day from his injuries and sickness. We have Vhagar, Vermithor, Caraxes, Silverwing, and Meleys with riders. And yet, you still fear the Black Dread's shadow? Where is the brother who claimed the throne while Maegor still rode Balerion?"

Jaehaerys flinched at the question, surprising her.

"And Dreamfyre," Alysanne continued, "will fight Balerion at the first chance. Our sister’s hatred for the Black Dread has seeped into that dragon."

"You don’t understand," the king said gravely. "If such a fight happens, Balerion will be killed, but how many of our dragons—and children—will he take with him? It’s better that no one claims him for now. Ensure Gaemon understands that."

Alysanne scoffed. "This is folly, brother, and you know it."

"Then I shall be a fool who at least tried to prevent a catastrophe," the king replied harshly.

ADS 23

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 23: A Diversion in Time

84 AC

The Spring Prince

Bear Island.

Baelon Targaryen’s mind was in turmoil as he landed Vhagar on Bear Island. After weeks of struggle, the King had finally relented and agreed to bring Daemon south to save his son. Aegon’s health had been gradually declining.

As Baelon surveyed the area, he noticed ten ships docked in the newly built port near Mormont Keep. The people looked up in awe, many shouting in surprise as he flew overhead. However, the Mormont guards were made of sterner stuff. Baelon could see their expressions as they stared at his massive dragon—fear and awe mingling before giving way to respect for its overwhelming power.

Perhaps hunting whales in the oceans has tempered their fear of large creatures? Baelon mused.

He dismounted as a figure—likely Lady Mormont—hurried toward him. The lady bowed deeply before speaking.

“Prince Baelon, forgive me. We did not receive a raven from you and were unprepared for your arrival.”

Baelon studied the lady before him. She was neither beautiful nor plain, but there was a certain charm in her broad shoulders and the warrior's confidence she exuded.

“Apologies are unnecessary, Lady Mormont, as I sent no raven to announce my arrival,” Baelon replied firmly. “I am here to collect my nephew, Daemon Snow, and escort him to King’s Landing. The King requires his service.”

As he finished speaking, Baelon noticed Lady Mormont’s face pale visibly, a reaction that immediately filled him with unease.

“Please forgive me again, my prince,” she said carefully. “Daemon left four days ago on his annual travels. He ventures out to recruit—”

“What?” Baelon snapped, his voice sharp. “Isn’t he fostered with you? Why is he out there?”

“My prince,” Lady Mormont began cautiously, “Daemon is not someone we can impose strict rules upon. He is perfectly capable of surviving on his own, and his work benefits my house’s prosperity.  it must be a long flight for you to arrive here and a storm is coming. Please accept our hospitality and stay the night. Perhaps, if you would share the nature of the service required, we may be able to offer some guidance.”

Baelon took a few deep breaths, reigning in his sudden anger.

“I will accept your hospitality and stay the night,” he said curtly.

===================

Baelon was escorted to a small room that would pass for a solar in these modest keep by Lady Mormont.

“Your Grace, please inform me of the purpose behind your need for Daemon’s presence,” Lady Mormont asked politely.

“As you may have heard, my beloved wife died in childbirth, and my third son, Aegon, has been battling Balerion, the God of Death, for the past two moons,” Baelon said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I have heard that Daemon is god-blessed or something akin to it. In fact, since his exile here, I’ve known that the number of deaths from sickness and disease has significantly reduced, even on this island. I need his abilities to save my child.”

Despite his best efforts, Baelon could not entirely mask the desperation in his voice.

“Losing a beloved partner and a child is a pain I would not wish upon my worst enemy, my prince,” Lady Mormont said softly. “You have my condolences, and I will pray for your third son. While I acknowledge that my people have indeed seen improvements since Daemon’s arrival, he has not shared anything about his abilities with me. However, I will summon my daughter Lyra. She is Daemon’s closest companion, aside from our lord Cregan and Aethan Reed.”

Baelon nodded, appreciating her effort.

A short while later, Lyra entered the solar and bowed deeply.

“My prince,” Lyra said.

Baelon waved his hand dismissively, eager to get to the matter at hand.

“Daughter, you are the closest companion of Daemon Snow,” Lady Mormont began. “Do you know anything about his abilities or any way he might help save Prince Baelon’s third son?”

Baelon noticed Lyra hesitating briefly before sighing in defeat.

“My prince,” Lyra began, “I have not asked, and Daemon has not shared the secrets of his abilities. I do not know when he will return or where he has gone. If you seek answers of this nature, I suggest you visit Winterfell and speak with Cregan Stark. According to Daemon, Cregan would know as much as if he had been present himself.”

Baelon scrutinized her carefully but saw no hint of deceit. He nodded, acknowledging her advice.

“That is valuable information, Lady Lyra. I thank you for sharing it. When the Mormont ships land in King’s Landing with their whale products, they will be exempt from port taxes for five years.”

Both mother and daughter looked pleased, and Baelon understood the importance of rewarding service if he hoped for loyalty in the future.

“Thank you, my prince,” Lady Mormont said with a respectful nod.

Baelon returned the gesture, acknowledging her gratitude.

===================

As he flew toward Winterfell, Baelon reflected on the two days he had been stranded in the North due to a relentless storm. The shoddy keep on Bear Island had provided little comfort, but at least Vhagar had been content, having hunted and consumed nearly an entire whale during their stay.

Baelon couldn’t shake his curiosity about why the Mormonts had pointed him toward Cregan Stark. During his short stay, he had observed something about the Mormonts—they may offer polite words and formal courtesies to those of higher station, but their true allegiance was clear. They acknowledged no king but the one named Stark, and their loyalty to the crown only extended as far as Winterfell’s loyalty to it.

His thoughts were interrupted as Winterfell came into view. The sight of the gigantic castle still mesmerized him. It was hard to fathom that the First Men had possessed the power to create such a bastion 8,000 years ago.

===========================

Baelon was surprised as he accepted guest rights and the full traditional greeting afforded to him by Bennard Stark. He had not expected such formality, especially since the last time, Bennard had disrespected Prince Aemon.

So, Bennard’s issue is with Aemon only, Baelon noted, deciding to keep an eye on Bennard should he become a threat to his brother.

Baelon was escorted to the lord’s solar, where he exchanged greetings with Lady Giliane, the co-regent of Cregan Stark.

"My Prince, it is surprising to hear rumors of a giant dragon flying above the northern skies," Bennard said casually. "I was even more surprised to hear that it flew to Bear Island without any warnings from the Crown that a prince would be arriving."

Baelon’s shoulders tightened at the implicit question: What the fuck are you doing in our lands?

"Co-Regent Bennard," Baelon replied curtly, "the northern sky also belongs to my house, just like the northern land. I have no need to inform any of my vassals of my arrival."

"Of course, my prince," Lady Giliane interrupted, shooting Bennard a glare to stop him from replying. She continued, "If you inform us of your aim, we will, of course, be glad to assist."

Baelon noticed the condescending smile on Bennard’s face as he nodded at the co-regent's words. Deciding to let it go for now, Baelon explained his purpose.

"I was at Bear Island to take my nephew south to heal my third-born son. I had heard rumors, even from Aemon himself, about his supposed abilities. Unfortunately, he left four days before my arrival for his annual tour of the North. I came here to inquire about any techniques that Daemon may have shared with House Stark to improve health," Baelon said.

Baelon noted the irritation on Bennard’s face as he mentioned Daemon.

"My prince," Bennard said, "you have been misinformed. It was my father who implemented the system of drinking only boiled water throughout Wintertown and ensuring even the smallfolk bathe at least every other day. Our improvements are due to that—not the bastard."

Baelon grimaced.

"We apologize that we cannot provide the answer you are looking for, my prince," Lady Giliane said.

Baelon sighed in defeat. "I am tired and will be using your hospitality for three days."

Both regents accepted the implicit order.

==================================

Winterfell

Cregan Stark.

Cregan Stark was excited as he saw Vhagar from afar, the great dragon flying over Winterfell. The beast was majestic, and he could understand why his ancestor knelt, avoiding the unnecessary spilling of northern blood while securing the benefits of peace.

He had been expecting Vhagar, especially after his brother Daemon informed him of the impending visit.

It saddened him to see his brother still estranged from his father’s family. He had tried to convince Daemon to mend fences, but his efforts had been in vain.

In their meeting through their animal bonds, Cregan had asked the golden question.

"Daemon? Why are you avoiding the royal family? You were banned from entering the South, but now you are being invited. You could go and heal the prince yourself and earn great rewards. The king would grant any wish for saving his grandson," Cregan asked hopefully.

"Do you know why I never went south in the last four years—or before that?" Daemon replied. "You think it’s because of the king’s order, to whom I owe no loyalty? Fear of consequences, if caught? No, Cregan. I never ventured beyond the Neck because I didn’t want to visit the South yet. I am not some eager grandchild for the king to command to the South, no matter the rewards or dangers. I will go there when I want to—not for anyone else."

Cregan was surprised by the arrogance in his brother's response.

"Yet you are in Bear Island, by my lord regent’s order, Daemon," Cregan snipped back.

Daemon laughed before answering. "Your wit is sharp, Cregan. I am in Bear Island because I will it. I wanted to improve my physical abilities with the help of the ocean, and I wanted to strengthen Bear Island, the most loyal house to House Stark and one of our first defenses against the enemy beyond the Wall."

Cregan’s respect for Daemon increased at the foresight displayed, even in such small matters.

"Daemon, what should I do about Prince Baelon? He may try to find you in the North on his dragon," Cregan asked.

Daemon laughed at the absurdity of the idea before replying, "He will not find me. I will ensure he arrives at Winterfell and comes to you asking about my secrets. You can, of course, reject the offer and opportunity, but I suggest you follow my advice to extract benefits from the royal family…"

=======================

"Lord Cregan Stark", Baelon called as he entered the private training yard near the godswood.

Cregan was sparring with Daemon’s sworn shield, Brandon, but both immediately stopped and turned to face the prince. Cregan offered a slight bow, while the sworn shield gave a deep one.

"My Prince," Cregan said.

As Baelon approached, Cregan studied his face, looking for any resemblance to his cousin. Even with the similarities, it was clear to him that Daemon’s handsomeness surpassed even that of most Targaryens.

The prince glanced at the sworn shield standing behind Cregan, prompting Cregan to look at Brandon. Brandon understood the unspoken command and stepped aside, far enough to avoid overhearing but close enough to intervene if necessary.

Baelon’s expression turned incredulous, his hand tightening on the hilt of Dark Sister. The audacity of the sworn shield, assuming he would break guest rights—or that Brandon could stop him if he tried—was almost laughable.

"Your Grace, what do you require of me?" Cregan asked.

Baelon sighed, a weariness evident in his tone. "Of course, you know why I am here, and yet you make me repeat myself? I want a cure for my boy, and I don’t care what I have to do to obtain it. So I ask you, as the representative of your liege: do you know the secret of Daemon Snow’s ability?"

Cregan remained calm under the prince’s intense scrutiny and replied evenly, "My Prince, I will not lie to you. I know the secret of my brother’s ability, but let me tell you this: force is not something you wish to employ when dealing with my brother. I know of your loyalty and love for Prince Aemon,  I feel the same for Daemon, my elder brother. I will not divulge his secrets, nor do I even know where he is now."

Baelon’s grip on Dark Sister tightened, but he restrained himself. Even under the stress and anger, he knew he needed Cregan Stark’s cooperation.

"This is your King asking you, yet you would remain silent for a mere bastard with no lands? Are you willing to suffer the consequences?" Baelon demanded.

Cregan smiled faintly. "What consequences? Even my uncle, who has known Daemon since his birth, refuses to believe he is god-blessed because of his hatred for him. So, what could the King—known as the Conciliator—do to the ten-year-old heir of House Stark without tarnishing his own reputation as Good King and appear as honoring the legacy of King Maegor? His Grace would lose his image, as no one in the South would believe Daemon has any gifts. Perhaps the Andals would rejoice in our misfortunes, but as a Valyrian steeped in magic, you should be wary of aligning too closely with the Faith and the Andals."

Baelon was so surprised by the boy’s candor that he fell silent for a moment.

He shook his head and replied calmly, his anger vanishing as he realized he was speaking to an unknown player in the game of thrones and not a 10 year old boy.

"Cregan, you are more mature than some of the foolish southern lords in the court. It was unbecoming of a royal prince to get angry, assuming you were refusing simply out of childish loyalty to your brother. Now I know better. We are in a negotiation, and you have a solution for me—and want something in return. What is it?"

Cregan smiled, silently thanking Daemon for almost correctly guessing how Baelon would behave.

"Since Daemon was banished, every year he secretly comes to Winterfell and delivers a potion he created to heal any disease or injury. It is a gift he gave me personally, and I can do with it as I please. I have two doses left. It will, of course, strengthen Prince Aegon if you follow the instructions precisely. Provided, of course, you buy it from me for a price."

Baelon gritted his teeth. "You are selling something your brother gifted you to save your life, to me, to save your so-called brother’s cousin—all the while profiting from it? What a tremendous display of loyalty to your so-called brother and even your sworn king. What will Daemon say when he hears about this? Or about the lost opportunity for a reward from the royal family?"

Cregan momentarily appeared struck before answering.

"I am of House Stark, and we ruled these lands for thousands of years, not by gifting miracles freely but by ensuring our house remained strong while others benefited from our strength. My grandfather taught this to Daemon, and he taught it to me. He will understand. If not, I will sacrifice that relationship for my house."

Baelon looked impressed. He could relate, having sacrificed much for his brother and the continued strength of House Targaryen. He nodded, and Cregan continued.

"I want double the amount of tax increased by the Iron Throne due to the Gift leasing incident to be discounted for the next ten years. Also, I want a marriage between our houses during His Grace’s reign itself," Cregan stated.

Baelon smirked at the apparent ambition of House Stark. "You are far too ambitious for a ten-year-old boy. You want two things for a single boon?"

"Prince Baelon, I want two things for the two doses. Even then, this is a minor matter for your house. Even with the discount, the Iron Throne will receive more than it did before 70 AC. His Grace has no reason to deny the marriage, as he has already secured both the Baratheons and Arryns. The only remaining relevant Great House is mine. The Tullys and Tyrells are houses raised by the Iron Throne itself and not suitable prospects for a royal marriage. The Lannisters, for all their wealth, are cats more than lions. As for the Ironborn—there is nothing to be said," Cregan finished, his anger flaring at the mention of the Ironborn.

"I see," Baelon said, pondering any counterarguments. The king might sacrifice his grandson rather than acquiesce to vassals’ demands, depending on his mood. But Baelon had no such luxury. His son, the last piece of his beloved Alyssa in this world, was in danger. He didn’t mind granting such minor terms.

"I agree to this, provided your cure works," Baelon said.

"Oh?" Cregan asked.

"Many healers are trying to restore his health, and the Grand Maester has succeeded in buying time. How do we know it is your dose that works and not a combination of all the cures?" Baelon asked.

"I see," Cregan replied. "Then let us write and sign a pact of our agreement along with my instructions for its usage. Prince Aegon will be a healthy babe and one of the most energetic children if you follow the instructions."

"A pact?" Baelon asked, intrigued.

"Yes, a Pact of Ice and Fire. For healing a prince of the blood and grandson of the king, the reward will be as I said. After your return to King’s Landing, stop all other cures and stopgap measures for a day. The maester will warn you of danger to the prince, but the cure will be more effective when the first dose is administered during a health decline. The second dose should be given the next day at the same hour."

Baelon looked helpless as he considered the danger to his son if the medication was stopped. Even though he had seen the improvement in the people of Bear Island through his spies, he hesitated to believe in such a miraculous cure.

"Prince Baelon, look at me. I have never suffered any diseases. The cure will work, but you must stop all other medications. It is far too easy for someone to poison the child and damage our reputation and strength," Cregan said.

Baelon was startled for a moment, then enraged at the suggestion that his son could be poisoned.

After taking a deep breath, Baelon smothered his rage, knowing it was useless here.

"I will be careful. If anyone dares to poison a Targaryen, they will be food for Vhagar. Let’s write the agreement and sign the Pact of Ice and Fire."

=========================

84 AC

Daemon Snow

I sighed in relief as I fully left my eagle behind, as Cregan and Baelon came to agree on the Pact of Ice and Fire. Even though I had coached Cregan about the various reactions of Baelon, I was paranoid enough to hide just outside the trees of the Godswood. I stayed close enough so I could arrive to save Cregan if Baelon succumbed to madness due to the loss of his sister-wife and the sickness of his son. I started walking through the forest, deep in thought.

In canon, according to my memories, there were many situations where Baelon became an entirely different man after the death of his wife and son. I was paranoid enough about the Targaryens' pride and love for their beloved. I had no guarantee that Baelon would not break guest rights and threaten Cregan for the two doses of potion, which were nothing but my diluted blood mixed with some beneficial herbs.

I had felt proud when Cregan suggested the marriage clause to me for the second boon, and I was surprised that, even in this AU, Cregan’s desire for a royal match remained the same.

I was about to start running back to where my Fenrir was when a sudden roar echoed, and a gigantic green head came breaking through the trees, sniffing the air. It was the head of Vhagar, and its one eye was locked on me. For a moment, just like the Night King's presence beyond the Wall, I froze in terror as my muscles coiled in tension, and the snow beneath my feet sank lower due to the pressure from my body.

I tried to sense what the dragon was thinking and whether I should start running when only curiosity brushed against my senses.

"Lykiri, Vhagar," I said as I started walking toward the dragon.

The dragon snorted as I got near, and heat, like the deep waters of a hot spring, hit my body. Seeing no reaction from me to the heat, Vhagar roared at me, and I was almost deafened in the process. Only my own healing ability assured me that I still had my hearing. Sensing no panic from me, the dragon lowered her head to my raised hand. Then and there, I understood that Vhagar could sense that I was the nephew of her rider and the son of a beloved of her rider, and attacking me would make her rider unhappy.

I just scratched the face as I thought about my first contact with a dragon.

Balerion the Black Dread in vision and I was attacked immediately by the monster.

If Vhagar can recognize me, why did Balerion attack me on sight in that magical vision?

Suddenly, Vhagar turned her head and looked at Winterfell, as if someone had called her. As if not caring what happened to me during her takeoff, she took two steps forward and jumped, flapping her bat-like wings.

Only my own reflexes helped me jump sideways, avoiding a painful few days of healing.

Well, even though the targs are not wargs, the bonds of a Targaryen are similar enough that they can contact the dragons from a distance. There goes my final hope of sneaking into the Dragonpit to see Balerion before its death.

===========================

11th Moon, 86 AC

Daemon Snow

Bear Island.

I looked upon the little bundle of joy that somehow fell asleep on a creature big enough to swallow her whole.

Fenrir looked at me with a pleading face, silently asking to free his whiskers from the fist of Lyanna Mormont, officially the daughter of Lyra Mormont and a bear in the woods. But just one look at how Fenrir behaved with her was enough for anyone with any sense to see I was her father.

I simply expressed my amusement at Fenrir, and he looked at me in betrayal. The girl was almost one and a half years old, and more energetic than any child I had seen. The answer to my question of whether my own enhanced body would be inherited was answered. Lyanna had shown more strength and intelligence than any child. I was sure she even had some enhanced healing, as there was no disease that affected her for more than a few hours, but I wasn’t absolutely sure, as I wasn’t insane enough to cut her like I did to myself at age four.

"Daemon, how many times do I have to tell you that Fenrir is not a good bed for our little girl?" Lyra hissed lowly, not to wake the girl.

Fenrir looked at Lyra as if she were a god in disguise. Lyra was amused by the expression as she freed Fenrir from Lyanna.

Fenrir immediately moved away, looked at me with a snarl, and jumped to attack.

I caught the weight and force of the angry wolf, and only my own strength kept me from falling and hitting my head on the floor. I pushed Fenrir away, and he landed on all fours. I could feel the annoyance from him, as I hadn’t suffered the punishment he deemed fit.

Fenrir just woofed and walked away.

"Sometimes I wonder whether that is actually a direwolf or a cat," Lyra said to me.

I just laughed in amusement.

"You were in deep thought as I entered," Lyra said after a couple of moments. "What is it?"

I sighed in tiredness as I wondered how to express what I was trying to say to a woman who loved me.

"Lyra, the time has come," I whispered barely.

Lyra looked confused at me before she recognized what I was saying. Both sadness and anger passed across her face.

"But you are still banished from the South, and you are still in fosterage here."

"I am here because I wanted to be. There is much to accomplish, and only seeing my first child till age two has stopped me until now. If I stay here any longer, it will not be possible for me to leave her. I must start my work now. You know the truth about the enemy beyond the Wall and their abilities. I must make sure the Northmen improve, just like the people of Winterfell and Bear Island."

Lyra nodded reluctantly.

Even though I was calm on the outside, I was cursing myself for lying to Lyra. She might believe I was only going to try and improve the people through the usual methods. But the truth was, I was going to pull a Garth Greenhand on the smallfolk. With my looks, even with dyed hair to disguise me, I was warrior incarnate, and seducing noblewomen was easy for me. So, there was nothing to say about the smallfolk. I was going to try and have as many children among them as I could. I could try to spend as much time in the North and improve others, but it would be too little and time consuming.

 Sowing wild oats was the best method, as their children would inherit the enhanced physique. Only then would the bulk of the Northmen actually be more powerful by the time of the Second Long Night. I had to stop myself from laughing at the absurdity of it as I registered the fact that this would be a perfect story for a popular smut in my previous life.
==================================

It has been a long-debated topic in the Citadel whether the miracle Stark cure that Prince Baelon brought from a young Cregan Stark originated from the bastard son of Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen. Whatever it was, it was effective beyond anything seen by the Citadel, and Prince Aegon grew to be more energetic than even Prince Daemon who was turning out to be quite a rogue. The most important event was the signing of the Pact of Ice and Fire. For a time, the nobles in the court whispered that Prince Baelon had been fleeced by the northern barbarians, but the recovery of Prince Aegon and the health he had over the last six years shut their mouths. This is the first time there has been visible proof of knowledge in medical matters that trumps the Citadel, and it grinds my pride that I had to write this down.

‘Grand Maester Allar, it seems to me that your own ignorance and disdain towards magic blinds you to the possibility that the cure may have been magical in nature.’ Otto Hightower thought as he read the personal journal of Grand Maester. 
===================================

Authors note: decided to use Maesters recording to skip time.  87 AC will be over in next chapter. Aegon lives and one of the major change from canon. i had no plan to make aegon live in initial draft, but Baelon knowing about daemon's ability will fight for saving aegon. butterfly effect at its best...

GLH 10

Disclaimer: This is a story based on Harry Potter, Marvel, DC and Image comics characters and all recognizable characters, plots belong to Jk Rowling,Marvel, DC and Image comics. I claim no ownership to it.

Chapter 10 : Harry James Potter 

Harry sighed in relief as the searing pain from the basilisk's venom dissipated, his body adapting to it thanks to the phoenix tears. He glanced at the massive serpent’s lifeless form, feeling nothing. In his previous lives, he had mourned the necessity of killing such a magnificent creature, but he was no longer a naive twelve-year-old boy. Now, as he looked upon the basilisk, he saw only the wealth its body promised: gold from its venom and the superior armor he could commission from its hide.

Surveying the chamber, Harry used both magic and psychic powers to search for any hidden entrances or secret rooms. His magical senses revealed multiple passageways leading to other parts of the castle, but none seemed significant. After five minutes of meticulous exploration, he concluded that whatever Lady Death had implied could not be found without first acquiring the lordship. Even with his vast magical knowledge and psychic abilities, he came up empty-handed.

The only place left for Harry to look was the hole through which the basilisk came. Harry moved cautiously through the chamber, his eyes scanning the eerie, looming shadows that danced across the walls. He accessed his memory cache and tried to go over Tom Riddle’s memory of the Chamber of Secrets. The result was unsatisfactory. The only knowledge gained was of seven rituals to enhance the body. Harry was intrigued by the rituals Tom had learned from books in the chamber, but accessing Death’s gift was more important for now.

Harry entered the hole through which the basilisk came and waved his wand, creating a brilliant orb of light. The light floated upwards, illuminating the large hall, but there was nothing except the runes of heat and comfort embedded in the walls and floor. He used his senses and eventually felt something near a distant wall. Moving closer, he used telekinesis to probe the wall and its other side. There was something there, but despite various attempts—ranging from magical spells to brute telekinetic force—nothing was effective in opening it. After ten minutes of effort, he sighed in defeat and decided he needed to speak with Salazar Slytherin immediately. There was only one way to make that possible: the Resurrection Stone.

=================================

Harry looked at the dilapidated shack of the Gaunts. From his countless lives, and now from the memories of Voldemort, dismantling the wards would have been easy, but it wasn’t even necessary since he already knew the Parseltongue passphrase from those memories.

"I am Lord Gaunt. Open," Harry hissed, smirking at the arrogance of a bastard who mutilated his soul and lost any right to be a Lord of any Magical Family before he was even an adult. 

The door creaked open, revealing the shack’s decrepit interior. Without hesitation, Harry strode inside and, with a flick of his hand, telekinetically ripped up the floorboards, exposing a small box beneath. A wave of his wand disarmed the protective enchantments surrounding it. With a single thought, he opened the box.

Immediately, whispers assaulted Harry’s Occlumency defenses like honey dripping into his mind, but he ignored them completely. He saw the stone with the Deathly Hallows symbol and, with a thought, separated the stone from the ring housing the Horcrux. He fired a Killing Curse at the ring, and the soul fragment was forcibly separated. Surprisingly, the fragment did not disperse into limbo but flew away from the shack with a pained yell.

Harry held the stone and rotated it three times, calling upon Salazar Slytherin.

Salazar Slytherin’s pale figure appeared regally before him, his features sharp and his eyes cold and calculating. His long robes flowed around him, and his silver-green eyes glinted with a fierce intelligence that was evident even in this spectral form.

"So," Salazar’s voice was low and smooth, like the hissing of a snake. "Who dares summon me from beyond the veil?" Salazar looked at the form of a child standing before him. With a glance at the green eyes, he immediately recognized the form as false. "How curious. Who are you?" His eyes narrowed, assessing and piercing through Harry as if judging every fiber of his being. "What is it you want, Summoner?"

Harry scrutinized the flickering form and decided to get straight to the point. In Parseltongue, he replied, "I am Harry James Potter. I have called you to ask what you know about the Peverell Lordship and what you have hidden in the Chamber of Secrets for your mistress."

Salazar’s haughty expression immediately faltered at the question.

"You speak my family’s language and claim your name is Potter. You hold the second Hallow and still ask how the Peverell lordship is acquired? There is only one being who could have informed you of the hidden treasure in the chamber." Salazar’s curiosity was piqued by the boy standing before him.

"Yes, she informed me about it. So, what is it?" Harry inquired.

"I am a descendant of the second brother and a son of House Peverell. The Lord Peverell of my time trained me in the arcane arts. He was the last Lord Peverell, a descendant of the third brother. After traveling to some distant place, he returned with a trapped creature resembling black goo. He informed me that the creature was bound to the god of the abyss. To free it from its influence, he would perform a ritual gifted by his patron, Lady Death—a ritual that would take centuries to complete and ultimately store the creature for the future. Both of us enacted the ritual in the chamber, and he hid the creature behind Peverell magic. He informed me that only someone who united the three Hallows would become the next Lord Peverell. I was allowed to study the creature for a time and, as a result, was even able to improve the base ritual of adaptation to a superior quality." Salazar finished.

Harry almost facepalmed at the realization of what he had overlooked. He immediately understood which creature had been cleansed and how it could help him develop his body even after mastering the Deathly Hallows and acquiring the mantle of the Master of Death.

"That is very good information," Harry said with a measure of respect. "Thank you, Salazar. It is time for you to return to your rest."

Harry laughed. "Oh, you don’t need to worry. The basilisk is already dead by my hands, and I know where the rest of the Hallows are."

For a moment, Salazar looked surprised before a smirk graced his face.

"Then I wish you good fortune in your plans. I will be watching what my descendant achieves," Salazar said.

Harry nodded and dismissed the magic of the stone. Salazar vanished immediately.

==================

Harry sat deep in thought as he ate the food from the Leaky Cauldron in his rented room. He knew the locations of the Hallows, but stealing them now was a risk he was not willing to take. The cloak would eventually be returned to him during his first year at Hogwarts, usually by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. From his experience, some versions of Dumbledore returned the cloak out of duty and magnanimity, while others did so to manipulate him. Why ever it is, Cloak will be returned to him in first year.

He glanced around the rented room and snorted. While he had long grown indifferent to luxury, he knew this room wasn’t a viable base of operations. He needed something permanent. Records indicated that Potter Manor had been destroyed during Death Eater attacks, leaving him with few options. The Black family houses came to mind, but as he wasn’t officially a member of the Black family, access would be impossible.

Freeing Sirius Black, Harry decided, would be one of his first steps. To achieve that, he would need to contact Lord Arcturus Black. After finishing his meal, Harry penned a letter and sent it with an owl. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to purchase Hedwig yet, as she hadn’t appeared in the Magical Menagerie’s sales section.

Lord Arcturus Black,

I have come across critical information regarding Sirius Black and the illegal imprisonment he faces in Azkaban. I wish to discuss how this grievous insult, not just to me but to the esteemed House of Black, can be addressed.

Please inform me of a suitable time and place for a meeting.

Heir Harry James Potter

 ======================

 2 days later.

Harry groaned in pain as he woke up within the ritual circle in the Chamber of Secrets. He had just completed the Ritual of Adaptation, a fundamental ritual that allowed a wizard’s body to accept changes without the magic rejecting them as foreign. This base ritual had been enhanced by Salazar Slytherin himself, after studying creatures captured by the last Lord Peverell.

Sitting up, Harry performed a quick body scan. The changes were evident: his innate ability to allocate magic throughout his body had been further refined. He grinned, realizing this marked the first step on his official path to power.

Occluding the lingering pain, Harry rose and decided his next task: inspecting the ruins of Potter Manor.

Standing before the destroyed manor, Harry felt nothing. His grudge against Voldemort seemed insignificant compared to his enmity with the Mad Titan. As he ventured across the ruins, he extended both his magical and psychic senses. At first, he detected nothing. However, as he delved deeper into the rubble at the back, his magic brushed against a ward—a blood ward.

With a flick of his hand, Harry cleared a path through the debris. At the revealed spot, he made a small psychic cut on his palm and allowed his blood to fall onto the stone floor. The air buzzed with rising magic as the stone floor shimmered and vanished, revealing a staircase leading downwards.

He conjured a glowing white orb of light, illuminating the staircase as he descended into the hidden chamber. The room was sparse, its stone walls damp and cold, with a modest pile of galleons gleaming in one corner. At the center stood a stone dais, and above it floated a book, radiating a faint, golden aura.

Harry’s eyes widened, and a triumphant grin spread across his face as he recognized the Potter family crest embossed on its cover. It was the Potter family grimoire—the culmination of a millennium of magical innovation and the collective knowledge of brilliant wizards and witches who bore the Potter name.

Despite his vast knowledge, Harry felt a familiar hum of humility. No matter how much one learned, magic was infinite —always holding something more powerful, more mysterious, and more terrifying beyond reach.

He looked around the room and his eyes locked on some metal rods lying in corner. He summoned them and with a basic scan, he recognised the metal. He grinned in clear wonder at the vibranium and mithril rods in his hands.

‘Well, my plan to visit Wakanda will be easy.’  Harry thought. 

He knew only the family grimoire will have the answer to how this wonderous metals came to be here and opened the grimoire.

He felt the magic scanning his own, there was grumble of slight annoyance as it felt other magic on him, but ultimately the book accepted the last Potter.

He used a nifty little spell to check mentions of vibranium and the book flipped the pages towards almost to the end of the book.  There was an entry by Charlus Potter, his grandfather. 

"Today, my friends Howard Stark, Arcturus Black, and Diana were visited by a delegation from Wakanda. They presented us with a sample of a metal called vibranium. Diana declined the gift, but Howard took one rod, and I won the second in a bet with Arcturus. I’m not sure how a wizard could use such a metal, but it is fascinating."

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Harry murmured with a grin. This was indeed a valuable gift.

Searching the grimoire again, Harry found no mention of mithril. Regardless, he decided to take everything and stored it all in his ever-present expandable trunk.

===================

Artcurus black

The Black castle.

“Master, a letter has arrived for you,” Mipsy, the head house-elf, informed Lord Arcturus Black.

Arcturus, who had lived in isolation since the death of his wife, raised an eyebrow. “I receive hundreds of letters daily. Why does this one merit your attention?”

“It’s from Mistress Dorea’s grandson. He wishes to discuss about Master Sirius,” Mipsy replied with a bow.

Arcturus snorted. “Burn it, Mipsy. If the Potter brat truly discovered something, he’d run to that old goat Dumbledore, not me. This must be a forgery.”

“As you wish, Master,” Mipsy said, disappearing with a crack.

=============== 

5 days later

Harry had been growing increasingly irritated over the past five days as he waited for a reply from Lord Black. The only thing keeping him grounded was his immersion in the Potter family grimoire, which offered invaluable insights into magic. Time, however, was slipping through his fingers.

With only a short window left before his first year at Hogwarts, Harry knew he had far too many tasks to accomplish. He needed to recover important artifacts, verify critical information to see whether his own knowledge is correct or not, and recruit allies for the wars to come. Time was precious, and by the fifth day, it had become abundantly clear that the old geezer had likely ignored his letter.

Harry then and there decided to pay a personal visit to the Black Castle.  Normally the location of Black Castle was hidden, but luckily for him, among the memories of Lord Voldemort, he found the location, a place Voldemort only visited once, trying to recruit Arcturus black. 

Harry appeared outside the wards of Black Castle. His senses screamed in danger as the wards tried to sense the magic around him.

Harry tried to sense the knocking function that all typical family wards have. After two minutes of searching, he snarled in irritation as there was no knocking function in the Black wards.

"Typical Black family dramatics," Harry whispered. "Hard way it is."

He moved ten steps backward, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes as he gathered his power, both magical and telekinetic. After one minute, he opened his eyes, and his green irises glowed with suppressed power. He raised his hands to channel the gathered energy. A grey orb of magical power, along with enough kinetic force to tear apart titanium, impacted the wards of Black Castle in seconds. The orb was not visible after it left Harry’s hands because of the speed. The only visible thing was a haze as the air rippled with the compressed power.

With a crack that would compete with any thunder and lightning, the power crashed into the wards. The Black wards rippled and became visible as they changed colors, ward after ward failing continuously to hold back the power. Harry knew that, even as a Magical Lord, he wouldn't have enough juice to overpower ancient wards like these, but the raw telekinetic power was a game changer. The visible magic started to crack when, suddenly, Harry felt a sudden magical buildup from the castle. Immediately, the wards strengthened.

"Well, I guess you are home after all, Lord Black, and now I have your attention," Harry said with a smirk.

"Atlas shield. Now!" Harry's third thought stream, Passive Defense and Offense Planning (PDOP), warned him.

"That you have, you foolish facestealer," a voice said from behind him, and a Dark curse shattered against the shield raised by Harry.

Harry was impressed, as he hadn’t even sensed Lord Black apparating with his general senses. Only the enhanced senses and advanced processing helped him avoid severe pain.

"Well, you should have responded to my polite letter, Lord Black. After all, I am your beloved sister's grandson and the godchild of your own heir and grandson, Sirius Black," Harry said, dodging another two curses and flashing the Potter heir ring.

Lord Black immediately stopped firing Dark curses as his eyes widened in surprise. He looked at the supposed ten-year-old boy and then toward the recuperating wards behind him.

"How? You’re supposed to be 10," Lord Black exclaimed in awe and fear. He had seen three Magical Lords and even Gods fighting. He could see that his sister's grandson could already almost match the first ones.

"Do we have to have the talk here? I’m almost sure someone would have noticed this magical outburst and come to see what’s going on. After all, you used the ley line to immediately power the damaged wards against it, naturally recharging over a period of time. My own use of power would attract some attention."

Arcturus sighed in tiredness before nodding in acceptance.

 ======================

“That is very good tea. Thank you, and my compliments, Mipsy,” Harry said, looking at the corner of the room where, even for Lord Black, there was only a blank wall.

Lord Black tried to feel out his elf, and even with their bond, it was hard to locate the elf.

“Enough of the unimportant things, boy. What do you want with me, and how is this possible? You are supposed to be under the old goatlovers’ care and protection. It seems that at least he trained you, which was usually not possible for children.”

Harry scoffed hearing that.

“Albus Dumbledore had nothing to do with my training, but I can’t lie that he played a major part in me becoming what I am today. But the 'how' is not important. According to my grandfather’s words in the grimoire, you fought alongside a muggle supersoldier, scientist, and even a demi-god, and you still wonder about my own ability? Anything is possible with magic when prophecy and fate are involved. Tom Riddle stupidly thought he would kill his equal when he pointed his wand at a one-year-old, not knowing the trap my mother laid out for him, along with how he himself was marking me as his equal.” Harry ended with a careless shrug.

Arcturus snorted. “Well, he was always short-tempered and foolish when it came to his opponents who were lesser than him. But I don’t think even Riddle was as powerful as you are now when he was ten”

Harry just smiled at that and remained quiet.

Arcturus, knowing no more answers were coming, sighed before asking, “What is it you want, and what is this about Sirius?”

Harry’s eyes widened for a moment, and he snapped. “I always thought you actually didn’t care about your grandson. It’s surprising that you never bothered to check about him to know, he wasn’t even given a trial, and more surprising that you believe, he actually betrayed my parents.”

 Arcturus looked stricken for a moment, and then oppressive magic was unleashed as the rage was ignited in the old man.

“What?” Lord Black hissed. “Sirius was not given a trial? A Black was incarcerated when he was innocent? They dared imprison my grandson? They dared treat a Black like this when we have treated laws like our playthings for millennia and broken far more than any other? They never even dared to charge us and they now presume to punish even without a trial?”

Harry could see the old man, who had been waiting for his death, was finally changed back to the same one who fought against Hydra and Gellert Grindelwald. Even Harry, who had seen madness and even suffered from it for many years due to the torture that was his existence, was a little impressed by the famed Black Madness glinting in Arcturus’s face.

“Yes, it seems everyone wants my godfather out of the picture. Dumbledore, probably because he can place me with my magic-hating Muggle relatives for the blood wards and the protection my mother left behind; Malfoy, for getting his hands on Black family resources through Draco; and apparently you, because you want to wait for Lady Death to claim you, forgetting your position and responsibility bestowed on you as Lord Black.” Harry said with a shrug.

“Enough,” Lord Black snapped. “You dare condemn me in my own home? You, the ten-year-old grandson of my dear sister, dare disrespect your elder in his own family home? You dare…. ” Arcturus suddenly stopped as pressure enveloped the entire room. And for the third time in his life, he froze as his magic disobeyed his will in fear. His eyes widened as the depleted wards tried to protect their master and Lord, but a shield, which barely contained magic, protected Harry.

Arcturus forgot he was in front of a Magical Lord, the beloveds of Lady Magic herself. Whatever doubt he had of Harry’s power level was eliminated in his mind. Lord Black further paled as he saw Harry waving his wand, causing the Black wards to immediately stop attacking him.

‘Impossible.’ Arcturus’s mind echoed.

“Lord Black, I only came here to have you do this thing for me because I have other, more important things to accomplish outside the country. It would be convenient for me, that’s all. Do not inconvenience me enough that I will send you to the embrace of Lady Death, the one you’ve craved ever since your beloved wife’s death and the destruction of your house under your leadership. It would only take me a night to infiltrate Azkaban, free my godfather, and make him claim the lordship, using it for my own purposes. This was just a courtesy visit from me, on behalf of my grandparents' relationship with you.” Harry said with sheer indifference. Arcturus could see that the child infront of him was not bluffing too. 

“Now, I will ask you one more time: do you want to visit Lady Melania with House Black and its members at the top of the world, or with it broken and her grandson incarcerated in hell on earth? Make your choice now,” Harry said, his eyes dimming as he reined in his powers.

Lord Black immediately panted as the pressure decreased. His own mind opened three new thought streams to think through the insanity that was the boy. The thoughts ran through his enhanced mind faster than the speed of sound:

‘Fourth Magical Lord is born for British people in the last 2 centuries. Dumbledore and Grindelwald in the 1800s, Tom Riddle and Harry Potter for the 1900s.’

‘The eyes never lie, and his eyes had seen death, war, and cruelty far too much for a regular ten-year-old. How? Time travel? Alternate dimensions? Anything is possible with those favored by Lady Magic. Whatever it is, I will not be informed as of now. Magic really loves them so much that it is unfair for the rest of the normal people. He made the wards believe that he meant no harm to me, with my own acknowledgment of him as a son of House Black, or whatever his relation to my heir is when he was thinking of sending me to Lady Death...’

And suddenly, his entire thought process came to a halt with one word echoing through his mind:

Lady Death? 

And his occulumency provided the answer: a curious warning in the Black Grimoire written a long time ago.

“We, The Blacks, have danced with magic, death, and madness so much. We have conquered lands, placed kings at our behest, been kings ourselves, and even had a term established by the mundane for threatening someone, ‘blackmail.’ But one family we have never danced with is the Peverells, the followers of Lady Death. The only insane people who use the name of the entity casually in the wizarding world.”

Arcturus looked at the boy again, and he understood how the boy could be so powerful already. The Peverells were always a mysterious bunch, and just more... It would explain the power level of the boy in front of him. Somehow, The Boy was a Peverell and indulged in soul magic and sent his soul backwards in time.. 

Arcturus came to a decision.

“Heir Potter, don’t think you cowed me because you were born lucky to be blessed by magic. I will do things because House Black has been slighted by lesser wizards, and I will have my vengeance. Also, stop using Lady Death when threatening others, since you are clever enough to hide your status as a heir or son of House Peverell. Even now, the wizarding world remembers a Peverell Sorcerer Supreme siding with the Muggle sorcerers and conquering the wizarding world for making it under the aegis of the mantle Sorcerer Supreme of Kamar Taj.” Arcturus said with a smirk, and he got immediate satisfaction as he saw a slight widening of the boy’s eyes in surprise.

Harry nodded, since he didn’t want to reveal his hand so quickly to anyone in the wizarding world after the warning from the Goblin account manager.

“It is surprising that you retain the stories that appear to be legends from the past,” Harry said. “Anyway, notoriety or even being world-famous is not something new for me. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter to me whether the world knows I am a son of House Peverell. It just means I have to be more forceful to accomplish what I want, when they could be easily fooled with honey.”

“And what do you want?” Arcturus asked. “I can see you are already a fully matured magical lord. The last one from these isles convinced purebloods to slaughter entire pureblood families in the name of pureblood supremacy. The one before that made the world itself tremble, and another one stopped him and used soft power to influence the world. House Black lost much from these lords, and I will not allow another to use House Black again. I will not allow you to use Sirius’s love for you and exploit our resources for something that I won’t believe in.” Arcturus said with conviction.

“I want many things, Lord Black. The most important thing is power to protect this world from aliens. There are empires out there, and we have been their playthings before. Only the protection of the All Father and the distance make us a waste of resources for them. That is going to change in the near future,” Harry said passionately, along with his trust-me aura.

“Aliens?” Arcturus scoffed in derision.

“Lord Black, you know of Greek Gods, the Asgardians, and of course the Sorcerer Supreme Ancient One who protects this world from other dimensions and magical threats. Why shouldn’t there be aliens as well?” Harry immediately rebutted, smirking as he saw the snarl of rage on Arcturus’s face at the mention of the Muggle immortal sorceress.

Harry knew that all wizards harbored a hatred towards those who borrowed magic or manipulated the magics of others. The rage was intensified when the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme commanded the wizarding world, even though it was only the impossible combination of a magical lord and a sorcerer that made it possible. The Peverell SS (Sorcerer Supreme) had forced every king, wizard family head, and leader to swear an oath of fealty to the mantle in matters of dimensional magic, borrowed magic, and the protection of Earth from magical threats. Only the destruction of kings, the extinction of families, and the birth of new wizards blessed by Lady Magic had made the oath of fealty a contested matter in modern times.

“And you think you are the one destined to protect this world from extraterrestrial beings?” Lord Black asked, his voice full of skepticism. “The previous Lord couldn’t even conquer Britain, and the one before that was defeated, his entire movement destroyed. History has shown that every attempt to rule the wizarding world fails.”

“You are thinking too small, Lord Black. For the survival of this planet, I plan to rule both the muggle and wizarding world.” Harry replied without any bit of doubt.

For a moment, Lord Black’s face showed astonishment before Occlumency cleared it away.

“So, you prove to be the same as the Peverells of old,” Black sneered. “Indulging in the slaughter of thousands for your mysterious goals.”

“Maybe,” Harry shrugged. “I’ve learned that love from the masses is more helpful than fear, but the ideal combination is a mix of both. Money has become a power in the Muggle world, and business empires rule many places. I will be one of them. In fact, I have to thank you for making my path easier in that regard by gifting the Stark share to my grandmother. Do you know how much wealth has been created by that alone?”

Arcturus snorted. “What use does a wizard like me have for Muggle money? But I can see your plans now. Us Blacks have followed this path for millennia and become experts in it. I will support you for now and not disinherit Sirius.”

“That is very good,” Harry said. “I will hand over Peter Pettigrew, a rat Animagus, and the real secret keeper of my parents. He set up Sirius when he confronted him in front of the Muggles. You can hand him over to the DMLE or Wizengamot to prove Sirius’s innocence.” Harry’s tone was thick with visceral hate and rage.

“No. I will not do that,” Arcturus replied immediately.

Harry was bewildered. “What?”

“Sirius has never faced a trial. He was kidnapped by the Ministry. My heir has been mistreated, and I will ruin everyone who played a part in it. The lesser wizards think House Black has declined, that we are weak. I will break Sirius out of Azkaban, and then I’ll make my move in the Wizengamot. There will be no trial for Sirius, as it is time-barred.”

Harry thought for a moment and nodded. “It would actually be good if Sirius isn’t under Ministry control. Accidents can happen.”

“What’s your plan to break Sirius out?” Harry asked.

“Oh, it’s very easy,” Arcturus said with a smug grin. “I am a Baron of Wizarding Britain. A title bestowed only upon me and your grandfather for protecting our land from the Dark Lord. I have all the rights to visit any official building under the nominal control of the Wizengamot, including Azkaban. I’ll visit and simply walk out with Sirius, as there will be no documents of his punishment there.”

Harry stared at the madman in disbelief. “This is insane. You think you’ll be allowed to walk out of the prison just like that?”

“Oh, there’ll be some fighting, of course, but it’s been some time since I’ve fought. I’m looking forward to it,” Arcturus said with a manic grin.

Harry scoffed. “You’ll get Sirius killed. I can see you won’t consider any other method. Let me come in disguise to make sure Sirius survives.”

Lord Black hesitated for a moment before nodding in acceptance.

=================

Next day

Azkaban

Warden Parkinson sighed in absolute relief as the chill and terror of the Dementor's aura vanished the moment he entered his warded office. One side of the wall was covered in prisoner documents, and the other displayed records of the rounds of Auror guards. He had pissed off Amelia Bones for doing something for Lord Malfoy and had ended up with this position. In a way, it was a blessing—he could always relax in his office without doing any heavy work. He poured himself a glass of Firewhiskey.

It was then that one of the guards knocked on the door.

“Enter,” the Warden said.

The guard stepped in, followed by two people. One was clearly a prominent lord—Parkinson could tell just by the robes and posture of the older man. The other was hidden behind some sort of obscurity charm, but Parkinson could tell from his demeanor that he was a guard for the first man. He studied the face and the grey eyes, and his occlumency supplied a name for the old man, which made him dread that had nothing to do with dementors; Black.

“I am Warden Parkinson, Head of Azkaban,” Parkinson said, “Who are you, and under whose authorization are you here? Otherwise, you will be detained and questioned by the DMLE.”

The Old man just smirked before answering.

“It seems the younger generation has forgotten me. I am Baron Arcturus Black,” Lord Black said, flashing his lordship ring for a second.

Parkinson’s eyes widened as he registered the title of the person standing before him—a man who had been out of the public eye for over a decade.

Greetings, Lord Black. Parknison said  as he stood from his chair and offered the seat infront of his desk to Lord Black.  The auror guard moved to the side same as Lord Black’s guard. 

Lord Black took the offered seat.

“What brings you here, Lord Black? If it is to meet your relatives here, you need to make appointment before and the permission of DMLE director Amelia Bones.” Parkinson said and he offered a glass of Fire-whiskey to Lord Black and took a sip from his own glass.

“No, Warden,” Lord Black replied with a dismissive wave. “I’m not here to meet the fools who were branded like cattle by a half-blood bastard son of a Muggle.” Parkinson nearly spat out his drink at that comment, and he could hear the sound of disbelief coming from the back of the room.

Parkinson coughed, trying to recover. “What?”

“Oh? I am not here to discuss about that bastard, I’m a Baron of Wizarding Britain. In fact, I’m the last one alive after the death of my brother-in-law, Lord Charlus Potter. I was settling my affairs and need the official judgment from my grandson and heir, Sirius Black’s trial, in order to finally disinherit him and appoint a new heir. Going to the Ministry is such a hassle. Why should I waste my time and show my presence to the public when I can inspect any Ministry organization at any time due to my status? So here I am.” Lord Black’s smug grin widened.

Parkinson was astonished. “Sirius is still heir to the Black estate? I thought he was disinherited when he ran off to the Potters. Isn’t Draco Malfoy the heir apparent now?” Parkinson inquired, turning to his brother, Lord Parkinson.

“Oh? Does the French peacock want to be Lord Black alongside Lord Malfoy too?” Lord Black said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Thank you for informing me. That cow, Sirius’s mother, may have blasted his name from the family tapestry, but I am the Lord of Black. Why should I disinherit him when he went to stay with my brother-in-all-but-blood, Charlus and my own sister, Dorea Black?” Lord Black grinned as he could already imagine the news spreading throughout pureblood circles. It would be delightful to see Lucius Malfoy scrambling to compensate for what he had acquired by using Draco as the heir to Black.

Parkinson nodded, looking at the Auror rookie standing by. “Look at the B’s in the rack. Sirius’s file should be there.”

The rookie nodded and, within minutes, found the relevant document and handed it to the Warden.

Parkinson was surprised to see how lightweight the file was. Shrugging, he opened it to examine the trial script and judgment. His face paled as his mind processed the details.

“Sirius Black. Date of Arrest: 04-11-1991. To be held until called for trial.”

Parkinson looked up at Lord Black, and finally, he realized that the Baron knew the truth.

“Ah, finally you see the problem,” Lord Black said, and Parkinson tensed at the change in tone—there was no smugness, only cold rage and hatred. “My grandson and heir has been illegally kidnapped by the Ministry of Magic. His trial period expired a month after his arrest. You have two options now. One, you can escort me to his cell, and I’ll collect him and leave with the heir of the ancient and most noble House of Black. The second, you and three rookie guards can protest, and I’ll kill you where you stand and walk away with my grandson.”

The rookie Auror snorted at the threat and whispered, “Foolish old man.”

Lord Black immediately turned his gaze toward the rookie. He could see the young man had just graduated from Hogwarts.

“Oh? Young man, I know that the history class in Hogwarts is abysmal, especially with that ghost teaching, but you should learn recent history,” Lord Black said, his eyes narrowing. He pointed to his forehead. “This scar was gifted to me by the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald when we crossed wands in the Great War. I survived that duel, and you think four snot-nosed boys like you could stop me?” He finished with a laugh.

Parkinson immediately stood up, snapping, “Enough! Baron Black, come. Let me escort you to his cell. I don’t want to cross wands with you or your guard.” He looked at the guard on the other side of the room.

The rookie immediately looked away, realizing too late that there was another guard.

“Warden,” the rookie started, but Parkinson silenced him with a harsh glare. It was as if the rookie had been frozen in place.

Parkinson gave his orders through Legilimency.

“Go to the DMLE and inform Amelia Bones. Come back with the trial scripts and receipts, if they exist.”

The rookie dashed to the Apparition point as soon as Parkinson left with Lord Black.

=============

Authors  Note:  Finally.. it is finished.. the chapter flowed when there was dialogues. Was going to add amelia scene but if I start the chapter will be 10k and will take longer to publish…

FD 3

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF and Marvel characters and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM and Marvel. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 3: Passage of Time. 

79AC

Logan had spent the first four years of this life in what he could only describe as hell on earth. Reincarnation, as miraculous as it sounded, had delivered him into a gilded prison. From his earliest moments in this new life, he had observed his surroundings with the sharp mind of an adult trapped in an infant’s body. However, this awareness only deepened his helplessness. No amount of experience could prepare him for the indignity of being swaddled and coddled, unable to communicate or assert himself.

It reminded him of the raw powerlessness he’d felt in his previous life’s final moments—dying without the strength to change his fate. Yet, this was worse. He could feel the weight of his consciousness pressing against the walls of his body, screaming for agency.

The first two years were a haze of observation and piecing together clues. Identifying his time period and identity had been his priority, though it proved to be a monumental task. By the end of his second year, he’d managed to gather enough information to realize the staggering truth: he was a prince of House Targaryen, born into the name royal family of dragonlords.

His initial reaction had been torn between awe and dread. On one hand, he had expected to be a commoner, toiling in the dirt of a medieval world. Instead, he was surrounded by luxury—the finest silks, the richest foods, and a lifestyle others could only dream of. But this privilege came with a price. Every move he made was scrutinized, every word he spoke weighed for meaning. His awareness of his role and the future history of his house loomed over him like a shadow.

Even as a toddler, he had been cautious to suppress his impulses. He learned High Valyrian simply by listening to his family’s conversations, absorbing the language like a sponge. His uncanny affinity for animals—cats, horses, and, later, dragons—was another trait that didn’t escape notice. By the age of four, servants whispered of his peculiar nature, calling him “the dragon prince” not just for his lineage but for the way creatures seemed drawn to him.

Yet, not all aspects of his new life were wondrous. One of his greatest regrets was his heightened sense of smell. Even in the royal court, hygiene was lacking, and the densely packed cities carried an ever-present stench. Logan had learned to endure it, but the thought of such conditions worsening over the coming decade gnawed at him. He knew better than anyone the dangers of unchecked urban filth in a growing kingdom.

But his greatest frustration stemmed from his limited knowledge of the timeline. He recalled fragmented details of A Song of Ice and Fire, but his memory was hazy. Jaehaerys I, the current king and his father, was known as the Wise King, and Queen Alysanne was revered as the Good Queen. Beyond that, Logan only remembered the looming tragedy: the Dance of the Dragons, a civil war that would mark the beginning of House Targaryen’s decline and started by children of a Viserys Targaryen.

Fortunately, there was no one named Viserys among his immediate family—a small comfort in a sea of uncertainty.

Logan’s relationship with his father, King Jaehaerys, was distant. The king wore his role like a mask, exuding warmth and wisdom in public but offering little affection in private. Even to his other children, Jaehaerys was more monarch than father, but with Logan, the disconnect was sharper. The king’s eyes, always calculating, seemed to weigh Logan as if trying to discern a threat.

In contrast, Logan found solace in his siblings. Aemon and Baelon, his elder brothers, treated him with genuine affection, often including him in their activities despite his young age. Alyssa, his sister, had been the first to take him to the dragonpit, an experience that left him awestruck.

Logan had seen animals of all kinds in his past life, even dinosaurs. But dragons were something else entirely. They were majestic, terrifying, and utterly magical. When he first laid eyes on the great beasts, he felt a resonance deep within his soul. The dragons, too, seemed to sense something in him, their enormous eyes watching him with curious intelligence. He could feel their emotions in a way he never had with any other creature, a connection that was both exhilarating and humbling.

Logan’s relationship with The queen, his mother, Alysanne, had become complicated. She loved him, as a mother should, but his outright rejection of the Faith of the Seven had tested their bond. At a young age, Logan had declared that he did not believe in gods, citing his Valyrian heritage as justification. His refusal to learn the Seven-Pointed Star or attend lessons with septas and septons was a source of constant frustration. He often evaded his religious tutors by disappearing into the secret tunnels of the Red Keep, a legacy of his great-uncle Maegor the Cruel.

When found, it was almost always in the dragonpit, where his siblings would chastise him for worrying their mother.

By the age of six, Logan had already earned a reputation for his feral nature. He cemented this reputation when he thrashed a ten-year-old boy from House Bracken for mocking his sister Daella. Logan had always harbored a soft spot for Daella, who treated him like her own child. The bond they shared was one of unconditional love, a rarity in the political labyrinth of the royal family.

His other sisters, however, were more complex. Vissera barely acknowledged him, while Saera took pleasure in teasing him. One day, after Saera made an offhand comment about their father’s supposed disdain for Logan, he responded with startling maturity.

“I don’t care whether the king loves me or not,” Logan said, his voice calm and measured. “There’s only so much love a person’s heart can hold, and I don’t blame him for having his favorites. I’ve made my own family, and I have my own favorites, too.”

Queen Alysanne, who overheard the conversation, was taken aback. “Prince Logan, you must never speak of your father, the king, like that, and Saerra, don’t tease your younger brother.” she scolded.

"Mother, I only said the truth. I know I am the eleventh child, and there is only so much love in one’s heart. I don’t blame anyone. I have made my own family, and even I have my favorites in my family, just like you and the King. Everyone has favorites—it is only natural," Logan replied calmly, displaying a wisdom no ordinary six-year-old could ever have.

"The dragons are not your family, Gaemon. They may unnaturally like you for some reason, even though they are bonded with others. Still, they are ours first and foremost. So, you have favorites in our family? Who is it?" Alysanne inquired, her tone laced with curiosity. If it was Rhaenys, she knew it might complicate things later, as Viserys would be the better match for her hand in the position of King Consort.

Logan, knowing his mother was fishing for a girl’s name for her matchmaking schemes, answered, "Daella and Alyssa are my favorites. Alyssa was the first one to introduce me to the dragons, after all. The dragons like me because I understand them and their complaints about being chained like dogs. I have already told you to unchain everyone and let them be free—or just send them all to Dragonstone."

Alysanne sighed, remembering the first argument between her four-year-old son and the King. She hadn’t expected Gaemon to be so furious after returning from his first flight, nor his escape to meet Balerion. To this day, she thanked the Seven Gods that the monstrous creature hadn’t harmed Gaemon when he intruded into its lair.

"What? You little bastard! That stupid Daella is your favorite when I’m here?" Saerra exclaimed.

Alysanne saw Gaemon’s eyes narrow as he replied, "Yes, Daella is my favorite because she does not question my every move or fear me. It is quite fortunate that you have been blessed by the Gods with a beautiful face. Though not quite up to Vissera’s level, you become uglier than a duckling whenever you open your mouth."

Alysanne couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that escaped her, further enraging Saerra.

"Why, you little animal!" Saerra yelled, charging at Gaemon to tackle him down and strike him.

Saerra started hitting Gaemon all over his body, while he quickly raised his hands to defend himself.

Alysanne sighed in exasperation and called for the septa to pull Saerra away from Gaemon, who was laughing mockingly at the weak blows.

"Sister, if you hit like this, even a baby could defeat you. Come tomorrow morning, and I will teach you how to brawl and even take down knights," Gaemon said.

Alysanne raised her eyebrows in surprise at the offer. No noble-born son would typically encourage their women to fight.

From that day, Jaehaerys ordered Logan to be trained daily for hours, with the aim of instilling discipline. Surprisingly, Logan thrived under the rigorous regimen, improving rapidly. Logan also started spending time with the servants in the kitchen, attempting to make something he called "pizza," along with sandwiches and doughnuts. The servants were both in awe and fear, as Logan began consuming enough food to feed an adult by the age of seven.

======================

80 AC

Balerion’s lair.

Logan could feel the amusement radiating from Balerion as he yelled in rage, slashing at the cavern walls with his bone claws. The bone claws had appeared last year, surprising him. He had never tested his healing abilities, but he was confident, as promised by the being who sent him here, that they would amount to half of his full ability now and grow into their complete potential when he became an adult.

His latest outburst of rage stemmed from the foolish decision of the king, the queen, and his favorite elder sister, Daella, to marry her off to an Arryn. He had tried to postpone or stop the marriage but was thwarted by the so-called adults. He had even considered orchestrating an accident for the Arryn, but seeing the genuine excitement and wonder on Daella’s face stayed his hand. Daella was eagerly looking forward to the marriage and the prospect of motherhood. Rodrik Arryn, being the kindest man among her suitors, had also played a part in helping her make the decision and anticipate her future with enthusiasm.

Logan was startled out of his rage by a growl from Balerion, which he could interpret as a snort of laughter.

“Don’t mock and enjoy my frustration, Balerion,” Logan snarled at the Black Dread.

Balerion’s eyes glinted as a low growl echoed through the cavern.

“What? Are you saying my young body is affecting my older soul and wisdom?” Logan asked, surprised. Thinking back, he could see how his behavior had changed. Even with his memories and the experience of his old age, he couldn’t stop himself from acting like a bratty child.

Logan sighed in defeat and sat on the ground, leaning his back against the wall.

“You’re right, Balerion. My young body has affected my thought process so much. I know my older soul and experienced mind were what attracted you to me. Let’s bond now, and I’ll free your chains right away.”

Balerion snarled in warning.

“What? I don’t think whatever sickness or magical curse you caught in Valyria will affect me. I could always cut out the sickness and parasites inside you right now,” Logan replied, flexing his six bone claws for emphasis.

Balerion snorted with clear laughter, and an image of rippled steel slammed into Logan’s mind—a steel he recognized from Dark Sister and Blackfyre.

A steel he has seen on Dark Sister and Blackfyre. 

“So, you’re saying only Valyrian steel has a chance of cutting even your injured scales and extracting the sickness and parasites?” Logan inquired.

Balerion growled in agreement.

“So, waiting for the correct time is the only choice we have,” Logan said, his voice tinged with sadness and acceptance.

=================

Author’s Note: So finally I could get on to this after months. Writing from a child perspective is hard and when he is reincarnated old man, it is more difficult. Thus time skips is the best method that I could use. so this will be not be in chronological order. there will be flashbacks to childhood when necessary.

ADS 22

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 22: Peaceful Times.

82 AC

The Spring Prince

Kingslanding.

 Baelon gazed at the tiny bundle of joy cradled in his arms—his second son. The child had come early, but the birth had been surprisingly easy for Alyssa. Even now, the boy bore the unmistakable Targaryen features, and Baelon knew he would steal many hearts when he grew older just like himself and his beloved wife.

He sat alone in the nursery, pondering names to discuss with Alyssa, when Aemon entered. Aemon had just returned from the Stormlands, and it was clear he had hastily cleaned up after dragon riding.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Baelon,” Aemon said cheerfully. “A second son! Perhaps now Father can stop snapping at me for not providing a second child—or anything else he can complain about.” He laughed as he reached out to take the child.

Baelon handed the baby to Aemon, watching as his elder brother’s expression softened. It didn’t take long for Baelon to realize that Aemon was lost in thought, likely about his own son.

“Aemon,” Baelon said gently, trying to draw him from his stupor.

Aemon carefully returned the baby to Baelon and sighed deeply. “You’re a lucky man, Baelon. You can love your boys freely and give them the world. Look at me—I lost my son, Daemon. Maybe it was my own fault, hating him for taking Lyarra from me. Or maybe it was the disdain the Andal lords held for bastards. I love Rhaenys more than anything in this world, but she’s not a boy. And I couldn’t always be there for her like her mother was.” Aemon paused, his voice laced with melancholy. “Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I just flew to Bear Island and brought him home.”

Baelon’s happiness of having a second son immediately dimmed seeing the sadness in his beloved brother.

“Brother,” Baelon said softly, “it’s been nearly 15 years since that day. You were barely a man then. Now, your son has built a life for himself in the North. The lords there would beg to host him for the aid he could offer their houses. And when Cregan Stark ascends as Lord of Winterfell, he’ll call his cousin back immediately. The King would never allow Daemon to return to the South—it’s too dangerous for Rhaenys’ position. Dragons are our strength, and Balerion still lies unclaimed in the Dragonpit. I am sorry brother, but I couldn’t support you in this and I don’t think you can actually meet Daemon, after all you ran away from that meeting two years ago.  

Baelon finished with a hint of reproach.

Aemon grimaced, frowning deeply. “I never told you why I returned to King’s Landing after waiting for seven days at that godforsaken wall, did I?”

Baelon raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “No, brother, you didn’t.”

Aemon exhaled slowly. “It was horrible. I spent seven nights at the Wall, and every night I had nightmares—so vivid they felt like visions. The details changed, but the last days were always the same. My meeting with Daemon would go wrong, and my punishment for him would be harsh. But the last two dreams were the worst. In them, Daemon’s words enraged me so much that Caraxes tried to kill him with fire—and he survived. Then Daemon used Ice to kill Caraxes and... me. He beheaded me with Ice.” Aemon shuddered. “After those dreams, I decided it was better to withdraw than tempt fate.”

Baelon processed the story and his mind went faster trying to decipher whether it was actually a dragon dream or just stupidity conjured by his brother’s idiotic mind. 

“It’s all right, brother,” he said, attempting to soothe him. “Avoiding that scenario was wise.”

Aemon nodded, but before he could respond, the nursery door burst open. Rhaenys and Viserys tumbled inside, panting heavily, clearly trying to escape their caregivers. They leaned against the door, catching their breaths, oblivious to their fathers’ presence.

“I can’t believe we did that, Rhaenys,” Viserys said, his voice tinged with nervousness. “We should’ve waited for permission to see our new brother.”

“Oh, that would take too long, Vissy,” Rhaenys teased. “This way, we can spend more time here without them realizing.”

“Oh, is that so?” Aemon’s stern voice cut through the room like a blade.

Both children froze at the sound, stiffening visibly. When they turned and saw their fathers’ stern faces, their complexions paled.

“There’s a reason you weren’t allowed to see the baby today,” Baelon said, his tone devoid of humor. “I’ll explain it later. Ser Redwyne, escort the prince and princess to their rooms.”

The silent knight, stationed unobtrusively in the corner, immediately stepped forward, bowed, and led the children out. Baelon turned back to Aemon and noticed a thoughtful expression on his brother’s face.

“Brother?” Baelon called out.

Aemon shook his head to clear his thoughts, sighing when he saw Baelon’s questioning look. “I was just thinking about the future, Baelon. It could be glorious—Rhaenys as Queen, Viserys as king consort, and your second son as Hand of the King. Our children continuing the golden period started by our Father, expanded by us. You’re an excellent father, and moments like this make me realize how many I’ve missed with Daemon because of my hatred. I want that back.”

Baelon shook his head. “Brother, you know that’s impossible.”

Aemon’s gaze lingered on the baby in the cradle. Suddenly, a thought struck him. “Brother,” he began hesitantly, “I want to ask something of you.”

“I’m yours to command.” Baelon replied.

“Let our son and daughter be married. They’ll continue the Targaryen line. There’s no formal betrothal for Rhaenys yet, but familiarity and our encouragement will lead them to love one another. Even now, Viserys feels like a son to me, and Rhaenys like a daughter to you. Your second son is also my nephew twice over, but I am sure, he will be like a son to me as well. Name him Daemon Targaryen so I can raise a son named Daemon and forget the pain of losing the elder one.”

Baelon gasped at the request, shocked. He remembered how Aemon had named his firstborn Daemon simply because it was the only name he knew. A name Baelon himself had promised to use for his son, after his beloved elder brother. Seeing the hope in Aemon’s eyes, Baelon relented.

“I have followed you till now and I will follow in this order too, but you shall be the one informing our sister Alyssa that you have named her child after your eldest bastard or after yourself.”  Baelon said without any hesitation.

Aemon immediately grimaced knowing he is in for a hard time convincing Alyssa not to turn Meleys’ fire on him.  

===========================

83 AC

Small Council Meeting

"My lords, is there anything left to discuss in this meeting?" Prince Aemon asked.

Baelon realized it was time to bring up the foolish Dornish incursion heading for the Stormlands. How the Martell prince thought arriving in ships to attack the Stormlands would succeed—especially when the Iron Throne had five dragonriders—was beyond him. He was sure the king would order him and Aemon to deal with the Dornish fleet. It would be good exercise for their dragons.

Before Baelon could speak, Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, addressed the council.

"Your Grace," Lord Beesbury began, "there is the matter of the North."

The king’s gaze sharpened as he nodded for Beesbury to continue.

"The North’s tax revenues have stabilized in recent years. Up until 79 AC, they increased every year, but now they’ve leveled off and even decreased slightly. I suspect the northern lords may be manipulating the accounts and stealing from the crown," Lord Beesbury said.

The King looked at the Grand Maester, a position which still had a seat at small council, but was required to be silent until called upon by other members. 

"My king," the Grand Maester replied, "there is no chance of manipulation. The North has refused the maesters’ services and banned us from Winterfell, but as per your orders, a maester was sent to oversee tax calculations. According to the latest records, everything is accurate."

"But how is this possible?" Lord Redwyne interjected. "Taxes have steadily increased for the past decade and have now stopped? Lord Rickon was an honorable and loyal lord, but his son... well, we all know the regent lacks his father’s loyalty, as demonstrated by his disrespect toward Prince Aemon."

Sensing an argument brewing, Baelon decided to step in.

"My lords, the explanation might be simpler than you think. Lord Rickon was known for his exceptional leadership and ability to foster growth. His passing has clearly caused stagnation. His son lacks the same skills. Furthermore, major projects, such as the repairs at Moat Cailin, have been completed. The policies Lord Rickon implemented are still being followed, but there’s been no new development or innovation to drive further growth. The taxes have stabilized as a result."

"Aye," the king said. "Prince Baelon speaks the truth. The maesters have verified that the northern lords are not stealing from the crown. The lack of new ventures supports the idea that the young lord regent is risk-averse and a miser."

“My king, there has been a new development in the north,” Lord Redwyne said immediately. “The Mormonts have started shipbuilding and even whaling in the seas. We received the first shipment last month of whale oil and other goods. Whaling has been almost entirely done by the Ibbenese on the other side of the world compared to the Mormonts, and after inquiring, the northmen spoke in revered tones about the Red Death, and his skill in building ships and even whaling in the deep, ice-cold seas, as well as taming a she-bear. I couldn't make them tell the actual name of the Red Death, but I have heard a rumor of a song in the Riverlands called "The Red Death." It talks about the red-haired Tully defeating the Ironborn and bathing himself in blood. The bards have not yet reached King's Landing with that stupid song.”

Baelon noticed Aemon grimacing at the mention of The Red Death, though his brother’s face betrayed no overt anger or any other emotions.

"Lord Redwyne," Baelon interjected, "there’s no need to waste resources investigating this figure. We know who he is. He is my bastard nephew, Daemon Snow. Regent Bennard Stark sent him to Bear Island to be fostered. He earned the name The Red Death after slaughtering wildlings in the Battle of the Nightfort."

The council exchanged surprised glances at this revelation.

"Enough," the king commanded sternly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "This is the Small Council, convened to advise me in governing my kingdom—not to waste time gossiping about a bastard on the other side of the realm.

As I have already made clear, every lord in this kingdom is free to govern their lands as they see fit, provided they pay their taxes and abide by the laws of the crown. Let the Mormonts hunt whales or even krakens if they so choose. The Iron Throne has no interest in their pursuits, so long as they remain loyal and fulfill their obligations of fealty and taxes."

"Aye, Your Grace," both Baelon and Lord Redwyne said in unison, accepting the rebuke with bowed heads.

After the king acknowledged their obeisance, Baelon spoke. "My king," he began, his tone grave, "the Dornish have committed to attacking our coasts by sea. Their ships are said to set sail with the next moon."

Prince Aemon let out a derisive snort at the news. "They’re actually attacking us with wooden ships?" he said, incredulous. "Father, allow me to meet them when the time comes. I’ll deal with this insult myself."

"My prince," Lord Redwyne interjected, his voice steady but respectful, "your life is far too precious to risk. The royal fleet and my own are prepared to meet the Crown's enemies. Though my sailors have reported increased shipping traffic in the Dornish Sea, there has been no credible word of an attack or declaration of war." He glanced toward Baelon, his expression turning sharp and calculative.

The king sat in deliberation for a moment, his gaze heavy with thought. Finally, he spoke, his tone resolute. "I am the Protector of the Realm. Should they dare attack my kingdom, I will welcome them—not just with my sons, but with Vermithor by my side."

==============================================

84 AC

The kings solar

Baelon hurried into the solar after receiving permission, his steps brisk. Inside, he found the king seated with his mother, Queen Alysanne, and his brother, Prince Aemon.

"Baelon, I’m glad to see you out of the nursery," his mother greeted, her voice warm yet tinged with exhaustion. Baelon noted the dark circles beneath her eyes and the weariness etched into her regal features. He was certain his own face bore a similar haggardness; the loss of Alyssa Targaryen had left both of them utterly devastated.

"Mother," Baelon said softly, "I’m relieved to find you here." He turned to face the king, his voice gaining urgency. "I’ve come to ask something that might save my son, Aegon." His gaze shifted between his mother and father before he continued, addressing the king. "My king, let me go to Bear Island and bring your bastard grandson here. He has... abilities. Whether through healing or some unknown cause, people’s health improves wherever he is. Please, let me take this chance for the sake of your youngest grandson’s life."

Baelon watched his father’s face intently, searching for any sign of emotion. The king remained unmoved, his expression stony.

"Aemon," the king said finally, his tone unreadable Baelon grimaced. He understood, his father’s plan to shift the burden of saying no to Aemon, but before Aemon could speak, their mother cut in, her voice sharp.

"Baelon, what in the Seven Hells are you talking about?" Alysanne demanded. "Do you honestly believe the tales spun by smallfolk? They’ve always been prone to fanciful stories, and now you think a bastard is blessed by the gods? We are not blessed by the gods, my son. If we were, I would not have had to give my own sons and daughters to the flames." Her words carried both derision and a deep, lingering sadness.

"It doesn’t matter if the stories are true or not, Mother," Baelon snapped back, his tone fierce. "I’m willing to gamble on any chance that might save my son’s life!"

Throughout the exchange, the king’s attention remained fixed on Aemon, who had stayed silent until now.

"Brother," Baelon called hesitantly, searching for support.

Aemon finally spoke, his voice calm yet resolute. "You don’t need to worry about me, Father. Let Baelon go and bring my son here."

Baelon’s heart lifted for a moment, but his hope faltered as the king sighed, his exhaustion evident.

"Baelon," the king said, his voice firm but weary, "you know why I’ve kept him in the North after Lord Stark’s death. The maesters and healers have assured me that Aegon is healthy for a babe of his age. Any signs of illness can be treated, and he will recover within moons. I’ve seen my children at this stage, and they’ve grown into strong men—just as the two of you are sitting before me now."

My king," Baelon protested, his voice rising with desperation, "this is about my son! We lost Alyssa, and what did the healers say about her? The same assurances!" His voice cracked with emotion. "I would go beyond the Wall itself if there were even a—"

"Baelon," the king hissed sharply, cutting him off. Though his tone remained controlled, it carried the weight of authority, and Baelon felt his body tense instinctively. His muscles locked, and the momentum of his outburst faltered mid-sentence.

"Prince Aemon," the king said, his gaze now shifting to his other son, "your brother is grieving and exhausted from sleepless nights spent beside my grandson. Escort him to his chambers and ensure he rests. He may return to the nursery once he is sufficiently rested. We will discuss seeking miracles when and if they are truly needed."

Baelon opened his mouth to argue, but the king’s promise to revisit the matter stayed his words.

He was tired—so tired—and perhaps half an hour of rest would help him marshal his thoughts and prepare a more convincing argument. Perhaps, then, he could find a way to bring Daemon here.

=======================================

84AC

Bear Island.

Daemon Snow

 "Up, up, up!" the crowd cheered, forming a circle around Jon, a Bear Island guard, and me as we competed in a push-up contest.

"You can do it, Daemon! Come on, it’s just the two of us on your back," Lyra teased from her perch on my back.

A low growl rumbled in agreement, and through my bond with Fenrir, I realized my direwolf was siding with her.

“Damn traitor,” I hissed under my breath as I lowered myself for another push-up.

Yes, I had introduced bodyweight exercises to Winterfell and now to Bear Island too, but it wasn’t doing me any favors at the moment. I was pushing up with my direwolf perched on my shoulder blades, and Lyra, wearing her armor, sitting across my lower back and hips.

“Look, Jon’s on his last ones! His arms are shaking, and he doesn’t even have anyone on his back,” Lyra pointed out with a laugh.

I didn’t reply. Even with my enhanced body and stamina, having 250 kilograms of extra weight on me was no joke. Balancing them both without making them topple off added to the challenge. I could feel my abs and back muscles strain as it  tightened again and again to balance both of them in back.

"Daemon! Daemon!" The crowd erupted in cheers as Jon finally collapsed onto his stomach, his arms giving out. I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, but the shaking of my body threw Fenrir off balance. My direwolf slipped from my back, and the sudden shift in weight sent me tumbling down as well, my stomach smacking against the ground with a thud.

I groaned in discomfort for a moment before laughter overtook me. Fenrir, however, was not amused. Using his paws, he smacked me square in the back as if to scold me for making him fall. The force was enough to leave bruises if I’d been a normal man. Luckily, he refrained from using his claws, though I groaned again from the pain.

“As fun as this is, it’s time to get to work.” Lady Dacey Mormont’s stern voice cut through the laughter as she entered the training yard.

Lyra, still seated on my back, quickly scrambled to her feet and stood at attention.

I shoved Fenrir off me with a grunt and rose to my feet, brushing dirt from my clothes.

“Daemon, Lyra, get cleaned up,” Lady Dacey ordered.

I was lying in bed, with Lyra hugging me as she slept, her face resting on my chest. Even though the cold didn’t bother me, having a warm body to hold was comforting. By now, I only needed two to three hours of sleep to function at my best, but there was almost nothing entertaining to do here apart from using my greensight to glimpse interesting moments from the past. Over time, I had uncovered many secrets and histories that Martin had skipped in canon.

It had been four years since my banishment to Bear Island, and it had turned out to be both a vacation and a productive time. My training in the ocean and the mysterious sensations I felt there, especially as we ventured westward, had been fascinating. However, I never dared to prod too deeply, not wanting to awaken whatever slumbered in the depths. Still, whatever it was, its presence in the west was unmistakable and not to be taken lightly, as I could feel it even from Bear Island. At-least I got the answer why the West of Westeros was left unexplored by every sailor. 

It was while searching for fish in the ocean that I first encountered whales and orcas. Whaling had been a practice near Ibben for millennia, but no one had ever realized whales were present on this side of the ocean as well. This discovery led to the Mormonts initiating whaling—a monumental endeavor under my leadership. My relationship with Lord Manderly proved invaluable, as it enabled us to establish a shipbuilding process and construct ships directly on Bear Island. This development also ensured I wasn’t confined entirely to the island. Each year, I travelled across the North, recruiting people to Bear Island to support the burgeoning shipping and whaling operations.

My thoughts were brought to a halt by Lyra moving around and trying burrow deeper to my chest in her sleep.  I smiled as I tightened the hold around her. 

It has been almost a year since I lost my virginity in this life to Lyra. I had tried to keep my distance and even told her I wouldn’t marry or settle down with her, but she was adamant. She assured me that even if a child were to be born, it would carry the Mormont name and not be labelled a bastard, as per tradition. For now, though, she was taking moon tea, ensuring that possibility remained distant.

I have been communicating with Cregan through warging, and he has been progressing rapidly in both talent and lessons. However, the reason for my current sleepless night lies in the latest tidings from King’s Landing. My greenseeing, combined with my warging, has revealed potential disruptions to my plans.

I grimaced, reflecting on how I had never expected my own healing ability to be taken seriously enough for my father to report it to the king. Now, my aunt Alyssa has died during childbirth after weeks of fluctuating health, and Baelon has finally recalled the story Aemon shared two years ago.

I am caught in a dilemma. Saving Aegon would undoubtedly alter the Targaryen future, adding another dragonrider to their ranks. More troubling is what I foresaw—the king may see me as a resource to be controlled, a prisoner whose blood could prolong his life. Jaehaerys Targaryen is clever enough to grasp the full potential of my abilities.

This has weighed on me for days, and I can sense Baelon’s patience wearing thin. He grows desperate, enough to consider flying north without the king’s permission to ensure the survival of his third son, my cousin, Aegon Targaryen.

Jaehaerys is one of the most powerful men in the world, and his only true adversary now is time and old age. What would he do if gifted with a distant grandson whose blood could heal any wound and extend life itself? Both paths before me are fraught with danger and pitfalls. Healing Aegon would confirm my ability and surely trap me in the south, far from the safety of distance and anonymity that have protected me thus far. To lose that would spell disaster for me.

Finally, after nearly an hour of deliberation, I decided what must be done.

==================================

Authors Note: Yeah almost 4 year time skip.. This  decade should be more faster than previous one unless my muse hit me like a jackhammer and the targ family drama became too good for me to ignore. 

Hit me with what you think daemon has decided. Also  don’t have to wait this long for the next one. It should be a faster update. Took some time to decide whether to show the development of bear island and daemon’s sea training, but decided to skip showing them. 

ADS 21

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 21: Protector of The Realm

 80 AC

Beyond the wall

I woke to the sensation of wetness on my face. Groaning, I opened my eyes and was immediately greeted by a direwolf pup licking me repeatedly. The pup had pure black fur and striking green eyes. Flaring my senses, I could feel the bond between us, able to see myself through the direwolf’s eyes.

I withdrew and noticed blood droplets around the direwolf's mouth; it had been licking at the wound on my stomach and drinking blood from it. The wound was only half healed, and I groaned as I sat up, feeling the pain. My clothes had been burned in the fire, and the only reason I hadn’t died from frostbite was due to the cold resistance I’d developed in my younger years.

I saw another wolf cub, white as a ghost, lying near my foot. It was the runt of the litter, seemingly abandoned by its mother. The mother was nursing the other pups, and the father stood guard over them—and maybe over me, too. 

The moment I sat up, the pack began to move away, leaving my direwolf and the runt behind. I extended my senses to the male direwolf and tried to convey visions of safety, food, and shelter. But he growled back in annoyance, and I shrugged.

"Well, I tried." I said as I looked at the black direwolf in my hand.

The black direwolf wagged its tail at me.

"Well, you're a lucky one. You’re stuck with me for a long time, Fenrir." The only name I could think of, looking at him, was Fenrir. The direwolf woofed at the name, and I could feel acceptance through our fledgling bond. I could already tell this was unlike my other bonds with animals. There was something more in this bond—I could almost feel a magical thread weaving between us, connecting us. Perhaps it was because my talent had picked up on the Night King’s skilled use of this power, but I wondered how much this bond would develop.

“Well, well, Lyra will be angry that she missed this sight, Daemon,” Aethan’s voice called as he and ten men from Winterfell entered the clearing on their horses. Despite his teasing tone, I could still sense the worry beneath it.

“Lord Snow, what happened? Who did this to you?” one of the men-at-arms asked me, handing over my spare clothes.

“Don’t worry, my friend. I’ve succeeded in my quest.” I lifted my black direwolf and held him up, just like Rafiki held young Simba. “This is Fenrir, and after centuries, a direwolf has returned to House Stark.”

Feeling my amusement, Fenrir tried to howl majestically, but it came out as a small sound that made me laugh.

Everyone, except Aethan, looked at me as if I were insane, but I could sense the awe and fear through their presence as I extended my senses. After that intense fight with the Night King, I could tell my mental prowess had increased drastically, and now I had a kind of discount empathy sense.

“Get dressed, Daemon; we have to go,” Aethan warned, and I nodded in acceptance.

=================

The Wall.

Ever since the battle, every single bond with my animals had been severed, and I’d had to manually reestablish each one as they came to find me. All the birds on this side of the Wall had returned, making it easy to reconnect with them. The problem was that I couldn’t sense any of my connections beyond the Wall, and because of that, I had no idea whether Prince Aemon had left or whether he was still waiting for me.

I hardened my mind as we entered the courtyard of Castle Black, scanning for a flash of silver hair. Seeing none, I sighed slightly, easing a tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding. The direwolf pups were tied to my body by cloth, both curiously peeking out. They lay nestled against me, wrapped securely, and it was astonishing to see how much they’d grown in just a week—much faster than any dog or wolf.

Lord Ryswell’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw the direwolves. He glanced around the army, a series of questions flashing across his face as he realized that our numbers hadn’t diminished and there were no injuries among us.

"So, Prince Aemon Targaryen has fled back to the south rather than face me. Is that it?" I said, smirking.

A few gasps sounded at the audacity of my words, but Lord Commander quickly cut in. “Prince Aemon instructed me to order you not to linger here any longer and to proceed directly to Winterfell, as promised by you.”

“Ah, don’t worry,” I replied. “As you can see, Ice is strapped to my back, and Aethan—show them the traitor’s head.”

With a grimace, Aethan held up the preserved head of the treacherous knight, displaying it for all to see.

“As I said,” I continued, “we vanquished the wildling army beyond the Wall without suffering a single injury. The Old Gods have blessed House Stark once again with their fated companions—the direwolves have returned south of the Wall. The black one, Fenrir, is mine, and the white one will belong to my cousin, Lord Cregan Stark.”

The Lord Commander grasped the significance of my words, and finally, he spoke. “I offer you guest rights, and perhaps you might enlighten me on how you achieved such an impossible victory.”

I ofcourse, accepted the guest rights graciously.

========================

One moon later

Winterfell.

Upon our arrival at Winterfell, we were met with a hero’s welcome from the people of Wintertown and the castle. I presented the sword and the traitor’s head to Lord Cregan Stark. Cregan, alongside Lady Giliane Stark, welcomed us in the courtyard. I could see Cregan was holding back tears of happiness at the sight of me, though he was doing his best to maintain the Lord Stark Mask of our grandfather.

Cregan was looking at puppies at my feet curiosly and I decided to end the surprise.

After the pleasantries were over, Cregan’s gaze fell curiously on the pups at my feet, so I decided it was time to reveal the surprise. I lifted the white pup into my hands—it was already the size of a one-year-old dog—and presented it to Cregan.

“Cregan, little brother, it’s time House Stark is reunited with its wolf protectors. Here is the direwolf pup I obtained from beyond the Wall for you. You may name this one, and I have named mine Fenrir.”

Everyone looked at the black pup, now larger than the white one. My blood and the bond we shared had accelerated my companion’s growth. Seeing the white wolf and feeling the bond, Cregan finally let go of the Stark mask. He lunged forward to hug me, whispering “Thank you” over and over.

============================================

It wasn’t even the next day before Lord Regent Bennard Stark summoned me to the solar. Though it irked me, I didn’t want to start trouble on my first day back, so I decided to present myself.

As I entered the solar, I saw Lord Bennard standing near the fireplace, his back to me. My eyes drifted to the Lord’s empty chair, and memories flooded my mind of the countless meetings I'd had with my grandfather in this very room. I sighed, taking a deep breath to control the sadness that enveloped me. My anger had been satiated, but sadness had no cure, save time—or perhaps my control ability to cheat it.

 Cregan was sitting with his mother on the chairs along the wall. I looked at them and they shrugged in confusion.

I cleared my throat to break the awkwardness of the room.

“Daemon Snow, you may have escaped punishment due to being the son of a prince and the foolishness of my nephew, but know that you are being watched. You usurped my authority and wielded a sword to which you have no right. Beware—I am not fooled by your intentions, hidden though they may be from my brother and father,” Bennard said sternly, still not turning to face me. I was surprised at how my uncle had arrived at such a foolish notion.

“My lord—” Lady Gilaine began, trying to come to my defense, but Bennard turned abruptly and snapped,

“Oh, shut up, Glover! Like everyone else, you too are charmed by this dragonspawn. You have no idea what he has done. The people of the North may praise my father for the improvements he brought—even for restoring Moat Cailin—but the lords know the truth. The ideas came from him,” he said, nodding towards me. “For centuries, House Stark has never needed to question the loyalty of the Reeds, Manderlys, or Mormonts. And yet Daemon has impressed their lords and heirs more than Cregan has. He even convinced Reed’s heir to go with him beyond the Wall on a reckless mission. Now the smallfolk and the lords praise his military strength and martial prowess, all at the tender age of thirteen. If I didn’t know for a fact he had no contact with Targaryens since birth or that he is too prideful to be a puppet, I might even think he was planted here to turn House Stark into a puppet of the dragon throne.”

Even I was taken aback by my uncle’s rant for a moment, but soon the memories from my previous life hit me, and I started laughing. It began as a snort, but within seconds it grew into an uproarious, uncontrollable laugh.

“Ha…hahahaha!”

“Daemon,” Lady Gilaine said, looking shocked at my reaction, while Bennard was, of course, furious at the apparent disrespect.

“Sorry, Uncle, but that’s the best joke you’ve ever told,” I said, stifling my laughter. “I have no desire for Winterfell or the North. I have higher purposes in this life than ruling over a gaggle of idiotic lords.” I looked at Cregan, who was glancing between his uncle and me, his thoughts racing.

 “Cregan, you don’t have to worry about anything. You will be Lord of Winterfell when you come of age—I’ll make sure of it.” I turned back to my uncle with a stern look.

“Thank you, Daemon,” Cregan said, hugging Winter, his direwolf, close.

“You may placate them with this boasting, but I will keep my eye on you. And your strutting around Winterfell as a prince is over. I’ve spoken with Lady Mormont, and you are to foster with House Mormont on Bear Island, since you seem so taken with her daughter,” Bennard declared.

My smile faded, realizing that my plans were unraveling even further.

“What?” Lady Glover interrupted. “And you decided this on your own? I am co-regent!”

“Yes, you are co-regent, and of course you can change this, but I wonder how the Mormonts will take it since they were honored to host a son of Winterfell,” Bennard replied smoothly.

Both Lady Glover and I saw what Bennard’s intentions were. We couldn’t reject his order without insulting the Mormonts—especially after the loyalty they had shown to me and House Stark. This was an unofficial punishment, the furthest Bennard could go in removing me from Winterfell, effectively banishing me to the northernmost of the lowly bannermen.

“No!” Cregan shouted, realizing we weren’t going to challenge the decision. “You can’t send him away from me. I need him here.”

“That’s not my problem, Cregan. Daemon may stay for a moon’s turn, but after that, he is to go to Bear Island with the Mormont heiress. This decision is final.” With that, Bennard left the solar.

“Daemon, you can’t go! You still have to teach me so many things,” Cregan said as soon as the door closed.

“Don’t worry, Cregan. I’ll find a way to keep teaching you, even from Bear Island,” I said, trying to reassure my young cousin.

==============================================

Four Weeks Later: Godswood

“Cregan, do you understand the plan?” I asked. “You’ll warg into this bird at set times, or use it to contact me. I’ll warg into my own bird left here, and we’ll communicate that way.”

Cregan scoffed. “I understand, Daemon. You’re repeating it for the tenth time. There are potions made from your blood for a full year. I’m to consume that potion directly every week, and the diluted form with my food and water.”

I sighed in exasperation as it was a typical childish response.

“Daemon…you’ll come back, right? You won’t marry Lyra Mormont and stay there, will you?” Cregan asked, his curiosity piqued. “She’s been looking at you…strangely.”

I scoffed. “I’m not marrying her, Cregan. Now look after Winter, and she’ll look after you, too.”

Cregan nodded eagerly before running after the direwolves.

“Brandon, you are to be Lady Gilaine’s sworn sword from today until I call you back,” I told my silent shadow. Though I had my own birds and animals in Winterfell, a human perspective would be valuable.

Brandon raised his hand as if to protest, but my glare stopped him short. He nodded reluctantly.

I sighed, exhausted by the thought of reworking my plans for the future. At least the silent improvements to cattle and the people of Winterfell would continue, as Bennard wasn’t foolish enough to halt the developments begun by his father. I would miss the comforts of Winterfell, but it seemed the Mormonts would be lucky to have me there to help develop their lands.

I looked at the weirwood tree, knowing it would be my last time here for a long while, then walked to the courtyard where Lyra and Lady Mormont waited for me.

=====================================================

80AC

Kingslanding

The Spring Prince

Baelon waited with the King in the royal solar for his brother to return and report after his journey to Winterfell. He had been anxious the entire time Aemon was in the North and had even used the glass candles to keep an eye on him—nearly getting immolated by Caraxes for his trouble. Sometimes, he cursed the gods for not granting his brother any talent in sorcery.

Aemon entered the solar and bowed to the King as tradition required. The moment Baelon caught Aemon’s gaze, he knew his brother had disobeyed one of the King’s orders.

“Aemon, come, sit, and tell me which of my orders you chose to ignore. I can see it on your face—you didn’t follow my instructions,” the King said, sighing in weariness.

“Aemon,” Baelon acknowledged, as Aemon sat beside him, facing the King across the table.

“Father, I appointed Bennard and Lady Gilaine as co-regents due to Bennard's disrespect. He’s still bitter over my love for his bastard sister and holds a vendetta over it, which clouds his judgment. Here’s what happened in Winterfell…” Aemon explained.

Baelon looked at the King and he saw the king contemplating the information.  Baelon could see the subtle shock and a slight fear in the King’s face hearing about Daemon’s rampage with a Valyrian Steel Sword and pyromancy.  

“Aemon, are you certain of this account?” the King asked, his tone grave. “Could it not be an exaggeration from panicked peasants, who mistook Daemon’s skills with Valyrian steel for something more? Even among the Old Blood only few know of  the full potential of such weapons unless that power is accidentally awakened.”

Baelon grimaced, knowing the King would be displeased that his thirteen-year-old grandson had uncovered one of the secret aspect of Valyrian steel—and wielded a greatsword with the grace and ease of perfectly matched sword, when the size should have been a liability at his age.

“Aye, Father. From what I gathered, Daemon stands nearly five-and-a-half feet tall with enough muscle to make a Baratheon jealous. But even with that to wield a Greatsword like Ice as it is said, he must have activated the bonding aspect of the blade. Even with the usual bonding Valyrian Steel sword had, Ice is more than that. It actually burned Lord Karstark when he tried to take it and deemed his motives suspect.  There is also the matter of Fire spreading coldness after it radiated hotness like the dornish desert for a moment. Everyone agreed that the Ice spread a bone deep cold making everyone freeze in terror.”  Aemon said with a grimace.

Baelon could hear the King’s mind working hard to grasp the magic involved, as he was certain there was still some knowledge his father had yet to teach him.

"Interesting, very interesting. There must be a reason the Starks retained the name of their original ancestral sword when they commissioned the Valyrian steel from old Valyria," the King said thoughtfully. "But these are just words, Aemon. What made you believe this is the truth? Have you seen Daemon perform such feats with your own eyes?"

Aemon immediately looked guilty, and Baelon understood; for some reason, Aemon had not seen his son on this trip.

"I never saw him, Father. I couldn’t get the opportunity. I believe the story because—even without the smallfolk knowing the full tale—Daemon is regarded as a god-gifted child. I inquired further, and they told me that everyone in Winterfell is healthy and that disease has almost been eradicated. They thank Daemon for this, believing he has the power to bless them with healing. I couldn’t see him because he went beyond the Wall to hunt down the Lusty Knight, and no matter what I tried, Caraxes wouldn’t fly over the Wall."

"Preposterous tales, Brother," Baelon interjected. "There is no magic that could heal that many people for years."

"That’s true, Aemon. Perhaps it was just a phase or due to other policies. I’ll forgive you for waiting only seven days instead of staying until my grandson returned and completing my order. You’ve captured the spirit of it, though," the King said thoughtfully. "So why did you attempt to fly over the Wall when even Silverwing wouldn’t do it?" he asked curiously.

Baelon was surprised to see the King forgiving Aemon for not actually meeting with Daemon. Observing him, Baelon finally understood why: the King had never truly expected Aemon to accomplish the order as it was given.

Aemon looked ashamed for a moment before replying, "I forgot about that story, Father. Only after I tried the first time did I remember the tale of Silverwing and Mother. Speaking of Mother, where is she? She usually attends these meetings."

"Our mother is with child again, Aemon. It’s surprising, especially at her age, but the maester has recommended rest for now." Baelon tried to break the news gently, but Aemon's frown quickly turned to anger, revealing he had failed.

The King wore a mocking smile, as if daring Aemon to speak up.

"Why, Father? Why risk it all for a child who might not survive, like our brothers Gaemon and Valerion?" Aemon asked, struggling to hide his anger.

The King grimaced at the memory of his lost children, but it disappeared quickly. "You are my heir and my eldest living child, so I’ll show you the courtesy of answering. After Valerion, the maesters said there would be no more children, that her chances were near impossible at our ages. There are too few Targaryens left in this world, and my eldest son has avoided his duty to sire more children because of the fear of losing them—or his wife—to the birthing bed. I have no such fears. Alysanne has successfully borne twelve children, and I am sure she will be unharmed by the thirteenth too."

Baelon could see Aemon looked guilty under his father's chastisement, but he knew Aemon would never change his mind on this matter.

"May I be excused, Father? I need to meet my darling daughter and Viserys after freshening up," Aemon requested.

"Aye, you are dismissed," the King replied, waving him away.

Baelon wished to accompany his elder brother, but he knew it was impossible for now. As Aemon closed the door behind him, the King sighed wearily.

"Baelon, it seems your brother has recovered somewhat and performed admirably. What has your scrying through the glass candle discovered?" the King asked.

"As you know, my King, Winterfell is shielded against scrying by unknown means. I cannot view anything within the castle or enter the minds of its residents. Daemon is an exception, as our blood relation seems to bypass this protection, but I cannot glean much from his mind—it’s protected by an imaginary Winterfell. I attempted it yesterday, and his skill in mental defense has improved drastically. I was almost burned by a new barrier around his mind, a black flame from the firewall that stopped me from even entering. More than that the flames counterattacked me and even followed the link to my mind. Only my bond with Vhagar and my own skill saved me. Later, I tried scrying on the smallfolk in Wintertown, and they all corroborated Aemon’s version of events."

Baelon saw the King pale as he shared this information.

"Black flames?" the King asked hesitantly.

Baelon nodded, and for the first time, he saw the King slump in his seat, losing his regal posture, a shadow of sadness crossing his face.

“It seems Fate is a cruel mistress, and is punishing me by making the Targaryen blood sing with greatness in my bastard grandson after it blessed me.” The King said and Baleon could see a glint of insanity and mirth in the King’s face as the masks crumbled, the same madness that made the king threaten his own sons using Balerion the black dread. Baelon could see the mirth increasing but he couldn’t understand the reason. The King snorted and a heartbeat later it was full blown laughter. 

A laughter of a man who finally understood a joke that no one else could see.

Baelon paled further and his hands tightened around handles of his chair as his heartbeat increased. Baelon could see that somehow the iron control of the king has vanished and he is seeing the true self of the king.  A man brimming with both greatness and madness.

The King eventually stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes as he glanced at Baelon seated opposite him. A cruel glint entered the King’s eyes.

"Ah, Baelon, forgive me, my son. No one has played such a trick on me since I was a child, but it seems the Fourteen Flames wish to punish me in my lifetime, not after my death. And it goes without saying that you will not disclose this lapse of mine to anyone," the King said with a careless smirk.

Baelon nodded immediately, deciding that no one would hear of this from him.

The king accepted this and continued, “Today I curse my own younger self for not approving the marriage request when Aemon sent his letter. I valued my wife and my hands advice and didn’t think about the bloodline of my grandchild. It would have been perfect -The bastard girl will still die in the birthing bed and Aemon would be free to marry Jocelyn later. Our house will become more stronger by having a heir with such magical power and by my own teachings to him. But alas, my own arrogance blinded me and now it’s too late.”

Baelon wondered what would have happened if something like that happened. 

"My King, is it truly too late? Daemon is only on the cusp of thirteen, and though we ignored him, House Targaryen has still supported him financially. We could invite him south and begin a relationship. I have many sisters with no suitable matches, which would address the issue of free dragons and prevent lords from seeking dragons through my sisters—or wait until Rhaenys is of age. She could marry her elder brother and he would be the king consort. Of course, he would have to renounce any claim to the Iron Throne before granting him the Targaryen name," Baelon advised.

The King kept silent as he mulled over the idea.

"No, Baelon. It’s too dangerous to bring him into our midst now. According to Aemon’s tale, Daemon regards Lord Stark as his father, and the carnage he unleashed after Lord Stark’s death validates that. He has no love for our family and is highly intelligent. He would immediately know we only called him because he proved himself in battle and because we want to verify the stories of his ‘god-blessed’ powers."

Baelon nodded in understanding. “Aye my king, he will obviously know the true reason, but what if he desires such a connection. He lost his loving relatives in his grandfather and uncle. There is only Bennard left and he hates daemon. The other is Cregan who is younger than him, so irrelevant. You are his other grandfather, and I am his uncle from other side of the family. It may be helpful to integrate him to house Targaryen through that relation.”

The King scrutinized Baelon with a proud smirk. “It’s too risky,” he said. “The cost may outweigh the benefits he offers us. What if he comes to King’s Landing and bonds with Balerion, the Black Dread? And if the stories of his talents are true—if he can heal others and make them whole again—then he would be dangerous to our house. With Balerion fully healed, even I could not contest Daemon’s claim should he seek the heirship and the Targaryen name after Aemon. He would make us his puppets, and we would have nothing to make him obey. No fear, no loyalty, and certainly not the love of kin.”

Baelon paled at the thought, understanding the King’s reasoning.

"I understand, my King."

"Baelon, keep an eye on him through those near him, but do not enter his mind again. Keep me informed of his sentiments toward our house. If one of my daughters might know the honor of being a dragonrider at the price of Daemon’s loyalty, I am willing to pay it. You are dismissed," the King said.

Baelon rose and bowed. "Your Grace."

He left the room without making it obvious he was running away from the king.

===========================

Authors Note: Time skips incoming from next chapter!!!!

ADS 20

Chapter 20: First Blood

Omniscient POV

Aemon was enthralled by the sight of the sprawling North as he flew to the Wall on Caraxes. Ever since they re-entered the North, Caraxes had been rough and temperamental, influenced by Aemon’s own emotions, and the cold didn’t help the dragon either. At least the Wolfswood was vast, and the population of wild animals plentiful enough that Caraxes could take out his anger and hunger on some bears and aurochs without taxing House Stark’s resources.

Aemon flew over Long Lake,

and as always since his journey to the North, his thoughts were full of Daemon and the prospect of meeting him for the first time. Hearing Daemon acknowledge his grandfather as his own father had been an arrow to Aemon’s heart, stirring feelings of anger, disdain, and jealousy. Even now, he didn’t know what would happen when he finally saw Daemon. The anger dissolved to nothing as he enjoyed the view of the North, its snow-laden mountains, and lakes from the air. Maybe Caraxes would allow Daemon to ride with him after they burned down whatever paltry wildling army Lucamore the Lusty had gathered.  The disgraced knight could beat even Aemon in a spar, but he never intends to even touch the ground before the wildling army is turned to ashes.

===========================

"Prince Aemon, welcome to Castle Black," said Lord Commander Ryswell, bowing in respect as Aemon entered the courtyard. The Lord Commander noted the young prince’s facial resemblance to Daemon and sensed the same air of arrogance in his posture, though the bastard’s was perhaps even higher than that of the dragon-riding crown prince of the realm. Ryswell would have scoffed at that before, but when all his sources spoke of Daemon slaughtering hundreds, a blur of blood and ancient magic wielded with ice, the young bastard indeed had something to be arrogant about.

‘What is a man compared to one who’s god-blessed and kills before others even draw their swords?’ The Lord Commander Ryswell thought swallowing the feelings of fear.

"I can see you are prepared for something. What is it, and why have you not ventured beyond the Wall to kill the enemy king?" Aemon asked, attempting to smother his anger as he thought of his son leading a paltry force against superior numbers in the harsh lands beyond the Wall.

"My prince, the wildlings have no way through other than crossing this Wall. It is far easier for us to kill them here than to hunt them down in their own lands," Lord Ryswell replied.

"So you allowed an army of 1,000 and my son to cross and hunt 7,000 men you yourself were afraid to face without hiding behind a 700-foot wall?" Aemon’s temper rose at the thought of his son in such danger.

"My prince, I had no choice but to allow them passage. Even though I hold superior numbers, I don’t want to face your son while he wields Ice. You son has actually earned his moniker of ‘Red Death’ twice over.  The stories of a sword in flames and him being a whirlwind of violence and broken bodies are true. He destroyed an entire castle, venting his wrath upon 500 traitors there. The fire started by his slaughter even melted some portions of The Wall, which was said to be impossible.”

"Let us hope they are all well when I catch up to them. I will end this wildling threat immediately. Even snow melts under dragonfire," Aemon replied as Caraxes, who had been lying outside the gates, slowly rose and let out a mighty roar.

Aemon walked back the way he came and climbed into the saddle.

Caraxes looked back at him as if asking what to do. He sent a mental nudge urging the dragon to fly. To maintain their supposed cover of how close a dragon-rider is to their dragon, he called out, "Sōvēs!" in High Valyrian.

Caraxes spread his red wings, and with two powerful flaps, they were half the height of the Wall and hundreds of meters to the south. Aemon almost face-palmed at his dragon's antics, sending a feeling of laughter and an image of reversing their flight and soaring over the Wall.

Yet, for the first time, his dragon outright ignored his order. Caraxes continued flying away from the Wall. Aemon tried to probe the dragon’s feelings, but there was only a bone-deep wariness and caution. Deciding to be more forceful, he commanded Caraxes to return to the Wall. They reached the Wall at double its height, but Caraxes moved sideways, beginning to fly west instead. Aemon looked down and understood: his dragon would not cross the Wall’s boundary.

He remembered the old tale of how Queen Alysanne's Silverwing refused three times to fly over the Wall. With a sigh of defeat, Aemon ordered Caraxes to return to the Night’s Watch.

Upon landing, he met Lord Commander Ryswell, who had been waiting in the courtyard. Aemon guessed the Night’s Watch still recalled Silverwing’s story.

"How long has it been since my son went beyond the Wall, and is there any chance of catching up with him?"

"No, my prince, it has been six days since Daemon left, and he rejected any scouts. We have rangers stationed near the Wall to report if an army returns, but beyond that, it’s not our duty to know their location."

Aemon’s temper flared, but he didn’t want to cause a scene, knowing the Lord Commander was right.

"I see. Then you will send your fastest rangers to find my son and his men. Though he has inherited the talents of my blood in arms and magic, he’s still young to be fighting such numbers in hostile territory. They are to order him to return immediately. Also, arrange for the best tent to be set up outside the gates for myself and my dragon. He is weary and irritable in this cold, and may end up killing your men without my supervision."

Lord Ryswell was angered at the prince’s presumption. "I am not under your command an—" he began but was interrupted by the vicious roar of the red-winged beast outside.

Ryswell cursed the thrice-damned abomination of a dragon and its magic as he nodded in reluctant agreement, conceding to Aemon’s demands.

===============================================

Prince Aemon’s time at the Wall was dragging on far longer than he anticipated, his patience waning under the relentless cold and monotony. Each day, he tried in vain to push Caraxes to fly over the Wall, but the red dragon remained steadfast, refusing to cross the ancient barrier. Every failed attempt seemed to gnaw at his pride, and his restlessness deepened. He’d taken to training with some guardsmen from House Umber—rough, towering men from Last Hearth who offered solid practice but little in the way of mental relief. They, along with several other men, had been sent north at his request when he passed through Last Hearth, a precaution he’d considered necessary given his uncertain stay.

On the second day, the trouble began. A pair of men from the Night's Watch, desperate and evidently harboring a vendetta against the crown, tried to ambush him, clearly embittered by their grievances with the royal family. Caraxes, sensing the threat almost before Aemon did, swiftly dealt with them, a ferocious roar echoing across Castle Black. The incident left Aemon unsettled—though the two men hadn’t been part of the conspiracy of traitors, their loathing had been palpable. The thought lingered, irritating him like a thorn he couldn't remove.

And then came the dreams. For four nights, Aemon was haunted by visions of confronting Daemon, his estranged son, only for his own pride and anger to unleash dire punishments on Daemon. In one such dream, he witnessed Caraxes lashing out, burning Daemon as he defended himself. In another, Daemon—wielding Ice with a mastery of strange, northern magic—defeated Caraxes and turned on him, ending both dragon and rider with cold fury.

It was the seventh night that marked the breaking point. In his dream, Daemon’s face was etched with brutal clarity as he slashed through Caraxes with ease using the Great Sword Ice, leaving Aemon defenseless before striking him down. The dream was vivid enough to enrage Caraxes through his bond; the dragon woke in an uncontrollable fury, lashing out and slaughtering two Night's Watch guards by the gate and nearly bringing down part of the castle itself. It took all of Aemon’s skill to calm the irate dragon.

At dawn, Lord Commander Ryswell approached him, seething with anger at the carnage but unable to voice his resentment openly. Aemon, exhausted and haunted by his nightmares, merely brushed off Ryswell’s anger. He promised to compensate the Night’s Watch with resources and ten prisoners from the crown to join their ranks—a gesture that earned him a bitter nod of acceptance from the Lord Commander.

The following morning, Aemon resolved to leave. He could no longer bear the thought of facing Daemon, his visions gnawing at him as much as his son’s palpable absence. He gave Ryswell a final message before his departure.

“When my son returns, he is to take the head of the so-called King Beyond the Wall, along with Ice, and escort them directly to Winterfell. No detours, no other adventures.”

Ryswell, stiff but resigned, gave a curt nod. “I will inform him, my prince.”

Aemon mounted Caraxes, and with a powerful clap of wings, they soared southward, away from the Wall and his son’s shadow.

 =================================================

Beyond the wall

Daemon Snow

After the slaughter of the wildlings, I allowed dozens to survive to spread word of my name and our deeds. We were now returning to Castle Black. The head of the traitor was preserved, and the army was in high spirits, as no one had lost their life in this mad quest. During this return journey, I took the time to reflect on my actions since the death of my grandfather. I had been hasty in many things, but looking back, I couldn’t see any other way to achieve what I wanted.

"Daemon, why are we circling around?" Lyra asked me, riding beside my position at the front of the army. Aethan was at the rear, and the first line of soldiers was out of earshot due to the noise of marching. Ever since the night I became known as the Red Death, Lyra had been trying to stay close to me. We had been close friends ever since our first meeting at Winterfell, and I trusted her to some extent, but I hadn’t revealed my more esoteric abilities. When I first met her in the godswood, I felt an immediate crush on her, but it faded within a week. Looking back now, I realized that my powers’ control aspect had likely suppressed the feeling, since I had decided not to develop a crush because it was a weakness.

At first, I hadn’t noticed her intentions, consumed as I was by grief and focused on vengeance. But now, with time to process things, I could see she might have developed feelings for me. Her new habit of sticking by my side had become a bit of a headache, as I had to censor what I said when I had discussions with Aethan.

"Lyra, let me ask you something. Why have you been staying so close to me since that night? You’ve been acting oddly and asking many questions."

Lyra looked guilty for a few seconds, and I couldn’t understand why.

"Daemon, I want to apologize to you. It was my fault that you lost your grandfather. If my mother hadn’t found us—because of my own carelessness—then Lord Stark wouldn’t have had to jump in front of those arrows to save you. I’m so sorry, Daemon. I can see how much it affected you, and I feel guilty for the lengths you went to for revenge," Lyra said in a broken voice.

I was taken aback by her conclusion and could see how deeply it was affecting her. I felt ashamed that I had mistaken her caring and guilt for romantic feelings.

"Lyra, that’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard," I said seriously.

"What?" Lyra sputtered, utterly confused.

"Do you think I would have hidden that night even if I hadn’t been with my grandfather? We were ambushed by crossbowmen, and they weren’t there for me. They were after the lords. You had nothing to do with it, Lyra. You aren’t responsible for the traitors' actions. They’re the ones responsible, and they’ve paid the price. That’s enough."

Lyra looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded, a smile of relief crossing her face.

"You still haven’t answered my question, Daemon," she said after a couple of minutes.

I sighed, knowing Lyra was trustworthy and deserved honesty.

"Prince Aemon Targaryen is at Castle Black, waiting for our arrival—or at least for the riders sent by the Night’s Watch with his orders for us to return to the other side immediately. I don’t want to see him or face a dragon right now. From what I can tell, his patience is thinning every day, and I don’t think he volunteered to come north now, after ignoring me all this time."

Lyra grimaced but nodded in understanding.

"Daemon, how long do you intend to linger here? I’m sure the soldiers won’t complain, but if your father or the king learns of it, you’ll be in more trouble."

"Don’t worry too much, Lyra. I’m still just a bastard, not important enough for them to be overly concerned. And there’s another reason for our delay. Aethan and I are looking for something," I said with a grin, but I didn’t elaborate. Knowing my dramatic streak, Lyra just scoffed and didn’t bother to ask further.

============================================

That Night.

The camp was set up for the night, and I was preparing for my own trip. After a long search, my birds had finally spotted my quarry: a pair of direwolves with six pups, likely less than a week old. The wolves were several miles from our path, moving with haste, and I decided to go after them alone.

"Are you sure about this, Daemon?" Aethan asked as I secured a short axe to my belt. Ice was strapped to my back, as I couldn’t run or move with it at my hip.

I was silent for a moment before answering. "I’m hesitant to approach fully grown direwolves, Aethan, but this is an opportunity I can’t pass up. With my warging and other skills, I should be able to escape if they turn hostile."

Aethan scrutinized me. "Well, I’ll keep my eyes on you anyway."

I nodded in thanks.

====================================================

I sighed in relief as the water satisfied my thirst and calmed my panting from the run. The initial plan was to use my horse, but nighttime posed a major problem. Under the full moon’s glow, with my improved night vision, I had no trouble crossing the land on foot. I ate the dried meat and gulped down water to easily replenish my strength, feeling my enhanced body processing the food faster than was normally possible.

Using my warging abilities, I observed the pair of direwolves, 200 meters ahead, just outside a cave through the eyes of an owl. Both direwolves were tense, growling at the cave’s entrance and glancing around in vigilance. The male was as large as my horse, with far more muscle on his frame. The female, though shorter, was nearly as tall as my horse back in camp. Between them stood six pups, trying to mimic their parents’ growls, though they could barely manage a weak rumble.

I wondered what had them on edge and considered whether they’d already sensed me. Expanding my warging, I scanned the area and detected nine presences. One animal was inside the cave—a bear, from what I could gather through my hesitant prodding. I tensed immediately; even fully grown direwolves would struggle to protect their pups and kill a cave bear simultaneously. As my awareness expanded further, I felt the presence observing me ever since I crossed the wall, growing stronger as I reached out. I fortified my defenses, ensuring it would gather no secrets from my mind.

Deciding that openness was better than stealth, I leapt down from the tree. The male direwolf’s head whipped in my direction, and he growled a warning. I withdrew my mind from all my birds and extended it to connect with both direwolves. I projected warmth, kinship, and respect, though they remained wary and continued to growl.

Raising my hands to show they were empty, I cautiously approached. I was halfway there when suddenly, I tripped and fell, feeling something latch onto my left leg from behind.

I looked back and screamed like a little girl for a second as I saw a rotted hand holding my left leg, exerting an unnatural strength for such a thin limb.

“Fuck this shit!” I yelled, using all my strength to kick at the hand with my right leg. Even as the hand broke away from the main body of the wight rising from beneath the snow, it remained firmly grasping my leg, trying to pierce my flesh with sheer strength alone. The grip and sharp bones could have easily pierced a normal man’s skin, but my own durability had increased, preventing it from achieving that now.

The snow I walked through was moving and wiggling as wights emerged from the ground. For a moment, I froze as the raw necromantic magic hit my senses like a giant’s fist, and my innate learning talent went into overdrive, absorbing information from the wights.

I may have seen many zombies on screens in my previous life, but there was something inherently disturbing about seeing a live one in front of me. I hoped my scream and freezing moment hadn’t been caught by Aethan through his birds.

I immediately crawled a couple of meters backward, faster than I thought possible, then jumped back at the end, putting even more distance between me and the wights. I scanned the area for the white walker leading them and spotted an ethereal being of ice observing us from the other side of the clearing through which I had come.

I took two more steps backward, but my concentration on the wights was interrupted by a growl. I glanced back in surprise and realized I had entered the direwolf's lunging range; it was warning me to stay away while tensing its muscles for a leap.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I snarled back at the wolf, flaring my presence with killing intent consciously for the first time to ensure the wolf wouldn’t attack me from behind. “These dead fuckers are hunting you and your pack. I’m trying to protect you.” The male direwolf looked afraid for a moment and turned its eyes toward the wights, ignoring me.

I saw a hundred wights—made from men and women—eerily observing us with absolute stillness and silence. Even the cold wind of the night had died down, and the creatures of the night had long since fallen silent. The blue light of their eyes was truly chilling, sending a shiver down my spine as I imagined millions of these abominations staring at me before an attack. I immediately shrugged off that vision and readied my axe, preparing to test the abilities of these wights. I thanked my younger self for training my speed so much, knowing I could always escape by running away. I was confident enough in my skills and powers to avoid using Ice immediately and test the wights’ capabilities. I would have grabbed two pups and run away if Ice had not been with me.

“Yeah, whatever. This staring is getting boring,” I snapped, taking my axe and walking forward. “Let’s dance.”

=========================================================

It had been only five minutes since my battle with the wights began, and I immediately noticed the differences between these wights and the cannon ones. 

For one, these wights could heal any damage to their undead bodies—not catastrophic damage like losing a body part, but any slash or blunt force was healing slowly. Luckily they retained every damage they accrued before being turned to a wight. Second, surprisingly, there was coordination among the wights as they attacked from all sides. Only my superior speed allowed me to jump away or escape the traps set by the wights. The third thing I noticed was that each wight had retained the skills they possessed in life. Their attacks weren’t just indifferent flails; they had a basic level of skill. Fourth, I learned that decapitation or damaging the heart or brain didn’t stop the body from moving.

I had dismembered over a quarter of the wights when The Other moved toward me from the clearing. It was fast, and an ice sword appeared in its hand, adding cryomancy to the list of Other’s abilities. It moved with supernatural grace and I transferred the axe to my left hand while my right hand grasped Ice’s hilt.

It was faster than even Bennard and I immediately understood that only skilled fighters with experience could actually defeat an Other even with Valyrian Steel in their hands unless they have enhanced body like me.   

The axe met the slash of the ice sword, and the steel shattered like glass. I leaned back to avoid a leftward slash from the ice sword. The returning slash was blocked by the Valyrian steel in Ice, and the Other widened its eyes in pure surprise. Capitalizing on the moment, I extended Ice and stabbed it through the other’s stomach. The sword exited through the back, severing its spine, and it fell to the ground with a screech that almost made me deaf.

I took two steps backward, expecting the Other to shatter like in canon, but was surprised to see it not shatter. It yelled in a cold tongue as the gaping hole in its stomach stopped widening. Immediately, all the wights’ bodies fell down as I felt enormous magical energy being siphoned to the Other itself.

Curious to see what would happen, I watched as the gaping hole in its stomach slowly closed while the bodies of the wights turned to ashes. Cursing my luck for having wights and others with a small healing factor, I pierced the heart of the other with my Valyrian steel, and surprisingly this time, it shattered like brittle glass. Only my control talent made me not panic as I realised that I have to defeat, possibly millions of wights with healing factor.

I sighed as tiredness enveloped me after the events. I turned back toward the direwolves when suddenly, the presence that had observed me the moment I entered this side of the Wall surged all around me. I felt the cold hands of The Other enveloping my head from behind, and I sensed my mind palace, Winterfell’s defenses, shattering like glass as the mind entered my consciousness, trying to subjugate me. I lost control of my physical body as my entire will fought against the invading force. I fell to the ground as the other’s hand touched my head, and my grip on Ice’s hilt loosened.

I understood that the presence overwhelming me was the Night King, using greenseeing and his own minion to directly attack me from his fortress in the Lands of Always winter. I had only ever felt such an attack in my mind once before, when Balerion The Black Dread invaded my thoughts during my vision. The Night King kept shattering every defense I raised. The hundred-foot black walls of my Winterfell mind palace crumbled as ice and snow began to cover the entire castle. My bonds with my animals severed as my mind cracked under the superior power. The weirwood in the heart of Winterfell started rotting, and the blurry dragon nearby went into hibernation due to the cold.

“No!” I yelled as my mind tried to fight back, but the pressure was overwhelming. My talent grasped many things while I defended myself, but even that wasn’t enough to overcome this assault. As my own talent picked the skill of forcing oneself to another beings mind from this assault, using my entire will for a single heartbeat I retaliated, my will slipped into the ancient entity’s outer mind, and I felt millions of connections to its consciousness. While I had many animals I used, it was just a drop in the ocean compared to the countless connections the Night King had forged with his subordinates through his mind and body, all interconnected like weirwood network and feeding their powers to it. I understood that the stategy of killing off the head of the snake and the army will crumple will be useless in this world.

 The difference in experience and the bonds of the Night King were immense, and I was immediately repelled backward. That was an opening for the Night King, and I felt my mind shredding under the pressure. The first tower, walls of first keep shattered and I finally understood that this might be the end of my life.

 Then, the Night King made a mistake in his haste to subjugate me.

Just then, I was suddenly pierced by an ice sword from behind. The coldness and pain made my body react, and I regained a flicker of physical control. With immense strain, I tried to grasp Ice. By luck, my hand was not near the hilt but at the sharp Valyrian steel edge. My palm was slashed open, and the pain grounded me further in reality. Blood fell onto the Valyrian steel, and I grasped the sword by its sharp edge. With a yell that defied the power threatening to gain full control of my mind and body, I used the most basic magic I had learned in this life: I ignited my blood, and the sword was engulfed in flames.

The flames of the sword gave me a sudden strength as I grabbed it and rolled on the ground, while slashing with all my strength. I saw my attacker, it was the other shattered earlier that had reformed haphazardly. The Ice went through its hips bisecting it and it caught fire.

For a moment, the Night King—a being of ice for 8,000 years—felt heat and fire and withdrew from controlling my body and mind in reflex. The pressure came back on my mind but it was lessened drastically as one of the connections through which the Night King attacked me directly was cleansed by fire powered by my blood. Only the shattered state of my mind defense gave it any hope for accomplishing it’s goal.

Suddenly, an insane idea struck me. I slashed both of my palms open as I crawled toward the fire and lay down among the flames. The fire grew hotter as it fed on my blood.

Again the fire made the Night King withdraw in reflex and it was the only second I needed.

As I lay there, my mind conjured the firewall I had encountered in Balerion’s mind around Winterfell in my consciousness. The black walls of Winterfell were remade in seconds, and the outer walls were enveloped in fire. The mind version of Winterfell had been completely buried under ice and snow by that time, but the sudden appearance of the firewall and the loss of direct power from the Night King caused the snow to start melting immediately. I knew the Night King would come back any moment, as he was on the cusp of victory—and I was not wrong.

Overwhelming pressure surged and entered my mind, but this time I was prepared. The firewall made a difference, and having the flaming Ice bonded to me was a huge advantage. As the Night King couldn’t overwhelm the fire I copied from Balerion, he retreated, and I knew I had won,only because he didn’t have direct contact with me the second time.

I lay in the fire and removed the crystal ice sword that was still pierced in my stomach, throwing it far away. I sensed necromantic energy and ice magic trying to destroy my body from within. With no other choice, I took the still flaming Ice and pierced the spot where the thin ice sword had entered me. I felt nothing as the flesh around was almost killed by frostbite, immediately, the fire cleansed the necromantic and death magic, but Ice, being a ridiculously large sword, left a huge wound in my stomach.

I crawled outside of the fire and lay in the cold snow to cool off from the heat of the flames. The magical nature of the fire had burned me in many areas, even with my enhanced fire resistance. I saw the direwolves approaching me, and I tried to sit up to defend myself if needed, but the movement made me faint from exhaustion.

=======================================================

Authors Note:  Happy Halloween everyone !!  

Ah, well that happened and finally daemon and one of his main enemies collide and Nights king lost one other and 100 wights permanently. As I said this will not have just 100k wights and 10 others in this fic and they are interconnected allowing them to do all sorts of things…. 

Next chapter: Daemon and Aemon faces their liege lords after not following their orders..  event

 As usual Read, commend and Recommend…

AFM 11

Chapter 11 : The Gift.

All Might

All Might stood on the sidelines, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the students still discussing the final battle trial. His sharp eyes couldn't help but linger on Midoriya Izuku—the boy he wishes to be his successor. All Might had observed Izuku during the trial, noting the boy’s helpful nature and his exemplary performance. What surprised him most was Izuku’s quirk analysis—his predictions about the various battles and insightful comments, that could only come from someone with real combat experience.

The boy had progressed so much in such a short time, from the skinny, quirkless kid All Might met all those years ago. Now, All Might could honestly say that only his own mentor, Nana Shimura, and All For One had influenced his life as profoundly as Izuku Midoriya. Normally, thinking about Midoriya and his indirect influence on the "Might " movement brought All Might joy. He never would have thought such a movement was necessary, and now even Yagi Toshinori could be a hero around the clock. Usually, All Might had only positive thoughts about Izuku Midoriya.But today... today was different.

Izuku was watching him, but not in the usual way a hero fanboy admired the Number One Hero. All Might never expected Izuku to see him as the Number One Hero again after everything. But what truly surprised him were Izuku’s eyes—those emerald eyes, once filled with awe and determination, now held something else. There was still awe on Izuku’s face, just like his classmates', but All Might’s decades of experience could tell it was a mask. A mask not unlike the one he wore whenever he stepped out as All Might. For All Might, it was a smile that reassured others that everything would be fine, but for Izuku... All Might wondered what he was hiding.

Still, All Might was determined to observe him and at least make the offer. He glanced at his watch as the class ended, realizing his time was running out. Not wanting to waste a moment, he decided to make a dramatic exit.

"Heroes! Now that your class has ended, let me show you how a hero leaves after his work is done!" All Might’s voice boomed as he ran out of the classroom.

As he reached the exit, he glanced back and nearly lost his balance when he realized that Izuku’s eyes had been following him the entire time, long before the others noticed he was gone. More than the shock of Izuku keeping up with him at quarter speed, it was the look in his unmasked eyes that truly shook All Might.

There was a simmering anger, a bitterness that All Might had never seen before. For a fleeting moment, the expression on Izuku’s face sent a shiver down his spine.

That expression. Hatred? No, it couldn't be. Not from Izuku Midoriya.And yet, the boy's glare was unmistakable. All Might had faced countless villains, stared into the eyes of madness, rage, and cruelty—but never had he expected to see even a shadow of those emotions reflected in the gaze of his chosen protégé.

Izuku quickly looked away, trying to hide whatever dark thoughts had surfaced in his mind, but the damage was done.

END

Later that evening, All Might found himself standing in the office of Principal Nezu.

“I’m worried about Young Midoriya,” All Might admitted, his voice tinged with concern. “I’ve never seen him like this before. There was anger in his eyes, a resentment that... I never thought I’d see in him.”Nezu, the intelligent, ever-calm, mouse-like principal, nodded thoughtfully as he sipped his tea. “Midoriya has always had a deep emotional connection to you, All Might. You were his symbol of peace. But symbols... they can fracture, especially when reality doesn't align with the image. As I warned you earlier, Izuku Midoriya is an enigma, and I suspect he may have other motives for joining the hero course.”

All might sighed in defeat as his own hopes of a immediate successor crumbled slowly.

All Might sighed, feeling his hopes of an immediate successor slowly crumbling. “I observed him today. His helpful nature is still there, but... I couldn’t stop wondering, what if? His quirk is so similar to mine, and no one would question the increase in power. His eyes kept up with me, even at quarter speed,” All Might confessed to Nezu.

Nezu regarded him with his beady eyes. “That is remarkable. Boost is registered as a Class 3 quirk, but I suspect he’s trained it enough to improve it to Class 4, maybe even higher, to follow you at that speed. Or perhaps, as I suspect, his mental abilities have also been enhanced to predict your movements and follow your exit. But, All Might, you know as well as I do—someone with Izuku’s mindset should never wield that much power. And more than that, your own history with him is... complicated.”

All Might nodded, but his heart remained heavy.

=============================

USJ Day.

Izuku’s mind raced as he boarded the bus with his classmates, heading toward the Unforeseen Simulation Joint (USJ). His instincts had been screaming for days that something was off, and now, with each mile away from the main campus, his anxiety grew. For a month, he had been aware that Tomura Shigaraki was plotting something big, something aimed at All Might and UA. Despite his best efforts to uncover the details, the specifics of Tomura’s plan had been elusive, even with Izuku’s enhanced intelligence quirks.

Thanks to Giran’s underworld contacts, Izuku had learned that Tomura had gathered 150 low-level villains as disposable pawns, but there were gaps in his information. With his combined Mind Boost quirk—an amalgam of several mental and enhancing quirks—Izuku had tried to piece together the puzzle. Yet, it wasn't until now, on the bus, that the final piece fell into place. The class was being taken away from UA, away from its defenses, and the attack was going to happen here, at the USJ.

Even with limited information, Izuku could now see Tomura’s plan. Kurogiri, with his warp quirk, would be the game changer. From his own All Might news watch, he knew All Might had been kept busy the entire morning by low-level thugs. The strategy was clear: overwhelm the professors and students with 150 low-tier villains, then kill him and All Might using Kurogiri and whatever monstrous Nomu the insane doctor had created.

Luckily, Izuku hadn’t taken any new quirks for a month and had already adapted to the last one he absorbed. At least this way, he could get a good quirk if possible. He kept his thoughts to himself, though every instinct screamed that danger was on the horizon. He knew his father would have ordered Tomura not to expose his cover or to let him get killed. But Izuku also knew that there was a twisted malice in Tomura—an obsession that defied reason. Tomura hated him simply because he was All For One’s biological son, and Izuku knew someone like that wouldn’t sit idly by after being thwarted time and time again in his attempts to dust him.

Izuku prepared his mind for the coming battle while his classmates continued chatting. As they entered the USJ, they saw Thirteen in her costume. Izuku’s eyes darted around the massive dome, scanning for any signs of danger. But nothing seemed out of place—not yet, anyway. Izuku activated his Mental and Physical Boost quirk, an amalgamation of several synergistic quirks he had combined using All For Me. This let him bypass his limit of five quirks at a time. Using his enhanced senses and quirk detection, he scanned the area, but the USJ was so large that he couldn’t sense the thugs who must have already been deployed after the first power surge in the dome when they entered.

Then it happened…

A dark, swirling portal opened at the center of the USJ. Black mist spiraled outward, and from the depths of the void stepped Kurogiri, followed by Tomura Shigaraki. But they weren’t alone. Behind them, an army of villains poured through the portal, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent. Finally, a monstrous Nomu, larger than All Might, appeared, and Izuku almost salivated at the sight.

All For Me buzzed inside Izuku, reacting to the Nomu's powerful quirks. He could sense the incredible quirks: super regeneration, shock absorption, super strength, and super speed. While each was impressive, Izuku’s focus was entirely on the super regeneration. His own Cell Activation quirk he combined with Physical Boost was a remarkable Quirks, allowing him to heal injuries at a rapid pace. However, it came with limitations—he had to activate it consciously, and the toll it took on his body was immense. Every time he used it, his stamina reserves plummeted, leaving him vulnerable.

Cell Activation was far from perfect, despite its impressive ability to adapt to the damage it healed over and above every evolved human body has. In fact, its true strength lay in the adaptation process itself—after healing, his body didn’t just return to its prior state; it became more resilient, more capable. Over time, it would make him a walking powerhouse of evolved muscle and nerve tissue. But the drawback was glaring. Every use sapped his energy to dangerous levels, and while he had combined quirks like Stamina and Energy Stockpiling with Physical Boost to push himself beyond the limits of even quirked humans, even that wasn’t enough. A serious injury—broken bones, deep cuts—could still knock him unconscious from the sheer strain.

As the Nomu settled, Izuku exchanged his Minor Adaptation quirk with one of Tomura’s and no one was the wiser. Tomura was distracted, and Izuku could feel several worthy quirks among the thirty cannon fodder villains gathered in the center of the USJ.

“Villains!” Aizawa shouted, leaping into action as his capture weapon lashed out. “Everyone, get back!”

Izuku remained calm, keeping one eye on Aizawa, who was quickly subduing the low-tier villains. He followed his classmates, running behind Thirteen. But then, another dark, swirling portal opened right in their path, and Kurogiri appeared from the vortex.

"Greetings, heroes," Kurogiri announced in his eerily calm voice. "We are the League of Villains, and we are here to kill All Might."

Izuku could feel Kurogiri’s eyes on him through the smoky form. Internally, he scoffed, while his classmates shouted in shock and denial at the declaration.

Bakugo was the first to make a move. Izuku had to admit, Bakugo’s explosion quirk was powerful, and he had a high battle IQ. Though Bakugo couldn’t see Kurogiri’s neck brace, a weak point, his blast almost hit it. But Kurogiri was prepared, effortlessly redirecting the attack.

"I see, you are the golden students," Kurogiri snapped, exploding outward with his mist. Izuku, preparing to dodge the mass attack, suddenly felt the ground beneath him open up—a portal. Kurogiri had specifically targeted him, otherwise, he could’ve dodged the dispersal attempt.

Izuku passed through the portal and immediately used All For Me to sense his surroundings. He felt Tomura’s decay and the four heavy quirk signatures of the Nomu below him. He had been dropped at the center of the USJ, right above the Nomu. Cursing Kurogiri, Izuku saw Tomura grinning up at him, having sensed his presence.

Aizawa was still battling the low-tier villains, using his Erasure Quirk effectively. All For Me buzzed inside Izuku as soon as the Nomu entered his quirk range, and Izuku unleashed it, aiming for the super regeneration quirk. He had seen many ugly quirks in Nomus before, but this one was different—there was a precision in the way it had been designed, a clear mark of his father’s handiwork. He tugged at the quirk, feeling a green light echo in his senses, the quirk eagerly transferring to him.

“Midoriya!” Aizawa yelled, finally noticing Izuku falling from the air. The shout snapped Izuku out of the high of acquiring the quirk. His expression hardened. Whatever happened, the Nomu wouldn’t be returning to his father. Super regeneration was far too valuable a gift to give up.

Izuku’s Mental Boost kicked into overdrive, generating and discarding plans rapidly. He could destroy the Nomu himself with his combined fire quirk, but that would reveal too much.

“Brat! Finally, I got my hands on you!” Tomura sneered, reaching up to grab Izuku as he fell.

Izuku smirked for a brief moment, then stole Decay from Tomura just before crashing into him.

“No!” Tomura screamed, his voice cut off by a groan as the impact sent them both rolling across the ground. Izuku grunted as his enhanced healing from Physical Boost and super regeneration worked together to mend his broken bones from the fall. By the time they stopped rolling, he was fully healed.

Izuku jumped back just as Tomura, with a crazed look in his eyes, staggered to his feet. That look always came when Izuku had stolen a quirk to protect himself. This time, Izuku had returned Decay just as he moved, widening the distance between them in a matter of seconds.

“Midoriya,” Aizawa, having dealt with almost all the mooks, yelled as he sprinted toward both of them, but Tomura dodged Eraserhead's binding cloth and snarled in fury.

"You’re becoming a nuisance, Eraserhead!" Tomura shouted, lunging at him.

Izuku was impressed that Aizawa could keep up with Tomura’s enhanced speed, but for all his insanity, Tomura had hunting instincts that kicked in when he saw an opening. The moment Aizawa's quirk faltered, Tomura's elbow connected with him, and the decay spread like wildfire, eating through his arm.

Izuku, knowing what was about to happen, didn't hesitate. He moved in a blur, reaching the pair just in time to clock Tomura in the face, sending him flying meters away, landing him near the Nomu.

Enraged, Tomura scrambled to his feet. "That's it, brat! Nomu, kill this brat and Eraserhead!"

The Nomu stepped forward, grotesque and massive, its black skin rippling with muscle. Even with Izuku’s enhanced perception, the creature was a blur, its speed staggering. Izuku’s Mind Boost allowed him to raise his hands just in time to defend himself, but only halfway. The Nomu's first blow glanced off Izuku’s hands and slammed into his stomach like a freight train, sending him flying backward. His body hit the fountain in the middle of the USJ, the impact shattering the stone and sending water spraying everywhere.

Izuku groaned in pain, his ribs shattered, his hands bruised from the failed block. But he could already feel the super regeneration quirk working, knitting together his broken bones. He activated the Cell Activation aspect of his Physical Boost quirk, using the injuries to further enhance his body as it healed. Even in the midst of recovery, he rolled to the side just as the Nomu crashed into the fountain, splintering it further.

Pushing his muscles beyond their limits, Izuku tore through his own body to increase his speed, narrowly dodging the Nomu's next attack. Knowing that staying grounded would only expose his abilities, Izuku leapt into the air. His Boost, along with the effort of pushing his body past its limits, carried him upwards, at least 50 meters high. The Nomu, undeterred, followed, leaping after him with monstrous strength.

Izuku quickly activated Pull, halting his upward momentum and sending him plummeting back toward the ground. The Nomu, lacking such an ability, continued to soar skyward, giving Izuku precious time.

Eraserhead who couldn’t dodge the Nomu’s attack was lying in his blood, was protecting Uraraka, Asui, and Kaminari, who had just arrived from the lake zone.

"Hey, you dry-skinned ugly ball sack!" Izuku shouted, hoping to distract Tomura from the students as he saw Eraserhead fading fast and the students couldn’t power through the sheer killing intent of Tomura, "Your Nomu’s defeated. Now come get what’s coming to you!"

Tomura’s eyes widened in shock. There was no Nomu in sight, and the brat was still standing.

"Impossible!" Tomura yelled, panic creeping into his voice. "Nomu! Where the hell are you?"

High above, the Nomu heard its master's call. It punched the air, changing its trajectory mid-flight and rocketing toward the ground.

Izuku’s enhanced senses and quirk sense alerted him to the Nomu's rapid descent. But before he could react, a villain the size of All Might caught him from behind, locking him in a bear hug.

"Got you now, little bitch," the villain sneered, tightening his hold around Izuku’s waist. He had enhanced strength, but Izuku could sense that his quirk was durability. The villain tried to lift Izuku off the ground, but his enhanced leg strength prevented it.

"Let the monster be the hammer, and I’ll be the anvil," the villain taunted.

Izuku could have easily broken free, but this was a golden opportunity to steal another useful quirk. His mind raced, calculating the perfect timing for his next move. He pretended to struggle, prying at the villain’s arms to sell the illusion to Tomura and his classmates. Tomura’s savage grin spread wider, and panic flashed across Uraraka, Asui, and Kaminari’s faces as they realized the Nomu was bearing down on Izuku.

When the Nomu was just 20 meters away, Izuku acted swiftly. With a calculated move, he lunged backward, using all his weight to throw the villain off balance. In an instant, both of his legs moved so quickly that they became a blur, raised high enough to be nearly perpendicular to the ground. Then, with a burst of enhanced strength, Izuku swung them down in a powerful arc. His legs traveled downward with ferocious force, and at the same time, he pushed his upper body forward, leveraging the momentum of his legs. Izuku’s leg passed through the villain's widespread stance as he held Izuku.

The villain, caught completely off guard by the sudden maneuver, lost his balance. The sheer speed and force of Izuku's movement sent them both into a somersault in mid-air. The two of them rotated, the villain still clutching Izuku around the stomach for dear life.

Izuku had already taken the villain's quirk and activated it, causing the villain to lose his footing. They continued to rotate in the air, and the timing was perfect; the Nomu's punch landed on the villain's back, just as Izuku had planned, with the villain's back turned toward the Nomu.

However, then things did not go according to Izuku's plan. He felt the punch on his spine through the villain and heard the Villan’s bones crumbling, flesh smearing, and a grunt from the villain before his heartbeat stopped. Only the additional durability quirk prevented Izuku’s spine from breaking under the Nomu's punch. In the next second, after the punch, they accelerated drastically toward the stairs from the entrance dorr, while still rotating in the air. Even with his enhanced mind and body, everything was a blur, and only luck made the villain hit the hard cement first, cushioning the landing. Dust and broken cement parts sprayed everywhere as Izuku felt pain all over his body.

Even then, Izuku felt bones breaking as he was sprayed with the blood and gore of the villain, who was now a smear on the broken stairs. Izuku's breathing quickened as he lay entangled with the broken body parts; for the first time in his life, he was bathed in the blood and internal organs of a human. Even before disgust and pain settled in, the parallel processing aspect of his Mental Boost quirk lost control, and the pain of taking two quirks at the same time hit his head like a freight train.

 Izuku could take two new quirks simultaneously by now, but using them at the same time was another challenge entirely. He immediately deactivated the durability quirk and activated Cell Activation, even though super regeneration had already started knitting his broken body back together. He tried to focus the Cell Activation primarily on his brain to reduce the migraine and harmful effects of using both quirks simultaneously, though he had no clue whether it would be effective or not.

Luckily, the dust and blood splattered outside the area created by the dust made the Nomu think Izuku had been killed. Izuku used his quirk sense to determine whether the Nomu was coming to attack and felt its presence near Tomura’s decay. He sensed his stored stamina already drained and Cell Activation consuming his natural stamina, which was quite high considering all the workouts he had done over the years.

Knowing he needed stamina and needed to use Kinetic Absorption to gather it, he understood he needed movement. He crawled out of the crater, wiping blood from his face while trying not to make any sound. Uraraka and Asui had already retrieved Eraserhead and ran away by that time, and Izuku saw Tomura and Kurogiri arguing over something. Kurogiri’s eyes landed on him, and their argument immediately stopped. Alarmed, Tomura looked back and saw the blood-covered Izuku.

“Hell, yeah. Now I got to kill you myself, you brat.” Tomura lunged toward him, and suddenly there was a loud bang as All Might entered the USJ by punching the door open.

He was not smiling, and his next step was to save the students in harm's way, starting with young Midoriya. The boy was covered in blood and gore, and only his years of experience allowed him to keep his composure.

Even Izuku couldn’t see All Might due to his speed as he was held by the villain, but he arrived near Uraraka and Eraserhead. In addition to young Midoriya, he also gathered the other students near the front and pulled them back to the doorway in large groups. Less than five seconds after he arrived, Aizawa, Thirteen, and the students were safe, and All Might stood in front of them, ready to protect them with all his strength. That also meant he had to protect their spirits.

“Worry not, my students, for I am here!” Several of the students had not even realized he was in the building before he whisked them all away from danger.

Tomura snapped in anger, “Nomu! Kill All Might!” The bird-faced villain leapt forward, his speed rivaling All Might's. With the warning provided by the order from below, All Might was able to catch the massive fist of the villain and quickly found that its strength was also comparable to his own.

There was a blur of punches, and Izuku could finally see the Shock Absorption in action. Even as All Might gradually increased his strength, he could see the quirk keeping up with any blunt attacks, and Izuku was tempted to acquire that quirk too, even considering the heavy risk of brain damage. Finding a quirk that could withstand All Might-level punches was not easy. Izuku contemplated his own stamina, as even now, both super regeneration and Cell Activation worked overtime to heal his broken body.

As All Might's punch frequency increased, Izuku could see that All Might was trying to overpower the Shock Absorption quirk. Izuku decided to gamble; he wanted the Shock Absorption quirk as well. Just as All Might prepared the USA Smash, Izuku took the Shock Absorption quirk using All For Me. The punch landed, and without the quirk, the Nomu flew upward through the dome at blistering speed. Even All Might lost his balance, as he didn’t feel the expected resistance of the absorption quirk.

A second later, Izuku collapsed to the ground, his body trembling. He had taken on too much—too many quirks, too much strain. Blood poured from his eyes and nose, his mind barely holding on. With his last conscious thought, Izuku concentrated all of Cell Activation on his brain before he fell to the ground.

 ===========================================

Authors note: that was bitch to complete, but I finally did… Izuku’s UA arc will be skipped a lot and only major events are shown..  you can expect a quirk diary sort of chapter in nov/dec and yes after major thought, I also made izuku take Shock Absorbion too. Initial plan was regeneration only, but I want a strong Izuku who actually uses his intelligence and All For Me to become powerful. 

Poor classmates they are traumatized seeing Izuku covered in blood and intestines.

ADS 19

Chapter 19: The Arrival

I stood in the solar of Lord Commander Ryswell along with the maester and other lords of the castles along the Wall. Most of the lords were furious with me for destroying Stonedoor in my quest to kill every traitor.

"Lord Commander, are we really entertaining this bastard? He is neither a Stark nor a Targaryen, and he destroyed one of our castles along with its members. If they were traitors, it was our duty to punish them, not this boy's. He should be punished, and his army banished from our lands," one of the lords spat.

"Oh, shut up, whoever you are," I said in irritation. "I didn’t attack the Night's Watch. I killed traitors and oathbreakers. I killed the bastards who dared to kill Lord Stark and his heir. I’d gladly do it again. Ser Noseless told you the truth, confessed everything, and yet you still blame me. No wonder they were able to gather so much support right under your collective noses."

The other lord bristled at my insult.

"Silence," Lord Commander Ryswell ordered. "This is my solar, and there shall be no more arguments. Daemon Snow is correct. He has helped us more than once, and now he has directly helped us again. It's time we hunted down the army and the traitor hiding as the so-called King Beyond the Wall. Benjen Stark was right when he said King Jaehaerys turned the Night's Watch into a penal colony by sending traitors and oathbreakers here. This Ser Lucamore Strong, once a Kingsguard, one of the best warriors, used his prowess to fight the gathering wildlings and defeat their leaders for power. No one has ever had the audacity to do such a thing in the Watch's history. But what was the motive, Snow? Did he tell you that? We never reached that part in our inquiry."

I snarled thinking about the traitor and his foolhardy plan from the beginning to take over the Night's Watch and rule the lands beyond the wall.   

"What motive does a traitor like Lucamore the Lusty have?" I continued. "Revenge, of course. Revenge against the king, my grandfather. Ser Noseless is one of his bastards, and their plan was always to escape beyond the Wall. They assumed the king or his sons would come, but dragons don’t cross the Wall. They must lead the army from a horse top themselves and what is a dragonrider without a dragon? Just another man. Poor Lucamore couldn't foresee our alliance to reclaim the New Gift and make it prosper. His whole plan hinged on it being abandoned. So, He had to act earlier than planned."

"Fucking Targaryens," Lord Commander Ryswell snarled. "First he send Maegor's Kingsguard, and now his own. Both rebelled against us and caused trouble for the North. This will not be tolerated. An example must be made. The Watch’s honor is at stake. This is the second time a Stark has lost his life due to treachery from the Watch. I will do everything in my power to ensure there is no third time. I will personally send the head of Ser Noseless to the king with a message for the entire South to hear: Any oathbreakers and criminals sent here will be scrutinized and watched for years, and no criminal will hold any position of authority when there are those who voluntarily joined. Rest assured, the wildling army will never cross the Wall again, and we will defeat them when they appear."

"What? You’re not coming to hunt them down with my army?" I asked, surprised that the Lord Commander would now decide to hide behind the Wall.

"Unfortunately, I can’t, Snow. According to the traitor, they are seven thousand strong. What if there are more? We would be in enemy territory, and I can’t afford to lose more men carelessly," Lord Ryswell explained, and the other lords nodded in agreement.

"Cowards," I snarled. "Then you will wait forever, as I will personally go with my men and kill every single one of them."

Protests erupted from the other lords, but the Lord Commander’s stern gaze was locked on mine. He knew that if he didn’t let me go, his own life might be in danger and I would may just cause another slaughter to go beyond the wall.

"Silence," he ordered. "Our duty is to stop wildlings from coming into the North, not to stop Northmen from going beyond the Wall. I will allow you and your men to go."

I accepted the proposal and we parted to rest before the execution of the traitors, which I insisted doing and by beheading in front of a weirwood.  

-----------------------------------------------------------

I felt the direct connection between the weirwood and the Wall as its roots drank in the blood of Ser Noseless after I beheaded him and hung his body upside down on the trunk of the tree. The ancient system made by the builder with the help of Children of the Forest was still efficient. The damages caused by the broken oath of Nights Watch slowly mended by their own life’s blood.

"Is this necessary?" Lord Commander Ryswell asked as he approached."Aye, Lord Commander," I replied. "A message must be sent to any new recruits and even the wildligs themselves." I kept my face cold, mimicking the cold mask I had learned from my grandfather—the typical Stark sternness.

The Lord Commander grimaced but continued. "My rangers—those we can trust—have returned with news. Seven thousand men have gathered at the Fist of the First Men. My ranger managed to

escape without alerting them. They haven’t heard of their army’s defeat on this side of the Wall and are preparing to move south. By now, they may have already started their march. This is the only knowledge I could give you. I will also provide you with additional supplies.

I thought for a moment, but without seeing the land for myself, I couldn’t foresee any problems, so I agreed.

"Snow, I have a letter from Regent Stark, ordering me not to let you and your men cross the Wall. You are to return to Winterfell immediately while your army stays here under your captains' command to scour the Gift."

I snorted. "We both know that’s not going to happen. The Gift is already secure."

"Aye, I’ve heard about it. Your birds leading your army to the wildlings hiding and scattered after the Battle of Nightfort. It’s been a long time since any Northman used their warging so openly," Lord Commander Ryswell said.

I neither confirmed nor denied it.

Lord Ryswell snorted. “Aye, well keep your secrets. Almost every person who heard the old stories will know it. Maybe try to keep it down, You wouldn’t want the Targaryens hear about it and realizing that their dragons, is also a beast at the end of the day.

I nodded, accepting the advice offered in good faith. As I walked back to the tents, my mind wandered to the traitors who started this mess. Perhaps beyond the Wall, I might even find a direwolf cub—one for myself and maybe one for Cregan, too. He’d love it, and it might help him cope with the loss of both his father and grandfather.

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Omniscient POV

The time spent flying to Winterfell had been good for Aemon. It had been a long time since he last flew so much, and this time, he was able to enjoy the sights rather than trying to escape from memories or his own responsibilities. After taking in the scenery, he began to reflect on his actions over the last decade, and what he found left him dissatisfied. Even with his selfish nature, the loyalty Baelon showed him, made him want to be worthy of it. Baelon had gone so far as to defy their father, the king, all for him. For the first time, Aemon realized how much he had taken for granted.

Perhaps it was this realization that led to his introspection during the flight. Or maybe the fear of losing his heirship had straightened his head. Or, possibly, it was the fear of Balerion that tempered his arrogance. Even Baelon had been shocked by the entire encounter beyond belief, and Aemon knew how much Baelon worked with their father.

Aemon could barely contain his mirth when the soldiers on the walls of Winterfell panicked and fled at the sound of the dragon’s roar. Yet, despite their fear, he saw several soldiers reach for arrows and spears. At least he could say the men here were infinitely more loyal and brave than those at the Twins, where he had spent a night on his journey north. Though he dismissed the longbows at first, on his second pass above the castle near the walls and towers—while Caraxes swooped and played in the air, trying to spook the remaining soldiers—the bone-white color of some of the bows caught his eye.

"The Weirwood longbows are the finest in the world, my prince," Lyarra's cheeky voice echoed in his mind. "An excellent archer can shoot through thick mail if he has enough strength." Aemon’s eye watered slightly as the memories of his love hit him. 

“It is said that Brandon Snow, brother to Torrhen Stark, had prepared three special weirwood arrows to kill the Conqueror's dragon and even proposed assassinating the dragon riders at night himself. Fortunately for you, my prince, my own great-grandfather denied him and chose to bend the knee after praying to the old gods.” The cheeky voice echoed in Aemon’s memory.

Aemon had laughed hard when he first heard that story. After his trip to the Dragonpit with their father, he had to acknowledge that Torrhen Stark was the greatest king at the time of the Conquest. He resisted the temptation to ask "what if"—what if Brandon Snow could succeed. Instead, Torrhen bent the knee and acquired peace, kept his old gods, improved trade, retained almost all of his authority, and didn’t lose a single Northman. Aemon shuddered to think what would have happened if the North had followed the Dornish path. He knew even Balerion would struggle to burn the entirety of the North's snow to flush out its lords.

He landed outside Wintertown, and he didn’t have to wait long for the escorts to arrive. He frowned, noticing that Regent Bennard Stark wasn’t among them.

As he rode through Wintertown, he heard loud whispers:

“Is he the sire of the Blessed Bastard Snow?”

“Is he also blessed by the dragon gods?”

“He must be a great man to sire a god’s messenger like Daemon Snow.”

“The hair is the same as half of Snow’s…”

“He’s so beautiful,” one girl swooned, while the girl next to her scoffed. “Ha, don’t be silly. Mark my words, Daemon is already more handsome than this posh southern prince. When he returns from the war, he’ll be a man, just like the heroes in the stories. He’ll bless us by visiting our brothel.”

Aemon ignored the comments, unsure of how he felt. His emotions had been in complete turmoil. Only the fear of Balerion and the prospect of losing his place as heir had given him the strength to fly to Winterfell, to face her and her son again.

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Bennard Stark had felt many things since news of his father’s death reached him. Prominent among them was a sense of uselessness and anger. When he heard what his bastard nephew had done, his anger became as tall as the Wall. His own ability with magic was nonexistent, but he wasn’t a fool. He understood what his father, his brother, and Daemon had been up to. He could never forgive the bastard for killing his sister, and now his own Lord father was dead, all because of the son of that damned dragon prince.

When Aemon entered the courtyard, he saw Regent Bennard Stark’s face, twisted with animosity. Bennard was trying to maintain the legendary Stark composure, but like Aemon, recent events had loosened his control—or perhaps Bennard was still the same spoiled brat who had tried to attack him when he thought he’d lost Lyarra to him. Aemon had laughed it off at the time and simply beat Bennard into submission during their sword fight.

Bennard Stark had maintained the famous Stark mask for days, but seeing the arrogant, casual walk of the dragon prince, and noticing the shadow of Daemon in it, made his anger burn. It was the eyes, though, that truly made him snap. The same color as Daemon’s—the ones that had fought their way into Daemon’s one eye and ruined his sister’s beautiful grey in their son. The same eye that always looked at him with curiosity and mockery, as if he were a bad pun made by some bard.

“My prince, we weren’t expecting a dragon—just a raven,” Bennard hissed through gritted teeth, his anger barely concealed.

For a moment, Aemon was taken aback by the open rage in Bennard’s eyes and the disrespect he was showing.

Roar! Caraxes let out a thunderous roar that shook the courtyard as Aemon’s fury reached his dragon. He now understood the reason for Bennard’s behavior.

How dare this fool blame me for her death? It was our blasted son who was responsible, and this cunt has the audacity to accuse me to my face. How dare he not even bow when I’ve been sent on behalf of the Iron Throne itself? Aemon’s thoughts boiled with indignation.

Aemon immediately wanted to displace Bennard as regent and make Daemon the regent, just to spite him. But remembering Daemon was only thirteen, he restrained himself. Even if Benjen Stark had appointed Bennard as sole regent, Aemon resolved that he would appoint Gilaine Stark as co-regent. He would have dismissed any punishment for Daemon's actions then and there, but the King’s orders, which stated that neither he nor Bennard could make the final decision, stayed his hand.

As the roar of Caraxes echoed through the courtyard, causing everyone to take a knee in deference to the crown prince, as tradition dictates,  Regent Bennard Stark remained standing, glaring angrily at Aemon.

“Bennard, what in the names of the Old Gods are you doing?” came an angry voice—surely Lady Stark—cutting through the tension. Aemon saw a woman and a boy, no larger than a six-year-old, approaching quickly.

The lady was beautiful in the northern way, though nowhere near his Jocelyn, let alone Lyarra, whose face was a mask of anger and fear. But it was the boy’s face that made Aemon pause. Ever since entering the town, there had been a lingering sense of grief and anger, and the boy bore the same mask Benjen Stark had worn all those years ago when he and Lyarra were caught after she became pregnant with that demon spawn.

Bennard didn’t respond to Lady Stark, nor did he acknowledge her presence, still staring at Aemon, struggling to suppress his emotions.

“My prince, please forgive my regent. He has been under immense pressure and stress ever since my grandfather rejected my uncle from leading the army that went to the Wall, giving the duties of Lord of Winterfell instead. The news of his father’s death has taken its toll. Please excuse my uncle’s behavior,” Cregan said, bowing from Bennard’s right, standing two steps behind.

Aemon had to suppress his surprise at the impressive manners of the boy, and he stifled a laugh at what happened next, though a snort escaped him.

Aemon watched as Cregan reached his uncle and punched him behind the knees, forcing Bennard to buckle and fall to the ground on his knees, just like everyone else in the courtyard, except for Cregan.

The harsh voice that came next, eerily similar to Benjen Stark’s, snapped Bennard out of his anger and the surprise of being made to kneel by his young nephew.

“Now, uncle, you shall apologize to the prince and welcome him according to tradition,” Cregan commanded.

Bennard ground his teeth for a moment but managed to compose himself, putting on a mask of remorse that Aemon immediately recognized.

“My prince, I regret my behavior and am ashamed by it. My own father would have tanned my hide if he were alive now. I apologize. Your surprise arrival, along with the other shocks I’ve experienced, has clouded my judgment and made me forget my courtesies. I beg your forgiveness for my foolishness. Winterfell is yours, and you are welcome within its walls at any time.”

Aemon waited for several heartbeats, considering various harsh punishments, but the current state of House Stark stayed his hand. For all Bennard’s stupidity, he had been close with Lyarra, and she would make his afterlife a living hell if he punished Bennard too severely. Sighing, Aemon made his decision

“Lord Bennard, I am in a calm mood after the pleasant flight here, so I will forgive your behavior and chalk it up to the grief-stricken madness of a man who has lost his father and elder brother to traitors. But know that I will never forget this. The gods know I’ve committed my share of foolishness out of grief when I lost my Lyarra in childbirth. Be warned: one more such incident in my presence, and not only House Stark, but the entire North, will be punished harshly.”

Aemon paused, letting his words sink in. “Now, you asked why I am here. I come as crown prince and Hand of the King to convey the Iron Throne’s condolences for the loss of one of its most loyal lords paramount and his heir to traitors. I am here to pay my respects to Lord Benjen Stark, who did so much to improve the North for the benefit of all. I had intended to inquire about Lord Benjen’s will regarding the regency, if such a document exists, and enforce it. But now, I am half-tempted to appoint Daemon as regent—were he not only thirteen—and remove you from your post, Lord Bennard, regardless of Lord Benjen’s wishes, due to your rash behavior just now. The Iron Throne does not desire a regent who makes decisions driven by emotion. It says something when your underage nephew, whom you are regent to, must rein in your feelings.”

Aemon could see the Northerners still kneeling, slightly relaxing as his words continued, though they remained tense as he chastised their regent.

“With a heavy heart, I, Prince Aemon Targaryen, Hand of the King, hereby disregard any will Lord Benjen may have left regarding the regency and appoint Lady Gilaine Stark as co-regent to Lord Cregan Stark, alongside Lord Bennard Stark. Furthermore, since Lord Cregan has shown exceptional maturity, he will have the right to contest any decisions made by his regents directly to the Iron Throne in matters of grave importance. Now, let this unpleasantness be over, and I accept the guest rights you have offered.”

---------------------------------------------------------------

It was three days after Aemon's arrival when Lords Umber and Karstark, along with their retinues, arrived at Winterfell, bearing Lord Stark's body and confirming the grim news of the "Red Death." Aemon had heard the tales from the first day he was there—how his son had become mad with grief and transformed into a gods-blessed hero. The stories spoke of how Daemon’s anger had frozen the entire battlefield, allowing the Northmen to slay the traitors in their midst. They claimed he had killed a thousand men that night and had been so drenched in blood that no other color was left visible on his body.

Aemon had scoffed hard at these tales, knowing no man could accomplish what the gossip suggested. However, the meeting with the lords—alongside the co-regents and Cregan, who was adamant about being present—revealed that there might be some truth to these wild stories.

Aemon dismissed these stories as exaggerations, the desperate fantasies of frightened men trying to rationalize the horrors of war. Yet, as he descended the steps toward the solar, a growing unease gnawed at him. The lords who had witnessed these events weren’t men prone to fanciful tales, and their grave expressions suggested they were still struggling to make sense of what they had seen.

As the lords recounted their experiences, Aemon's intrigue deepened. They described how Daemon had wielded fire that radiated both cold and heat, and he saw Lord Bennard’s shock while young Cregan wore a wolfish grin. Cregan seemed disturbingly pleased by the slaughter of traitors and wildlings alike. Then they spoke of what happened on the road to Last Hearth—Daemon's near murder of Lord Karstark, his accusations of treason, and how the ancestral Stark sword, Ice, seemed to possess a judging power that Lord Bennard initially rejected.

Lord Karstark’s face darkened as he protested his son-in-laws rejection immediately. "The bastard accused me of treason, of conspiring with the enemy. He nearly killed me on the spot, had it not been for Lord Umber’s intervention. The Stark sword—Ice—it’s as if it has a will of its own, and that mad boy has somehow bent it to his will. The Sword burned my hand, when I tried to lift it. He must be punished severely for taking what was rightfully Lord Bennard’s to wield in defense of the North, especially now."

Whatever Lord Karstark expected to gain by pressing the charges of treason and disrespect, the reactions of Crown Prince Aemon and Lord Cregan Stark were not what he anticipated.

Aemon’s initial amusement at Daemon's audacity quickly dissipated when he learned that Daemon had openly declared Lord Benjen Stark as his father. A surge of jealousy, something Aemon had seldom felt, rose like a storm in his mind. He was enraged by the notion that Lord Stark had usurped what was rightfully his—Daemon was his son. Only his newfound maturity and introspection kept his rage in check.

Aemon remained silent, observing how the matter would unfold. He watched Lord Bennard, who was agreeing with his father-in-law’s complaints, and Cregan, who appeared satisfied when Daemon declared he would gift Cregan the head of the so-called King Beyond the Wall.

Another Kingsguard who betrayed their oath. Aemon decide he will execute any Kingsguard for breaking oath when he become kings.  Aemon had already gathered from his chance encounter with Cregan in the godswood that the boy harbored an unhealthy amount of hero worship for Daemon, similar to Baelon’s loyalty to Aemon. Cregan’s loyalty was clear—his allegiance lay with his older brother, Daemon.

"I propose that Prince Aemon grant me the authority to punish Daemon," Lord Bennard demanded. "More than that, Daemon has ignored my orders to return Ice while the men remained behind securing the Gift. I received word just before your arrival, Prince Aemon, that he slaughtered every man in a castle, declaring them traitors, and then rode to Castle Black, where he now rests in preparation for the venture beyond the Wall."

"No!" Lady Stark interjected. "Daemon may not have followed tradition, but he is needed to address the threats we face. There’s no need for punishment. Lord Benjen himself handed Ice to Daemon with instructions to give it to Cregan. He is only following orders."

“No need?” Bennard snarled. “I am the—”

"Enough," Aemon snapped, silencing the room. "There will be no more bickering in my presence. My own house has two ancestral Valyrian Steel Sword and only the King, the head of House Targaryen decides what to do with them.  Cregan, though underage, is the rightful Lord of Winterfell, and Ice belongs to him by title and by the endowment of the previous wielder. Daemon has wielded something of House Stark’s, and Cregan is its head. Let Cregan decide whether Daemon should be punished or not."

Aemon finished speaking and watched as Cregan, despite his youth, considered the matter carefully. Aemon didn't particularly care whether Daemon was punished or not; his primary concern was ensuring that Bennard didn’t get his way.

Cregan, despite being just a child, knew deep down that Daemon would never harm him. His last meeting with his grandfather in this very solar echoed in his mind. He remembered Lord Benjen’s words:

"Cregan, if you ever find yourself alone, know that Daemon will be there. He is unstoppable, and he will be loyal to us as long as we remain united in our purpose—to face the Long Night."

“My lords,” Cregan began, his voice steady, “the last thing my grandfather told me was to trust Daemon and learn from him. He gave Ice to Daemon to deliver to me, and I am confident he will do so. I will be pleased if Ice is returned to me along with the head of this so-called King Beyond the Wall. I trust Daemon to accomplish this, and he may use Ice until he completes the task."

Aemon smirked, noticing the enraged expression on Lord Bennard’s face. Bennard and Lord Karstark had no choice but to remain silent, knowing they had been overruled.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------

Beyond the wall

Daemon Snow.

I opened my eyes, disconnecting from the animal in Winterfell through which Brandon had been keeping me informed. Though Brandon wasn’t directly involved in any meetings, Cregan shared details about the situation regarding me with him.

Aethan stood guard by my side. Ever since I crossed beyond the Wall, I’ve lost the ability to warg while remaining conscious in my own body. My connection to the other side was severed, and it took all of my power along with the weirwoods to warg with any animals I’d left behind.

Aethan glanced at me, curiosity and concern written across his face.

I sighed, collecting my thoughts. "My uncle has royally fucked things up, Aethan. The king sent Aemon on Caraxes to deliver the Iron Throne’s condolences and to sort out matters regarding me. But my uncle lost whatever sense he had left the moment he saw Aemon. He disrespected him, and it took Cregan stepping in to diffuse the situation. Aemon made Aunt Giliane co-regent, but Cregan can challenge any decisions made by the regents directly to the throne. Bennard fought hard to have me punished—accusing me of taking Ice, leading men without permission, and even blaming me for my mother’s death in childbirth. In the end, Aemon left the decision to Cregan since he’s the head of House Stark."

Aethan burst out laughing at that. "So you got away without punishment again?"

I scoffed. "There was nothing to punish me for in this matter. Allowing these traitors to consolidate their position and spread chaos would be a disaster. Ice accepted me, and Cregan has no use for it at the moment. I’ll surrender it to him when I bring him the promised head."

Aethan chuckled. "Really? You’d just surrender such a prize?"

"What?" I snapped, narrowing my eyes. "Do you think I’m a thief? Why would I want this massive chunk of metal, which I can barely control, when I could rightfully claim two of the most famous swords in the world from my paternal family?"

Aethan smirked. "Aye, I’ve heard His Grace is eager to bestow both Blackfyre and Dark Sister upon you."

I couldn’t stop the snort of laughter from escaping. "Indeed," I said, shaking my head.

Then Aethan's expression turned serious. "But, Daemon, do you still feel the same presence observing us? "

"Aye, Aethan. The presence has lingered ever since we left the Wall. It’s ancient, something deeply unsettling. My instincts and abilities are working overtime to shield us from whatever it is that’s interfering with our meetings."

Aethan's brow furrowed in concern. "That’s troubling. I’ve seen nothing, nor learned anything, that could explain this. There’s no Three-Eyed Raven at this point in time, as you’ve mentioned in your visions. But, while you were warging, I finally found what we’ve been searching for. One of my birds tracked down a dozen of them, and in three days, we can move them where we need."

A bloodthirsty grin spread across my face as the good news sank in. "It seems, at last, fate smiles upon us, Aethan. Three days, you say? Plenty of time for me to take control and subdue them. That’ll be the perfect moment to confront the enemy army. They won’t see it coming."

Aethan grinned as well, a wicked smile that showed exactly why Crannogmen earned the name "bog-devils."

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4 Days Later

The Wildling camp

I could only grin in satisfaction as I gazed upon the sheer destruction before us. The lifeless eyes of dozens of wildlings wandered aimlessly, searching for their fallen comrades and any remaining valuables. They were so focused on their task that they didn’t even notice our army observing them from a mere 500 meters away.

"Daemon, how did you accomplish this?" Lyra asked, awe and respect clear in her voice.

I basked in the admiration, not just from her, but from the soldiers as well, all of them looking at me with a newfound reverence.

"Men of North," I began, my voice steady and commanding. "You followed me to this cursed place out of sheer loyalty and love for the Starks. I don’t want to see even one more death of a man sworn to House Stark. You marched with me knowing the enemy numbered seven thousand, while we were only a thousand strong. So, I made a vow: the only lives lost would be theirs, not ours. You can now see the enemy army scattered, dying, their camps trampled."

I grinned, and the soldiers began to stir, sensing something in my words.

"And if you're wondering how that happened, you can see the answer grazing the fields at the far right of the enemy camp" I said.

The soldiers looked at the right and saw something in they have only heard stories about.

“Aye, it was a herd of mammoths that trampled these fools. Now, ride in and finish the job.” I continued, “Kill anything that moves—there will be no mercy except for a dozen of them. Also look for the fancy tent in the middle of the camp. I made sure the mammoths left it alone. Inside, you’ll find Lucamore the Lusty, dead in his bed. Bring me his head."

The soldiers roared in jubilation, charging forward to finish off whatever remained of the wildling army.

Lyra approached me, her curiosity clear. "How did you control the mammoths? It takes time to tame such large, mature beasts. And what about the traitor? How did you kill Lucamore?"

I smirked, offering no clear answer. "I have my secrets, Lyra. Feel free to try and figure them out."

Her only response was a playful punch to my shoulder.

Lyra turned to Aethan. "You tell me," she pressed, a teasing edge in her voice.

Aethan grinned. "Well, he's Daemon Snow, the god-blessed. He has the power to control the mammoths once I found a herd. As for Lucamore..." He trailed off, shrugging. "I'm not entirely sure how that was handled in the night."

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Authors note: so that happened.  Yes. daemon warged and controlled a dozen mammoths and  used them in the night when wildlings were sleeping.  Sometimes u have to fight smarter not harder.

GLH 9

Chapter 9: The Mad Titan

The cold, empty vacuum of space buzzed with an eerie silence around the Viltrumite spaceship, pierced only by the faint hum of invisible cosmic energy and the distant shimmer of stars. Nolan, Thragg, Kregg, and Anissa were preparing for the inevitable clash as they soared through the stars. The wounds they had sustained in their previous battle had been extensive, but thanks to the advanced medical technology of the Viltrumites, coupled with their inherent regenerative abilities, they had almost fully recovered in just a day. Normally, they wouldn’t use any medical technology, as it was seen as a sign of weakness, but time was of the essence.

Nolan clenched his fists, feeling his muscles flex and contract as the healing continued at a cellular level. They were stronger now, prepared for what lay ahead.

"Nolan, are you sure we’re going in the right direction? Our navigation systems say there’s nothing but empty space out there. Also, are you sure we can’t wait until we’re fully healed? Conquest could survive until then—or he’ll slaughter his captors," Kregg asked, his disapproval of the hasty rescue plan evident.

Nolan glanced at Grand Regent Thragg, who looked at him, silently waiting for his response.

Nolan sighed and replied, "I’m not worried about the abominations or their commanders. I’m worried about the children of Thanos and the Mad Titan himself. Ever since their ship approached our planet, the ring has been updating me on the history it was apparently missing. The true horrors of Thanos have been revealed to me. If given enough time, the Titan will break Conquest and turn him into a mindless slave, while also using our biology for his own gain or for his minions. For the first time, someone other than us will be able to tap into the smart atoms and modify them to their will."

"Impossible!" Kregg shouted in surprise. "No one but us can do that. You really think some mad alien can?"

Nolan paled as the ring fed him more information about Thanos’ accomplishments and the rumors surrounding him.

"Yes, Kregg. He can, and he’s done many biological manipulations before. The ring confirms it. He will come back to attack us, no doubt. He’s never retreated from an enemy without returning with a vengeance. Leaving a specimen for him to experiment on and discover our weaknesses is utter foolishness."

Thragg, ever the battle-hardened Grand Regent, interrupted. "Enough, Kregg. We’re already halfway there, and now you want to retreat? Conquest is not some weakling we can afford to leave with our enemies. He knows our secrets, our tactics, our fighting style. We will retrieve him—dead or alive—and cause as much damage as possible to Thanos’ infrastructure and army."

He then turned to Nolan. "Does your ring have any information about Thanos’ combat capabilities?"

"According to the rumored feats," Nolan began, "it’s not advisable to fight him one-on-one. He’s physically stronger and more durable than us, with many esoteric powers with unknown limits."

Thragg remained silent for a few moments, then gave his order. "Kregg, Anissa, only Nolan and I will engage Thanos. In this case our flight speed is the most important advantage we have over our enemy.  We’ll use our speed to obliterate anything in our path."

Kregg and Anissa nodded in agreement.

However, they were already behind. Far ahead of them, in an uncharted sector of space where no one dared to venture, Thanos had already achieved half his plans.

=============

Thanos sat on his Space Throne within the asteroid Sanctuary, watching through the hologram generated by his technological marvel of a throne, the body of Conquest laying chained to a table in their experiment room. Ebony Maw hovered nearby, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he studied the subject. Thanos observed the Viltrumite’s body, which had healed remarkably, though it had failed to regenerate the vaporized fist.

By the time Gamora reached the Sanctuary, Conquest was out of immediate danger, though Thanos' daughters confirmed they had done nothing medically to help him. His tenacity and rapid healing intrigued the Mad Titan. Blood, flesh, hair, and all the necessary DNA samples had already been extracted and stored, while Ebony Maw continued his experiments.

===========

"Great Thanos, I have completed the experiments and discovered surprising details," Ebony Maw said as he bowed before the floating throne.

Thanos, though his throne displayed all the data, gestured for Maw to speak.

"Master, no type or amount of radiation affected the specimen. No biological viruses impacted him either, and even debilitating ones only slightly increased his recovery time. We unleashed powerful energy blasts, and subjected him to excruciating pain through focused heat beams. Each time, he healed rapidly, his enhanced biology resisting most of the torture."

"So you're saying his body adapts to almost anything ordinary? What else have you learned about his species?" Thanos asked.

Ebony Maw hesitated, then answered, "I’m sorry, your eminence, but I’ve discovered nothing beyond that. His healing abilities are astonishing, and he seems to have developed a high pain threshold. Only the highest forms of cosmic energy cause lasting damage. His cells regenerate faster with each injury—almost as if he's growing stronger."

Thanos' expression remained unreadable as his hands rested on the control panel. A hologram appeared, streams of data flickering across the screens.

"Cosmic energy… intriguing," Thanos muttered. "Let’s see how much he can take."

Without further warning, the Mad Titan activated the teleportation feature of his throne. Both he and Ebony Maw appeared in the experimentation room, where Conquest was strapped to a vibranium table with vibranium chains. His body was a wreck, but a nutritional IV and his natural healing kept him alive. The burns from the planet-buster bomb were almost healed, leaving only the fresh wounds from Ebony Maw’s torture and the restraints.

Conquest grinned savagely as his captors entered.

"So, you’re the so-called Mad Titan that Nolan warned us about. Let me out, and let’s match our madness," he snarled.

Thanos didn’t even acknowledge the challenge

"Silence, fool!" Ebony Maw snarled, waving his hand. Telekinetic force slammed into Conquest’s body, but he didn’t react. Maw focused harder, sending tendrils of telekinesis inside Conquest’s body, squeezing his organs.

At first, there was no response, but as Maw increased his power, Conquest’s grin faltered. His smart atoms adapted quickly, but they couldn’t keep up with the mounting pressure.

"Enough," Thanos ordered, and Maw stopped.

"Conquest… an interesting name. Tell me, what planets have you conquered to earn it?" Thanos asked calmly.

Conquest scoffed. "Yeah, I’ll tell you right now."

Thanos sighed, tired of the game. His floating throne moved closer to the table, and he raised his hand. White-blue light began to coalesce, forming a blast of cosmic energy that hit Conquest square in the chest. The burns returned with a vengeance, as his smart atoms couldn’t adapt fast enough to the cosmic energy.

Conquest screamed, his body writhing as the energy seared his flesh. His healing factor fought back, pushing his limits with each second.

Thanos paused, asking again while his telepathy probed Conquest’s mind. Yet, it wasn’t enough.

Conquest merely smirked through the pain, spitting in Thanos’ direction. The spit never reached, as a telekinetic wave sent it back to his own face.

"It seems you believe that we cannot harm you permanently. Let’s change that," Thanos hissed with a gleeful expression.

Thanos raised both of his hand and the cosmic energy surged, concentrating on Conquest’s hand. His flesh melted, sizzled, and evaporated entirely. His bones, sturdy and seemingly indestructible, cracked under the immense pressure. And then—his hand was gone, vaporized completely from the elbow.

A moment of silence followed.

Conquest slumped in his restraints, breathing heavily. Even though he was in agony, he did not break. His teeth were gritted, his eyes blazing with defiance. But he remained silent.

"Impressive, as always sire, you have already broke his mind with your telepathy." Ebony Maw said with a soft clap.

"No," Thanos replied coldly. "This one is different. Stronger. He does not fear death, nor does he yield to pain."

"What did you learn from his mind, sire?" Ebony Maw asked after getting over the surprise that someone’s mind didn’t break against the Great Thanos’s skill.

Thanos turned to his child, his eyes glowing with cosmic power. “There are things we can learn beyond knowledge , Maw. His mind is fractured, filled with blood and conquest.  I can’t reach it fully. Increase the nutritional intake. Let him heal back so I could break his body again and finally his mind to learn all the secrets hiding in it.”    

===================================================

While Thanos experimented on Conquest, far across space, the Viltrumites were drawing closer. They had followed the trail picked by the ring and their own spaceship and it led them straight into a hostile zone filled with debris, remnants of old battles, and heavily guarded outposts. But none of that mattered to them.

The Viltrumites flew through the defenses like it was paper.

Nolan and Thragg flew ahead, their fists clenched as they drove through ships, shattering metal and glass with the sheer force of their blows. Kregg and Anissa followed in their wake, their speed and strength a blur as they smashed through waves of enemies.

Inside the Sanctuary, alarms blared. Thanos and Ebony Maw turned toward the floating hologram projected by the Space Throne, seeing the approaching Viltrumites.

"They're here," Maw said with a dark grin. "They're coming for him."

Thanos remained stoic. "Let them come. This base has seen worse, and the shield has defeated even more powerful forces than these Viltrumites."

Nolan used the Ring to scan for Conquest and got his answer.

"Follow me," Nolan said to his comrades before flying towards the asteroid base.

Ahead of them loomed the massive asteroid base, Thanos' Sanctuary. It was heavily fortified, shielded by powerful energy barriers, but the Viltrumites did not care. Their mission was clear: rescue Conquest and destroy anyone in their path.

Before even halfway to the asteroid was crossed The Ring started blaring warnings to Nolan;

“Stop immediately. That  Shield is more powerful than your combined power of  four and you will not break through as it is.”

Rage at their apparent powerlessness built, and willpower manifested at his beck and call. There were still thousands of miles to go, and a green light enveloped Nolan as he used his willpower to increase his durability and strength. The green light coalesced into a drill around him, with his fists as the point. As he increased his speed, he started rotating to increase the thrust.

“We must go in fast,” Nolan said, his voice steady. “No holding back and copy me.”

The others heard the telepathic message, and with a single motion, the other three also started rotating to increase the force.

Thanos was intrigued by the green light because he had never seen such a powerful weapon before. Even from this distance, his own telepathy could feel the unyielding willpower and the power behind it. A quick calculation, and he concluded that the shield would be destroyed by the combined attack, especially by the green light wielded by one of them.

"Sire," Ebony Maw said as he decided to use his telekinetic might to reduce the speed of the incoming battering rams.

"No, child," Thanos said with indifference. "You cannot stop them; their speed is beyond your strength now. And their combined might will destroy our shield. Let's give them a surprise. Use your powers to shove the girl. I will deal with the bald man."

Thanos used his Space Throne to deactivate the outer shield just as the Viltrumites reached it.

Nolan's eyes widened as he registered the Ring's warning of the shields being down, but it was too late to reduce their momentum. Before, they expected a powerful shield that would stop their normal powers, but now they were to go through an asteroid wall, which any normal Viltrumite could handle. This level of speed and technique was not needed for that and they couldn't stop the spinning momentum without taking time, which will lead them to being surrounded by enemies. They decided to reduce their spinning and momentum after hitting  the wall and The Sanctuary trembled as the Viltrumites crashed through the outer walls, tearing their way into the inner levels.

Both Thanos and Ebony Maw used their telekinetic powers to shove their spinning targets. Kregg and Anissa lost control of their flight, went body through walls, bodies, machines until they broke through the other side of the asteroid, and the momentum carried them hundreds of thousands of miles before they could gather their senses. They lost all sense of direction as the impact on the walls had even knocked their breaths out, but luckily, they were able to take a breath before they lost themselves to space.

Anissa and Kregg were diverted to different directions and were lost in the darkness of space. There was no stars near the planet-sized asteroid base that is the Sanctuary. Kregg and Anissa looked around their positions as they tried to communicate mentally with their comrades, but they couldn't connect with anyone as they were distant. Luckily, they had a tracker to their own spaceship and decided to fly back to it before their breath ran out, deciding they would help Thragg and Nolan if they came across the asteroid on their flight path.

Ebony Maw was clearing his nose as blood started pouring down due to the strain of using telekinesis to just shove such fast targets. Thanos looked at his most loyal servant and scoffed.

"It seems you have to increase your training, Maw. Also, the new DNA we obtained from this species is going to help you even more. Your telekinesis is strong, but your body is weak if you can't concentrate enough." There was no strain on Thanos' face or body as he also used one of his lesser powers of telekinesis to push Kregg.

Ebony Maw bowed in deference.

Thanos pulled up the hologram of the base using his chair and saw the leader of the species and his general going through his base, destroying everything in their path.

Derision bloomed inside Thanos at the senseless and useless destruction of his property.

"This is a waste," Thanos said, and he used the chair to teleport and grab Conquest.

Thanos used his telepathy to issue an order to the rampaging Viltrumites.

"Fools, you have caused enough senseless destruction of my properties. Your friend Conquest is facing death in my hand." As his left hand enveloped half the face of Conquest, he continued, "Come to the center; you shall not miss it."

Both Nolan and Thragg were surprised that someone breached their natural mind defenses, but they got their target. Both of them, reached the center of the asteroid at almost the same time.

It was a great hall the size of hundreds of miles with a floating chair in the middle. An intimidating description of Thanos the Mad Titan, with Conquest in his hand.

It was a colossal chamber, stretching out over hundreds of miles, its vastness dwarfing even the mightiest of structures known across the cosmos. At the center of this cavernous space, suspended by unseen forces, floated a throne-like chair, its design intricate and menacing. Crafted from a strange, unidentified metal that shimmered with a thousand colors under the dim, flickering lights, it exuded an aura of dread and authority. Its seat was broad, enough to accommodate Thanos' massive frame, and it floated eerily, without any visible means of support, as if held aloft by the will of its owner alone.

Thanos, the Mad Titan, sat upon this throne, his presence alone filling the hall with a sense of dread. His stature was monumental, even for his kind. Clad in armor that looked both ancient and technologically advanced. His skin was a deep purple, his muscles rippling with power that seemed to defy the very laws of physics. His eyes, glowing with an inner fire, surveyed his domain with a mix of boredom and anticipation, as if he could see his triumph in the end, no matter who stands in his way.

In his massive hand, he held Conquest, the Viltrumite, almost casually. Conquest, despite his own formidable strength and power, looked diminutive in Thanos' grasp, his body limp, not from defeat but from the overwhelming presence of the Titan. Thanos' other hand rested on the armrest of his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically, each tap echoing like thunder through the hall, a reminder of the power he could unleash at any moment.

Nolan and Thragg came to the conclusion that Thanos was as worthy as the rumors said, as even Conquest couldn't overpower the hold of this Mad Titan.

"You've come for your weapon of conquest," Thanos said, his voice calm.

Thragg stepped forward, his fists glowing with barely restrained energy. "Of course, Titan," Thragg growled, his eyes narrowing. "You attacked us unprovoked and kidnapped one of us. Do you think there will be no consequences for that?"

Thanos chuckled, his deep laughter echoing through the chamber. A chill enveloped everyone who heard the laughter. "You are speaking of unprovoked attacks? I have seen enough to understand you have slaughtered millions in your conquests, just for the thirst of power. What I have done is for a higher purpose. Your planet's existence in my space is the only provocation I need. I will give you one chance. Surrender yourself and join my army, and I will forgive that you have damaged my asteroid and slaughtered my forces."

There was a visible pressure on the Viltrumites, and only the centuries of bloodshed they had engaged in helped them not tremble in fear at the malicious aura of the Mad Titan.

Thragg decided enough was enough, and he moved. Maybe it was due to how much Conquest understood Thragg, that at that same moment, Conquest, who had been almost unconscious, moved. His one good fist moved to punch Thanos in the face, and it was lightning fast. The punch from Conquest and Thragg should have landed at the same time.

But Thanos moved faster than anyone anticipated.

He slightly moved his head, and the punch from Conquest just whiffed past his face. His hand shot out, seizing Thragg by the throat and tanking the fist to his chest.

Thanos looked down at his armor, which had a slight outline of a fist. He scoffed in derision at the weak punch.

"You both are weaker than expected. The only exceptional thing about you is that you can survive freely in space and fly faster than light. Without that, you are just infinitely weaker Kryptonians."

Thragg scoffed at the insult, and he used both of his hands to punch down on the hand holding him, while Conquest also punched the same hand of Thanos to help the Grand Regent.

A slight weakening caused by three punches was only needed for Thragg to shoot himself back from Thanos' hold.

"Well, it seems that we are in for a long fight then," Thragg grinned, the prospect of a worthy fight making him truly feel alive for the first time in a long time.

Nolan, who had been evaluating the situation while the ring analyzed everything around them and informed him the truth that the fight was not winnable for their side. He decided to make the loss for Thanos at least costly.

Thanos smirked, looking at the Viltrumites who wanted to fight him and seeing their true plans hidden in their minds. He knew they wanted to ensure their death would be too costly for him and his goals.

"You cannot win this fight, and the only result will be the destruction of this asteroid and your death. I don't want to set back my plans for centuries because of insignificant things like you. Let me show you." Thanos hissed.

  He lifted the battered Viltrumite into the air, his fingers holding the face of Conquest glowing with cosmic energy. The white and blue light burned with enough heat that half of Conquest's face immediately melted, and he screamed in pain for the first time.

"You may have high defense against kinetic attacks, but this will be the endgame."

"I'll return him to you," Thanos said, his grip tightening. "But only if you leave now, without even breaking a single stone in your path? Otherwise, I will end you five, and personally travel to your planet and kill every last one of your species with my bare hands in the melee fight your species loves so much."

The Viltrumites tensed. Thragg's eyes darkened, and for a moment, he considered lunging at Thanos. But before he could, Nolan's hand gripped Thragg's wrist in a wise grip, with enough strength that even surprised Thragg.

Thragg looked back, and Nolan shook his head, while his eyes barely indicated the hand in which the Ring was.

Thragg understood the ring had predicted their end and decided their species' survival was better than extinction.

"I agree. Give us Conquest, and we will leave now," Thragg said, his voice sharp with displeasure at uttering such words.

Thanos' eyes glowed with cold amusement at the proud race admitting defeat.

Thanos tossed Conquest to the two vitrumites, his body motionless but alive. “Take him,” Thanos said. “Leave this place and hope that you will not ever be present in my presence again.

Thanos tossed Conquest to the two Viltrumites, his body motionless but alive. "Take him," Thanos said. "Leave this place and hope that you will never be present in my presence again."For a moment, the chamber was silent.

Then Thragg stepped forward, gathering Conquest into his arms. He glared at Thanos, his rage barely contained. But he said nothing.

The Viltrumites turned and flew from the chamber, leaving Thanos standing there with Ebony Maw.

As they left, Thanos smiled, his gaze lingering on the spot where they had stood.

"They are the leaders of the planet. If they died, the others would flee before we reach the planet, and I would lose the thirty thousand lives I could give to my Lady Death. Thirty thousand lives who have escaped her for millennia and sent millions to her before their time due to their pride. Imagine how pleased she will be when I present all thirty thousand pseudo immortals at the same time." Thanos said with glee and a glint in his eyes.

Even Ebony Maw felt his spine freezing in terror at Thanos' explanation.

Suddenly, the terror was replaced by surprise as a yellow light entered through the opening left by the viltrumites. Initially it was blur in the eyes of Ebony Maw, but it came to stop before the Mad Titan.

“Thanos of Titan. You have the ability to instill great fear. You have been chosen”

 =====================

Authors note: sorry for delay!!  Read, commend and recommend.

ADS 18

 Chapter 18: King Jaehaerys 'The Wise'  Targaryen

79 AC

King's Landing

Baelon Targaryen

It had been nearly two years since the infamous tourney of Princess Rhaenys, an event that sent shockwaves through the realm. The repercussions were still felt, with the Citadel particularly outraged by the Iron Throne’s new orders, which diminished their influence over the lords of Westeros. Yet, their complaints were swiftly silenced by a single visit from Baelon himself, flying on Vhagar as the Iron Throne’s official representative. Confiscating two of their prized dragonglass candles and all the Valyrian tomes on magic had felt like bullying in Baelon's eyes, but the King had been adamant.

At least one benefit had come from his brother, Vaegon, who had joined the Citadel before the turmoil began. The archmaesters had been arrogant enough to flaunt their knowledge of Valyrian history and magic in front of a Targaryen prince, because of the Royal family’s notorious loss of ancient knowledge after the Doom. Baelon was certain that Vaegon’s innocent thirst for learning had helped deflect their suspicions, as they failed to notice the contingency laid out by the King. Baelon was satisfied the overt issues with the Citadel were now behind them, especially with Lord Hightower’s support of the Throne, allowing him to return to King’s Landing in time for the birth of his son, Prince Viserys, that same year.

Both the King and his brother Aemon were thrilled with the birth of Viserys, already planning to wed him to Rhaenys, ensuring a Targaryen would remain King Consort. However, Aemon had made it clear after Viserys’ birth that he would not risk having another child himself, fearing for Jocelyn’s life after a difficult labor. Despite Jocelyn’s attempts to persuade him otherwise, Aemon remained firm, insisting that she take moon tea to prevent any future pregnancies. Baelon knew the King wasn’t pleased with this decision but had accepted it reluctantly, content in the knowledge that Baelon had a healthy son and would likely have more children in the future.

 Small Council meeting.

Baelon was surprised to find two letters from Winterfell on the agenda of the Small Council meeting. He had sent two letters to Winterfell himself after recent events, addressed to his bastard nephew, but had received no reply. The lack of response from a mere bastard, a snub to a prince and rider of Vhagar, had enraged him. However, the King had ordered him to let it go. The King was happy that there have been no complaints from north since then and it surprised everyone now when the Grandmaester revealed the letter with the snarling direwolf seal of House Stark.   

“Prince Baelon, read the first letter,” the King ordered.

Baelon broke the seal and began to read aloud:

To King Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm

Your Grace,

It is with deep sorrow that I write to inform you of my father, Lord Benjen Stark’s death. He was ambushed by traitors within the Night’s Watch and 2,500 wildlings while leading an army to avenge my elder brother. Witnesses say my father moved to shield my bastard nephew from arrows, saving his life. Upon realising what happened, Snow became mad with grief, took our ancestral sword Ice without permission or any right to it and went on a mad slaughter of our enemies. The use of Ice at that time could be forgiven, but he has ignored the commands of Lord Karstark, Lord Umber and swore revenge on the King beyond the wall and took the Stark army and Ice with him, which is unforgivable as they must obey my commands, as I am regent. 

I humbly ask your permission for punishing your grandson for Usurpation of Stark men and using  our ancestral sword without Lord Stark’s permission. 

Lord Bennard Stark

Regent for Cregan Stark

Warden of the North.

"Lord Benjen is also dead?" Aemon whispered, a look of sorrow crossing his face.

"I am sorry, brother. I know you had a good relationship with Lord Stark," Baelon said, trying to console him, though his mind raced to make sense of his nephew’s involvement. Baelon noticed the king deep in thought, likely considering the consequences of this death.

"Well, it seems the gods have decided to punish House Stark for their trickery, even after the King was gracious enough to forgive them. Even House Stark cannot escape the consequences of violating the King's laws," Lord Manfred Redwyne, the Master of Ships, remarked snidely.

Baelon scoffed. "Lord Redwyne, the gods had nothing to do with this. This is the work of men. Betrayal and treachery are not the victim's fault. If the gods intended punishment, it would have been my nephew who fell, as this was his idea in the first place."

Aemon snarled in response, but before he could say anything, the king interrupted. "Enough. There is another letter from Winterfell. Read it aloud, and let us see what my errant bastard grandson has done to be accused of usurpation."

Baelon nodded and began to read the second letter.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men

Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Protector of the Realm

My King,

It has come to my attention that my co-regent, my brother-in-law, has hastily sent a letter requesting punishment for your grandson, Daemon Snow, over the use of a large sword and for hunting down traitors to the crown with loyal Stark men. I am writing to plead his case and not allow Lord Bennard's foolishness, driven by sorrow and anger, to cloud your judgment. He wrongly blames Daemon, a 12-year-old boy, for the death of Lord Benjen Stark, just as he has blamed him for the death of his beloved sister for all these years.

In fact, Daemon should be recognized, for according to the reports we have received, it was only because he picked up Ice, making it burn and went on to kill hundreds with it like a hero from the Age of Heroes, that our decimated army turned to victory. Nearly 1,200 Northmen survived, while 3,000 of the enemy were slain, even as 1,000 Night's Watch traitors attacked us during the night, with wildlings ambushing from the sidelines. Despite this, the North lost 1,500 proud warriors. Lord Karstark and Lord Umber had no right to command men sworn to Winterfell, and they chose to follow a Stark to avenge my husband and father-in-law.

I plead that you hear this and absolve Daemon. He has promised to return with the head of the King Beyond the Wall as a gift for my son, Cregan Stark.

Your loyal vassal,

Lady Giliane Stark (née Glover)

Lady of Winterfell

Co-Regent of Cregan Stark.

"This doesn’t make any sense, Your Grace," Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, said. "Lord Bennard’s letter made no mention of a co-regent or the true actions of Daemon Snow. And what does she mean by a 'burning sword' and a boy killing hundreds with it?"

Baelon noticed the air of disbelief among the council, save for his family.

"The Stark sword is a greatsword, nearly my height, called Ice—and it is Valyrian steel," Prince Aemon explained.

"There are tricks in Essos that allow a sword to be set aflame. Perhaps my nephew used one of those tricks to burn the ambushers," Baelon speculated.

Lord Lyman furrowed his brow, but the king responded with a thoughtful look. "You missed the crux of the matter, Lord Lyman. Both the mother and the uncle are vying for regency of Cregan Stark. The uncle believes he is the only rightful choice, while Lady Stark knows it will be difficult for her to be the sole regent as long as an adult Stark lives."

Baelon spoke up. "So, what shall be our reply, Your Grace? Does my nephew deserve punishment for his apparent heroic actions—or, as Lord Bennard claims, usurpation?"

The king pondered the question, then turned to Aemon. Baelon immediately felt a sense of unease as an unsettling thought crossed his mind.

"Prince Aemon," the king commanded, his voice cold and firm with the ever present Kingly Mask that Baelon almost considers the true face of the King, "you shall leave for Winterfell tomorrow on Caraxes to pay the crown’s respects to Lords Benjen and Rickard Stark. You shall also investigate the truth of the matter and determine whether Lord Benjen left any instructions regarding Cregan's regency. If there is proof, follow it to the letter; otherwise, let the mother and uncle share the regency. The haste and vagueness in Lord Bennard's letter, along with his request for punishment without explanation, give me pause regarding the long regency. You will also decide the matter of Daemon once the truth is revealed."

Baelon watched as disbelief washed over Aemon’s face, slowly transforming into anger.

"My king, I have duties here. Baelon is the Master of Laws; let him fly with Vhagar and handle this matter. I do not wish to return to Winterfell, where only painful memories await me," Aemon said respectfully, and Baelon sighed in relief. His brother had managed to conceal his anger and sadness while offering a reasonable excuse.

"Yes, my king," Baelon added quickly, "it would be an honor to oversee this legal matter. Vhagar is far larger and faster, enabling me to reach Winterfell sooner." Baelon tried to support his brother, but even before finishing he could see carefully hidden anger and disappointment in King’s face.

"Prince Aemon," the king said sternly, "Baelon may be the Master of Laws, but he has no authority to enact any law without my leave. You, however, are the Crown Prince and Hand of the King. Only you have the authority to handle this matter. This is not a request; it is an order."

Baelon sighed inwardly, knowing defeat.

Aemon, his rage carefully hidden, bowed respectfully. "Of course, my king. I am your loyal heir, first and foremost."

The king scrutinized his brother for several heartbeats, then declared, "This council is dismissed."

Baelon noticed that the other masters had several topics they wished to discuss, but no one dared speak, sensing the king's tense mood.

As the council rose to leave, the king called after them. "Prince Aemon, Baelon—come with me to the Dragonpit. It has been too long since we flew together."

Baelon saw Aemon tense further and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Brother, let’s enjoy the flight."

Knowing he couldn’t refuse the king, Aemon nodded.

--------------------------------------------------------------

"Sers, dragonhandlers—everyone—evacuate the Dragonpit. Let us spend time with our own dragons and the unclaimed ones. Alone," the king ordered as they reached the inner courtyard of the enormous Dragonpit.

Baelon swallowed hard, sensing that whatever was about to happen would be painful for both him and Aemon. He understood now—the king brought them here so no one could overhear what was about to be said.

"Come, sons," the king commanded, walking briskly through the cavernous halls as though he knew every turn by heart.

As the king veered away from the usual path leading to Vermithor and the other dragons, Baelon initially thought, maybe, The King, had lost his way. But soon, it became clear—they weren't heading toward their own dragons at all. They were walking toward the Black Dread. Baelon glanced at Aemon, noticing his brother’s growing impatience with the king’s dismissive attitude.

The vast cave loomed before them, darker than any other in the pit. A low, rumbling vibration from the very ground beneath them and the increased heat, signalled the presence of the greatest living dragon, Balerion the Black Dread.

Though bonded to Vhagar, the second-largest war dragon, Baelon couldn’t suppress a shiver as they entered the cave. The Black Dread's malevolent eyes watched them, glowing in the shadow. It left him awestruck—and terrified—when the king approached Balerion without a hint of fear, whispering in Valyrian as he patted the dragon’s snout. Both Baelon and Aemon exchanged disbelieving glances. Balerion allowed their father to come this close, but they had never been granted such proximity, even as children except for his foolishness once.

“Father—" Aemon began, but the king ignored him, still whispering to the Black Dread.

When the king turned around, Balerion's massive head loomed behind him, so large that Baelon could barely see his father, as though the king were nothing more than a tooth in the dragon’s mouth. Baelon felt Balerion’s gaze bore into him, rooting him to the spot—a primal terror only those who have faced a dragon understand. It surprised Baelon and his brother that they felt terror similar to that non-dragonriders probably feel before a dragon. 

“Aemon, you will never repeat something like this again. If you dare to question my order on such an important matter and try to escape from your duties, then I will have to reconsider who my heir should be.” The King said.

Baelon’s shock came not from the words, but from the way the king delivered them. There was no anger, no disappointment—just cold indifference. For the first time, Baelon felt like he was seeing Jaehaerys Targaryen without the mask of a King.

Baelon saw Aemon begin to recover from his shock, his expression hardening as he prepared to step forward and argue. But before he could make the mistake, Baelon acted swiftly, gripping Aemon’s right hand in a vice-like hold. Aemon jerked back, glaring at his brother in confusion. Baelon quickly shook his head and nodded toward Balerion.

The Black Dread, who had been resting his massive head on the ground, was now rising. In one fluid, silent motion, Balerion’s face loomed above the King casting a massive shadow over the king. The sheer size of the dragon, combined with the eerie stillness—no growl, no sound of movement—sent a chill down Baelon’s spine. It was as if the great beast had become one with the very darkness of the cave, its ancient eyes unblinking, watching everything. The absence of noise made the presence of the Black Dread more terrifying than any other Dragons. 

Aemon gulped, his earlier anger replaced by fear. “Father, please... That place haunts me. I lost her there, to him. I don’t know what I’ll do if I see Daemon again. Please, understand—"

“Oh,for the sake of your mother, shut up Aemon and get over it.” The King snapped, his voice echoing with passion and anger.   

“It has been 12 years since that bastard girl died in childbirth and you are still blaming my grandson for it like an imbecile Andal lord that I have to suffer for the last several decades. You are my elder son, Prince Aemon Targaryen, my Heir, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and moreover a Dragonlord. Act like it.”  

Baelon was lost for words by the raw fury in the Kings words and he saw Aemon gaping like a fish in land, his eyes travelling from the King  to the towering presence of the Black Dread.  Before Aemon could say anything, The King continued;

“For 12 years, I have indulged your idiosyncrasies and I will not do it for one more day. You will get over your… your, your  whatever it is and will do as I ordered regarding Winterfell and Daemon. You can’t hide from this anymore, if you want to rule this Kingdom and be the King after me. If you can’t, then abdicate your title—and that of Rhaenys — and not be a headache for me anymore.”    

Baelon still had a firm grip on Aemon, but he knew it was no longer necessary. Aemon was paralyzed, both in awe and terror, beneath Balerion's gaze.

"Father... I... I..." Aemon stammered, his voice strained and broken, a vulnerability in him that Baelon had not seen in years. The sound of his brother's voice cracking ignited a fire in Baelon’s chest—a burning fury toward their King. How could the king force this upon Aemon, when he knew the pain that place held?

But then Aemon lowered himself, slowly and deliberately, to one knee. "I will do as you ordered, Father. I will not escape from my responsibilities," he said, his voice steadier now, but the defeat in it was evident for everyone.

Baelon stood stiffly beside him, every muscle tense. His heart raced, and he could feel his bond with Vhagar becoming taut as his own fury roused the old war dragon. Fury coursed through his veins, hidden beneath the surface, but it was there—a rage so deep that Baelon wondered if the king could sense it. And for a fleeting moment, he was certain that Balerion, the Black Dread, did. The dragon's fiery eyes, fixed upon Baelon, seemed to burn through him, searing into his soul for just an instant.

And…

For a single heartbeat, Baelon’s mind was filled with a single haunting vision.  

He saw a lone dragon, its scales black as night, unleashing all its fury upon Harrenhal, the largest and most fearsome castle in the realm. The night sky was illuminated by the beast’s fire and Harrenhal, a fortress so vast it dwarfed even Balerion and Vhagar combined, stood defiant against the onslaught—but only for a moment.

The enchanted stone walls, said to be protected by sorcery, began to tremble under the relentless assault of dragonflame. The heat was unimaginable, turning stone to slag, Baelon could almost hear the crackling of the stones as they shattered, see the molten rivers of rock pouring down the once-mighty battlements. The towers of Harrenhal, which had loomed like giants over the land, crumbled and collapsed into themselves as if they were no more than kindling before a bonfire.

The dragon’s fire raged with such intensity that even the magical protections woven into the stone faltered and disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. In the distance, Baelon could almost hear the desperate screams of men, their voices lost beneath the roar of flames and the terrible, earth-shaking bellows of the Black Dread.

And Baelon lost all his rage.

The king had a curious yet threatening glint in his eyes.

“Baelon, Aemon, let me be clear with you both today: if you ever think of betraying me by attempting to usurp my throne before my natural death, believing that Vhaghar and Caraxes can overcome my Vermithor, know that you will face the full fury of the Black Dread.”

For the first time since entering the cave, a low growl emanated from the Great Dragon, as if in approval of the king's words, making Baelon tremble with terror. Aemon gaped in pure disbelief, as if the very thought was a foreign concept to him.

“Father, what? What in the name of Doom are you talking about? Betraying my father and my liege? How could you even think of me like that?” Aemon said, outrage clear in his voice. “And how could you even consider Baelon might betray you? He has worked harder than anyone else, yet you never acknowledge him in front of me. How could you?”

Baelon closed his eyes in defeat, knowing the truth of the matter: he would always stand by Aemon’s side. The king scrutinized his eldest son, searching for any trace of insincerity, but ultimately sighed, defeated.

“You are a fool, Aemon, if you believe Baelon’s loyalty to his king surpasses his love for his brother. I lost his loyalty and love a long time ago,” the king said, a hint of sadness in his gaze as he looked at his second son.

Aemon turned to Baelon in surprise, his eyes widening. Baelon could only nod in response.

Aemon’s expression brightened, a pure smile breaking through the tension and reminding Baelon of their happier times before their fateful journey to the North. “Thank you, Valanquor!” Aemon exclaimed, before turning back to their father. “But even then, Father, it’s still insulting for you to even consider it. How could you?”

The king sighed wearily, closing his eyes briefly before turning to Balerion. He unsheathed Blackfyre from the scabbard at his hip, the smoky steel reflecting the flickering torchlight around them.

With a silent command, he gestured for his sons to follow as he moved sideways along the enormous dragon’s body, his left hand raised as he searched for something among Balerion’s scaled hide.

“Aemon, it doesn’t matter whether one is a father, son, brother, or uncle; first and foremost, we are Dragonlords, bound by the blood of Old Valyria, where might makes right. I know this from experience; my own uncle’s family caused the death of my elder brothers. Rage is in our blood, and when we burn, it is with fire that cannot be smothered until our enemies are reduced to ashes. There’s a reason the forty in Valyria sent off their deaths by dragonfire. You burn as brightly as any of us, Aemon, and I understand where foolishness may lead in dire circumstances. I want to curtail any such foolishness before such thoughts even enter your minds.”

The king finished speaking just as he reached the spot he sought. He turned and passed the torch to Aemon.

“Perhaps King Maegor should have done something like this for my own foolish elder brother before he faced the Black Dread,” the king added with a grunt, seizing the hilt of Blackfyre with both hands and driving the sword into the dragon’s side with a forceful stab.

Both Baelon and Aemon immediately panicked as their king attacked the greatest dragon in existence. They glanced nervously at Balerion’s head, bracing for fire, but instead were met with a sound that resonated as a mix of pain and relief.

Aemon drew closer, fire in hand, and Baelon gasped at the sight of black pus oozing from the wound, thick, smoking blood pooling on the ground. The area around the sword’s piercing was marred by healed stab wounds, while decayed, pus-filled scales marred other spots.

“Baelon, come. Use Dark Sister and shave off the decayed scales and flesh,” the king commanded.

“Yes, your grace.” Baelon acquiesced, drawing Dark Sister from its sheath, the blade’s unsheathing causing Balerion to glance back at them, a small fire flickering in his open throat.

“Lykiri, Balerion,” the king said, stabbing Blackfyre into another spot. “He is only helping, my son Baelon, rider of Vhaghar.”

Balerion emitted a sound Baelon interpreted as a snort, the fire in his throat momentarily dimming.

Baelon exchanged glances with his brother, a look of clear wonder etched on his face, while Aemon shrugged in surprise. He returned the gesture and began working on the decaying scales within reach, his strength required to pierce the tough, resistant hide even with Valyrian steel.

It took them hours of effort to finish, and eventually, the king passed Blackfyre to Aemon, resting against Balerion’s head while Aemon took over the task.

Both Aemon and Baelon were soaked in sweat, the heat of the dragon and the weight of their labor pressing down upon them.

The king nodded in approval as they stepped back from the Black Dread.

Baelon exhaled in relief as they exited the stifling heat of the Great Dragon’s lair, the burden of the king's and dragon's scrutiny lifting.

“And Aemon,” the king continued, “when you find my wayward bastard grandson, tell him he shall not humiliate a Prince of the Blood by ignoring his letters again, especially not a Dragonlord. Warn him that he will be burned if he pulls the dragon’s tail one too many times, and remind him he has lost his greatest protector since he lost Lord Stark. I don’t think Regent Bennard will value Daemon’s ideas or defend him as much. Also, Aemon, ensure that Daemon’s actions are not judged by Bennard or yourself, and reward him for his service, if the second letter proves truthful. After all, it hasn’t even been two years since I announced House Targaryen’s generosity and rewards for services to the realm and our own house.”

“I understand, Father,” Aemon replied, discomfort evident as the reminder loomed over him—he would soon visit Winterfell and see his son after twelve long years.

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Authors Note:  This was supposed to be a short 1000 word Kingslanding session, but the targ family got out of hand... it would be in next chapter we return to The Wall and with our hero Daemon Snow!!    

Also no one commented on images between prose.. so here i am continuing it !!!

AFM 10

Chapter 10 : New beginnings

It was the day after Izuku received his acceptance letter, a personalized 3D message from All Might himself, announcing that he had not only passed the U.A. entrance exam but had ranked first in both combat and rescue points. He met his father, as ordered, soon after.

Kurogiri transported him as usual, and when Izuku arrived, he saw his father, All for One, wearing his life support machine, the apparatus hissing faintly as it kept him alive. Izuku hoped that his father was in pain and ultimately, the stress of stretching his healing quirks to stay alive would not be worth the results of him clinching to life. 

“Izuku, congratulations are in order. You've been selected for U.A. High School, and as the number one candidate, no less. Your mother must be so proud,” All for One said, his calm smile hiding a subtle mockery behind it.

Izuku felt anger flare inside him, but the mental enhancements he had cultivated helped him suppress it before he could react, physically or verbally. His rage was masked behind a tight grimace.

"Yes, she must be. I passed the exam as you ordered, securing the top rank. Now, what am I supposed to do?" he asked, keeping his voice level.

“Nothing for now, Izuku. You are to become a hero—one who will surpass even All Might. The world must believe that. Only then, will the hero system collapse, when the ultimate truth is revealed, all while Tomura attacks from the outside as the villain.”

Izuku, who already understood the plan, nodded in compliance. However, a subtle grin crossed his face, hidden from his father’s view.

“I understand, Father. I will do as you’ve instructed. But I have a question: what exactly is Tomura planning? He’s been muttering about U.A. and All Might ever since he heard about my acceptance letter. What’s going on?”

All for One gave a light chuckle. “Oh, Izuku, if Tomura doesn’t want to include you, I won't interfere. You should have been more respectful and loving towards your elder brother.”

Izuku spluttered in indignation, his face burning with anger. “Brother? I’ll find out his plan myself, and if he jeopardizes my position, I’ll beat him to within an inch of his life.”

“Don’t worry,” All for One replied, his voice calm. “I’ve instructed everyone not to question or endanger your position.”  

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The next day, Izuku met Shinso at their usual table in the cafeteria.

“Izuku,” Shinso greeted him with a grin. “It was a real surprise seeing you ranked first in the U.A. exam. I didn’t even know you were applying, and you were the one training me! Why would you join, especially considering who your father is?”

Izuku sighed, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. He knew Shinso wouldn’t betray him, not after all they’d been through and as Izuku had used Brainwashing itself to plant an order to tell him if he ever plans to betray him. Even without that their friendship had grown too deep, and Shinso’s admiration for him and the hero worship towards him was too strong.  Also Shinso is afraid of the monster that is All For One and doesn’t want to be the cause of the destruction of current status quo.

“I don’t know, Shinso. He made me do it, but he hasn’t shared his full plan. I’m supposed to be the ‘perfect hero,’ not a spy. In fact, he explicitly told me to keep my hands clean.”

Shinso blinked in surprise. “Really? Which class are you in? I got into Class 1-B.”

Izuku forced a smile. “Congrats, Shinso. You made it into the U.A. hero course. I’m in Class 1-A.”

Shinso groaned in frustration. “Damn it, we should have been in the same class! You could’ve kept training me.”

 Izuku chuckled. “Let’s try to meet up whenever we can, even though we’re in different classes.”

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Later that evening, Izuku stepped into the dimly lit bar, where Kurogiri stood behind the counter, and Tomura was engrossed in a video game, scratching his neck in irritation.

The sight of All for One’s biological son always triggered Tomura’s anger, and the recent news that Izuku would be learning how to become a hero at U.A.—as part of some convoluted plan by their sensei—only worsened his mood. The fact that All Might, the man he hated most, would be teaching Izuku was salt in the wound. It was this festering rage that had driven Tomura to plan an attack on U.A. The creation of the Anti-All Might Nomu was merely a bonus.

“What do you want, brat? Shouldn’t you be off preparing for some stupid hero lessons?” Tomura snarled.

“I know you’ve been planning something. I just want to know if it involves U.A. and me,” Izuku replied, his tone steady.

Tomura’s lip curled in disdain. “Even if it did, I wouldn’t tell a hero like you, you little shit.”

Realizing he wouldn’t get anything more out of Tomura, Izuku turned to leave, a flicker of annoyance flashing in his eyes.

As soon as Izuku left, Tomura turned his attention to the TV, static flickering on the screen as All for One’s voice crackled through.

“Sensei, what should we do if the brat interferes with our plans?” Tomura asked.

“Nothing, young Shigaraki,” came All for One’s reply. “Izuku is my son, and he’s a very useful pawn.”

“I understand, Sensei,” Tomura muttered, though the hatred on his face was obvious to Kurogiri.

Later, after the conversation had ended, Kurogiri asked, “Tomura, are you planning to kill Izuku during the attack?”

Tomura gave a careless shrug. “It’s not my fault if he gets in the way of the Anti-All Might Nomu, or if he accidentally touches my bare hands.”

Kurogiri hesitated for a moment. “What about All for One? He won’t be pleased if that happens.”

Tomura shrugged again. “Well, it’s not my fault if Izuku decides to fight something designed to kill All Might.”

Kurogiri nodded, though the tension in the air remained.

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The buzz around the UA campus was palpable as students filled the halls, each of them having overcome their own challenges to reach the prestigious doors of Japan's top hero academy. Izuku Midoriya, with his disheveled green hair and wide eyes, stood quietly amid the throng, though the excitement of the day barely registered on his face. The only thing that played in his mind on a loop was how he had placed first in the entrance exam—an achievement that would once have brought him overwhelming joy. But now, it felt hollow.

Bakugo Katsuki had come in second. If anyone was more frustrated with this fact, it was Bakugo himself, who had expected to be number one. He had thrown a glare at Izuku, which was customary for the first decade of their life, but Izuku barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere.

70 hero points and 50 rescue points—that's how Izuku had clinched the top spot. To everyone around, it seemed like a balanced, heroic effort. But inside, Izuku couldn’t help but feel an odd disconnect from the title of "Number One." Wasn't this just a byproduct of a system that had been structured long before he even stepped into it? A system designed to place value on perceived acts of heroism based on arbitrary metrics? Already, He could see the eyes of his classmates looking at him with expectation and fascination, except for three boys.   His own actions four years ago and identifying him as the number one in entrance test had already helped them see him as a hero. 

The thought gnawed at him.

But Izuku couldn’t sort out his feelings regarding the matter because  The atmosphere shifted as the class gathered outside for their Quirk Apprehension Test. The tension among the students was thick as their homeroom teacher, Aizawa Shouta—better known as Eraserhead—made his stoic introduction. He don’t know how many of his classmates recognised the underground hero, as the homeless looking hobo, has not introduced with his hero name.    

Izuku could already feel Aizawa keeping a close eye on him and he grimaced remembering the previous conversation they had 2 years ago. 

“It took you all fifteen seconds to quiet down,” Aizawa said flatly, his eyes glaring just over their heads. “You waste far too much time. We have a lot to cover, so we’re starting right away with a quirk apprehension test.”

Aizawa, wrapped in his usual lethargic demeanor, barely batted an eye at the apparent unease in his students as he explained the test .

“Good, you understand that here at U.A I have the freedom to run my class as I see fit. The entrance exam is illogical in how it tests you, so I have a different, better way.  Bakugo, please step forward.”

Bakugo, without hesitation, stepped toward their teacher. “You scored the most villain points in the entrance exam. What was your longest throw with a softball in middle school?”

“Sixty meters,” Bakugo grunted.

“Try it again. This time, use your quirk. Do whatever you need to do, as long as you don’t leave the circle.” Aizawa tossed the electronic softball to Bakugo, who caught it with a confident smirk.

"Jiro, Shoji, you might want to cover your ears," Izuku quietly warned his classmates with enhanced hearing.

Everyone looked at Izuku in surprise, as they wondered how Izuku had arrived at that conclusion, so fastly. 

Bakugo, irritated by the others’ impressed looks toward Izuku, yelled angrily as he prepared his throw. As the explosion reverberated through the field, it was louder than even Izuku had anticipated. He hadn’t deactivated his Boost in time, and his ears rang, a slight wetness forming inside. Izuku quickly activated Cell Activation, sighing as his ears healed instantly. He smirked, knowing his adaptation had made his hearing more resistant to such attacks.

Aizawa, impassive, watched as the ball flew off. The tablet in front of him beeped, and he turned it so the class could see: 846.2 meters.

“This test will determine your limits and how you use your quirks,” Aizawa said coldly. “You’ve relied on your quirk’s power to get here, but that won’t be enough. Heroes are expected to push beyond those limits. Those who can’t... are of no use.”

Izuku, trying to suppress his frustration at Aizawa's blatant hypocrisy, sighed. Behind him, he could hear Ashido and Hagakure talking about how much "fun" this test would be. He braced himself for what was coming next. He had understood enough about Eraserhead, to know that he will now go on to blast them for such foolishness  and Izuku hoped he could keep his own emotion in check.

“Fun?” Aizawa’s tone turned frigid. “You think this is fun? We have three years to turn you into heroes worthy of the title. There’s no time to waste on ‘fun.’ Normally, I’d expel anyone not taking these tests seriously. But I can’t do that this year. Standards are in place, but make no mistake, if you don’t give it your all, you’ll be expelled. In fact, let’s make it more fun, the lowest ranking among you will be expelled.”

Izuku, narrowed his eyes and his breath hitched at the statement. The words, dripping with indifference, echoed in his mind. Expelled. For what? Failing to meet some arbitrary standard set by a hero? A system that praised conformity and punished those who couldn’t keep up?

He scoffed audibly, the sound loud enough to draw attention. Heads turned in his direction, including Bakugo’s, who scowled at him with burning disdain.

Aizawa’s eyes zeroed in on Izuku, narrowing slightly. “Is there something amusing to you, Midoriya?”

Izuku met Aizawa’s gaze, unflinching. “No, not amusing. Just… hypocritical.”

The words hung in the air, and a murmur spread through the crowd of students. Bakugo smirked, clearly anticipating a confrontation.

Aizawa’s expression remained unchanged, but there was a sharp edge to his next words. “Care to elaborate?”

Izuku crossed his arms, his posture casual, but his voice steady. “You’re talking about expelling students on their first day. For what? Failing to meet expectations you set in an artificial environment? A test that favors those with physical quirks, just like the entrance exam’s robotic mayhem. It’s the same system you claim to look down on. You mock the idea of students coasting on quirks they were born with, students who passed the biased entrance test, yet here you are—deciding someone’s future based on a single physical test and your own narrow standards.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Everyone’s eyes darted between Izuku and Aizawa. Uraraka, standing nearby, glanced between them, her face etched with concern. The other students tensed, remembering a similar stance Izuku had taken on national media. But now, it felt different. He wasn’t just standing up for himself—he was standing up for them, challenging a hero many had begun to see as hypocritical.

Aizawa’s lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable. He had planned to dismiss Izuku’s words as typical teenage bravado, but as he looked around, he noticed the faces of his students. Except for a few like Todoroki and Bakugo, who watched Izuku with skepticism, most of the class were staring at him—demanding an answer with their eyes. If he didn’t respond, they would protest, ignorant of the consequences.

 Suddenly, a chill entered his spine as his investigative mind connected the dots. Within hours of meeting, Izuku’s words has already influenced the best of their country to confront him, a teacher who could expel and change their lives forever.  What would this boy will do with such influence when he pass out and became a Pro-Hero ?

“Being a hero means facing harsh realities,” Aizawa finally said, his voice low but firm. “Not everyone is cut out for it. If you can’t perform when it matters, you’re a liability. There’s no time for fun and games. I’ve seen hero wannabes die because they couldn’t handle the pressure. I’ll make sure none of my students end up on that list.”

Izuku’s eyes hardened. “But this isn’t a real situation. It’s a test. A test based on your judgment, using your standards. You claim you’d expel students for enjoying themselves on their first day of high school, but they have three more years to improve and become heroes. You’re not expelling them because they can’t be heroes. You’re expelling them because they don’t fit your definition of a hero. And let’s be honest—you’ve got a chip on your shoulder. You couldn’t pass the entrance exam with your quirk, could you? You had to use the Sports Festival to get noticed. Isn’t it hypocritical to call someone who passed a test designed by one of the most intelligent beings on the planet a failure when you couldn’t even pass it yourself?”

Bakugo growled from the sidelines, clearly relishing the tension. “What’s your problem, Deku? You think you’re some kind of rebel now?”

Izuku didn’t bother acknowledging Bakugo. He wasn’t the same "Deku" who crumbled in front of him anymore. He was a Deku, only infront of two persons now and Bakugo is not one of them.

Aizawa was momentarily dumbfounded. No one had ever confronted him like this. His views were usually accepted without question—even Principal Nezu rarely argued with his decisions to expel students. But this? This was new.

His eyes gleamed as he recognized that Izuku’s mind was already made up. Nothing he said would change that.

Aizawa activated his quirk, the red eyes latched on to Izuku Midoriya and expected a shock or vulnerability to show in Izuku, but was surprised to see that Izuku was tensed and coiled like a snake by holding himself back.  Aizawa a veteran of many fights, immediately understood that Izuku was fighting his own instincts of instant retaliation for supressing his quirk. He was curious who trained the boy enough to overcome such a vulnerability.

Izuku, meanwhile, froze as Aizawa’s quirk took hold. His boosts and other quirks were immediately suppressed. His breath hitched as he fought the instinct to lash out. All For Me, his true quirk within him, stirred at the suppression, waking from its slumber. Normally, AFM was obedient, content to follow his commands, happy whenever he added or combined quirks. But now, it roused violently, reacting to Aizawa’s suppression as if it were an attack.

Another quirk that he had almost as long as All For Me also roused from its slumber. The green light of Pull, which has always hugged him like his own mother, was violence personified now.  He has to  consciously shut down Pull from automatically summoning Aizawa and AFM from stealing the quirk of the man who dared to challenge it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Izuku noticed his classmates unconsciously stepping away from him, their instincts warning them of impending danger.

Aizawa deactivated his quirk, satisfied that he had achieved his goal. Midoriya was out of his comfort zone.

“Interesting perspective and an imaginary one.   But here’s the thing, Midoriya,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “the world doesn’t care about your perspective. It cares about results and for now, my own views. I will expel anyone who did not do well, that is the bottom line.”

Izuku analyzed him for a moment before inwardly cursing Nezu. It was clear now that Aizawa wouldn’t expel him, and he suspected the order had come from the principal. Izuku shrugged, his posture relaxed once again, signaling to everyone that he wasn’t concerned about the test—only the principle behind it.

When the results were announced, Izuku placed first overall. Even Momo was surprised at how much his quirk, Boost, had helped in physical tasks. But the real shock came when Aizawa didn’t expel the student with the lowest score. This led to most of the class—except Todoroki and Bakugo—confronting Izuku after Aizawa dismissed the class, wondering just what had happened.

"Midoriya, thank you for standing up for us in front of our homeroom teacher, but it was completely unnecessary. I already knew Aizawa was bluffing, just trying to push us to give our best performance," she said, trying not to sound condescending.

Izuku looked at Momo Yaoyorozu, and she was struck by the pity in his eyes, as if he were silently judging her as naïve. Anger and sadness welled up inside her. She knew she was inexperienced in some areas, but to be judged so quickly and harshly hurt more than she anticipated. The murmurs of agreement from their classmates in support of her view were the only thing keeping her composed.

“Stop,” Izuku said, his voice cutting through the murmurings with authority. “You’re all being naïve if you thought Eraserhead was bluffing. He expelled his entire class last year. I guess your parents didn’t bother to tell you that, Yaoyorozu. Maybe they aren’t entirely thrilled about their only heiress choosing such a risky profession.”

Momo was taken aback. Could her parents have kept something so significant from her? The thought gnawed at her as she tried to process Izuku’s words.

Izuku sighed, visibly drained. "Anyway, I’m tired. This whole day has been exhausting. I need some rest. See you all tomorrow," he said before briskly walking away.

Later, after changing out of his sports gear and heading toward the school gate, Uraraka caught up with him, walking in step beside him.

“Hey, Midoriya,” she began hesitantly. “About what you said earlier… Do you really think our homeroom teacher is that flawed?”

Izuku glanced at her, surprised that she was bringing it up again. He had assumed his words would be forgotten amid the chaos of the day, but the look in Uraraka’s eyes was one of genuine curiosity, and perhaps a bit of doubt. He recalled her family’s background and understood the weight of her question.

“I do,” he answered after a brief pause. “It’s not that I don’t believe in heroes—I do. But the way we’re trained, the way we’re judged… It’s all designed to create a certain kind of hero, one that fits into the mold society expects. Eraserhead’s test was based on physical abilities, but what about those of us who couldn’t legally use our quirks before today? Sure, the test itself isn’t the problem. But expelling people because they don’t perform perfectly on their first day? That’s where the flaw lies. If it were a final exam, maybe I’d understand. But this is our first day. The system is built to benefit those who already have power. It decides what’s acceptable and what isn’t. Just look at the Might Movement.”

Uraraka frowned slightly, thinking over his words. "That... makes sense. But what do we do about it?"

Izuku smiled faintly. “For now, nothing. We’re just at the start of our journey. We can only make a difference when we have a voice and influence of our own.”

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The next day at U.A. began, and for Izuku, the only good part was being partnered with Ochaco Uraraka for the indoor combat exercise. Her energy was infectious, her excitement about the path ahead palpable. As she talked, however, something dark stirred inside him.

It started when All Might entered the classroom with his usual loud, boisterous persona and fake smile. Only years of training to suppress his emotions, thanks to being in the presence of his father, kept Izuku from punching All Might in the face. As All Might stood there, the "Symbol of Peace," all Izuku could see was the fateful day from four years ago. Even All For Me woke from its slumber, salivating at the sight of seven stars of One-For-All and took chastisement from him, so that it didn’t try to poke at it. 

His classmates began moving, preparing for the exercise, and Izuku jolted back to the present, hurriedly dressing in his hero costume—a simple, militaristic black outfit. As All Might explained the scenario, Izuku noticed that, despite his casual tone, the pro hero was keeping a particularly close eye on him.

“Midoriya, Midoriya…” Uraraka’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“The plan is...”

.

.

.

In the end, their victory came easily. Mina and the invisible girl had little chance against them, especially since Izuku could track the invisible girl’s quirk at all times. Uraraka, elated by their win, walked with Izuku after class, but she couldn’t shake the conversation they had the previous day.

As they strolled, Uraraka slowed down, a frown crossing her face. “Midoriya, I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. You mentioned that the hero system is flawed. Isn’t it the hero system that brought order out of the chaos of the Quirk Wars?”

Izuku smirked, though it wasn’t a smile of joy. It was laced with cynicism. “The system tells you that being a hero is about making a difference. But have you ever wondered who really benefits from all of it? The way the hero industry is set up—it’s all about appearances, marketing, and maintaining the status quo. You think it’s about helping people, but it’s really about playing into the system.”

Uraraka blinked, caught off-guard. “What do you mean? Aren’t you excited to be here? To be at U.A., learning to become a hero?”

“I am,” Izuku said, his voice distant. “But it’s complicated. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it truly means to be a hero. The more I think about it, the more I realize that it’s not as pure as it seems. These rankings, these competitions… they don’t reward heroism. They reward spectacle.”

Uraraka stared at him, a hint of discomfort flickering across her expression. She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

“Look,” Izuku softened his tone. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be a hero. Or that your reasons are wrong. I’m just saying the system has flaws. Maybe it’s time we started questioning it.”

The conversation hung in the air between them, unresolved. Uraraka didn’t reply right away, and they both fell into silence as they continued walking. But Izuku could tell his words had struck a chord. The seed had been planted.

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The third day at U.A. ended with a sense of foreboding. As Izuku stood near the school gates, he saw the grey dust of the gates and immediately understood it the byproduct of Tomura’s Decay.

‘So, you decayed the  gate, creating the opening for the press and a distraction to enter the school. What were you looking for, Shigaraki?’  Izuku asked himself.

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 Authors note:  This chapter was hell to write and the beginning of the MHA has become boring for me. so the school portion will have many many time skips and next chapter is already the USJ attack.

the battle test, somehow canon pairing happened for izuku, but they fought the team of Mina and hagakure. rest of the battle and scene is irrelevant.

ADS 17

Chapter 17: The Red Death

Daemon Snow

I woke with a gasp, instantly moving to crouch, ready to attack anyone who made a move. It only took two heartbeats before pain flared through me, forcing a groan as I collapsed on my ass to the stone floor. My body was a wreck. As I looked around, I realized I was in a good room, nothing like Castle Black.

I connected with my bonded birds and, through their eyes, I saw Last Hearth from different viewpoints. .

I tried to stand, but pain immediately flooded me. My entire body was swollen one big bruise. My memory stirred, bringing the last few moments to the forefront, and sadness enveloped me once again. Still, there was a twisted sense of satisfaction, a pleasure in the slaughter I had wreaked afterward. I glanced down at my hands—they were still stained red. Whoever cleaned me had barely managed to scrape away the blood

Making the pain less with my control, I got up and sat on the bed, grabbing the water pot and drinking it all.

I sighed, thinking over what had happened that night. I wanted to blame myself for incompetence, but I knew deep down it wasn’t my fault. There hadn’t been any Night’s Watch rebellion in the canon timeline, and my birds had been monitoring the Wildling army, helping us prepare. None of us suspected the treachery of the Night’s Watch collaborating with the Wildlings. I couldn’t even use my greenseer abilities to check on my uncle—I had too little time and no idea of the exact day to search the weirwood network. At the end of the day 1000 men ambush against 200 only had one outcome and there was no chance for betrayal to be the reason for my uncle’s death, so I never bothered to see his death.

My eyes still watered, remembering my grandfather's death. The pain was still fresh, gnawing at my insides like a festering wound, and I wondered how I could feel such agony now, when I barely felt anything for my uncle’s death earlier in Winterfell. The disparity haunted me, leading me to comb through my memories in search of any inconsistency. Was someone manipulating my mind, bending my emotions to their will? But I found nothing out of the ordinary—only the strange clarity of my mind's version of Winterfell, pieced together by the likeness of Dragonstone. The vision was more vivid than ever, with the distinct outline of the Weirwood tree becoming clearer. A dragon had begun to form at the center, right where the Godswood stood in the real Winterfell.

Whatever happened that night had changed me. My mind had sharpened, expanded, and in that moment, I understood why I hadn’t felt sadness before. It was my own doing.

My own ability to control my body and mind. It is through which I reduced the pain earlier, it is a part of my limitless potential wish. I was adamant not being a family man from the moment I was born here and suffering the pain of death of loved ones from my childhood, that the control aspect made it possible to hinder any feelings unconsciously. But the death of my grandfather was too much for it and it broke that control, flooding me with sorrow and rage that I had never allowed myself to feel before. I sighed, the exhaustion seeping into my bones, as my healing overworked to mend the spilt muscles and even hairline fractures in my bones.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door to my room creaked open, and Aethan Reed stepped inside. His face was etched with sorrow as he spoke softly, “Daemon, I’m sorry for your loss. Lord Stark was a good man and a greater Lord of the North.”

I nodded, though my mind was too clouded with fatigue and frustration to fully absorb his words. “What happened after I fainted? And why the hell are we here at Last Hearth instead of Castle Black, killing those traitors?” I asked while grabbing the plate of food from Aethan’s hands. It was piled high with enough food to feed three grown men, as Aethan knew how much I needed after using my abilities. Sustenance was key to healing my battered and broken body.

“The wildlings and Night’s Watchmen were routed, but almost a thousand of them escaped,” Aethan began. “Of our men, only 800 Stark soldiers survived, along with 200 from Mormont, and 100 each from the Umbers and Karstarks. The betrayal of the rangers cost us dearly. After you fainted, the lords argued over who should lead and when to strike the Night’s Watch or chase the wildlings. I made them see reason—that marching on Castle Black with so few men and many injured, not knowing where loyalties lay, was foolish. So, we retreated here.”

I frowned at the thought of the wildlings still being alive, slipping away under the cover of night. “I see. We need information and confirmation. What happened to Ser Noseless? Is he still breathing?”

Aethan grimaced. “Yes, he's in the dungeons, but no amount of torture has made him talk. He grins, satisfied with himself, and keeps boasting about killing two Starks. One of our men lost control and beat him until he was unconscious. The healer says he’s barely alive—he’ll last a day at most. I managed to stop Lord Umber from killing him outright after you fainted and even took command of the remaining Stark men, making him our prisoner.”

I raised an eyebrow, impressed. Aethan was only a young heir, with none of his own men nearby, yet he had managed to hold sway over the two lords, even the fierce Umber. “How the hell did you manage to get Lord Umber to hold back when he was after blood?”

Aethan smiled faintly. “Well, Daemon, it’s only you who ignores my advice. We crannogmen are the bog devils, the ultimate survivors. Our loyalty to Winterfell has never been questioned, and in matters of survival against bigger and better foes, the Reed’s words are always heeded. The Stark men follow me because I was fostered at Winterfell and spent years under Lord Stark’s roof.”

I processed what I heard and could only scoff in reply. 

“You never told me why the Reeds are so loyal to Winterfell. The Starks conquered you, married the daughter of your Swamp King for your abilities. I know why the Mormonts and Manderlys are loyal—Mormont was saved from the Ironborn in a wrestling match, and we gave the Manderlys land when they fled the Reach. But the Reeds were conquered like everyone else.”

Aethan chuckled, “And you’ll never find out. But you can always try your luck through the weirwoods to glimpse the past.”

I waved his teasing comment away. “Let’s focus on the present. What do we know about the enemy? And why did so many Night’s Watchmen turn traitor? My hands are itching to kill more of them,” I snarled.

Aethan sighed at my anger and behaviour.

Aethan sighed at my frustration. “I asked around some of the surviving Night’s Watchmen. They were surprisingly talkative. I’ve pieced together a theory. It starts with the man you insulted and discarded as irrelevant—Ser Noseless. He’s the eldest son of Ser Lucamore Strong, the Kingsguard who was gelded and sent to the Wall in 73 AC for marrying three women and fathering many children, all labelled bastards by the Queen.”

I gaped. “Lucamore the Lusty? The hero of that awful song that made the entire realm laugh? How in the name of the Seven did he manage to turn so many Night’s Watchmen against their vows?”

Aethan shook his head, his expression stern. "This is your problem, Daemon. You underestimate people because you believe nothing can truly harm you. But that’s dangerous. For all his flaws, Ser Lucamore was a Kingsguard, and his martial skills reflect that."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, "From what I’ve gathered, resentment against the King and the Night’s Watch had been festering for years. The men sent here by royal command already felt bitterness toward their fate, and one of them had been stoking those flames for the last decade. The issue was, they lacked a true leader—someone capable of giving them hope, of uniting them in their desire for escape and rebellion. That’s where Lucamore came in. He and his sons were recruited, and with his reputation as a skilled warrior, he quickly usurped leadership. The men were eager to follow a Kingsguard, even a disgraced one."

I narrowed my eyes, processing this unexpected revelation. "And the wildlings?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.

 Aethan nodded grimly. "They were already in contact with the rebellious group. Lucamore simply suborned them, offering strength and benefits that they have not seen in decades. As he defeated the leaders of various wildling tribes, more and more fell under his control, especially when he killed any rival who dared to challenge him. This is all the information I've confirmed from the prisoners,"

I was flabbergasted by the information and wondered what happened to Lucamore in canon.

“This is the how, Aethan. Now why?” I asked.

Aethan grimaced, clearly uncomfortable. "Unfortunately, I don’t know the full motive with certainty. But I managed to scry on a meeting between two brothers, and from what I overheard, I can guess the motive. It was plain, honest revenge."

"Revenge?" I exclaimed, baffled. "Revenge against who? The North has done nothing to them."

Aethan hesitated before answering. "Against your grandfather." Seeing my confusion, he quickly added, "The King."

I paused, processing the implications and I could guess their plans immediately.  

It was a bold and audacious plan, one built on arrogance and the assumption of things happening exactly as they want.

"That was a risky move on their part, but I can see why they'd do it. Returning the Gift to capable hands forced them to act before their chances of success vanished completely. But even then, killing Lord Stark and his heir might not be enough to drag a dragonrider from the South to defend the Wall. Even if they come, they won’t venture beyond the Wall with an army unless they have their dragon. All this, just to separate a Targaryen from his dragon and kill them," I said.

“Well, you missed something else, Daemon,” Aethan replied. “Ser Lucamore was a Kingsguard, privy to the inner workings of the realm. He knew about your plan to frustrate the king with constant complaints, and he likely concluded that it was an attempt by the North to tarnish the image of the ‘good king.’ Or maybe he overheard the king himself interpreting it that way. Ser Lucamore knew the North despised the Targaryens, and he intended to exploit that. He also knew Bennard Stark would become regent, and that Bennard would stop at nothing to hunt down the wildlings who had slaughtered his family.

There was already a plan in motion for Lucamore to become the Lord Commander. As the leader of the Night’s Watch, Ser Lucamore could stay in the shadows, manipulate events, and become Bennard Stark’s greatest ally in his quest for vengeance. From there, he could deepen Bennard’s hatred for the Targaryens, perhaps by pointing out that the Targaryens had deliberately weakened the North. He might even suggest luring the king or his sons north under the pretense of fighting the wildlings, only to have them killed when they ventured beyond the Wall. If the North grew angry enough, they could declare independence—and Lucamore knew that anger was already festering.”

I was taken aback by his words. “That’s foolishness. Northmen betraying their sworn king without just cause?”

Aethan grimaced. “Yes, it is foolishness from our point of view, but for a southern knight who violated one of the highest oaths? Not really, Daemon. Strong managed to corral the wildlings, even when their hatred for the Night’s Watch is legendary. From Lucamore’s point of view, why couldn’t he recruit a Stark for a plan that would make them kings again? After all, the North was never truly conquered, and the current king and queen have only worsened things with their arrogance. For all he knows, we’re just biding our time. We still keep our distance from the South. And don’t forget the Company of the Rose—a sellsword army led by a Stark bastard. They’re one of the greatest companies in Essos, waiting for the call of a Stark king. They could have gathered untold knowledge on how to fight dragons from their time there.”

I scoffed. "That’s a lot of assumptions for this Lucamore to make, especially regarding the Northmen’s honor and loyalty to their vows."

Aethan nodded in agreement. “But you have to remember this, Daemon—a traitor and a liar always believes that others are just like them, just waiting for the most beneficial opportunity to show it.”

I nodded sharply at Aethan. "That’s indeed true. When did you get to be such a wiseass? Well, anyway, I suppose I should walk and eat now, or we’ll never end this conversation. After that, let’s make sure I personally welcome Ser Noseless back to the land of the living from his deathbed and see whether your guesses are correct."

Aethan looked worried. “Are you sure, Daemon? Even though he’s guarded only by Stark men under my orders, word may spread.”

"It’s a risk I’m willing to take after my own performance that day. No one would believe I’m just a normal man anymore," I said, shrugging off his concern.

When Ser Noseless finally woke up, it took me only fifteen minutes to break his will. He quickly realized he would heal and survive for a long time, thanks to my abilities. He called me a demon, the very representation of the Seven Hells, and other ridiculous names—all while I laughed at his overdramatic yelling.

The information he gave me was valuable, and I ended the torture by taking his other hand as well.

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Meeting in Great hall

Even though the Great Hall was half the size of Winterfell’s, it could easily pack in hundreds of soldiers. At least 200 Stark men and some of Mormont and Karstark men were present, which irritated the Umber Guardsmen as they struggled to control the other soldiers.

I entered the Great Hall of the Umbers with Aethan Reed amidst shouting between lords and Lady Mormont. I noticed Lyra standing on the sidelines, observing the chaos. The place near the Lords near the horizontal great table was filled with soldiers of rank, and others stood in silent vigil on the side of the room and near my grandfather’s body, paying their respects to my grandfather.

His body had been cleaned and prepared with oils so it could reach Winterfell without decomposing. My eyes watered at the sight of him lying on a wooden structure used to move his body from the cart that carried him. Crushing my sadness, I approached the corpse.

The soldiers seemed to grow more cheerful as I walked forward, although some pointed at my head—my hair was still red, despite bathing twice since I woke. The blood had been washed away, but the redness remained. I reached my grandfather’s body and bowed, kissing his forehead. I stood straight, gripping Ice, which had rested on his chest. For some reason, the scene of grandfather lying with the sword held in his chest, reminded me of Sean Bean’s river funeral in Lord of the Rings.

Everyone in the hall was surprised, their attention drawn by the movement of Ice in the midst of their arguments. I saw Karstark's eyes narrow with anger as he noticed I had taken the sword, but, fortunately for him, he said nothing at that moment.

"Daemon Snow, it gladdens my heart that you’ve regained consciousness and suffered no injuries," Lady Mormont said. "It was as if you were possessed by the old gods themselves with the skill and speed you showed that day."

Before I could respond, a snide voice cut in—Lord Karstark. "Yes, it was the gods' grace that you were unharmed by your foolish actions that night."

The soldiers started grumbling in anger, but Lord Umber's voice boomed before I could say anything.

"Are you mad, Karstark? It was his actions that saved our skins and broke the spirit of our enemies. He was a whirlwind of death that day—the greatest Killer I’ve ever seen. Cheers for the hero of the Battle of Nightfort! The Stark, the Red Death!"

The soldiers cheered at my new nickname, "The Red Death." I guessed it was because of the red mist and my hair. I sighed inwardly at the new nickname, atleast it was not bad like the whoresbane.

"Lords, my lady," I said, turning to face them, "what are you arguing about? Why haven’t our men begun hunting down the scattered enemy?"

"We don’t have the numbers to hunt down the entire Gift," Lord Karstark replied. "The Night’s Watch is 10,000 strong. How can we trust them when so many of their own men just betrayed us? Lord Umber wants to hunt the wildlings now, but I believe we should return Lord Stark’s body to Winterfell and let Regent Stark call the banners. A raven has already been sent informing the North of Lord Stark’s passing, and the North will want to pay respects to one of Winterfell’s greatest Lord Stark."

I frowned at the lords, my own thoughts getting darker and darker. I knew a funeral must be held, but it was clear they wanted to save their own men and money rather than start the hunt for the wildlings. I am already sure their men are patrolling the roads under their control and carefully guarding the  borders with the Gift. I had no such limits.

“My lords, my lady," I began, my voice hard with rage, "I agree my grandfather was one of the greatest, and the entire North will mourn his loss. But we will lose precious time if we allow the traitors to regroup. They are scattered, and their leader—the noseless bastard—is with us. I’ve extracted information from him, and he confessed their leader  has a entire castle under their control and men. This man has succeeded in his plan—he killed Lord Stark and his heir, leaving a four-year-old as the next in line. Now, he aims to consolidate his control over the wildlings beyond the Wall. We don’t have time to wait for these traitors to escape or betray the Night’s Watch again."

"Snow, I want to hunt the vermin as much as you do," Lord Umber said, "but I can’t call the banners and go to war without the Regent’s order. We are sworn to follow the Starks of Winterfell, and the current Regent is Bennard Stark. You must return with us, and then we can follow you with the banners for war. I don’t have the men or resources to protect my own lands while hunting wildlings. My duty is to my people first. I will avenge Lord Stark, but without the full might of Winterfell, this is folly."

I grimaced, knowing there was truth in Lord Umber’s words, but I could also see his hesitation—he feared losing his life, his influence, and that the new Regent’s Father-in-law, Lord Karstark, was fully behind returning Lord Stark’s body to Winterfell.

I looked around, seeing Stark men angry and even the commanders of Umber and Karstark disappointed. The lords expected me to follow their orders and even before waiting to see what I would they were shouting against each other again. I knew that if I stayed silent today I will then have to shed enough northern blood or wait Cregan to be the Lord Stark to ever have a voice in the North again and I was not willing for either choice. Only my performance on the battlefield earned me the right to speak today and I was ready to make it as solid as the Ice.

"My uncle may be the Lord Regent," I started, and the Lords stopped immediately and they looked very much surprised that I said something after they dismissed me, but the stark men who knew me from my birth were looking at me expectedly, "but Lord Stark is Cregan, a six-year-old boy who I consider my own little brother—a boy who lost his father and grandfather to traitors and wildlings. I was raised by two of the greatest men I’ve ever known—my uncle Rickon and my grandfather, who I consider a father. I will not return to Winterfell until I eradicate every single one who conspired against us. I will only return with the head of the King Beyond the Wall, so that Cregan can sleep peacefully, knowing his father’s murderers no longer draw breath. This is my gift to him, and my vengeance. Soldiers, are you with me?"

"Aye!" they roared. "Vengeance for Lord Stark! Vengeance! Vengeance! The Red Death for Traitors!"

"Daemon, cousin, I understand your fury," Lord Karstark began and started walking towards me, "but this is near treason against the Regent. We cannot make such decisions on our own. I must stop you from this foolishness and from taking Ice with you. It must be returned to Winterfell to the Regent, who will decide its fate." He emphasized his point by placing his hand on the sword’s hilt.

“Ah!” Lord Karstark yelled and withdrew his hands as the skin where he touched the hilt burned.

“What the fuck?” Umber yelled, “this has not happened with Ice before.  What is this magic.”

"What have you done to Ice, boy?" Karstark shouted. "You’ve despoiled Ice, our ancestral sword, with your sorcery!"

"Enough!" I shouted. "Lord Karstark, your greed for the sword overwhelmed you. I’ve done nothing to Ice—it finds your blood unworthy of the Stark line. You are not of Stark blood. The sword is now blood-bound to me as its wielder, at least until its need for vengeance is quenched, or Cregan himself takes it from my hand. I’ll tell you which will happen first. You will be my messenger. Inform Lord Cregan Stark that I will return with the killers’ heads and surrender Ice to him then. The Stark line has been reduced to five members—Lord Cregan, Uncle Bennard, and his two sons. It’s time for Bennard to add more to the line with your daughter. I will risk my life to ensure the Starks survive this crisis, and if you try to stop me or the Stark army, I will consider you a co-conspirator to usurp Cregan, to make your grandson the Lord Stark and kill you on the spot."

Lord Karstark, enraged, yelled, "How dare you? I am loyal to the North, boy. You question my honor? My fealty to the Stark?"

"I don’t question it—the magic that binds Ice to House Stark questions it. And it wouldn’t be the first time House Stark had to purge prideful cadet lines that thought themselves better than their parent house."

"Enough!" Lord Umber bellowed. "You’re all under my roof, and this is no time for accusations when our lord lies dead here. Daemon Snow, I know how much Lord Stark’s death has affected you—we all saw it." A chill passed through the hall as everyone recalled the slaughter I had wrought. Even now, my silver-red hair drew glances from everyone in the room. "I want to remind you that Lord Karstark is not a traitor, however, the sword has judged. You may do as you wish, but remember, the lives of the soldiers who follow you are your responsibility. Beyond the Wall is no place for the unprepared."

"Aye, Lord Umber," I said. "I will be careful, and thank you for understanding. Lord Karstark, I apologize for my outburst—my emotions are running high."

Karstark nodded stiffly. "I also apologize for interfering in House Stark’s internal matters. Your use of Ice is to be judged by House Stark alone. But I still maintain it should be returned to Winterfell, to its rightful lord, Cregan Stark. However, as no one here can touch it, and you will not be traveling to Winterfell now, that seems impossible."

I nodded, accepting the apologies, and turned to leave.

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Daemon, what is the plan? Aethan’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. We were in the tent that Lord Stark’s men had prepared for me, the canvas heavy with the scent of wet earth and iron. I was seated, slowly cleaning Ice—a way to steady my mind, to understand the strange bond that now pulsed between the blade and me. My father had taught me much about the magic behind Valyrian steel, about how a true warrior could bond with it, making it an extension of their very self. Feed the blade some blood, kill your first foe, and it would forever be like an extension to your arms—sharp, swift, and deadly. I expected it when I bled on Ice and killed my enemies, but this bond was more. 

I know Ice was a custom made, using the Ice sword a remnant of Long Night times, bonded to the Stark Line.  But even my father couldn’t light the cold fire like I did and cause similar scenes of that night.

Daemon. Aethan's voice broke through again, more urgent now.

I looked up. Aethan stood there, flanked by five army captains and Lyra Mormont, the fierce warrior sent by Lady Mormont herself. She had bought almost all remaining Bear Island’s soldiers to assist me. All eyes were on me, waiting.

“The plan is simple,” I said, setting Ice down beside me. “We know Stonedoor remains loyal to the traitor beyond the Wall. Five hundred men garrisoned there, and scattered across the Gift, another seven hundred wildlings and Night’s Watch deserters. I'll take Stonedoor myself and kill every last one of the traitors before they can cause more harm to the North or the Watch.”

There were nods of grim approval from the captains, but I continued before they could voice their thoughts. “We’ve captured Ser Noseless and his five lackeys. They’ll be delivered to Castle Black. The truth will be extracted before the Lord Commander itself, and I'll behead the traitor in front of a weirwood, feeding his blood to the Old Gods.”

“The most crucial thing is how to find the scattered army and  The Old Gods have already blessed me by sending sign. Come and see.” I said with a serene tone.  

I stepped outside and pointed to the trees. Every single one had birds perched on its branches, watching the army with careful vigilance. Despite the noise of the camp, there was no panic, just a quiet and steady focus. Twenty of those birds were under my control, ones I had warged into when I awoke. They had been flying tirelessly after I fed them enough blood, along with my own eagles.

In addition to the birds, I had also warged into three wolves, who were essential in tracking down the hiding traitors. The only way I could locate these birds and wolves was by using the Weirwood to scry the present, a breakthrough I had only recently achieved. Even then, it took me hours to find enough eyes and nearly broke my mind to bond with them. The migraine from establishing these new connections still lingered.

Aethan, already aware of my abilities, showed no surprise, but the captains and Lyra Mormont were visibly astonished. Lyra even whispered, "Skinchanger."

"I, along with Lyra and the Mormont men, will head to the Stonedoor to deal with the traitors there," I announced. "The five of you captains will divide our forces into six equal battalions. Aethan will lead the last one. The messenger birds will guide you to the scum who dared to spill Northern blood. Cleanse the North of their depravity and meet at the Night's Watch in ten days—fifteen at the latest. If they surrender, accept their submission. The birds will then lead you to the nearest weirwood, where you will behead them and feed the weirwood their blood. The Night’s Watch traitors have weakened the Wall's magic by breaking their oaths. Their blood will restore the magic to what it was when they first swore their vows."

The captains looked at me as if I were a madman, ranting about magic and ancient gods, but they couldn't deny it—not after what they had witnessed at the Battle of the Nightfort.

"My lord," Lyra Mormont began, her voice uncertain, "I’m not sure the soldiers will be able to accomplish all this within such a limited time and still be ready to go beyond the Wall. They will be tired, and they’ll need rest."

I smiled knowingly. "Do not worry, Lyra. The old gods will provide the strength needed for this task, for they will it to be so. You shall see the results."

I turned to the group. "Let’s rest tonight and set out tomorrow morning to begin our missions."

The captains gaped but nodded, aware of the rumors surrounding me—and of the improved health of everyone in Winterfell and the surrounding lands.

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Stonedoor

The wind howled through the ancient trees, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and death. The castle stood at the edge of the world, an outpost of the Night’s Watch that had long since fallen into shadow. Its once-proud walls now harbored traitors, men who had forsaken their oaths for greed and cruelty.

Daemon stood beneath the towering weirwood, its crimson leaves whispering secrets only he could hear. The face carved into the trunk seemed to watch him, its eyes following his every move as he prepared for what was to come. He could feel the gaze of the Old Gods coursing through him. The traitors in the castle had no idea what was coming for them.

"Snow," Lyra called as she joined me in observing the castle gate. The gate had been hastily repaired, as there was usually no need for such defenses south of the Wall.

"Lyra," I replied. "Ready your men. I can see ten guards at the gate and along the wooden palisade. I’ll open it for you."

For a moment, Lyra looked skeptical, but she remembered the display of my abilities that night. She nodded. We were 500 meters away, hidden behind the trees.

We moved forward slowly, stopping at the edge of the treeline, 200 meters from the gate. From this distance, we could see the guards armed with bows, standing watch in patient silence.

I nodded at Lyra, and she nodded in agreement.

Without a sound, I broke into a sprint toward the gate. I was halfway there before the guards registered what was happening. I had expected them to laugh at the sight of a lone soldier charging, but my reputation must have spread, for instead of laughing, they panicked and fired their arrows. I saw ten arrows flying toward me, three of which were on target.

Still running, I unsheathed Ice from my back, pushing my speed even faster. One arrow flew harmlessly behind me. The other two came straight for my chest, but I cut them from the air with Ice. Before they could reload, I was within 50 meters of the gate. My leg muscles tensed in anticipation, and I front flipped.

I soared just over the gate  and was upside down mid-air, when I reached above the gate. Using every ounce of my strength and momentum, I brought Ice down in a powerful arc, cleaving the crossguard and splitting the gate's middle clean in half. I landed in the courtyard, rolling smoothly to absorb the impact and slow my momentum.

I dashed beneath the palisade, slashing the gate with two swift strikes before kicking it open, the pieces flying in all directions. Running alongside the wooden palisade, I sliced through the supports, causing it to collapse as I moved. The guards couldn’t shoot at me while I stayed beneath the wooden structure. When I reached the end, I turned and ran back, seeing five men who had fallen while trying to arm themselves. They were too slow, and all five were dead within moments.

By now, the commotion had roused the rest of the castle. I finished off the remaining five guards near the gate and was already halfway to the castle proper when the first Mormont soldier entered through the shattered gate. The traitors inside were unprepared, groggy from sleep as they scrambled to arm themselves.

I ignited my sword, its flames casting a flickering glow, and kicked down the entrance door, ready to bring the traitors to justice.

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Author’s Note: The lords want to kill the traitors, but not overstep and call the banners. Daemon is unleashed on the traitors, who just wants plain honest revenge. Something everyone in planetos wants to have.  Next chapter: Bennard has sent a special letter to the king and a kingslanding chapter which was supposed to be only 1000 words and balance to the north but became 3800 words somehow.. i blame targaryen family drama!!

I have added AI generated images in the middle and plans to add in future chapters too. if it affects reading, comment and i will remove them and upload them separately.

GLH 8

Disclaimer : This is a story based on Harry Potter, Marvel, DC and Image comics characters and all recognizable characters, plots belong to Jk Rowling,Marvel, DC and Image comics. I claim no ownership to it.

Chapter 8 : Viltrum War II

Gamora

She should have known that something like this would happen when there was no space defense on such an advanced planet. At the beginning, it seemed like sheer stupidity for this race to ignore the necessity of planetary shields or defenses. Her frustration grew as she observed only 15,000 Viltrumites standing on the plains outside the city without any visible shields or armor, their white robes shining so brightly that they made her eyes ache. There was no formation, just a vast spread across hundreds of miles.

The Chitauri flew overhead, firing their laser guns, but the Viltrumites didn’t even flinch. The lasers hit their bodies as if they couldn’t feel a thing. Gamora noticed Nebula gaping in disbelief at the durability of this race. Their father, Thanos, had modified the guns himself to increase their power, considering the toughness of various species. While she understood that exceptional individuals existed in every race, like Thanos himself, for an entire species to be so far above the standard, and for no one outside to know about them till now, was deeply concerning.

Gamora sighed and ordered into the comms, "Captain, retreat and fire on the city. Ignore the army on the land. I will rain fire from the ships."

There were two ships with her, each half the size of a small moon, carrying 10 million wardogs equipped with shields strong enough to withstand Supergiant’s punches. Gamora and the outriders were on another, smaller ship, easily captained by their crew.

"Captains, rain fire on that field. Their arrogance will be their undoing," Gamora commanded.

The laser fire from the ships was designed to annihilate armies. Each laser beam was almost 1,000 degrees Celsius, and the most devastating aspect was the speed of fire, raining down 100,000 lasers per minute. Gamora ordered the firing to continue non-stop until she commanded it to stop.

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As the ring predicted, the Chitauri laser fire had no effect on their bodies, only helping their smart atoms adapt to the abrupt increase in temperature. Nolan knew that, despite their heat resistance, even they couldn’t survive constant exposure to a sun’s surface. According to the ring, plasma at only 300 degrees Celsius was hot enough to kill most life forms in the universe, so it would take hundreds of such shots to even burn them. Just as he had informed the Grand Regent that this would be training and a method to cool their tempers.

Nolan watched as the Chitauri were recalled and saw the three master ships preparing their guns to fire.

"Warning!! Incoming fire from ship. Hot enough to damage Viltrumite bodies through continuous fire."  The Ring informed him.

Nolan’s eyes widened in surprise. Even cannon fire wasn’t something that usually concerned them. Clearly, this universe had different rules.

"Viltrumites," Nolan’s voice echoed around the battlefield and through the comms. "Incoming plasma fire from ships. Do not tank it. Dodge and use your speed to move. Protect your vital areas."

The initial barrage was relentless. Plasma fire streaked through the air, each bolt leaving trails of superheated air in its wake. The Viltrumites moved with incredible speed, dodging many of the incoming shots. When they couldn't dodge, they protected their heads and hearts with their hands, their bodies absorbing the impact. Some grabbed massive rocks from the ground, hurling them with titanic force at the master ships, using the terrain to their advantage. But through continuous fire, the rocks never reached the ships, as the plasma fire broke them down. Since they were spread across miles, they could dodge and move faster without hitting each other.

Despite their resilience, the constant bombardment began to take its toll. The size of the ships and the volume of fire allowed them to cover the entire area where the Viltrumites were spread. Small burns and nosebleeds became common as they were struck repeatedly. Ten of their number fell, unlucky victims of plasma shots that pierced their hearts. Nolan, who had tanked many of the shots due to higher resistance, saw the deaths and felt a rage begin to build in his heart. He saw the superheated air and the ground turn to slag under the heat. He understood they would be cooked alive by the increasing temperature if not for the constant hurricane-level airflow created by their movements, dispersing the intense heat and preventing them from being cooked alive.

Gamora watched the scene unfold from the command center of the lead Chitauri ship, her face a mask of grim determination. She saw the Viltrumites' tenacity and realized that their mere survival under such fire was a testament to their power.

Nolan's eyes blazed with fury as he surveyed the battlefield. He knew that even they couldn't withstand the bombardment indefinitely. With a roar, he issued a new order.

"Run beyond the shadow of the ships and get out of the firing range! Turn back, run, jump, and bring the ships down."

The Viltrumites, understanding his plan instantly, sprinted at supersonic speeds. In moments, they were out of range of the Chitauri ships. Nolan didn't waste a second. He turned back, his muscles coiling like steel springs, and leaped. The ground shattered under the force of his takeoff as he soared towards the nearest warship, his body a blur.

The other Viltrumites followed Nolan's lead, leaping high into the sky. For Gamora, it seemed as if they were flying. As they closed in on the ships, they unleashed their full power. Nolan's fist collided with the ship's transparent energy shield with a resounding crash. The shield, designed to repel almost any attack, flickered and dimmed. A single punch had reduced its power by 3%.

Gamora's eyes widened in shock. "Impossible," she whispered. She watched as the other Viltrumites mimicked Nolan's strategy, jumping high and striking the ships with devastating force. Fortunately for her, other than the apparent commander, no other individual’s punches were powerful enough to cause significant damage to the shields.

Gamora saw the Viltrumites fall to the ground, cratering the landing point even while the rain of fire stopped due to the automatic activation of the shields. Knowing the danger, Gamora unleashed the Leviathans and Chitauri again.

The Leviathans emerged from space, where they had been waiting, and many Viltrumites hit them as they came around for a second volley. The armor of the Leviathans dented under the punches, and many Chitauri soldiers were thrown off by the sheer shockwave generated. The Chitauri ships also didn’t fare better, as Viltrumite bodies destroyed any in their path.

Gamora understood that flying opponents were nothing against these warriors, so she ordered the Chitauri to retreat higher and take potshots. Her next order was to cease the rain of fire and start regular fire—aimed shots by guns and cannons.

As the Viltrumites concentrated on dodging the cannon fire, she ordered three battalions of wardogs to descend. A single battalion consisted of one million wardogs, and she wanted to overwhelm these warriors. By the speed and strength their computers calculated, it would take almost their full number of wardogs to kill these Viltrumites.

Nolan saw three smaller ships coming down and landing. The bridge opened, and monstrous beings of untold number descended. He saw a fellow warrior, who was concentrating on the last of the laser fire, being surprised and falling down, with wardogs running over and biting and clawing him.

He scoffed, knowing that nothing would happen, and he was proven correct in seconds. The Viltrumite stood rapidly, and every wardog surrounding his body flew kilometers away to their deaths. He snarled and just punched the first one in front of him. The wardog was obliterated by the power as metal pieces flew backward, killing several others, and the airwave created by the punch picked hundreds and threw them to their deaths.

Gamora saw the devastation of a single punch, and the close-up camera made the bloodthirsty grin of the Viltrumite clear. This was nothing but a preliminary bloodbath to the oceans that would flow later.

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It had been 24 hours since the attack began, and Gamora looked at the despairing infographic showing the numbers: 7 million wardogs were dead for only 5 Viltrumites who had been injured by the rain of fire, repeatedly attacked in the same spot by countless wardogs. The cumulative damage made it possible for them to die, or they were foolish enough to ignore the battlefield and not switch with the other 15,000 warriors hidden throughout the planet.

For once, Nebula was afraid of the punishment she would face at the hands of Thanos for this defeat.

"Sister, it seems that we will lose here. Their strength is enormous, and their speed is something only a few beings can match. This species is clearly more dangerous than regular Asgardians and other creatures of the Nine Realms. Let's retreat and save the remaining wardogs. Father will at least be less wrathful at this point compared to the complete loss of wardogs."  

"Daughters, it seems your arrogance has cost us much." Even through the hologram, Thanos’s voice sent chills down their spines.

"Father, it seems this species is too powerful for our soldiers. They have better physical prowess than Asgardian soldiers," Gamora said with utmost respect.

Thanos looked at his daughters in disappointment. "It seems to me you have many things yet to learn about how to destroy the fighting spirit of enemies."

"Father?" Gamora asked with hesitation and fear.

"Release every wardog. Let them tire the Viltrumites some more. When their numbers drop below one million, rain fire on their capital. Take your flagship and retreat to space immediately before that. Use the wardog ships only to attack using rain fire, and finally, charge the Destroyer cannons. Fire as long as the energy holds, then self-destruct the ship."

"Father!" Gamora gasped. "What about the resources you mentioned in the beginning?"

Thanos looked even more disappointed. "The most valuable resource is these Viltrumites, not their planet now. If they venture outside alone, we could capture them and learn the secrets of their powers to improve our own wardogs and the Chitauri."

Gamora and Nebula nodded in understanding.

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It had been a good day for the Viltrumite Empire. Even after five years, there were still weaklings who died in this assault, but overall, it was good for the empire. The rest of them, even the Grand Regent, had increased their powers through this extensive workout. Nolan looked on as hundreds of wardogs died with a single punch, feeling their claws and teeth all over his body. Usually, their strength was too low to ever feel, but continuous exposure to the lasers and bites from these beasts had made his body aware of itself. He had not taken a single moment of rest, unlike others who recuperated over time. There was something in his blood that couldn’t rest until he personally vanquished this threat to their race. He had personally searched for the green-coloured alien they saw in the holo, but she never once appeared on the battlefield.

Nolan saw Anissa, Thragg, and Conquest all killing wardogs with grins and signs of pleasure on their faces. For some reason, their bloodthirsty pleasure made him feel unease which he had never felt in his thousands of years of service. He quickly dismissed that line of thought as he groaned when a foolish beast tried to claw his eyes, only to break its claws, irritating his eyes with blood and grime. Irritated beyond anything, Nolan, who was covered by wardogs for at least a mile in front of him, leaned almost parallel to ground and moved forward so fast that the sound barrier broke again and again, all the while wardogs flew away, and blood and gore splattered outward like a sea parting around rocks. He actually flew forward, confident that no cameras of the enemy would see his body clearly as it was buried by the wardogs at that moment.

After the slaughter of hundreds of thousands by that single move, Nolan looked around and he came to the realization that the battle was coming to an end.

"Alert! Alert! The command ship has retreated towards space, and there is a buildup of energy in the other two ships. Self-destruct is activated. Energy levels are similar to continent and planet-buster bombs."   The insistent warning rang from his Ring.

Nolan’s eyes widened for a second. He knew the majority of their soldiers would not survive a direct attack of such caliber, and the only method was to flee, but a Viltrumite never runs from a battle.

"Regent!" he yelled into the comms. "The main ship has retreated towards space, and the other two ships are building up a planet-buster attack and self-destruct."

Thragg snarled upon hearing that they intended to destroy their home.

"Training is over!" Thragg yelled. "Nolan, Conquest, Kregg, come with me. We will fly through their ships and destroy those power sources. We are the only ones who will be fast enough to survive such an explosion. Drag the ships back to space or the upper atmosphere with their shields, then break them. Kregg, you are with me on the right ship. Nolan, Conquest, on the other one. Viltrumites, it is time. Finish every one of these filthy bugs."

Thragg finished the order and flew upwards, breaking the sound barrier a hundred times before even reaching the descending ship, ignoring any shots fired at him. Thragg hit the ship's shield, and the momentum he had built up caused the engine to stall and the ship to stop mid-air. For a moment, it moved upwards before stopping and started overpowering Thragg's upward push. At that moment, Kregg reached the other side, and their combined strength started making it move upwards.

Gamora gaped at the strength of the Viltrumite leaders and their ability to fly unaided, which they had not used until now.

"Interesting, very interesting," Thanos’s chilling voice echoed. "They can fly and survive in space. This species is blessed with abilities I would like to incorporate into my children and wardogs." 

"Gamora, they will reach the upper atmosphere and space within minutes. Do not let them reach space. Fire the planet-buster as it is; we have no time to power it up fully. They will head towards the engine or power source to destroy the ship. Destroy it when they are near. Not all four of them will be able to escape the blast range. Try to pick up one of their bodies if they get blasted upwards."

"Yes, Father," Gamora replied obediently.

All four of them were surprised for a moment as the shield they were pushing vanished, and they saw a laser shot made from the center of the ship towards their home from their side of the eye as all four of them broke through the ship's various levels before they could stop their upwards flight.

Their experience allowed them to know that the ship would self-destruct shortly, and they would have only moments to find the power source or engine to destroy them, disconnect them, or throw them into space. All four of them ignored the multitudes of wardogs and Chitauri attacking them and started moving. The ship's structure began shaking as sonic booms echoed from their increasing speed in the search for their target.

Thragg reached the power source first, his eyes widening at the realization of the trap. Kregg also entered the room from another direction, breaking through the walls. The moment Thragg entered the room, he saw the power source activating, and a white blast began making its way toward him. Thragg saw Kregg’s eyes widen in panic, knowing that Kregg was not fast enough to outrun the blast of such magnitude in his face, even when Kregg reacted within less than a second flying backward, eyes widened in panic, both hands formed into fists to punch through anything in his way.

Thragg didn’t hesitate for a moment, even before Kregg moved a meter away, his body was over Kregg. Thragg's suit was destroyed in seconds as he passed through the blast to reach Kregg, his body covering Kregg before the blast reached him. Thragg grabbed onto Kregg’s hands and accelerated, increasing Kregg’s speed and outrunning the blast's major power. They were almost 25 miles away before the blast caught up to them and enveloped them making them grit their teeths as hotness started to cook their flesh, but it was survivable at that distance.

One minute ago.

On the other ship, it was Conquest who reached the power source first. His speed, combined with his zeal, made him punch the source even before he saw the first spark of the world-ending blast. The first thing that clued him in to something being wrong was the immense numbness he felt as his right fist vanished in an instant, and entire flesh towards his elbow disappeared while the bone blackened.

Even before the blast reached his elbow he understood and he moved upwards breaking every wall in his way.  Unfortunately he was not fast enough and he could only breach the upper side of the ship when the blast engulfed him and he lost consciousness as he was flung towards the mother ship in space.

The only warning Nolan got was his ring activating automatically and a green light enveloping him as the blast reached him. He moved sideways to escape, but even before he could get halfway, the green around his body was overpowered, and seconds later, his own durability was overwhelmed as his flesh started heating up. He was suffering from third-degree burns over his entire body when he finally escaped the blast. Nolan was thankful for the heat resistance they had gained in the last few days from all the laser fire, as he was sure he would have suffered more damage if not for that.

"Ring, scan for others."

"Scanning… scanning… All three of them are alive. Thragg and Kregg are on the other side of the planet, and Conquest is in space inside the enemy mother ship. Conquest and the ship are moving away, and now lost as they enter hyperspace."

Nolan cursed at the implication of one of them being captured alive by the Mad Titan, who is famous for his bioengineering of these beasts and himself to increase power.

Minutes ago..

"This is something else," Nebula said as the sensors and cameras zoomed in on the escaping Viltrumites from their trap. "They survived blasts capable of obliterating planets."

"No, daughter, as always, you are in the wrong," Thanos said with a sadistic grin at the image of Conquest flying towards space. "They were fast enough to fly away from the blast and durable enough to only suffer from being cooked alive by the heat. The shockwave did little to no damage."

"Gamora, fire on the old man in space. He is near his limits, and his stupidity in punching the energy source has cost him his fist, and maybe his entire arm up to the elbow by the looks of it. Shoot him down and capture him."

Gamora readied the cannons, increasing their power beyond what was used on the planet in the first phase of the plan, and shot at Conquest.

Conquest, who was only worried about the blast, didn’t see the laser coming. Ten instant holes appeared in his body, exposing bones. The kinetic force caused him to slow down, and the blast caught up to him, enveloping him in light and pain.

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1999

London

Harry Potter.

Venturing into the Chamber of Secrets without a wand was a fool's errand. Harry knew that better than anyone. The memory of facing the basilisk many times was still etched in his mind, a reminder of how close he had come to death at that time. This time, however, things were different. He was mentally older, wiser, and stronger than ever before.

The decision was made quickly: before stepping into the Chamber again, he needed to secure his wand. And there was only one place he could trust to provide him with the tool that had served him so well across several lives—Ollivanders.

Three days before his planned return to Hogwarts, Harry found himself in the familiar, narrow streets of Diagon Alley. The bustling witches and wizards around him felt strangely distant as he approached the small, dusty shop where he had first acquired his wand countless times. The sign above the door, "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.," swayed slightly in the breeze. As Harry pushed open the door, a soft chime echoed within the shop.

The shop was exactly as he remembered it—a narrow space filled with shelves that reached up to the ceiling, each crammed with long, narrow boxes. The air was thick with the scent of ancient wood and dust, a scent that carried memories of a time when magic was still new and exciting to him.

"Ah, Mr. Potter," came a soft, rasping voice from the shadows. Garrick Ollivander emerged from behind a stack of wand boxes, his pale eyes gleaming with the same mysterious light Harry had seen in them so many times before. "I had not been expecting you for another year."

Harry wasn't surprised. Ollivander had always seemed to know more than he let on, his understanding of the magical world far deeper than most. "I need my wand," Harry said simply, his voice steady.

Ollivander nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Harry's face. "Of course, of course. The wand chooses the wizard, as you know well. But I fear that you must wait one more year to acquire a wand. I cannot sell one without your guardian’s approval, which I assume you don’t have."

Harry grimaced, and that was all the answer Ollivander needed. "I have another proposal for you. You will ignore the law and sell me the wand, and I will provide you with some ingredients you could experiment with."

Ollivander’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. "What ingredients would that be?"

Harry hesitated, knowing he had to disclose his knowledge of the basilisk. "How about a thousand-year-old basilisk’s fang and skin?"

Ollivander’s eyes widened for a second, but he schooled his expression so quickly that Harry might have thought he imagined it if not for his psychic abilities sensing Ollivander's surprise.

"I will not ask for proof or anything, as I can see with my own eyes that you are not an ordinary 10-year-old wizard. Three fangs and 20 meters of skin, and we have an agreement."

Harry grimaced for a moment but agreed, knowing that haggling for a wand was just not done.

"Very well," Harry agreed. "Let’s not waste time. I can feel a connection to many wands with phoenix feather cores and yew wands, but the most powerful connection is with that one."

Harry pointed towards where the holly and Fawkes feather wand is —the brother wand to Voldemort’s.

Ollivander looked more intrigued than ever but brought the requested wand. Harry reached out and took the wand in his hand. The moment his fingers closed around the wood, he felt a surge of warmth rush through him, a sensation so powerful it almost made him gasp. The wand hummed with energy, as if it were alive and Harry was happy that his most trusted and used companion of countless lives was not because of the horcrux in his head, but because of himself.

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice thick with emotion.

Ollivander inclined his head slightly. "Remember our deal, Mr. Potter. This wand will serve you well. I somehow feel that you know the history of that wand and its brother. The moment you entered, I knew we could expect great things from you, but now I think whatever you do will be legendary. Let me pray to Lady Magic that it is on the side of good and not evil, as Lord Voldemort chose."

Harry didn’t reply, just shrugged indifferently and left the shop. The Chamber of Secrets awaited him, and with it, the basilisk.

The days following his visit to Ollivanders were spent in a haze of preparation and rest. Harry knew he had to be at his best when he entered the Chamber, and that meant not only being physically prepared but mentally as well. He spent hours meditating, honing his magical senses, and practicing with his new wand.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, focused on his destination, and Disapparated. The world around him twisted and blurred, and when he opened his eyes again, he was standing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

The dense trees loomed above him, their branches swaying gently in the wind. The air was cool and filled with the scent of earth and leaves. Harry took a moment to steady himself before he began walking towards Honeydukes, the sweet shop in Hogsmeade that hid a secret entrance to Hogwarts.

The entrance to Honeydukes was just as he remembered it, hidden behind a stack of crates in the cellar. With a quick flick of his wand, Harry revealed the passageway that led into Hogwarts. He stepped inside, the walls of the tunnel closing in around him as he descended into the darkness.

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"Open," he hissed, and the sink in the second-floor bathroom opened.

He jumped in and used his telekinesis to hold himself steady as he bounced off the walls of the tunnel due to lack of practice. He sighed in relief as he flew downwards, feeling the pressure around him lift. Harry used his various senses to analyze the pressure, leading to a perplexing answer—the pressure he felt from the moment he stepped into the castle proper wasn’t the magic of the wards, but the castle itself. It identified him as an intruder, even when he was using the magic of the cloak, just a step below the actual Invisibility Cloak, all the while his own telepathy created a Notice-Me-Not effect along with a Confundus-like effect. Hogwarts, or the magic of the castle, observed him, and he sensed confusion and curiosity as it could see he was only 10 and not supposed to be there. The moment he entered the tunnel, the pressure eased, as if he was a lost cause, but still, he could feel a glimmer of interest and magic watching him.

He reached the bottom and saw a huge amount of waste, deciding to fly until he reached the door to the main chamber. After another round of Parseltongue, the tunnel opened up into a vast, dimly lit chamber. The stone walls were slick with moisture, and the air was thick with the scent of decay. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he stepped into the room, his wand held tightly in his hand.

But it wasn’t the state of the Chamber that made Harry's blood run cold—it was the presence he could feel in the air, a dark and malevolent force that seemed to be waiting for him.

The basilisk.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind to the serpent. He had to try to communicate with it, to calm it before things escalated. He focused on Parseltongue, the words flowing from his lips in a soothing tone.

"Be still," Harry whispered, his voice echoing in the chamber. "I mean you no harm."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, from the shadows, came a low, menacing hiss. The basilisk's voice was filled with fury—a fury that Harry could feel deep in his bones.

The serpent hissed back, but there were no intelligible words, just gibberish. Harry understood that the basilisk had lost its mind because of killing a Hogwarts student, even under the control of Tom Riddle, then the Heir of Slytherin. It had gone against its fundamental purpose, and the magic had punished it.

The basilisk surged forward from the shadows, its massive form coiling around the chamber like a living nightmare. Its yellow eyes glowed with a terrifying light, a death sentence for anyone other than Harry. Harry was already reinforcing his body with magic to withstand the approaching death. The basilisk’s eyes worked by two methods of attack: a Legilimency attack that destroyed the mind and a petrifying wave of magic that stopped magic itself, making the body stop functioning. His mind and Occlumency skills, honed by millennia of practice and stolen techniques, made him immune to the first attack. The second wave of attack was one he could deflect by making his magic durable enough to withstand the gaze. Only a magical lord who has magic a mere thought away could do what he has done to withstand the gaze of the basilisk.

He succeeded, and the basilisk hissed in anger as its prey did not fall dead as usual. It moved fast—so fast that it was a blur—and its fangs, almost as tall as Harry, approached him to devour him entirely. Harry waved his wand, and a thick rubber sheet was conjured, enveloping both eyes of the basilisk. Even though it was not entirely effective, defending against the magical attack while fighting the basilisk was a huge drain on his powers. Harry thanked his lucky stars that he was born as the Lord of Magic in this life. It would have been much harder if he weren’t, making his journey more difficult and forcing him to change his plans entirely.

The blur was almost on him when he raised his hand, and a telekinetic force impacted the basilisk, deflecting its approaching head. Harry cursed as he had to throw himself with his magic to another side to avoid the basilisk, as his power almost failed to deflect the head.

Harry grimaced as he realized he had nearly used his entire telekinetic might, but the force of the basilisk was far more than its size—80 feet long and 5 feet thick—suggested. He understood that magic itself was empowering the basilisk beyond its already powerful physique.

Harry decided to apply his thought process Fight Mode to finish it quickly.

Target: kill the basilisk

Analysing memories bank...  Fought against basilisks countless times.Survival due to sheer dumb luck and Fawkes:  99%  of times.

Harry felt shame at his old self for always trying to fight a basilisk and always needing Fawkes’s help.

Danger to self:  Basilsik’s gaze neutralised, venom: effective on self as healing factor is almost non-existent. Suggestion: avoid at all costs.  Physical attack: neutral- will survive if telekinetic and magical empowerment is used fully, but dodging is better.

Attack : use telekinesis to slow down basilik and attack with magic. Start from cutting curse to killing curse.

Harry sighed as he confirmed the attack plan.

Harry watched in amazement as his left hand raised without conscious control, using his telekinetic and magical might to slow the basilisk. It slowed tremendously. His right hand raised and began firing spells. It started with normal Diffindo and cutting curses and ended with Sectumsempra. All the while, he moved around the chamber, dodging any attempts by the basilisk to physically crush him.

Even Sectumsempra, powerful enough to cause a slight scratch, did little more than that. The dark magic flowed, and spells Harry didn’t even consciously remember leapt from his wand with point casting, his own mind and experience of casting these spells countless times allowing him to cast spells without any wand movements. The spells landed on the basilisk with the speed similar to gunshots from a semi-automatic, but there was no significant result. Any damage was negligible, and later he could see there were several layers of scales beneath the damaged ones. He could feel magic trying to weave into the basilisk’s body, but nothing was able to overcome the creature’s own inherent magic.

He ended the round with a Killing Curse.

As expected, even that only stunned the basilisk for several seconds before it overcame the effects of the curse. The magic of the Killing Curse was lesser than the basilisk’s own magic.

Primary Attack failed. Starting Esosteric magical attacks. 

Fiendfyre.

 Hell decended on earth and fire poured out of nothingness.  It was demonic and with ahunger to consume anything even air and magic. It turned to thestrala nd tried to attack himself but flrx of will careened it back to basilik. The fire hit basilisk head on and started eating through its scales after couple of seconds of resistance.   

The basilisk withdrew in pain, the rubber sheet reduced to ash by the fire, the conjuration losing its form to the magic-consuming flames. The basilisk opened its eyes and looked at the approaching fire. To Harry’s immense surprise, it began to petrify the flames. Knowing this plan had failed, Harry relinquished control, causing the fire to flare up instantly, but the basilisk was faster, successfully petrifying the fire into statues.

Tertiary Plan: Use the tried and tested method of Gryffindor’s sword.

Harry grimaced at that and called out, "Fawkes, now would be a good time to have the Sorting Hat with me."

The bird's song filled the chamber, its notes clear and pure, cutting through the darkness like a blade. The basilisk recoiled, its rage momentarily overshadowed by confusion.

A bright orange flame appeared in the air, and the baggy old hat fell onto his head.

He could feel the hat’s mind trying to enter his, and Harry indulged it, providing memories that would make him seem like the old, naive Harry, but from the future.

"You called for the sword, and Hogwarts has delivered. Here is the sword," the hat said, releasing it inside the hat, trying to drop the hilt as always on Harry’s head.

Anticipating this, Harry grabbed the sword immediately with telekinesis. It was a beautiful weapon, and he could feel many enchantments, while the goblin steel hungered for more power. He floated the sword out and stabbed the basilisk in its face. The goblin steel clanged as it met its match, unable to pierce the scales even with Harry’s telekinetic might.

Harry immediately understood that the original method of stabbing it inside the mouth to the brain was necessary. The basilisk lunged, and he dodged. He cast another Killing Curse, stunning the creature for several seconds longer than before.

Harry yelled in strain as he used his entire telekinetic might to hold the basilisk down and used it to pry open its mouth. He couldn’t use his magic or telekinesis to stab because it was entirely focused on holding and keeping the basilisk’s mouth open.

He looked at Fawkes in inquiry.

Fawkes trilled softly, assuring him.

Harry took hold of the sword with both hands and stabbed it into the roof of the basilisk’s mouth. A putrid smell and sound hit his body as the creature’s fang pierced his left hand near the middle. He felt his combat mode deactivate with a mission accomplished and Body Scan started fighting rapidly. It immediately used magic to stop the tainted blood from spreading from the wound in his hand to other areas, but the basilisk venom was consuming his very magic, trying to destroy him. But just as he felt himself slipping away, a soft, warm light filled the chamber. Fawkes had landed beside him, the phoenix's gentle eyes full of concern as it bent its head and let its tears fall onto Harry's wound.

The effect was immediate. The venom's burning pain began to subside as the phoenix tears worked their magic, neutralising the poison in his system. Harry could feel his strength returning, the darkness lifting as his body healed.

But Fawkes did more than just heal the wound. The phoenix's tears had a special property, one that Harry had only recently begun to understand. They not only healed physical wounds but also enhanced the body's natural defenses against disease and poisons.

As the last of the venom was neutralized, Harry could feel his body's immune system reacting, growing stronger. The phoenix tears and the venom had triggered a response within him, his magic already attuned to healing itself more than anything already working to bolster his defenses against future threats of poisons and harmful substances.

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Authors Note: Looking forward to comments!!!

First war scene and fight scene in same chapter!!!  GLH is a fic in which there will be many more to come!!!  

Daemon snow. AI generated

at 79 AC

World map

The comprehensive map i depend on mainly for my ASOIAF fics.

For eg: there is no concrete idea of how thousands islands happened so i made it a land mass broke by a fight during first long night as mentioned in ADS 3.

ADS 16

Chapter 16: Under the walls of Nightfort.

The Wall

Daemon Snow

As I approached the Wall, despite trying to be nonchalant, a sense of awe gripped me, taking my breath away. I had seen it before through the eyes of my birds and while my mind drifting beyond the bounds of my  body as I tapped into the powers of the greenseer. Those visions had given me glimpses of the Wall—its immense height, its unyielding presence stretching across the northern horizon, a barrier between the known world and the savage wilds beyond. But nothing, not even the experience of seeing the wall in a TV screen, or even the bird’s eye view from warging, could have prepared me for the sheer awe at the enormity of the wall I could feel as I gazed up and saw the wall piercing the sky from the courtyard of Castle Black.  

The Wall was a wonder of this world, a testament to the might and paranoia of The Builder regarding the one Other who could have survived at that time. Rising over seven hundred feet into the sky, its sheer scale was overwhelming. My eyes traced the line of the Wall, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see, vanishing into the misty distance. The surface, smooth from a distance, was rough and jagged up close, a mass of ice that seemed to drink in the light of the sun and reflect it back with a cold, blue radiance.  As we entered the Courtyard, I actually felt cold for the first time in this life.  My own adaptations and Stark blood had given me sufficient Cold resistance that I could always wear the lowest amount of woollen clothes. I never felt the bone chilling cold as described in the books but as I stood under the Wall I could feel the chill slowly crawling through my body and taking hold of my bones.

Up close, the Wall was more than just an enormous barrier. It was ancient, built by hands long dead, its history etched into every icy crevice and shadowed niche. I could see where the ice had shifted and settled over the centuries, where repairs had been made with great blocks of frozen water, adding to the Wall's uneven texture. Each section told a story, whispered tales of battles fought, wildlings repelled, and men who had stood watch here for lifetimes beyond counting. It was a living thing, this Wall—ancient and enduring, a force of nature as much as a creation of man. I knew there was no way the Wall could have stood for eight thousand years without magic. Grandfather had taught me that it was the Stark in Winterfell who controlled the Wall's magical defence. As long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, the Wall would stand.

Even now, with my novice magic sensing, I could feel a strong bond between the Lord Commander and the Wall, as well as between Lord Stark and the Wall. Each brother of the Night's Watch had a connection to it; their oaths powered the magic holding the physical Wall, while the magical defence  was controlled by the Stark in Winterfell. Even with my diluted Stark blood, I could feel a small connection to this monstrosity. I had no way to compare the Wall's current power to the ancient times, as I couldn’t use magic sensing in my visions. I wondered if the custom of sacrifices under the Weirwood should be restarted, knowing that even those had been used to power the Wall.

My eyes wandered to Castle Black, nestled at the base of the Wall The castle was a stark contrast to the Wall itself. Where the Wall was grand and awe-inspiring, Castle Black was utilitarian, built for function rather than beauty. Its wooden palisades and stone towers were weathered by the relentless northern climate, but they still stood strong, a testament to the resilience of the Night’s Watch. The castle was a sprawling, mismatched collection of buildings, each one telling a story of necessity and survival. The armory, the smithy, the stables—each had its place.

I sighed in relief as I saw guest rights being exchanged and we entered Castle Black. I was finally sure I could skive off from the punishment, as Grandfather would be busy with meetings and planning. I had been using my birds to find the remaining wildlings as we marched to Castle Black. The Gift was acres of forested land, neglected and overgrown, perfect for wildlings who knew how to hide. I suspected they had their wargs, for no matter what I did, I couldn’t locate the remaining bands of them—only scattered individuals, and no matter what, we couldn’t hunt them down one by one. The surprising snow and storms also made it harder for my birds to fly and observe. The result was just scattered groups of men here and there. I had already reported this to Grandfather, and he grew weary of the upcoming campaign.

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Meeting

I was tasked by my grandfather to observe and learn as he held the meeting between Lord Commander Ryswell, Lords Umber, Karstark, and Lady Mormont, a maester and other senior rangers. Grandfather’s fury simmered beneath the surface as he looked upon the Ranger who led the nights watchmen at Queenscrown, a man I had mentally dubbed Ser Noseless, for he had lost his nose in the same wildling attack.

"I will have the truth, First Ranger," Grandfather demanded, his voice cold and low, yet it cut through the room like a blade. "How did you and only five of your men manage to escape a thousand wildlings while my son perished?"

Ser Noseless straightened, his face as pale as the snow outside. "Lord Stark," he began, "it was Rickon Stark’s bravery and skill that allowed us to escape. He alone held back twenty men while I and my five managed to flee on horseback, so we could inform you and Castle Black about the new King-Beyond-the-Wall. The Crowkiller led the attack, shouting at the top of his lungs about this new king and his seven thousand warriors."

I studied Ser Noseless, picturing my uncle standing his ground, fighting valiantly to the end. He had always been a man of honor, a fool who believed in such things. It seemed Grandfather shared that sentiment. I wanted to question how they hadn’t known there were a thousand wildlings south of the Wall, but understanding the vastness of the Gift and the New Gift, it wasn't so hard to believe. The wildlings needed only patience and determination to accumulate numbers on this side. If they had wargs, like in the canon timeline, it would be all the easier.

"I see," Grandfather replied, his tone sharp. "The wildlings grow bolder, declaring themselves kings when they don’t even have half the tribes united under them. They will regret it. How many are still in the Gift, Lord Commander Ryswell?"

"There are at least five hundred from the group that fought Rickon Stark near Queenscrown." Ryswell answered. "We’ve received reports of another band near Nightfort itself, who somehow climbed the wall there even with all the patrolling near the Nightfort, numbering about five hundred as well. I was going to command my lead Ranger to take our one thousand men and hunt them down when your raven arrived, informing us your army was at Last Hearth. I will follow your lead, Lord Stark."

The rangers in the room, who seemed ready to protest, fell silent under the harsh glares of the Northmen. It was then that I noticed something peculiar—the three rangers present, including Ser Noseless, were clearly men from the South. Their appearance, their mannerisms—they were not like the typical Northmen. Except for Ser Noseless who was young their hair was grayed, their faces old, lacking the wildness and gruffness of the men of the North. I wondered when they had arrived at this hellish place and why.

Grandfather, ever the calculating lord, raised his hand to silence the room. "Our information was once wrong, and it would be foolish to base our plans on it again and split our forces. The enemy is in our land, and they dared to harm a Stark. I will have my share of blood to quench my thirst for vengeance, and it starts with the army near the Nightfort. I will hunt down every single one of them. The wildlings who took part in the slaughter of my men will fear the day my army reaches them."

Lord Commander Ryswell, looking chastened by the rebuke, lifted his head and said, "I will, of course, support you, Lord Stark. The Ranger who was saved by Rickon will accompany you with a thousand of our men to join your hunt. Let him repay the sacrifice of Rickon and brave Northmen, by hunting down the killers or perishing while doing it."

Grandfather seemed ready to reject the offer, but after a moment's thought, he nodded. "Aye, they may join, as it is your duty to hunt down wildlings."

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We were riding down the Wall toward the Nightfort when my birds finally reached the wildling band there. Camps spread out before me, and I immediately realized that the estimate of 500 was far too low. By my count, there were at least 2,000 wildlings gathered there.

It was the third day since we had left the Wall when my birds discovered this truth. Realizing the gravity of the situation, I hurried to inform Grandfather, but he was constantly surrounded by other lords and rangers. Only that night, when we made camp, did I get the chance to speak with him alone.

Grandfather was furious at the intelligence failure.

"Daemon, are you sure of the number?" he asked, his voice taut with restrained anger.

"I am, Grandfather," I replied, meeting his gaze. "All my warged birds are there, and I counted the wildlings. There are at least 2,000 men and women, all warriors, though not well-equipped. They’re armed with rusted swords, maces, and pilfered weapons."

Grandfather’s expression darkened. "I will inform the rest of the commanders tomorrow that we must prepare to battle 2,000 men, not 500."

"Is that wise, Grandfather?" I asked, hesitation in my voice. "The Night’s Watch has failed twice now. Perhaps there’s a betrayer among them. Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, but a third time will be enemy action. Should we trust them again? Shall I keep an eye on the Night’s Watchmen?"

For a moment, Grandfather looked horrified at the thought of such betrayal within the Watch. He was silent as he thought through and planned how to tackle this new possible threat.

"Even if that’s true, Daemon, there are thousand Nights watch men in our army. Who would you keep your eyes on? The eyes you turn away from our known enemy in the open may allow them to flank our position through the forest. Informing my lords and the rangers is not a problem now that we know the wildlings' true numbers before the battle. You said that the wildlings aren’t hiding the bulk of their army and we will see the truth of the matter anyway, when we reach there tomorrow evening. By the time of battle we will plan for the increased numbers, so there’s no purpose in misleading us like this from the start. It is only a failure of the people to do their jobs properly and not maliciously done so."

"It’s not that they’re not hiding, Grandfather; there’s simply no place to hide there," I replied, understanding his reasoning. "Anyway, I will follow your lead."

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Next day night.

The camp was set, and one or two cups of wine along with extra meat were served, as for many, this would be their last meal. Surprisingly, the wine came from the Night’s Watch stock. I kept one eye on the wildlings through my warged birds, as Grandfather had tasked me with monitoring any movement through the forest that might suggest an attempt to flank us during tomorrow’s battle. To my surprise, there was no such movement.

Both armies were positioned on opposite sides of a vast field, and we could see the lights of their torches flickering in the distance. Both leaders knew there would be no parley; tomorrow, there would be battle. 500 of the rangers, familiar with the land, were used as scouts since we left Castle Black, patrolling our flanks for any ambush from the 500 men reported near Queenscrown or any other wildlings. The Northmen guarded the camp on three sides, with the Wall protecting the fourth.

600 men were rotated every hour to stand guard facing the wildlings fearing sudden attack from them ever since we arrived here in the evening before sunset.

The Northmen and rangers were in high spirits, confident in their numbers against the poorly armed savages. Mocking jeers echoed through the camp as they questioned which fool had planned the wildlings’ defence. I scanned the camps and forest near the wildlings through my warged animals, searching for any hidden animals like bears, mammoth or shadocats or even giants that could turn the tide, but found none. It puzzled me. Was it simply their lack of knowledge in counting that kept the wildlings from scattering into the Gift as they usually did when they know we were coming? Perhaps they didn’t realize just how outnumbered they were.

It was halfway to the hour of the bat after dinner and wine when Ser Noseless, Lords Karstark, Umber, my grandfather, Lady Mormont, and I were sitting around the fire with Aethan and Lyra, sharing war stories. That’s when a horn sounded from the wildlings' side along with rapid movements and noise by jeering and taunts.

I had lost concentration on my birds while listening and eating.

"Daemon," Grandfather called, as they all stood up, preparing to face whatever was coming.

I slipped into my birds and saw the wildlings ready with their substandard weapons, shaking with excitement at the prospect of impending violence.

I opened my eyes to find everyone looking at me.

"Grandfather, the wildlings are ready to attack us. They’re shaking with excitement, and they’ll attack us tonight. It seems they’re waiting for something."

Grandfather frowned, hearing that. "They have no advantage in attacking at night."

"Let them attack; we are ready," Lord Umber yelled with jubilation. "But how do you know?"

"He’s a bloody warg!" Ser Noseless shouted in panic. "A sorcerer, a demon!" he continued, his voice rising in fear.

I scoffed at his outburst.

"Shut your trap, you southern incompetent cunt," Lord Umber roared, infuriated by the insult directed at a Stark by a coward who had abandoned Heir Stark.

"Lords, prepare your men for battle," Grandfather ordered. "The wildlings think we’ll be easy pickings after our march, but they’ll be slaughtered regardless. Prepare!"

"Stark! Stark! Stark!" Umber yelled and the captains who had arrived to check for orders shouted as they left to make ready. Just then, another yelling and sounds of battle were echoed from the forest opposite the Wall.

I, along with Aethan, Grandfather, and Ser Noseless, looked toward the sound as wildlings started charging out of the forest, engaging with the inner guards made by northmen. Fortunately, we were at the centre of the camp, far from the forest, with many soldiers between us and the enemy.

The surprise attack by the wildlings was a success as almost of half of the guards were distracted by the sounds of preparation from the wildling camp.

A group of 20 Night’s Watch men came running toward us, calling for the Ranger Ser Noseless, who was their leader for this venture. I scoffed at their panic; these incompetent fools couldn’t act without their leader's command, even with the enemy at the doorstep.

All the while, Lord Stark was commanding orders, directing soldiers to where they were most needed. The 2,000 wildlings began their charge toward our front lines, and men rushed to reinforce the shield wall, turning it into a deathbed for any of the poorly armed wildlings who reached there, after charging towards them haphazardly in the moonlight. The gap between the camps allowed some preparation, but there was no time for archers to get there and be ready to loose arrows to the approaching army.  

Cries of pain and the sharp scent of blood began to permeate the camp as the battle intensified. After the surprise was over, for every one of our men that fell, two wildlings were cut down on the sides not facing the main wildling army. Somehow, the wildlings had outmanoeuvred the patrolling Night's Watchmen, reaching the camp’s borders en masse. This unexpected surge allowed them to overpower the fewer guards stationed there before being stalled by the swift arrival of reinforcements.

My concentration was focused on the battle and my birds view of it when suddenly, my hand moved instinctively to my back, stopping a knife aimed at my spine. My palm resisted the surprisingly sharp edge at first, but as I struggled to prevent the blade from piercing my spine, blood began to flow from my hand ,dripping down the knife to the earth as I had to increase my own strength to stop the push from reaching my spine.  Due to my hand having resistance to the edge of blade from all my cutting of palms to give my blood it took continued use of force for my palm to be pierced by the sharp edge.  I turned towards him all the while holding the knife while Ser Noseless struggled to push the knife in.

"What are you looking at, you fuckers?" Ser Noseless screamed at his 20 subordinates, who were staring in shock at him as he tried to stab me from behind. "Kill this bastard first! He’s a fucking warg who alerted the Northmen to the wildlings' preparation and whatever else he may have seen!"

“Ah!!!!”  Suddenly Ser Noseless yelled in pain. I saw his eyes widening in surprise and raising his hand looking at the severed edge near the elbow where the Valyrian Steel has cut cleanly through even the bone all the while I was sprayed by the blood from the elbow as I had turned towards him.

I had felt my own grandfather arriving from sidelines with sword raised to defend me. Even with my enhanced perception I couldn’t see Ice moving and severing Ser Noseless’s hand at the elbow.

I pried the knife from the dismembered hand and tossed the hand away, rage building within me at the betrayal. I looked at Ser Noseless who was rolling around his back all the while pressing a cloth to the elbow while yelling in pain. I realized that this motherfucker had likely betrayed my uncle too. It seems Starks are most likely to die by betrayal.

Before our guards or the lords could intervene, 10 of Noseless’s men raised hidden crossbows and fired at me. Before I could dodge, I felt a sudden movement and push from my side, and I fell sideways as the sound of arrows hitting flesh filled the air.

Horror engulfed me as I prayed to the Old Gods that it wasn’t Grandfather, but when I turned to look, my worst fears were confirmed.

"Nooooooo!" I yelled as I saw my grandfather falling backward, seven arrows embedded in various parts of his body. One had even nicked his neck, severing an artery and causing blood to pour out.

My hand moved on its own as the knife of Ser Noseless embedded itself to hilt inside the left eye of the leading Crossbowmen making others freeze for moments in shock of swift retribution.

Before the other 9 men could reload, the guards and lords fell upon them, swiftly cutting them down.

I immediately kneeled beside my grandfather, shaking him gently. His eyes were wide with shock, and I could see he wouldn’t survive under normal circumstances. Looking around, I saw Lords Umber, Karstark, Lady Mormont, and Aethan standing a meter away, giving me a moment alone with him in his final moments.

I placed my bleeding hand over my grandfather's mouth, but only a few drops of blood fell inside as the wound in my hand had already clotted. Desperate, I reached for Ice, intending to make a larger cut. I picked it up, gripping the edge of the blade, and prepared to slice my palm when strong hands suddenly grasped both the sword and my right hand.

"No..." Grandfather coughed, his voice weak but firm. "No, Daemon," he repeated, coughing again and spitting blood. His voice was barely a whisper, heard only by me. "If you do that now, everyone will know your abilities, and it won't save me. Daemon... one of the arrows has pierced my lung. Even your blood can’t heal me this time. Save your strength for the battle."

"No, you won't die today. We have too many plans. I can do this," I snapped, overpowering his hold.

"Aethan!" my grandfather called out with sudden strength. "Hold Daemon. Stop him."

Aethan moved quickly, gripping my arms with surprising strength. "As you command, Lord Stark," he said.

I snarled, ready to break his hands if necessary, when a sharp slap struck my face.

"I said no, Daemon," Grandfather insisted, the exertion making him cough blood again. His bloody hand cupped my cheek, forcing me to bow so he could see my face. His blood smeared on my skin, but the indifference I had developed toward blood, from sharing it, kept me from feeling nauseous.

"Daemon," he continued, "my grandson... no, my son. I'm sorry you have to see this, to go through this. I've always loved you as if you were my own, and you almost made me forget I lost my dear daughter. You are the best of her, and I’m glad I could protect you, unlike my son and daughter. Don’t pretend you don’t care for others. Do you really want to spend centuries alone, becoming a loveless monster?"

I was stunned by his deathbed confession, numb as my plans crumbled before my eyes. The easy life I had envisioned till atleast 120 AC was over. A man who treated me as his own son was dying, and even with my abilities, I couldn’t save him. I would have survived such huge wounds, but my grandfather couldn't.

He coughed again, blood splattering from his lips.

“Dameon, Here, give it only to Cregan and teach him about the Stark duties, protect him Daemon.” Father whimpered while taking my hand putting it on the edge of Ice. My hand brushed against the sharpness of the blade, and blood flowed from both our wounds onto the steel.

I grasped the sword and nodded in acceptance.

"Promise me, Daemon... promise me," he urged, coughing once more.

"I promise, Grandfather... no, Father," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

A smile of true peace crossed his face, one I had never seen before. "I love you, Dae..." His voice faltered, and his hand slipped from mine, falling lifelessly to the ground.

For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, reality sank in.

“NOOOOO…” I yelled again as I almost cracked my throat by the volume and Ice fell on the ground as my strength left me making me sit on my ass in the snow.

Aethan and the other lords shouted something, but their words were meaningless to me. The sounds of battle echoed around us, yet all of it felt distant, irrelevant. I knew I would outlive them all, destined to be alone for centuries, and now I had lost one of the pillars I had relied on so heavily in this life. A man who loved me as a son, and yet, all I could think about was the loss of his protection and how my plans were unravelling, not the loss of the man himself. I cursed myself in that moment for my selfishness, even as I knew it was necessary. Rage enveloped me again, now directed inward—for my failure to save him and for the traitors who caused this.

"AHHH!" I screamed, slamming my right hand into the ground in pure fury. Ice lay beside me, faintly glowing. I struck the ground again, and after the third hit, I froze as something caught my eye. There, on the Valyrian steel, was a single, clear drop of water. The fires around us reflected through it, casting rainbow colors. I knew it shouldn’t be there. It was then I realized that my eyes were watering. Swiping a hand across my face, I found teardrops on my palm.

"Tears?" I murmured in absolute shock.

For a moment, my rage vanished, replaced by bewilderment. It returned swiftly, more intense than before.

"Why am I so affected by him calling me son?" I yelled to the heavens. "Why am I feeling this? Why am I feeling so much rage at his death when I have the next Lord Stark in my pockets?" The question echoed in the silence of my mind.

"I’m not supposed to care. I accepted the fact that my life as a caring family man was over long ago, and yet I care. What does this mean? Why am I feeling like this? I know they will die someday, and I will outlive them all. I accepted that, but why now? Why am I crying, but still unable to feel sorrow when I see my grandfather—no, my father—lying dead? What is happening to me?" My voice snarled against the cacophony of the battle and cries.

The answer came from one of the few people I realized I actually cared for, not just for their talent or position.

"Even with all the words you like to say, Daemon, he loved you, and you loved him. You're crying because you loved him enough that your control over your emotions has shattered. The indifferent mask you always had for others from the first moment I saw you had finally shattered. You do love others, like all humans in this cursed world, even though you pretend not to. Even the greatest monsters love something in this world. He knew that from the beginning and understood it, Daemon," Aethan said softly from my side.

I accepted that I loved people in this life too, and I cursed myself that he had to die for me to realize that. I sat there on the bloodied ground and cried my heart out, not caring for anything else.

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Omniscient POV

Aethan Reed knew Daemon was devastated, but feelings had to be set aside. He watched as Daemon sat beside Lord Stark’s body, still crying. His face cycled from sorrow to hateful rage, a stark contrast that mirrored the twisted faces of the weirwood trees. The tears on Daemon’s blood-streaked face mixed with the crimson, eerily resembling the red sap of the ancient trees.

Lord Umber, consumed by fury, had just killed another Night's Watchman who attacked them. The soldiers who had reached their position fought off the attackers, but the northern men were now fighting on both sides, the initial surprise assault by the rangers having claimed the lives of many of their own. Umber, seething, moved towards Daemon, intending to pull him away, but Aethan stopped him with a firm hand.

“No, Lord Umber. He might attack you, not recognizing friend from foe in his state.”

“Reed, you have to get Snow out of here. The situation is spiralling out of control. The damned rangers have betrayed us. We’re outnumbered, surrounded inside and out. Lord Stark is dead, and I will not see another one of Stark bloodline die in front of me. You must retreat now with him, and I’ll find a way to fight our way out.”

Aethan nodded in acceptance but before he could anything more, the battlefield fell into a sudden, eerie silence as a scream, primal and filled with unimaginable anguish, pierced through the cacophony of battle. Aethan Reed’s heart skipped a beat, and he froze in place, his body betraying him as the terror clawed at his insides. Even the bloodthirsty Umber, who moments ago was a whirlwind of rage and steel, stood paralyzed, eyes wide with confusion and fear. It wasn't just them—every soldier, every Night's Watchman, and every wildling within a 500-meter radius felt it, their instincts screaming at them to flee, which their bodies refused to obey.

The air around them seemed to thicken, becoming suffocating, and even in the biting cold of the North, sweat began to bead on their foreheads. Breathing became a struggle, each gasp of air feeling like a desperate fight for survival. Aethan’s mind raced, struggling to comprehend the source of the terror that had gripped them all. He knew that voice, that presence—it was Daemon. But this wasn’t the Daemon he knew. The calm, composed young man he considered a brother was gone, replaced by something far more terrifying.

He saw Lord Umber’s eyes widen in confusion as he wrestled with his instinct to move and kill the frozen Night’s Watchmen. Aethan tried to shield himself with his own presence. As a warg, Aethan was aware that all wargs emitted an aura that calmed animals; it was something; a presence, that every warg uses instinctually, especially around horses. One of the first lessons he learned as a warg was never to enter the mind of a human—it could drive you mad. Since the aura could never influence people as even the most powerful warg, had an aura too weak to do so, Aethan wondered whether Daemon had become the greatest warg since the Age of Heroes. Any normal man will have trouble increasing his warging and presence beyond a limit, making sure humans never felt this, yet here was Daemon, doing the impossible by freezing hundreds of people at once.

“I have no limits, Aethan. I can increase any ability as long as I work hard enough.”

That boast, which Aethan had once dismissed as mere bravado, now rang in his mind. Aethan wondered just how much time Dameon had spend training, as even he lost count how many animals or hours Dameon spent using his greenseer abilities to watch various events through weirwood.  

To exert such fear in his surroundings, Daemon’s hatred and rage must have flooded his presence, transforming it into a monstrous killing intent. The sheer scale of it, left Aethan in awe of his brother-in-all-but-blood's magical prowess.

It was this awe that allowed Aethan to break free from the paralyzing hold. He slapped Lord Umber to snap him out of it, and together they turned to see Daemon holding Ice in one hand, clutching an arrow in the other—a stray shaft that might have struck Lord Stark’s body. With a roar, Daemon hurled the arrow back at its origin, and Aethan followed its path as it embedded itself in the neck of a wildling archer who had likely aimed at Daemon’s half silver hair.

 Umber, the other Northmen—and even the nearby enemies—understood immediately that Daemon was the source of their fear. Aethan saw tears streaming down Daemon’s face, but there was no sorrow, only murderous rage. Daemon blinked and he wiped his eyes with the back of the hand, looking at the tears in his hands in surprise for a moment.

And the rage becomes an inferno and Daemon moved with a roar of anger. 

And with that rage, the fires around the camp flared. The small flames grew into towering bonfires, their heat and light so intense that night turned to day. As Daemon tightened his grip on Ice and approached the first Night's Watchman in his path, Ice ignited with blood-red fire, turning the camp as hot as the Dornish deserts in a heartbeat before shifting to a cold blue fire. The blue flame flickered like ordinary fire, but it radiated no heat—it consumed it. An unnatural chill spread through the camp, as though winter itself had descended down on them, making everyone’s breath visible in the air. The sudden drop in temperature, even as the flames continued to burn with the height of a giant, caused the fighting to cease in the camp. The once unbearable heat gave way to a spine-chilling cold that triggered everyone’s fear.

Aethan, who had witnessed ancient battlegrounds of the epic wars of the Age of Heroes in his visions, withstood the immense pressure, perhaps because of his bond with Daemon. He realized that Daemon's killing intent had overflowed, and the Ice had amplified it with powers accessible only to those of Stark blood, making everyone in the entire camp to freeze in terror.

The frozen wildlings, who had seen enraged giants, scanned with their eyes for a giant in their midst. The Northmen, who had witnessed dragons, looked to the sky in terror, expecting death to descend upon them.

But there was neither a giant, nor a dragon. There was only Daemon Snow.

The greatsword, as tall as the person wielding it, moved so swiftly it was invisible to the naked eye. Only the aftermath of its deadly arc was visible—a Night’s Watchman’s head flying through the air before crashing into the face of a frozen wildling, snapping him out of his terror. The wildling stared in horror at the severed head lying on the ground before him, then let out a panicked scream that shattered the stillness.

“STARK!” Kill the traitors! Umber’s roar echoed across the battlefield, powerful enough to nearly shake the nearby Wall. He charged after Daemon, slaying a treacherous Night’s Watchman who stood paralysed in his way.

“STARK! STARK! STARK!” The cries spread like wildfire among the northmen, snapping them out of their paralysing fear and stupor. Even those unaware of what had happened at the center of the camp felt the palpable panic of their frozen enemies and immediately launched into the attack to exploit the advantage. Within moments, hundreds of traitors lay dead, struck down by the Northmen who were the first to break free from the paralyzing fear that had gripped their bodies.

Daemon was a silent, relentless force of death as he tore through the camp, cutting down every black-clad man in sight. There was no shouting, no grunts of effort—only the whistling of air as Valyrian steel sliced through flesh, sending limbs and heads flying. Any Crow who saw the blue flames and the cold aura that accompanied them tried to flee, but Daemon moved faster than even a charging knight.

Aethan had always known Daemon was faster and stronger than any ordinary man, but he hadn’t realized just how much his powers and constant training had elevated him. The lethality was only increased by the Valyrian steel, which moved like a artists brush he had seen in White Harbour once.

Only difference was Daemon was not painting a picture on canvas; he was painting himself in blood. Killing was his only focus—there was no wasted movements, no words of triumph or condemnation when men tried to defend themselves, just annihilating anyone wearing the Black. He darted among the men, dodging and weaving with surefooted ease, showing the results of hours of parkour in godswood and the trees. Above him, birds circled, and Aethan realized Daemon was using their vision to guide his movements so that no friend was harmed in his rampage.

As Daemon picked up speed, he became a blur to all those who watched him. The only evidence of his passage was the split body parts flying in every direction and the death left in his wake.

Aethan remained still, guarding Lord Stark’s body, with two soldiers flanking him as he had ordered. By this time, nearly all the traitors in their midst were dead, and those who weren’t were desperately trying to escape into the forest.

Nearing the shield wall that guarded the camp from the 2000 wildlings, Daemon leaped over the column guards, using the shoulder of a Northman in the middle of the ranks as a springboard. His momentum carried him over the entire contingent, landing him atop a wildling who was hacking at the shield wall in search of a gap. Even before the wildling could react, Daemon’s greatsword, Ice, flashed, and a head flew over the shield wall. He jumped again, his powerful kick shattering the wildling’s shoulder, and landed amidst the enemy, fifty meters from the Stark shield wall.

Before the wildlings could even comprehend the fiery terror and freezing dread in their midst, Daemon tightened his grip on the flaming sword, spun 360 degrees, while extending Ice and holding it parallel to ground. The enhanced strength and reach of Ice cleaved through men as if they were nothing.  A wildling had tried to slash at Dameon’s right side, but the attack never reached him. The wildling was already bisected in the spinning attack by the time the mace reached anywhere near Daemon’s body.

Daemon cackled as the wildlings around him descended into panic, their fear fuelled by the sight of his inhuman strength and the impossibility of a flaming sword that radiated coldness like the Wall itself. Nearly a dozen men had fallen in a single rotation, the long blade of Ice cleaving through two wildlings at once when they stood close together in the chaotic mob. Even those further away recoiled in terror, retreating several steps from the sword that burned with an unnatural fire, the cold it exuded seeping into their very bones.

Then, the wildlings made the greatest mistake they could have in that situation—they moved away from Daemon, their terror evident as they screamed and scrambled to escape the flaming sword. Their haphazard retreat created large gaps in their already disorganized mob, a vulnerability the Stark shield wall was quick to exploit.

Seeing the wildlings in the center faltering, the Stark soldiers began to press the attack with their spears, taking advantage of the distraction caused by Daemon's fiery onslaught. It was at this moment that Lord Umber arrived, his booming voice cutting through the chaos and taking control of men.

"Stark men, our enemies are dying by the dozens, slain by a boy! He’s shown more courage than you lot, leaping into the midst of our foes and creating a red mist of death!" Umber shouted, his voice filled with both awe and determination as he watched blood still spraying from the bodies Daemon had bisected in his deadly spin. He marvelled at how the blood flowed freely, even when the flames should have cauterized the wounds.

Energized by Umber’s words, the soldiers let out a rallying cry. "Stark! Stark! Winterfell! Winterfell!" they yelled, their spirits lifted by the sight of the carnage wrought by Daemon.

"Push for two steps, you bastards! Push and then retreat—let the swordsmen attack!" Umber bellowed as he snatched a shield from a nearby soldier, throwing his weight against it to shove the enemy back. The entire Stark front line surged forward, driving the wildlings off balance. As the wildlings stumbled and fell back, the shields pulled away, allowing the swordsmen from back to charge and engage in the melee.

Daemon pressed forward, gripping Ice with his right hand while taking his knife in another. He advanced on a wildling wielding a crude wooden club with a stone tip. The wildling barely began his attack when Ice flashed through the air, slicing through his neck. Daemon followed with a powerful kick to the man's stomach, sending his lifeless body crashing into three more wildlings, who toppled backward, causing further chaos.

From that moment on, Daemon was an unstoppable force, cutting through the panicking wildling line like a knife through butter. His speed was blinding, his movements a blur as he bisected men, severed limbs, and parried any strike aimed from his left by the knife. The occasional blow that glanced off his body was shrugged off, his durability and enhanced healing rendering the wounds non-threatening.

His speed allowed him to plough through the wildlings so much that by the time anyone from side or behind could slash at his back, he was past their reach. The scattered mob nature of wildling army made it possible he could move forward without any problem. His eagles were keeping their entire eyes on him from air and when he was going to be swarmed by some brave fools from the side or back, he just rotated 360 degree in his feet keeping Ice parallel to the ground, making short work of the wildlings trying to flank him. The only reason they were not able to stab him from behind was his own speed and their fear due to his inhuman feats they just witnessed.

 The wildlings screamed in terror as they saw an inhuman boy with a grin and white-black hair turned red by the blood spilled by him.  Adding to the blood was the fire sword. Fire has always been a terror for man from the ancient times and when it is used against him, they always try to avoid it.  But there was no refuge for the rapidly retreating wildlings.

Heads, hands, torsos—Daemon’s blade cut through them all, scattering body parts and creating a red mist of blood that began to rise around him. The wildlings’ will to fight was broken, replaced by a desperate urge to flee. Daemon reached the far side of the mob, his eagles showing him from above the red mist that had formed in his wake in the mob of men, resembling a man cleaved in two.

By then, Umber and the soldiers had reached the halfway point of the battlefield. Umber grinned with an insane gleam in his eyes as he saw the red mist slowly settling to the ground in almost a straight line in the middle of the battlefield. A invisible line made by dead bodies and the still falling red mist by the passing of Daemon.  As it cleared, a figure emerged at the end, standing at the end of a clear path through the wildling lines, holding the Stark sword, Ice. For Umber, it was a scene straight out of the stories from the Age of Heroes, he used to like when he was younger;

Daemon stood there, bathed from head to toe in blood and gore, with entrails draped around his neck like some macabre trophy. His silver half of the hair was now a mixture of red and black, stained by the blood of his enemies.

As Daemon looked up, he saw the Northmen advancing, nearly reaching the halfway mark. He noticed the wildlings fleeing towards the forest on the left side of the field, trying to escape, and he knew the battle was already won.

But Daemon was not finished. He started moving again, cutting down anyone in his path. It was the hour of the eel when the fighting finally ended, with the Northmen victorious and the birth of a  legend.

Aethan watched as Daemon approached Lord Stark’s body. As his face came into view, Lord Karstark, the Mormonts, and the soldiers nearby saw a continuous clear track of running tears under the eyes in the red painted face. Blood was still dripping down Daemon’s body and he was still crying when he finally reached near the body and collapsed in exhaustion.

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Authors note:  yeah that happened. I feel like I am some Lannister stan like GRRM or a Targaryen stan that killed off starks every chapter.  But sorry, this is Planetos and death is around every corner.    Daemon being an unstoppable force is a one off here for now. he will of course reach there, but the feats of killing hundreds here is because of rage along with hysterical strength and the specially made Valyrian Steel Sword Ice boosting him along with physical advantage of its length and sharpness.  If it was a regular sword, the edge would have given away, along with getting stuck in one of the dead body.

If anyone felt the scene of Daemon asking why this rage is similar to one Nolan had in thraxa in Invincible. Then it is not a coincidence. Ever since I read that in comics it was in my mind and I wanted to pay homage to that. 

Also I need  a nickname for Dameon with ref to this chapters action… suggestions please.

I have one in mind, but if I liked any of the  suggestions more, I will go with the suggestion.

Dragons!!

Different size of the dragons

FD 2

Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF and Marvel characters and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM and Marvel. I have no ownership to it.

Chapter 2 : Four Years Later.

Alyssa Targaryen

Alyssa Targaryen had always known there was something special about her newest younger brother, Prince Gaemon Targaryen. Even as a baby, he didn’t cry unless he was wet or soiled; no other discomfort seemed to bother him. Alyssa discovered this one restless midnight when, worried about her own future pregnancy, she visited the nursery and found Gaemon lying in his crib, wide awake, with a cat—of all things—standing inside it, staring at his face.

As he grew older, it became clear that Gaemon had a unique way with creatures. His calm and steady hand could soothe even the wildest of animals, whether cats or horses. How Gaemon, at the age of three, managed to escape towards the stables was anyone’s guess. It was as if he could communicate with them in a language only they understood, and in return, they respected and loved him. But today was different. Today, Alyssa was about to introduce him to the most magnificent and terrifying creatures in all of Westeros: the dragons.

She had been planning this for weeks, ever since Gaemon expressed a passing interest in seeing the dragons up close and she had learned she was pregnant. This was a training for her as well, preparing for the day she would take her own child on a dragon. Gaemon was only four years old, but his curiosity, Alyssa knew, was greater than that of most men ten times his age. The day was perfect for such an adventure—clear skies, a warm breeze, and the dragons had been particularly restless, their roars echoing across the Red Keep as if they, too, sensed something momentous was about to happen.

As they made their way down the winding stone paths that led to the Dragonpit, Gaemon’s small hand clutched tightly in hers, Alyssa couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. She had been his age when she first saw the dragons, and the memory was as vivid now as it had been then—the heat of their breath, the shimmer of their scales, the sheer power that radiated from their massive forms. It had all been overwhelming, yet there was a strange beauty in it, a wildness that called to her blood.

But Gaemon was different, she reminded herself. He wasn’t just any Targaryen. He was special—he had even escaped death at birth. There was something ancient and deep in his eyes that even she couldn’t fully understand. And it wasn’t just because he was her brother; her father had also recognized it. Alyssa knew from Baelon that their father had been keeping a close eye on Gaemon ever since he learned to walk. Their father’s foresight was warranted, as Gaemon had shown extraordinary progress in his development, even making their dour brother Vaegon jealous of the speed with which Gaemon picked up learning.

“Are we almost there, sister?” Gaemon’s voice was soft, but there was an edge of anticipation that made her smile.

“Almost,” she replied, squeezing his hand gently. “Are you ready?”

He nodded, his silver hair catching the light as he looked up at her with those unusually dark violet eyes that seemed to see right through her. “I’m not scared,” he said, and Alyssa believed him. Gaemon had never been one to fear the unknown, not like other children his age. He was too curious and wild, too eager to learn, to ever let fear hold him back.

As they rounded the final corner, the entrance to the Dragonpit loomed before them, a massive structure of stone and iron that had stood for centuries, housing the greatest and most dangerous creatures in the world. The air grew warmer, the scent of sulfur and smoke thick in their nostrils, and Alyssa felt Gaemon’s hand tighten in hers as the first low growl rumbled through the walls.

“Remember what I told you,” she said quietly, kneeling down to look him in the eye. “The dragons are not like the other animals you’ve seen. They are wild and powerful, but they are also part of us. They will sense your feelings, so you must be calm and respectful.”

Gaemon nodded solemnly, and Alyssa could see the determination in his face. He was ready.

They stepped through the gates, the heavy iron doors closing behind them with a resounding clang that echoed through the vast chamber. Inside, the air was thick with heat and the sound of scales scraping against stone. Some of the dragons were awake.

Alyssa led Gaemon forward, her eyes scanning the darkened corners where the dragons rested. Vermithor’s bronze scales glowed like molten metal in the dim light, his massive head resting on his forepaws as he watched them with lazy interest. Silverwing perched on a high ledge, her wings tucked neatly at her sides as she preened her silvery feathers. The dragons had not yet returned to the cavern, and they were lying in the center of the Dragonpit under the opening in the dome.

But it was Meleys that drew Alyssa’s attention. The young dragon, still small by dragon standards but already fierce and proud, could feel their bond, and Alyssa led Gaemon to the cavern holding Meleys. Gaemon frowned upon seeing Meleys bound by chains.

He took a hesitant step forward, his hand slipping from Alyssa’s as he approached her dragon. Alyssa held her breath, every instinct screaming at her to pull him back, to protect him. But she didn’t want her own feelings of surprise to affect Meleys more than usual as Gaemon reached the dragon before she could introduce them.

Alyssa panicked, fearing she might lose her brother, as Meleys had not experienced much human presence like other dragons with more interaction. Their bond was only two years old.

“Hello,” Gaemon whispered, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the Dragonpit. Meleys blinked, her head tilting slightly as if considering the boy before her. Alyssa immediately sent feelings of calm through their bond, but to her immense surprise, she sensed no hostility from Meleys, just pure surprise and curiosity.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The dragon and the boy simply stared at each other, and Alyssa could almost feel the air crackling with energy, as if some invisible force was passing between them. Then, slowly, Meleys lowered her head, her great snout brushing against Gaemon’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, you are so beautiful, like a red queen,” Gaemon whispered as he scratched the dragon’s scales.

Alyssa gaped at the dragon’s reaction. The only person she had ever seen scratching a dragon like this was their bonded rider. Even Alyssa couldn’t pat Vhagar like this, even when Baelon was standing right beside her. For Gaemon to do this, even before she had introduced them, was unheard of.

Gaemon’s face lit up with a smile, his eyes shining with a mixture of joy and wonder as he stroked the dragon’s warm scales. “She likes me, sister. And she loves you,” he said, his voice full of awe.

Alyssa smiled, a wave of pride and relief washing over her. “Of course she does. She is mine, and I am hers.”

But even as she said the words, a pang of uncertainty crept into her thoughts. Was this what their ancestors in Valyria could do when there were hundreds of dragons from various families? Was this the same connection that had allowed men and dragons to coexist in Valyria without these magnificent beasts killing people every other day?

She shook off the thought, focusing instead on the sight of her brother and the dragon before her. She may have missed her chance to formally introduce Gaemon to Meleys, but she could still give him his first flight.

“Come, Gaemon, let’s fly.”

“Gladly, sister,” Gaemon replied with a truly open smile that made Alyssa grin. She couldn’t resist grabbing his cheeks and pinching them, causing Gaemon to splutter in disbelief and try to escape her hold by ducking under Meleys’ wings.

One Hour Later

Alyssa tried to land Meleys near the center of the pit, but Meleys was reluctant to go near the Bronze Fury, who growled at her. They landed as far away from the irate dragon as possible. Alyssa wondered why the dragons of the King and Queen were in the center and not in their own caverns.

She moved to help her brother dismount, but there was no need. Gaemon was surprisingly nimble, knowing exactly where to place his foot as he slid down Meleys’ wings.

The dragons had watched the scene unfold with varying degrees of interest. Vermithor merely snorted, his tail thumping lazily against the ground, while Silverwing continued her preening, seemingly unconcerned.

“Princess, Prince,” the head Dragonguard acknowledged her with a nod.

“Chief, why does the Bronze Fury look irate?” Alyssa asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied the large dragon.

The Chief grimaced. "The moment you left the dome, the Black Dread awoke and roared from his cavern underground. Maybe the wind and your dragon's sounds kept you from hearing it."

Alyssa was always thankful that the Dragonguards helped her by not trying to claim Balerion.

Roar!

 An earth-shattering sound echoed around the Dragonpit as Balerion roared again, as if he was waiting for someone to speak his name.

Alyssa quickly glanced at Gaemon, expecting him to be terrified by the chilling roar, but to her surprise, there was no fear in his eyes—only pity and sadness, though she couldn't understand why.

“Sister,” Gaemon smiled, and for a moment, Alyssa wondered if she had imagined the sadness in his face earlier.

“Yes, Gaemon?”

“Let's see the rest of the dragons too. I want to meet them. Introduce me,” Gaemon said eagerly.

Alyssa wanted to refuse, but something in Gaemon’s eyes made her reconsider. “It’s dangerous to approach dragons without their bonded riders nearby, Gaemon. But I will introduce you to Silverwing and Dreamfyre. They are docile and calm enough. I will check if Vhagar is in a good mood to entertain you while you spend time with them.”

“I want to see Balerion too,” Gaemon immediately said.

“NO!” Alyssa snapped. “I will not take you to him. He is not calm, as you just heard. Mother would feed me to Silverwing if she knew I took you to see Balerion.”

For a moment, Alyssa thought Gaemon would protest, but he sighed and nodded, accepting her decision.

Alyssa was no longer surprised when Silverwing greeted Gaemon as warmly as Meleys had. The silver beast preened in pleasure as Gaemon scratched her near her wing joints, praising her shimmering scales.

After several minutes, even Vermithor barged in, pushing his large head near Gaemon to sniff him. He then growled softly and nudged Gaemon away from Silverwing, presenting his own neck for scratching, which Gaemon did with his usual enthusiasm.

It was now, out in the open, that Alyssa noticed something peculiar about Gaemon. Unlike everyone else who used their palms to scratch a dragon's scales, Gaemon was using his fists. He wasn’t simply patting or stroking the dragons—he was almost kneading them, his knuckles brushing firmly against their thick scales. And come to think of it, Alyssa realized that every dragon had responded more enthusiastically to him than usual. They seemed to enjoy his touch, leaning into his fists as if craving the sensation.

Later, they ventured into the caverns to visit Dreamfyre. The majestic blue dragon awoke from her slumber, sniffing deeply as she regarded them. To Alyssa's surprise, Dreamfyre growled in clear anger. Startled by the sudden aggression, Alyssa struggled to calm the dragon in High Valyrian, but before she could speak, Dreamfyre's long head lashed out, attempting to batter them against the cavern walls. Only Gaemon's quick thinking—pushing Alyssa aside and lying flat on the ground—allowed them to escape the attack.

“Lykiri!” Gaemon’s sudden command echoed through the caves, surprising Alyssa with the authority in his voice. Gaemon was already on his feet, yelling something else at the dragon.

Alyssa added her own command, “Lykiri,” but Dreamfyre, recovering from her initial surprise, growled menacingly at Gaemon. The dragon began to open her mouth, and Alyssa panicked, realizing Dreamfyre was about to incinerate them.

Before they could move, or Dreamfyre could unleash her fire, an ear-splitting roar reverberated around them, drowning out everything else. This roar was nothing like the earlier one, and Alyssa knew that the entire King’s Landing must have heard it.

Dreamfyre immediately recoiled as if struck by an invisible force, closing her mouth and snuffing out the flames that had built up. The blue dragon growled in frustration, but Alyssa and Gaemon didn’t wait to see what she would do next—they ran from the cavern, escaping before Dreamfyre lost whatever sudden restraint had taken hold of her.

---------------------------------------------------------

Alyssa reached the center of the Dragonpit and was shocked to see both Vermithor and Silverwing cowed, lying coiled around each other. She panted and started laughing nervously as Meleys suddenly approached her, almost as if checking to see if she was unharmed.

"I'm fine, Meleys," Alyssa assured, stroking the dragon's warm scales. "It seems that Dreamfyre is nesting; she tried to attack us, Chief," she added as the Chief of the Dragonkeepers approached her.

"My princess, where is Prince Gaemon?"

"Gaemon?" Alyssa gasped, looking around in panic, realizing she had lost sight of him. Her eyes darted back to the cavern they had just fled. A deep, menacing growl echoed from within, and Alyssa cursed the gods as she deduced where Gaemon had gone.

Balerion the Black Dread, the oldest and most fearsome of all the dragons, lay in the deepest part of the pit, his massive bulk hidden in the shadows. Alyssa had never intended for Gaemon to see him—not today, not ever. Balerion was too old, too dangerous, and his temper had grown unpredictable in recent years. King Jaehaerys himself had decreed that no one was to approach the Black Dread, a decision Alyssa had once contemplated defying, only to reconsider after the sage advice of the Dragonkeepers.

“Gaemon, no!” Alyssa’s voice rang out, as she sprinted towards the cavern where Balerion rested.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she ran, her mind swirling with fear and anger. She had been foolish to bring Gaemon here, to expose him to the dangers of the Dragonpit. Balerion was not like the other dragons. He was a relic of a bygone era, a creature of such power and ferocity that even the bravest men feared him. If he chose to attack, there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

But when she reached the shadowed alcove where Balerion rested, she found not a scene of violence or terror, but something far more unsettling.

Gaemon stood before the Black Dread, his tiny figure dwarfed by the dragon’s immense size. Balerion’s eyes, molten gold in color, were fixed on the boy, and there was something in his gaze that Alyssa had never seen before—something almost…gentle.

For a long moment, neither moved. The air was thick with tension, and Alyssa could feel the sweat trickling down her back as she waited, every muscle in her body tensed for action. But Balerion did not attack. Instead, he let out a low, rumbling sound, more a sigh than a roar, and lowered his massive head to the ground, his eyes never leaving Gaemon’s.

Alyssa felt a wave of relief wash over her, but it was quickly followed by a deep, gnawing fear. What was this? What was happening? Balerion had never reacted to anyone this way, not since the days of Maegor. The closest was when Balerion tolerated her husband hitting him on the snout. And yet, here he was, lowering his head before a four-year-old boy, allowing him to scratch his face.

“Gaemon, come here,” Alyssa called, her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep it steady. She needed to get him away from Balerion, away from the danger, before something went wrong.

But Gaemon didn’t move. He stood still, his eyes wide and shining as he stared at the ancient dragon, all the while moving his fist over the dragon's scales. Balerion rumbled again, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the ground, and Alyssa felt a shiver run down her spine.

For a moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath, and then, with a suddenness that took Alyssa by surprise, Balerion’s eyes slid closed. He let out a long, weary sigh, seeming to enjoy the small human trying to scratch his scales.

Alyssa carefully walked forward until she was standing beside Gaemon. She also raised her hand to scratch the old dragon.

Gaemon stepped back, his hand dropping to his side, and turned to face Alyssa. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and there was a sadness in them that made her heart ache.

“I felt it,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “I felt his pain. He’s so old, Alyssa, and he’s so tired and sick.”

Alyssa didn’t know what to say. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him that everything was going to be all right, but the words wouldn’t come. How could she comfort him when she didn’t even understand what had just happened? How could she explain the kinship he had just formed with almost every creature in the Dragonpit, especially with a dragon older than their very kingdom—a kinship that no one, not even her father, had ever taught them?

She knelt down, pulling him into her arms, and held him tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. “It’s okay, Gaemon,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “It’s okay.”

But even as she said the words, she knew that things were not okay. Something had happened here, something that would change their lives forever. And as she held her brother close, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just crossed a line, a line that could never be uncrossed.

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When they returned to the Red Keep, King Jaehaerys was waiting for them in the Great Hall. His face was as stern as Alyssa had ever seen it, his eyes cold and unforgiving as they locked onto her and Gaemon. The weight of his gaze was palpable, and the room seemed to grow hotter with every passing second.

“What were you thinking, Alyssa?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. The words cut through the air like a blade. “You were explicitly told never to take your younger siblings to the Dragonpit, especially at such a young age, and yet you disobeyed me.”

Alyssa flinched at the harshness of his tone, but she refused to back down. She straightened her spine and met his gaze, trying to keep her voice steady. “He wanted to see the dragons,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her chest. “He’s a Targaryen, just as you and I are. He has a right to see them, and you know that, Father. Besides, you gave that order regarding my other sibling who weren’t interested in the dragons at such a young age. Gaemon is different.” She finished with a touch of defiance, her cheekiness causing Baelon and Aemon, who were standing nearby, to groan in exasperation.

Jaehaerys’ eyes narrowed dangerously, and for a moment, Alyssa thought he might strike her. His anger was a palpable force in the room, and everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the storm to break. But then his gaze shifted to Gaemon, who stood quietly beside her, his small hand clutching hers tightly. The boy’s indifferent gaze seemed to give the king pause, though his anger did not diminish.

“And you,” Jaehaerys said, his voice cold and sharp as a winter’s wind. “What possessed you to approach Balerion? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You could have been killed, Gaemon. The Black Dread is not a creature to be trifled with.”

Gaemon looked up at him, his dark violet eyes wide and unblinking, the calmness of the four year old at the situation unsettling everyone except the King. “I wasn’t afraid,” he said softly, his voice steady and calm, a stark contrast to the tension in the room. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

Jaehaerys’ expression darkened at the boy’s words, and he took a step forward, towering over his son with all the authority of a king. “No one is to claim Balerion ever again,” he said, his voice firm and final, leaving no room for argument. “He is too old, too dangerous. I don’t want to see another  Aerea after her venture to Valyria ever again.  Do you understand?”

Gaemon nodded slowly, but Alyssa could see the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his eyes flashed with a defiance that made her stomach churn with dread. He didn’t agree, she realized with a sinking feeling. He didn’t believe that Balerion was a threat—not to him, at least. It was a dangerous thought, one that could lead to unimaginable consequences.

But King Jaehaerys didn’t notice or ignored the silent rebellion in Gaemon’s eyes. He turned his back on them, his cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud as he strode away, his steps echoing ominously through the Great Hall. “Keep him away from the Dragonpit for now, Alyssa,” he called over his shoulder, his voice tight with anger and disappointment. “I will not tolerate any more disobedience.”

Alyssa stood there, rooted to the spot, her heart heavy with the weight of her father’s words. She felt Gaemon’s small hand tighten around hers, and she squeezed back, drawing some comfort from the simple gesture. But as she looked down at him, she couldn’t shake the fear that had taken root in her heart.

They had crossed a line today, one that could never be uncrossed. The bond between Gaemon and the dragons especially balerion was something that no one could have anticipated, something that might change the course of their lives—and perhaps the history of House Targaryen itself. And as much as the king wanted to protect her brother, to shield him from the dangers of their world, she knew that some things were beyond even their control.

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Authors note: so FD won the poll as expected and here is the 2nd chap.  So while writing this, I had to reconsider my initial long term plotlines as they seem to be inconsistent with the  butterfly effect of gaemon’s actions and balerions survival…. So I decided to experiment here.  ADS is something I have fixed plot and I will not change the plans. I have only one thing fixed here and that too in far away future. So hit me with suggestions and whether canon should happen or not.  Also know that logan already forgot major details of actual story period of Got and only thing  he knows is king jae is supposed to be the good king while queen is known as good queen and a viserys causes dance of dragons making  targaryens loose  their dragons. Maybe when actual events happens he will remember snippets here and there.

 So I have  not decided which pov or what time next chapter will be.  I am thinking having a queen, and aemon or baleon pov before finally  having logan’s in 83 ac when something humungous will happen…  

will publish in ffn, ao3, qq when fd 5 is published here.

AFM 9

Chapter 9 : First Impressions

Izuku stood at the entrance of the U.A. gates, looking ahead and lost in thought. The other kids around him displayed a range of emotions—excitement and fear being the most common. If anyone were to look at Izuku’s face, however, they’d see nothing. His poker face was so well-crafted that even Principal Nezu, who was observing him closely through the security cameras, couldn’t read anything from it. No excitement, no happiness at finally pursuing his dream, and certainly no fear. Izuku was reflecting on his journey so far and the role he was destined to play in the coming year. He didn’t want to attend U.A. or any other hero school for that matter. If he was going to fight against society, he wanted to do so without betraying his principles, with complete honesty and without masks. But circumstances were not on his side. All For One always got what he wanted.

As the other kids passed by, many pointed and muttered to their friends. Some thought Izuku looked familiar, but no one recognized him except for one blonde, angry young man. Bakugo came barreling through and deliberately rammed his shoulder into Izuku, shouting, “Move it, DEKU, if you don’t want to die.” Bakugo expected Izuku to stumble, but the outcome was the complete opposite. Upon hitting Izuku’s shoulder, Bakugo almost fell, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder. Izuku hadn’t moved an inch.

“Bakugo, what a pleasant surprise. I honestly thought U.A. was better than this, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe if you attack a fellow student even before entering U.A., they’ll see your villainous nature. And don’t call me Deku,” Izuku said with a pleasant smile. But for the second time in his life, Bakugo saw that Izuku’s eyes weren’t smiling. There was something unsettling in them.

Bakugo was furious, but he knew better than to attack anyone and simply said, “Damn bastard, you’re lucky this is U.A. and there’s a camera here.” Bakugo moved aside and walked inside.

“Wow, that was intense. Are you okay? It must be tough having a heated discussion with your rival just before entering the premises,” a slightly chubby girl asked him. Izuku looked at her and observed. She was certainly cute, a little on the chubby side, but her arms looked strong. She had five pads on her hands, and the concentration of quirk energy there suggested she might have a five-point activation like Tomura.

“I’m fine, thank you. What’s your name? I’m Midoriya Izuku. Let’s walk inside and talk,” Izuku said, turning slowly to walk inside. The girl followed shortly, looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

“Wait, Midoriya Izuku? Do I know you? You look familiar, and I’m sure I’ve heard your name before,” the girl asked.

“Oh, if it’s the first time you’re hearing my name, I’d be truly surprised. I’m the kid from four years ago,” Izuku said, looking back at her while walking. As he finished the sentence, and before the girl could process it, his foot hit a stone, tripping him. While in the air, Izuku cursed himself for turning off Boost after Bakugo walked away. He righted himself in mid-air, ready to land on his feet, when his movement suddenly stopped, and he floated still in the air.

“Release.”

Izuku landed on his feet.

“I’m so sorry for using my quirk on you. I didn’t want you to fall before the exam. And I’m sorry for making you remember something sad just before the exam. My name is Ochaco Uraraka,” the girl said with a regretful expression.

“It’s okay, Uraraka. I understand. Thank you for saving me from that fall. The events of four years ago won’t affect me negatively during the exam. If they did, I wouldn’t be able to become a hero. I’ve made my peace with it,” Izuku said calmly.

Uraraka felt bashful that their conversation had reached such intense topics so quickly. As they reached the exam hall, she said, “Good luck, Midoriya. Do your best.”

“You too, Uraraka. All the best,” Izuku replied. As they split to walk to their assigned seats, Izuku smiled to himself. It seems coming to U.A. wasn’t a complete waste. I could see myself becoming friends with her. A powerful quirk with such a kind, friendly nature. I hope she passes the exam.

-------------------------------------------------------

“You can exit from the underground tunnel, Cementos. Everyone has entered the exam hall,” Nezu said through the comms. Nezu had been observing through the camera, focusing on the reason a new test was added three years ago—Izuku Midoriya. The test was random and designed to see which applicants helped others when they tripped and fell, and which just laughed and walked away. Nezu didn’t want any bystander heroes from U.A., like those three infamous ones. Cementos had manipulated the stones to emerge just before the kids walked through. If the ones who saw helped, they got 10 rescue points. If they walked away without helping, they got minus 5, and if they stood and laughed, the point was minus 10.

“It seems this year has some good applicants, quirk-wise and instinct-wise. Don’t you think, Mr. Yagi?” Nezu asked the Number One hero, who was deep in thought. All Might, startled, answered, “Yes, there are.” All Might went back to watching Izuku on the screen.

“All Might, what’s on your mind?” Nezu asked, noticing that All Might was concentrating only on Izuku.

“It’s been four years. I’ve asked many times for a meeting with Izuku to apologize directly. I’ve emailed his father many times. The response every time was ‘No.’ I really thought he wouldn’t apply, like he said that day. I wonder what changed. If he passes, maybe I can arrange a private meeting and see if he can be made my successor,” All Might replied thoughtfully, wondering how Izuku would fight against the robots with just a quirk for attracting small objects.

Nezu looked at All Might with a certain pity. Sometimes his oafishness astonishes me, sometimes his brains astonish me. Truly, I wonder how his brain works.

“All Might, I don’t want to impose my opinion on your successor like Nighteye, but please never reveal the truth to the kid. Never offer him One For All,” Nezu said with a slightly threatening undertone.

“Why shouldn’t I even consider him? He’s adequate for it,” All Might asked, puzzled.

“He was adequate before the events of that day. The moment you told him he couldn’t be a hero, and his mother died because of heroes, he became inadequate for One For All—one of the greatest quirks in the world. Midoriya Izuku is a walking time bomb. I only accepted his application to try and save him and society from the horrors he might unleash. I want to make him at least like me.”

“What do you mean, Nezu? Be clear.”

“The boy who had dreams of being a hero died on that day, Yagi. I’ve kept an eye on him ever since. He’s a mystery I haven’t solved yet. There are inconsistencies upon inconsistencies in his story over the last four years. Moreover, he doesn’t have a heroic mindset now. His mindset is similar to mine. I’m 100 percent sure that when those three heroes start active patrolling or anything like it again, there will be a reckoning. His mind is set on revenge and hatred. It won’t change in four years, and if he learns your secret, it’ll be another blow to heroism in his eyes. He’ll only see things the way Recovery Girl saw them on that day. So please, don’t do it.”

“I’ll take it under advisement and watch him closely,” All Might said, very much surprised. All Might looked at the screen, showing Izuku writing the exam with impressive speed.

“All Might, I also suggest that whoever you choose should be compatible with One For All. It should completely synergize with the existing quirk and the body of the new individual. Ideally, the best candidate should have some healing aspect in their quirk.”

“I see why you say that. Without adequate muscle or durability, the quirk will destroy the user’s arms if they try to use it at 100 percent. It’s that powerful now. Let’s move to the common viewing area.”

All Might and Nezu moved to the common viewing hall.

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Izuku was sitting on the bus with Uraraka. She appeared to be getting more nervous by the minute as the bus traveled near the fake city.

“Uraraka, what’s your quirk?” Izuku asked, seeing the genuine interest in his eyes, Uraraka was taken aback.

“It’s not that powerful. Just Zero Gravity. I can make objects lose their gravity by touching them with all five fingers. I’m not sure I could even fight the robots.”

“Gravity?” Izuku asked in genuine amazement. “You can control one of the fundamental forces of nature. That’s insanely powerful. You’ve won the lottery, as the old saying goes. Don’t worry. There are many students. Use them as distractions and help them as much as you can.”

Uraraka blushed hard, hearing all the praise from the boy. “Okay, thank you for the advice.”

“CAN YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING. It’s  disturbing  others from  thinking plans. If you are not taking this seriously and using to flirt with girls, please leave.” the glasses boy who interrupted Present Mic told them with robotic chopping of hands from the seat just in front of them.

Izuku responded calmly, “Okay, I’m sorry for having a private conversation with my friend here. But I think you’re the one who disturbed everyone else. You should apologize.”

The glasses boy spluttered and then turned to the bus, saying, “I’m sorry, everyone.”

“Friend? Private conversation?” Uraraka asked shyly and nervously.

“Of course, I’d like to be your friend if you’ll have me. I appreciate a kind, friendly girl like you,” Izuku replied warmly.

Uraraka looked bewildered but very happy. After six years of scorn and hatred, it seemed she would finally have a friend. With a joyful smile, she said, “Of course, Midoriya-kun, I’ll be your friend. In fact, let’s work together and pass the exam. You can summon the robots, and I’ll use my gravity to send them high and release them to destroy them.”

“That’s a very good plan, and it’s impressive that you remembered my quirk from four years ago,” Izuku said.

Uraraka felt a surge of happiness. It had been six years since anyone, other than her parents, praised or supported her. Every classmate had said she wouldn’t be admitted to any hero school and that UA would reject her application because of a black mark on her family’s record. But Uraraka had persevered, and incredibly, she had been admitted to take the Entrance Exam.

“But we can’t work together. Attraction of small objects is only one aspect of my quirk. My quirk is Boost. It enhances me both physically and mentally. Attraction is just a small part of it, thanks to the mental enhancement. I’ll be going after the robots myself. I’m sorry, Uraraka. Since you want to help, let me give you some advice: Help the other candidates who are in danger,” Izuku finished in a low, serious voice.

“It’s okay. I understand. Thank you,” Uraraka said with a cute smile.

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“STTTTTAAARRRTTTT!” Present Mic’s loud voice echoed as the gates to the fake city opened. Before he could even finish, Izuku jumped over the heads of the other students and entered the half-opened gates. His quirk, Boost, had been activated since he entered the bus, and every kinetic movement in his body generated energy, which        h was stored using his stamina stockpile. Izuku had enough stamina to use Boost and Mind Augmentation at full strength for 20 minutes. His depleting stamina would be restored using the stamina generation and Kinetic Absorption aspects of his Boost.

As Izuku turned the first corner, he saw five One-Pointers. He used Attraction on every bolt in the first robot with his left arm and cocked back his right arm. As the robot rocketed towards him, he punched it, sending it flying back in pieces that destroyed the robot behind it. Izuku laughed heartily and charged at the remaining three robots.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So which student is interesting this year? Any special case? Snipe asked Nezu.

“Look at the site F. You can see Midoriya Izuku destroying the robots with a carefree laugh.” Nezu replied with a cackle and looked at the sleeping bag in the corner.

“I thought summoning was the boy’s quirk, a mental quirk, not a physical enhancement.” Asked Vlad king.

“His Quirk registry was updated 2 years ago. Quirk: Boost, it enhance both Physical and Mental Aspects. Limits: Unknown. It was assumed that only summoning occurs through mental boost, but the registry is wrong as usual.”  Nezu said with a mocking smile as the hpsc maintains the registry.

“What do you mean, Sir? Yagi asked curiously.

The mental aspect boosts, intelligence and atleast thinking speed. He has destroyed 7 robots using the debris from his punch. Every time there was a robot any where behind the first one. Each punch is angled perfectly to the maximum effect and at the specific weak point of the robot. It takes very good intelligence, thinking and processing to calculate that.  Nezu said with a wide smile as it closely follows his pattern. “Anyway let’s release the Zero Pointer. I need some entertainment.”

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52, Izuku counted as he destroyed a robot, Izuku has helped several persons during his mad running for hunting the robots. ‘His father was specific that there is a hidden criteria of Rescue Points, and thinking about it, it was obvious. What hero scholl rejects people helping and saving others.  Yeah the school one of those three bastard went to’ Izuku thought sarcastically. It was at this moment that the ground started shaking and a building was demolished  by the emerging Zero Pointer. It was as big as the buildings and seeing this every student started to run the opposite direction in panic. Izuku observed the Zero Pointer for any weakness and whether to attack or not. Deciding it was worthless, Izuku turned and started to run.

‘ahhhh’

As Izuku started running he heard a painful yell in familiar voice and looked back. It was Uraraka who was trapped under a huge piece of building. Many candidates are not even looking at her and running away from the giant robot. Seeing that the girl will be crushed under the Robot and a freaking gravity quirk lost forever, Izuku ran towards the hurt girl and reached as the robots caterpillar tread was seven metre away from the girl.

Izuku with a huge yell lifted the heavy piece of building and  said, “Move it Uraraka. Its too heavy, I can’t hold it longer.”

Uraraka crawled backwards and bend forwards to touch the heavy rock. Izuku almost dropped the debris before the weight became null. Izuku lifted the heavy debrid and threw it at the hands of the robot, who was pushed back as  Uraraka has released her hold on the debris  just as the rock hit the robot.  Izuku turned and picked Uraraka in a bridal carry and ran for their life.

“FIIIIINNNNIISHHHHH!” Present Mic’s loud voice boomed as a horn signaled the end of the test.

Uraraka was turning red, feeling Midoriya’s clearly defined muscles as he ran. The only thing keeping her from floating away due to accidental quirk use was the pain in her legs, both of which were furiously red and in horrible pain. Izuku gently lowered Uraraka and laid her down on the ground as they reached Recovery Girl.

“Broken legs, sweety. It’ll take a great amount of stamina to heal. Here, have a stamina gum,” Recovery Girl offered.

Uraraka took the gum and ate it, and Recovery Girl kissed her on the forehead. A green glow enveloped Uraraka as the bones healed with a popping sound.

“Thank you, Recovery Girl,” Izuku said as Uraraka was almost asleep from exhaustion.

“Young Midoriya, she’ll be very tired for an hour. If you can, please escort her after having some food until she recovers. Otherwise, I can take her to the hospital wing right now.”

“I’ll take her to a restaurant to eat, Recovery Girl. We became friends today. Don’t worry,” Izuku replied calmly.

Uraraka started to get up and stand on her feet as the stamina gum took effect.

“Thank you, Recovery Girl,” Uraraka said. “Midoriya, let’s go.”

Uraraka began walking but almost stumbled, prompting Izuku to catch her arm and support her.

“It’s okay, Midoriya-kun. I can walk,” Uraraka said with some embarrassment.

“Let’s go to a restaurant on the next street outside UA. I know it has very good food. It’s somewhat expensive, but the quality and quantity are worth it. You should eat a full meal now to recover and travel home. Where’s your home, if I may ask?” Izuku asked curiously as they started walking at a snail’s pace, so Uraraka wouldn’t stumble.

‘Expensive?’ Uraraka thought to herself, worry flashing across her face, which Izuku didn’t miss. “I don’t think I’m hungry now, Midoriya. The sugary gum is enough. I have to go check an apartment so I can stay if I pass the exam. I need to see it today to avoid unnecessary travel. My home is in Mei Prefecture.”

Izuku looked at Uraraka closely, noticing her worry about the restaurant and realizing that the problem was money. He decided to help her, as it was the least he could do to repay her for a gravity quirk.

Izuku said kindly, “Don’t worry, Uraraka. I grew up here, so I know the address you mentioned. I’ll escort you there after we have some delicious food. Come on, this is my treat. You can pay when I visit your hometown. It’s the least I can do for the second friend I’ve made in my life.”

“Second friend only? I’m so sorry, Midoriya-kun. I’ll, of course, come to the restaurant. Let’s have a delicious meal,” Uraraka said happily, thinking about the food. She felt sad that the boy didn’t have many friends. “To tell you the truth, Midoriya-kun, you’re the first friend I’ve had in six years. So, I understand what you went through about not having friends.”

Hearing this, Izuku was surprised that Uraraka didn’t have any friends. She’s kind, cute, and has a powerful quirk. Why doesn’t she have any friends? Wait, she mentioned Mei Prefecture... six years ago, that was the time and place my dad fought All Might, Izuku thought.

“Then your ex-classmates are stupid, Uraraka. There's nothing more to say about it. You’re an amazing girl, and I can see you becoming a great hero. May I ask you something?” Izuku asked as they reached the restaurant.

“Let’s order first, then we can talk,” Uraraka deflected the question, knowing what Izuku was about to ask regarding the six-year gap.

“Okay,” Izuku replied as they entered the restaurant. They sat at a small two-person table and ordered some food. Uraraka was astounded by the high prices and asked, “Midoriya-kun, this place is really expensive. Is it okay, or should we go somewhere more affordable?”

“It’s fine, Uraraka. Ever since my father came into the picture four years ago, money hasn’t been a problem for me,” Izuku reassured her, waving off the concern. It was true—Izuku had reinvested the money he gained from pledging his I-Island shares using his enhanced mental abilities. He understood well how Nezu became the sixth richest person in the world. As of now, Izuku could live comfortably for five years without working.

“So, continuing from earlier, can I ask you that question now, Uraraka?” Izuku asked delicately.

“Yeah, go ahead. I can see you’re not going to drop it,” Uraraka sighed in defeat.

“You’re from Mei Prefecture. Are you related to Uraraka Construction, the big construction firm that went bankrupt and was blamed for not following safety procedures, leading to the collapse of many buildings during the Great Earthquake of Mei six years ago?” Izuku asked, his voice devoid of blame.

Uraraka sighed loudly, her bubbly demeanor fading to reveal only sadness and anger. “Yes, I am the daughter of the firm’s owners. How did you know about it? No one outside my hometown seems to care. When you said you had a question, I thought it was about my comment on not having friends for six years. But that’s related to this too. The government declared that our safety standards were inadequate and charged our company. The insurance company screwed the homeowners and us by claiming the buildings were substandard and that was reason they were destroyed in the Earthquake.  We became the scapegoats for the entire disaster. We still have to pay off the debts we incurred to cover the fines and penalties. Everyone affected blamed us, and I became a social pariah in my class. My parents work so hard just to put food on the table. The situation got so bad that they finally agreed to my suggestion to use my quirk in construction. The only good thing that came out of it was that I got to train my quirk. Midoriya, we never cheated anyone. Even though no individual clients have approached our company since the incident, other companies outsource their work to us because they know our standards and can get our services at cheap rates since we have no other choice. Anyway, I guess you won’t want to be friends with the daughter of ‘cheaters’ who caused so many deaths. So, thank you for offering the food and for your kindness. I’ll leave now,” Uraraka finished sadly and began to stand up.

Izuku wasn’t surprised that his guess had been correct. He looked at the young girl and felt a deep sadness, recognizing another unintentional victim of his father’s century-old grudge. He cursed the HPSC and the opportunistic bastards who had screwed over the Urarakas by not informing the insurance company to pay for the damage as part of a classified fight rather than the official story of  earthquake. They had used the cover-up of the earthquake to gain money.

“Sit down, Uraraka,” Izuku said firmly. Uraraka was surprised and looked up at Izuku’s face for the first time since she had started answering his question.

“What? You don’t want me to leave? Why?” Uraraka spluttered in confusion.

“Uraraka, I believe you. Anyone with eyes can see that you’re a kind and honest person without an ounce of crookedness in you. Someone raised by people like you described isn’t a cheater. I can tell. There are also a couple of other reasons too. Uraraka, tell me, why do you want to be a hero?”

“Money,” Uraraka replied hesitantly. “I want to help my family recover. They’ve sacrificed so much for me, and I need the popularity of being a hero to attract new individual clients and the money to pay off our debts. You probably think it’s not a good reason. I know.”

“No, Uraraka, I understand. It’s a very good reason. You’ve chosen to help others while achieving your goals. That’s admirable,” Izuku responded warmly.

Uraraka was truly astonished by the understanding shown by her new friend. She sat down again, feeling more comfortable as they talked over their meal, discussing various things. Finally, it was time to look for her apartment.

“Izuku, thank you for the food. I have to go check out the apartments now. Let me not bother you anymore,” Uraraka said with a smile.

“You’re welcome, and it’s not a bother. In fact, I’ll come with you to check out the apartment. The area is a bit shady, and I can’t let my new friend go alone,” Izuku said, hoping Uraraka wouldn’t notice his inner turmoil. Ever since hearing her story, Izuku had second thoughts about his plan. He had intended to take her quirk and use the Double Method, leaving her with a weaker version. But now, he didn’t want to make her suffer as his father had done.

Uraraka agreed, and Izuku led her to the address she had. The apartment was in a run-down building that looked like a strong breeze could knock it over.

“Uraraka, are you sure this is the right address? How can anyone safely live here?” Midoriya asked incredulously.

“This is the only place I can afford, Midoriya. The truth is, I can’t make my parents pay more. The least I can do is sacrifice my comforts,” Uraraka said sadly.

Midoriya looked at the girl with an intense stare. How could I even think about destroying this girl’s dream by taking her original quirk? I can’t make her suffer like my father did. I won’t be like him. I’ll take a copy and let her keep the original—and I’ll pay for even the copy of the quirk too.

“Uraraka, I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here. I own the apartment where I lived with my mother. It was a gift from my father. I haven’t visited it since... the incident. I had her belongings taken out and sorted them later. The apartment’s still there, and I have another apartment where I’ll live when I start at UA. I couldn’t visit the old apartment even once since the incident. I want you to live there, rent-free,” Izuku said sincerely.

“What? I can’t do that! That’s too much. Please, Midoriya, I can’t accept it,” Uraraka protested.

“Please, take it. My mother would have definitely approved. She would have helped you. I can’t visit there alone, and now I have a reason to visit sometimes. Please, Uraraka,” Izuku pleaded with genuine kindness.

“I... I... I’ll take it. Thank you,” Uraraka said happily, running to hug Izuku for a couple of seconds. Realizing that she was hugging a heavily muscled boy, Uraraka jumped back with a red face, shrieking, “Sorry! Sorry! It was just because I was so happy. No one has shown me such kindness in a long time.”

“It’s okay,” Izuku said with a kind smile. “Let’s go and check out the apartment.”

ADS 15

ADS 15

Chapter 15: The Burdens of Love II

Daemon Snow

79AC

I felt the cold, Northern air kiss my cheeks as I stood in the sparring yard, facing my uncle Bennard Stark. The sun was high, casting long shadows over the packed dirt and the wooden training dummies that lined the perimeter. My heart pounded in my chest, not from fear, but from the thrill of the challenge that lay before me. Uncle Bennard was renowned as the greatest fighter in the North, perhaps even all of Westeros, and today, for the first time, I would face him in a duel.

Uncle Rickon had often sung praises of my skills, boasting to anyone who would listen that I would one day become the greatest warrior the North had ever seen. It was his constant prodding and encouragement that had led to this moment. Uncle Bennard had nothing to his name except his marriage to the Karstarks and the reputation as a great warrior. It made him angry when Uncle Rickon praised me so much and after he left to fight the wildlings, when soldiers started whispering during training, Uncle Bennard snapped and called me to a spar. I had spent the last two years honing my agility and flexibility, preparing for the day I would stand across from Uncle Bennard, who had never shown me anything but scorn.

The sparring yard was filled with onlookers – guards, servants, and my friends, all eager to witness the spectacle. Uncle Bennard’s cold blue eyes met mine, and for a moment, the world around us faded away. He moved first, a blur of steel aimed at my stomach. I dodged the slash, moving with the fluid grace I had seen in the old tales of Braavosi water dancers, pulling a move straight out of the stories of the great warriors of old.  We clashed in a furious meeting of swords, and after only a few minutes, I understood why Bennard held his title—not because of his Stark name, but because of his unmatched skill. I have observed Uncle for years and my talent steal has picked up enough, others believed I was a natural prodigy. Yet, even now, I found myself depending on my inhuman speed and reflexes to defend myself because of the skill gap. My talent steal was working overtime to increase my proficiency in Swordfighting due to the actual serious practice with a master Swordsman. Rest of the people I spar with always hold back and I didn’t have to use my enhanced speed that much with them.   

I could see anger rise in my uncle’s eyes as he struggled to beat me as easily as he expected and the spar continued on. My speed only increased, and I decided to lay a trap, knowing his anger at me would cloud his judgment. I stumbled as I stepped back, and his sword swung toward my neck. Even with a sparring sword, the force behind it would leave a mark. But I was ready. Since he had never warmed to me or contained his scorn, I decided to defeat him soundly.

As the sword neared my neck, I pulled a Nero from Matrix and bend backwards. As I stood with my body bend at knees and entire upper body parallel to the earth I saw the sword going above me. My left hand touched the earth, pushing upwards and I used my leg muscles to jump forward. Even before my uncle’s sword finished the slash or uncle could reverse his slash, my explosive speed allowed me to appear inside his reach. During the jump my left hand drew a knife from my hip, while dropped the sword from my right hand. My speed was too much for him; as he couldn’t even stop the momentum of the previous swing at my neck, my knife was at his throat while right hand pushed  his sword hand further to his left making him stumble.  The onlookers stared at me as if I were an Other—no one had ever seen such moves in the sparring yard.

“Aha, Uncle Bennard,” I said, breathing hard but steady. “It seems you underestimate me so much that I could do this.”

I spoke loudly, offering him a way to save face. Even he understood the gesture, though the barely restrained fury in his eyes was unmistakable.

The applause that followed was thunderous, a chorus of cheers and clapping that filled the yard. But the celebration was short-lived.

Before anything of note could happen, we were interrupted by Brandon my sworn sword.

“My Lords ” he said, bowing slightly. “Both of your presence is requested by Lord Stark.”

It was unusual for my grandfather to summon us together. Usually, he would meet with us individually, dispensing his wisdom and guidance. I glanced at Uncle Bennard, seeking some clue as to what this might be about, but he merely shook his head and frowned.

“Perhaps it’s news of Uncle Rickon from the Wall,” I said hopefully. Uncle Rickon’s absence weighed heavily on me as I couldn’t keep an eye on him as my own 3 eagles are not quite ready to survive near The Wall. He had been more than a mentor; he was a friend and confidant. “Maybe he will return early so that I don’t have to teach Cregan anymore. It is quite tiresome to teach someone.”

Uncle Bennard gave a noncommittal grunt, as he threw the wooden sword to the nearest soldier. We followed Brandon through the corridors of Winterfell, the ancient stones echoing with our footsteps.

We entered the Solar, where my grandfather, Lord Stark, sat upon his seat. His face was a mask of stern resolve, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes that I had never seen before.

“Father,” Uncle Bennard said, bowing his head. “You summoned us?”

Grandfather nodded, his gaze heavy upon us. “I have received grave news,” he began, his voice steady but filled with a weight that seemed to press upon all of us. “Rickon is dead.”

The words hit me like a blow to the chest. The world tilted, and for a moment, I could hardly breathe. Uncle Rickon, one of my greatest support after my grandfather, was dead—along with my own plans. Anger at the stupid loss of a competent man nearly made me shout at my grandfather, who had banned me from going with my uncle. Surely, if I had been there, he would have survived. I looked to Uncle Bennard—the traitor who would one day contest Cregan’s claim. His face had gone pale, his fists clenched at his sides. I could see anger and sadness warring within him. Seeing that, I wondered why I felt no sadness for the loss of my uncle, who had loved me and treated me fairly.

“How?” Uncle Bennard asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

Grandfather’s eyes were filled with pain. “He died at Queenscrown during a night raid by the wildlings,” he said. “The incursion was far greater in number than we had been led to believe. The reports spoke of scattered bands, no more than four hundred in total. But there were a thousand of them. Rickon and his men fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and ambushed in the night during a harsh summer snowstorm. The wildlings, who know even harsher climates, were not affected as our men were.”

Uncle Bennard couldn’t reply and a silence enveloped the solar.

There was a knock that broke the silence and My aunt Giliane Stark entered the Solar after gaining permission. She smiled at me, and I tried to smile back, but couldn’t. She frowned, seeing my face. After she became friendly with me, our kinship deepened, especially after Cregan was born and began to talk. The tales I told him and his growing affection for me influenced her, and I could say she genuinely cared for me. I felt sympathy, knowing she would lose her smile immediately.

I listened as Grandfather explained what had happened. I heard the disbelief and the sounds of crying. I went near Aunt Giliane and tried to take her hands in mine to console her, but Uncle Bennard beat me to it.

“I will escort my sister-in-law to my wife, so they can mourn together, Father,” Uncle Bennard said, bowing, his face showing suppressed sorrow.

“Grandfather, what is to be done now? Are you going to call the banners?” I asked tiredly, carefully keeping any trace of “I told you so” out of my voice.

He scrutinized me, searching for something, and I noticed he looked far older than he had the day before. The loss of a second child had affected him deeply.

“Not now, Daemon,” he replied. “Today is for mourning. I must break this news to my heir, Cregan. Come with me; he may find it easier to handle with you there.”

I nodded in understanding.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Day

Uncle Bennard said “I will go to the Wall, I will take Rickon’s place and the Stark men and command the Umber, Karstark and Mormont men you have summoned to the wall.”

“No,” Grandfather said, shaking his head. “You are needed here, Bennard. We will send a contingent of our best men, and I, as Lord Stark, will lead them. The Gift will be secured.”

I looked at my grandfather, feeling a surge of resolve. “I will also come with you.” I said.

There was a stunned silence, followed by a murmur of disapproval. Grandfather’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “No, you are too young. You are needed here, to continue your training and to prepare for the responsibilities that will one day be yours. Moreover, Cregan needs you now.”

“But I am ready,” I insisted. “I have trained hard, and I have the skills. Let me honor Uncle Rickon by continuing his work and killing every single wildling.”

Grandfather’s gaze softened, but he remained firm. “You have a brave heart,” he said. “But your place is here, with your family. There will be other ways for you to honor Rickon’s memory.”

I felt a wave of frustration but knew better than to argue further. Grandfather’s word was law, and I would have to find another way to go with the 1500 men army.

“Father, he is young, but I am not. Why should I not be gone, while you stay here and rule. My brother is dead and my sword seek vengeance. I am the best sword in the north even if someone believes otherwise.” Uncle Bennard said angrily.

Grandfather’s eyes flashed with pain. “Because I cannot bear the loss of you too,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

 “I cannot see another of my sons die while I live. I will not suffer through it. I am the Warden of the North. It is my duty to protect it. I will scour even beyond the Wall, to the lands of always winter if need be, but I will kill every last one of them. This is my final order, and you both will follow it.”  My grandfather snapped with fury.

My uncle looked cowed for a moment, but he stood angrily.

“If it so Lord Stark, then I will follow your orders as a loyal son should.”  He bowed and left.

Seeing the storm in my grandfather’s eyes, I left as well, swallowing my frustration without further argument.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------

I stood with Cregan in the Godswood, alongside my grandfather.

"Grandfather, why must you go as well? Please, don’t go," Cregan whimpered, sadness evident on his face.

"I must do this, Cregan. You are the heir now, and when you are Lord of Winterfell, you will understand. Our lives are not the most important thing here. I will come back, Cregan, after avenging your father. Daemon will teach you the secrets of House Stark and train you in his abilities. Uncle Bennard will guide you on how to be a Lord Stark and manage Winterfell and the North."

Cregan nodded, trying not to cry, though his understanding was tinged with sorrow.

I looked at him, feeling pity for the loss he suffered at such a young age. The complete lack of sadness in myself made me panic—I wasn’t a psychopath or a sociopath in my old life. I had felt sadness at the passing of my relatives, but now there was nothing. Only bitterness and an empty feeling as my plans were ruined. I shook my head, trying to clear these thoughts.

"Daemon," my grandfather said, looking at me. "You know what to teach him, how to train his magical abilities. There’s no need to awaken his greenseer abilities since we already have one. Be there for him."

"Of course, Grandfather. Be careful and stay safe," I said as he hugged me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Near Moles Town

Weeks later

Benjen Stark

Ever since his son was killed in an ambush by wildlings, he had been filled with anger. Anger was something he could control, letting it simmer in the background until he could unleash it upon the murderers. But the sadness—that was something else entirely. Outliving two of his children had left a gaping wound in his heart. Only the duties of leading this army allowed him to momentarily forget the pain. That was why he didn’t want either Bennard or Daemon with him. He couldn’t bear it if anything happened to them.

As they set up camp for the night, he oversaw the preparations, watching as the soldiers followed orders from the overseers. He had been proud of his son and the 200 soldiers who fought alongside him. Their families had been rewarded generously, for even when ambushed by 1,000 wildlings in the dead of night, they had killed 500 of them. He would find out how the Night's Watch had failed so catastrophically with the information, and he would make sure they suffered for it along with the wildlings who killed his heir. His 1,500-man army had been joined by 500 soldiers each from the Umbers and Karstarks, along with 250 Mormonts. The lords themselves led the armies, eager for revenge against the wildlings and fighting directly under him. He had already sent a letter informing The King of his heir’s death and mustering small force to deal with the Wildlings.

His thoughts were interrupted by a scuffle behind him, and he turned to see Lady Mormont dragging her eldest daughter, Lyra Mormont. At first, he thought it was none of his concern, until he noticed that her right hand was gripping the arm of his grandson, Daemon Snow, who was supposed to be safely at Winterfell. Daemon looked outraged by Lady Mormont’s treatment, clearly holding back from retaliating, or stopping the dragging altogether. As the realization of Daemon’s presence here sank in, he felt a wave of hopelessness and rage building within him.

“For the sake of the Old Gods, woman, don’t drag me like a criminal. You just had to ask, and I would have come with you,” Daemon snapped.

“Silence. Let Lord Stark deal with you and my girl,” Lady Mormont snapped back.

For a moment, Benjen thought Lady Mormont had caught Daemon and her daughter in a compromising position, but upon careful observation, he saw no indication of anything inappropriate.

"Lord Stark," Lady Mormont bowed to him. He nodded in acknowledgment. "I must apologize for my daughter’s actions. She helped your grandson infiltrate the army and become a part of it. I don’t know the details of how or when, but I caught them and brought them to you. I will, of course, defer the punishment for my daughter to you, as she assisted him in defying your orders."

Benjen closed his eyes and sighed in exhaustion before donning the mask of Lord Stark. He avoided looking at Daemon, knowing that seeing his grandson’s face might weaken his resolve.

"Aethan!" he shouted for his aide and foster son, who was with him in the army. Aethan, who was directing soldiers as they set up his tent, looked surprised at the angry call but quickly composed himself and walked over.

"Grandfather, Aethan had nothing to do with me being here. I didn’t inform him of my plans because I knew you would have ordered him to notify you if anything like this happened," Daemon said with a hint of smugness.

Benjen heard Daemon's words and ignored them, focusing on the approaching Aethan. When Aethan saw Daemon, he looked genuinely surprised, confirming Daemon’s truthfulness.

Aethan, seeing Benjen's furious expression and the guilty look on Daemon’s face, immediately bowed. "Lord Stark, you must believe me, I had no part in whatever Daemon has done now."

Benjen, despite his anger, nearly laughed as memories of similar situations at Winterfell flashed through his mind. He sighed wistfully, the fleeting happiness abruptly ending as his thoughts lingered on his son’s laughter during those better times.

He finally turned to look at Daemon. His grandson’s hair was hidden by a helmet, and he was dressed as usual, without any armor. He was dirty, the only sign of his harsh journey. Though Benjen and his soldiers were weary and tired, Daemon seemed as energetic as ever, his eyes filled with determination and a cold indifference that hid any other emotions or worry about being sent back to Winterfell. 

And Benjen understood.

He realized that if he didn’t allow Daemon to be part of this army, he would lose him entirely. Whatever love Daemon had for him would be forgotten, and Daemon would do what he wanted anyway. He understood that of all his orders till now was followed only because they aligned with Daemon’s goals. From the time Daemon was four and the R’hllor incident, He always knew he couldn’t tame Daemon and mold him to an obedient son in the usual fashion of nobility, but he thought he would have enough time till he come of age at 16 until he has to worry about such disobedience.

"Lord Stark," the voice of Lord Umber shook him from his thoughts. Benjen noticed that his angry shouting had attracted the attention of both lords and many soldiers. The Umber and Karstark men seemed to enjoy the break from the monotony of marching, but he could see that the Stark men were happier. The Stark household guards seemed energized, as if their worry about the coming battles had vanished just by Daemon’s presence. Benjen understood—they were relieved to have the God-blessed boy with them, someone who could heal any injuries, and they would be furious if he sent Daemon back.

"Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, there is nothing to worry about. Go and settle your men. The rest of you, return to your duties," Lord Stark ordered.

As the others dispersed, Benjen turned to Lady Mormont. "Lady Mormont, take your daughter with you. I will decide on any punishment after speaking with my errant grandson."

Benjen turned to Daemon and placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him to his newly erected tent. Aethan followed them inside, while the guards moved far enough away to avoid overhearing anything.

"Daemon, when and how did you arrive here? Did you actually steal a horse from Winterfell to reach us? Where is Brandon, your sworn sword? Is he here?" Benjen asked.

"I arrived after you left Last Hearth, grandfather. I am no thief and have no need for a horse. I ran here ofcourse.  Why waste a perfect opportunity to train my sprinting speed and stamina. It took me seven days of running to catch up to you, and I asked Lyra for help to blend in and a small place in her tent for sleeping as I am quite fed up with sleeping in the open while my Eagles guard me. I left

Brandon in Winterfell and I ordered Brandon to guard Cregan as he would guard me," Daemon replied.

"Impressive," Benjen said, genuinely surprised. "Your stamina and speed are quite extraordinary and it is very good that you didn’t steal a horse from my stables."

Daemon shrugged. "It doesn’t matter. I had time. I could have been faster if needed, but I was carrying these added weights." He revealed weighted metal guards on his hands, legs, upper body and a metal neck guard by moving his baggy clothes aside. They looked like vambraces and greaves, but Benjen knew no sane warrior would wear such thick and heavy protection if they wanted to move quickly.

Benjen was astonished at the sight. He had never been able to make Daemon stop wearing added weights in his daily life. It was incredible to see Daemon even swimming with them.

"I see that you won’t follow my command to return, so you will be allowed to join as my page, but only if you lose the weights for the rest of the time. A battlefield is no place for training, and you should be free of burdens. Your punishment starts now: you will be on latrine duty every day we camp, and you will sleep with the lower-ranked Stark soldiers in the open, with no amenities of the lords available to you. And you can start now by cleaning this," Benjen finished, untying his sword from his back and throwing Ice at Daemon’s face with surprising speed.

Daemon tried to protest the punishment order immediately and only his reflexes allowed him to catch Ice before he broke his nose. 

Benjen’s face was still a mask of cold rage while Dameon grumbled as he started to unsheathe Ice to clean it by cloth.

Benjen watched as he heard the whispers by Daemon all the while Aethan laughed from the side who started smirking when the punishement started.

"Ic… Valyrian steel… stupid… making me… old…” Daemon mumbled, putting the sword down on the ground to fetch cleaning materials from a corner of the tent.

Suddenly, Benjen moved quickly, grabbed the sword, and slashed vertically across Daemon’s back. Daemon yelled in surprise, rolled forward, and landed on his back, staring at his attacker. Benjen made another swift move and slashed again, the tip of Ice slicing through the vambraces on Daemon’s arms. Though Daemon moved back faster than expected, the length of Ice still made contact possible as per his wish.

"What the fuck?" Daemon yelled, somersaulting backward with a hand stand and splitting his legs  making it parallel to the ground to avoid Benjen’s next slash aimed at his greaves.

Benjen stopped knowing that he will not make contact again as Daemon has overcome the surprise nature of his attack and adjusted to length advantage of Ice.

Daemon sat back and panted.

Daemon sat back, panting. "What the hell, grandfather? Why are you trying to kill me?" Daemon snapped.

"Kill you? Never," Benjen replied with smug satisfaction. "You were moving too slow in following my first order to leave the weights behind, so I thought I’d help you remove them." He pointed the sword tip toward the broken pieces of metal scattered around the tent as Daemon had trying dodge from his attacks.

Benjen saw Daemon realizing as he gaped at the broken metal and touched his back looking for any wounds and finding none.  He looked at his hand and he saw a small scratch and blood leaking but it was already half healed.  

Benjen laughed heartily seeing the usually over-confident grandson opening and closing his mouth several times as he tried to find words.

"You just had to say it!  And I would have dropped it immediately. For the Old God’s sake, you could have killed me! It was Valyrian steel—you could have wounded me deeply!" Daemon yelled in outrage.

"Oh, shut it, Daemon. If I had harmed you, there’s nothing to worry about—you always say you’ll heal by tomorrow morning. You know Ice is an extension of my hand, and any worthy warrior wielding Valyrian steel, who know their secrets, has that advantage if they really know how to use it, which I have taught you. Ice is not any ordinary sword, it is an extension of my hand and It will only cut where I want." Benjen said, still grinning like a madman.

"I have nothing to say," Daemon muttered. He quickly unlocked the greaves and threw them into the corner of the tent, not wanting his mad grandfather to dismember his legs.

Benjen only laughed at that. “the piece looking similar to The Neck Guard too.” He said.

Benjen saw Daemon tensing.

“I will not do that, Grandfather. This is not for training, this is actually a neck guard.” 

Benjen was really surprised hearing that and looked puzzled. 

“A Complete Beheading is not something I could heal from Grandfather. I am not a fool who doesn’t protect his vulnerability. Any sword except Valyrian Steel will be stopped by this and even if somehow pierce it and hit my flesh, it will only be a wound I could heal from.”  Daemon said.

“I understand,” Benjen said, “Now, get to cleaning.”

Benjen started laughing again as he left the tent, leaving Daemon to clean the sword.

"Curse him," Daemon whispered. He sighed in disappointment, realizing he would have to follow the punishments for now. Though he had planned to delegate or bribe the first Stark man he saw to do his latrine duty for him, Daemon decided not to risk seeing what madness his grandfather would attempt if he actually didn’t do it.

 “Well, Daemon, I’d say that’s one way to make sure you follow orders.” Aethan said with a smug grin, “and how was the road?”

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author’s Note: Well, it was heavily implied that Rickon will die. Here its earlier than canon and even escape from 1000 men ambush is not that easy. 

  And yes, you read it right, Valyrian Steel is more than rust resistant and something that will go through almost anything. If you know how to use its estoric aspects and if you are a warrior of moderate skill, you become good. 

Good becomes great

Great becomes prodigy

Prodigy becomes legendary

Legendary becomes once in a lifetime.

So, the numbers are;

Stark:1500

Karstark:500

Umber:500

Mormont:250

Read, commend and Recommend!!!!

My next story

Which story should I start publishing first ?

GLH 7

Viltrum War

1991

Nolan Grayson

Nolan had been on Earth for only two weeks when he met Debbi Grayson. Using his speed and his Green Lantern Ring, he managed to insert his records into the system, reflecting basic education. A week ago, Thragg contacted him, acknowledging the data Nolan had sent about this new universe. Thragg also informed Nolan that no other Viltrumite had contacted them from any of other planets, leaving only 30,000 Viltrumites in this universe. Nolan was ordered to follow his mission discreetly, observe the Earth, and send new information daily. The Lantern Ring was invaluable, enhancing his speed in transmitting data and acquiring new knowledge.

As Nolan walked through the streets, he noticed three men following a woman. He intended to leave them alone until the ring alerted him that one of the men had some type of power. Intrigued, Nolan instructed the ring to perform an in-depth scan of the powered individual and the others. The results were fascinating: an extra gene was present in all three men and even in the woman they were following. The ring further informed him that half of the people in the surrounding city block possessed this gene, although many were unactivated.

As the group passed an alley, the three men suddenly moved, dragging the woman into it. One of them waved his hand, and the woman's screams were abruptly silenced. Nolan found this particularly interesting. The manipulation of sound waves or vocal cords suggested a sophisticated level of control, one that warranted further observation. Deciding to intervene, he approached them calmly, relying on his Viltrumite training rather than his powers. He needed to maintain his cover and avoid drawing unnecessary attention.

“Hey, let her go,” Nolan said, his voice steady and authoritative.

The men turned, surprised by his sudden appearance. The leader, the one with the power, sneered. “This isn’t your business, pal. Walk away.”

Nolan's eyes locked onto the leader's, assessing him. With a swift, calculated movement, he disarmed the closest man, using his opponent's momentum against him. The alley, dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp, became a whirlwind of motion as Nolan’s training took over. He moved with precision, neutralizing the threats without resorting to his superhuman abilities. In mere moments, the three men were incapacitated, groaning on the ground.

The woman, visibly shaken, looked at Nolan with wide eyes. “Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice trembling.

“No need to thank me,” Nolan replied, offering her a reassuring smile. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, still trying to catch her breath. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Just be careful,” Nolan advised. “This city can be dangerous.”

As they walked out of the alley, she insisted on expressing her gratitude. “I’m Debbi, by the way. Debbi Grayson. Can I at least buy you a coffee? It’s the least I can do.”

Nolan hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Sure, I’m Nolan.”

They found a small café nearby, its warm, inviting atmosphere a stark contrast to the cold, dark alley they had just left. They settled into a booth, and Debbi ordered two coffees. As they waited, Nolan couldn’t help but notice how at ease she seemed, despite the recent ordeal.

“You don’t seem too shaken up,” Nolan observed.

Debbi shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “Living in this city, you learn to handle a few scares. But tonight was...different. Those men, they weren’t normal.”

Nolan nodded. “I noticed. Do you know why they were following you?”

“I’m not sure,” Debbi admitted. “I think it has something to do with my work. I’m a journalist, and I’ve been investigating some pretty shady organizations.”

Nolan’s interest was piqued. “What kind of organizations?”

Debbi glanced around, ensuring they weren’t overheard. “There’s been a rise in reports about people with...abilities called Mutants. Powers, like in the comic books. But these aren’t heroes or villains. They’re ordinary people who suddenly find themselves with extraordinary abilities. I’ve been trying to find out where these powers are coming from.”

Nolan leaned back, considering her words. The gene the ring had detected could be linked to these powers. This information could be crucial for his mission. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” Debbi agreed. “But it’s important. People need to know what’s happening. And now, I owe you one for saving me.”

Nolan smiled. “You don’t owe me anything. But I’d like to know more about your investigation.”

Over the next few weeks, Debbi and Nolan spent a lot of time together. Nolan never said anything about him being an alien. Debbi considered him from one of the third world countries and  She introduced him to the local culture, teaching him about Earth’s customs and societal norms in the process. They visited museums, attended festivals, and explored different neighborhoods. Nolan found himself growing more intrigued by this world and its people, especially Debbi. Her passion for her work and her fearless nature were qualities he admired.             

Debbi, in turn, found Nolan to be a fascinating enigma. He was kind and intelligent, yet there was an air of mystery about him. She enjoyed their conversations, often finding herself lost in discussions about everything from history to technology. Nolan’s perspectives were unique, almost as if he saw the world through a different lens.

One evening, as they walked along the waterfront, Debbi turned to Nolan. “You know, you’ve become one of my best friends here. It’s strange how quickly it happened.”

Nolan smiled, appreciating the sentiment. “I feel the same way. You’ve made this place feel like home.”

Their bond deepened, and Nolan’s cover as a regular human remained intact. He continued to send daily reports to Thragg, detailing the extraordinary gene and its implications. The ring facilitated his communication, allowing him to relay vast amounts of data quickly and securely. He remained vigilant, always observing, always learning.

Despite his mission, Nolan couldn’t help but feel a growing connection to Earth and its inhabitants. The complexity of human emotions, their resilience, and their capacity for kindness fascinated him. Debbi was a perfect example of this, and through her, Nolan began to see the beauty in the seemingly mundane aspects of life.

One night, as they sat on a rooftop overlooking the city, Debbi asked, “Do you ever think about where you’ll be in the future? What you’ll be doing?”

Nolan looked at her, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. “I do. But for now, I’m focused on the present. On understanding the world and its people.”

Debbi nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re different, Nolan. In a good way. I’m glad we met.”

“Me too,” Nolan replied, feeling a sense of peace he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

As the days turned into weeks, Nolan’s integration into Earth’s society deepened. He continued his observations, learning more about the mysterious gene and its potential. He and Debbi grew closer, their friendship becoming a cornerstone of his life on Earth.

Through their interactions, Nolan discovered that even in a world far removed from his own, connections could be formed, and understanding could be reached. He realized that his mission wasn’t just about gathering data; it was about experiencing and analysing human nature as a whole.  From even the rumors the powers are different and not standard abilities like of Viltrumites.

And as he sat there, on that rooftop with Debbi by his side, Nolan knew that whatever the future held, he would face it with a newfound sense of purpose and a deeper understanding of what it meant to be truly alive.

One month later, an unexpected order from Thragg arrived: befriend the local powered people and try procreating with them. It was an order Nolan never expected to hear from the powerful Regent of his empire.

"Nolan, as a Viltrumite, it is very hard to admit that our enemies have won by sending us to this new universe where more powerful people exist. We have rested on our laurels and genetics for so many millennia, and it is now time to start the genetics war again. We have achieved the true potential of our world, and now it is time to try new breeding. By all the records sent and our scientists' study, Earth is the most adaptable people coming to powers. You are tasked to find a woman with power or potential to power and procreate a child as soon as possible."

"I accept the new mission, Grand Regent," Nolan had replied. "I suggest the rest of my people constantly train and improve each other without permanently maiming or killing. I am sending a training package of many people similar to us in this new world and their training methods with this message. Let our scientists and biologists go through it and implement the best for our physiology."

Nolan was already halfway to accomplishing the order as he was already involved with Debbi by that time. Three months later, Nolan confessed that he was an alien sent by the Green Lantern Corps and showed her his lantern powers. Debbi was surprised but understood the matter. She was already three months pregnant when he proposed to keep her at his side, and they married quite soon.

His peaceful life on Earth came to an end when his son Mark Grayson was four when the Regent called Nolan back to Viltrum to debrief directly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Anissa

For a proud Viltrumite like herself, the visuals from the long-range camera showing their space were astonishing. For the first time in the history of the universe, a fleet was coming to attack Viltrum. Anissa was stupefied by the audacity of the approaching fleet. Even attacking a single Viltrumite in a space shuttle was suicide, as they could just blast through the shuttles, deprive the enemy of breathing air, and kill them. Normally, Anissa would have just sent three soldiers to destroy the fleet, but the situation was not normal.

First, the number of shuttles was still not calculated as they were still flying into the long-range space radar. Second, there was a standing order from Grand Regent Thragg and Commander of Defense Nolan to avoid flying into space ever since their own galaxy was transferred or merged with other galaxies. It had been five years since the event, and every day, the entire population of 30,000 Viltrumites was training and increasing their powers. Fighting was ingrained in their blood, and for four years, every able-bodied Viltrumite participated in a battle royale in the morning.

Following that, there were team exercises and strength and durability training in pairs designed by Nolan after visiting a planet called Earth. Only Nolan was allowed to leave Viltrum and gather data. Anissa could see the reason for such training and carefulness. Even Thragg was uneasy when Nolan informed the council about Lady Gaea and beings that could atomize a planet with a wave of their hand. Thus, four years of training and strengthening without killing each other occurred, and every single Viltrumite's powers increased.  To increase the strength for every single day a pair is to try to push each other in tug of war while flying. Surprisingly it had very satisfactory outcome as even the weakest among them raised their strength to a 1000 tonne level.  

‘Truly the Viltrumite creed of What doesn’t kill you make you stronger is something to be admired by every other lesser beings.’  Anissa thought as she went to General Kregg’s office to inform him about the fleet. After knocking and entering the room, Anissa said, “General Kregg, there is a fleet coming to Viltrum space. They will reach our atmosphere in four hours. What are your orders?”

Kregg was surprised, “A fleet? Inform the army and make sure everyone is ready for engagement, but stay on land. No flying. Let me inform Grand Regent Thragg, Conquest, and Nolan of this situation. It is by the grace of the Regent that Nolan has been recalled for debriefing.”

Anissa went to pass the orders.

Later, in the council meeting, the room was futuristic with sleek metallic walls, advanced holographic displays, and a large central table where the leaders of the Viltrumite Empire gathered. General Kregg, Anissa, Grand Regent Thragg, Conquest, and three other commanders were present.

Thragg, looking at the approaching fleet on the holographic screen, asked, “Nolan, do you know who that fleet belongs to? Have you heard or seen anything in your journey?”

Nolan looked at his data screen, observing the lead ship and any identifying marks. “Regent, by the number of ships and the marks on them, I can take a guess. In the pirates' center in Nowhere and Nova Town, I heard about a Terror of space. A being of immense strength and intellect that courts Lady Death herself. A conqueror who rules a dark space that no one travels these days. A space just like Earth that is avoided by all the empires of this new universe—Kree, Skrull, Shi’ar, Thanagar, The Citadel. Though Earth is avoided because it is protected by Asgard as per Lady Gaea, and no empire wants to wake the old bloodlust of God-King Odin Borson after his conquest of Nine Realms from his peaceful ways, the dark space was avoided because of sheer terror on a level that not even us Viltrumites had generated before the merging. The being's name is the Mad Titan—Thanos. He goes to planets and kills half of the population as a method of resource management. Afterwards, he doesn’t help them or anything; he just leaves the slaughtered planet. This is the reason he informed all empires, but there is a rumor that he does it to court Lady Death.”

Thragg and the rest of the council were surprised and slightly horrified by the madness of this Titan. Viltrumites had ended many planets, but at least it was for conquering and ruling them, not for such a mad reason.

Kregg asked, “Doesn’t anyone fight against him? I mean, there was a Coalition of Planets against us even when resistance was futile. This merged world has many powerful creatures, empires, and even so-called gods. Why does no one do anything?”

Nolan replied, “According to the ring, Thanos made an example of any attack against his space territory. All beings who went against Thanos were destroyed. Billions killed and empires burned to the ground as an example. Interestingly, the only space not attacked by Thanos in any way since his crusade’s beginning is the Nine Realms. According to the ring, Thanos is from Titan, a moon of Saturn in the Solar System near Earth. There are also tales of an extinct race called Kryptonians who successfully defeated Thanos’s army at the beginning. There are also legends of Kryptonians who were lost in space and their one-man army slaughtering millions when Thanos’s army descended on the planets they were resting on. For all practical purposes, Kryptonians under a younger sun have more raw powers than us Viltrumites. It seems their own genetics are superior to our smart atoms.”

“Interesting,” Thragg mused. “When someone starts an empire, they start with a base near their planet. Thanos has not done this. This is very curious. Maybe there is some truth that Odin is actually a god and no one wants to fight Asgard. Anyway, his army has come here, and let us start our history in this universe by destroying an attack by Thanos. No one should leave Viltrum alive.”

“Grand Regent, I think we should use this fight as a training method. There should be no flying attacks by us showing our strength. We should tank their cannon fire and kill their army on the ground in a melee fight as an army,” suggested Nolan.

“What the fuck?” Conquest sneered. “You want to fight like the shitty humans of your favorite Earth that you visited. First team training and no killing the weaklings, now this bullshit. I should separate your head right now and get rid of your weakness that is spreading like the smell of shit from you in our empire.”

“Hhhaa,” Nolan scoffed at Conquest. “You killing me? What a joke! Only one who can kill me now is our Grand Regent. Your stupid bloodlust will endanger the Viltrum Empire if you don’t control it. We are not in our home galaxy. Something fucked up has happened, and many new players have emerged or we have been inserted into an old game by someone we can’t even contemplate. We should not show our true strength. We should be ready to fight off beings capable of killing us instantly. Grand Regent Thragg, I propose the plan to hide our true capabilities. And Conquest, don’t worry, you can satisfy your bloodlust. According to the ring, there are at least 10 million lifeforms coming our way.”

Thragg considered Nolan's proposal. “Very well, Nolan. We will proceed with your plan. We will engage them on the ground, show our resilience, and use this as an opportunity to train and evaluate our progress.”

Conquest grudgingly nodded in agreement, though his eyes still burned with a desire for more direct confrontation.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gamora

Gamora stood on the bridge of the flagship, her eyes scanning the data displayed on the various monitors and holographic projections. The atmosphere was tense, filled with anticipation and a hint of fear. Unlike her sister Nebula, who seemed to revel in the upcoming slaughter, Gamora was more measured, cautious even. She had learned from years of experience that rushing into a fight without understanding your enemy was a fool's errand.

The sensors indicated that the planet they were approaching was teeming with resources. Yet, it was puzzling that despite being so close to their usual territory, it had somehow evaded detection until recently. According to her father, Thanos' cosmic awareness, this planet was an anomaly, something that defied the usual rules of space and time.

"Commander, we're approaching the planet's atmosphere," an officer reported.

Gamora nodded, her mind racing. Long-term scanning had revealed approximately 30,000 lifeforms on the planet. Each one, according to their sensors, was extraordinarily powerful. What puzzled her further was the shield around the planet, which prevented any detailed scans beyond basic lifeform counts.

She turned her gaze to her sister, Nebula, who was almost vibrating with excitement and bloodlust along with a thirst to prove herself before their father. Nebula’s eyes were fixed on the planet below, her fingers twitching around the hilt of her blade.

"Calm yourself, Nebula," Gamora said sternly. "We have no idea what we're dealing with. Father's orders were clear: we are to investigate and secure the planet, but we must be careful."

Nebula sneered, her face twisting with disdain. "We have the combined might of ten million wardogs, a hundred thousand Chitauri, and seven hundred Leviathans. What could possibly stand against us?"

Gamora sighed, knowing her sister's lust for battle often clouded her judgment. "It's not about numbers, Nebula. It's about understanding our enemy. We know nothing about their abilities or their full strength."

A holographic projection flickered to life in front of them, displaying Thanos' stern visage from his throne aboard the Sanctuary. His presence commanded immediate attention and silence across the bridge.

"Gamora, Nebula," Thanos began, his deep voice resonating with authority.  "I want to watch your first battle you are going to engage alone in live. Do not close this call.  You must proceed with caution. This planet is unlike any other. Its inhabitants are strong, and we have no concrete information on their true capabilities."

Gamora nodded respectfully. "Yes, Father. We will proceed with care."

Nebula, however, could not contain her scorn. "We will crush them, Father. They are but a minor obstacle in our path."

Thanos' eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous glint in them. "Do not underestimate them, Nebula. Our objective is to secure the planet without destroying it. Its resources are too valuable. Remember, annihilation is not the goal here."

The holographic transmission continued even though Thanos turned off his video feed, and Gamora turned back to her sister. "You heard him. Follow orders."

As the fleet entered the planet’s atmosphere, the ships began to descend. Gamora initiated a holographic communication with the planet below, seeking to open a dialogue before the inevitable conflict. The image of Grand Regent Thragg appeared before her, his imposing figure and cold eyes staring back at her.

"I am Gamora, daughter of Thanos, leader of this fleet," she announced. "We come with an offer. Surrender to Thanos' rule and join our empire. You will be spared."

Thragg's expression remained impassive, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Viltrumites do not serve anyone," he declared. "If you attack us, none of you will leave this planet alive."

Gamora's lips curled into a smirk. "We have millions of soldiers and advanced weaponry. You cannot hope to win."

Thragg's voice was steady and unwavering. "Your numbers mean nothing to us. We have faced worse and emerged victorious. Leave now, and you might live to see another day."

The transmission ended abruptly, and Gamora turned to her sister and the rest of the bridge crew. "Prepare for battle. Deploy the Chitauri and the Leviathans."

“Interesting”, the calm voice of Thanos echoed in the cabin, “I will not ask why don’t use the ships cannon to destroy their headquarters by tracing that call and strike at the head of the snake.  I hope you know the consequences of loosing too many of my wardogs.”

Both Gamora and Nebula froze for a second but didn’t said anything as there was no question in it. They knew their full concentration should be in the coming battle.

Nebula's eyes gleamed with excitement as the Chitauri, riding their flying chariots, began to pour out of the ships, firing plasma rifles and launching a full-scale assault similar to their invasion in any planet. The sky darkened with the swarm of Chitauri soldiers and Leviathans, creating a scene of impending doom.

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Anissa

Anissa had to smother her laughter at the green-skinned alien's arrogance to ask the Viltrumites to surrender. The holographic call with Gamora ended predictably, and she turned to Grand Regent Thragg for their orders.

The Grand Regent faced their Commander of Defense, Nolan, and asked, "I have decided to follow your advice for now. This will be a training opportunity for all. You will lead from the front until this war is over and not use The Ring. What is your attack plan?"

Nolan thought for a moment, glancing at his ring as if communing with it. Anissa later realized that it was indeed telepathic communication, and she couldn't help but wonder who the hell had created such powerful relics.

"Regent," Nolan began, "we should divide our numbers in half. Fifteen thousand will be arrayed in the fields outside the capital city. Such a large number will attract the majority of the enemy and help reduce the damage to our beautiful planet. Even our shields over our important assets will not hold forever. The remaining fifteen thousand should be dispersed around the planet for defense and cycled every 24 hours with the men on the fields. Everyone should be allowed to use our speed and strength to the limit, damaging any of the flying units by jumping or throwing others through them. Only blatant flying should be avoided. The ring has informed me that there are no handheld weapons in their possession that can harm us. Only thousands of repetitive strikes to the same spot will cause small burns. The majority of their forces are just rabid beasts."

The Grand Regent considered this for a moment before nodding his approval. "Kregg, spread the order. The news of our empire being gone and even their memories tampered with and only being informed due to Nolan not being affected due to his faster than light flight has led us to be angry. The constant training and no killings and even not being able to fly in space has turned that to blind rage. Here is the solution fate has gifted for us. Let the soldiers know the pleasure of battle and bloodlust. Let them bath themselves in blood and gore." Thragg commanded with a bloodthirsty grin that matched everyone else's, even Nolan's.

On the surface, the Viltrumites stood ready. Nolan, Anissa, Kregg, and Conquest prepared for the fight of their lives. They had trained for five years, honing their abilities for the first time after the cleansing hundreds of years ago, and this would be their first test in this new cursed world.

END

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1999

London

Harry Potter stepped into Gringotts, the imposing marble pillars of the wizarding bank gleaming in the soft light of the magical chandeliers. It had been several days since he woke up and completed his preliminary research on the new world, comparing it with his existing knowledge. He was already the heir of House Potter, thanks to Family Magic granting him the heir ring. The only things he needed to know were what other wealth he had and if any other lordships were available to him. In many worlds, he was the heir to House Black, and he wanted the Black resources. Wearing a hoodie with a cap hiding his face, he used a telepathic "ignore me" aura to avoid attracting attention from any wizards or witches.

A goblin with sharp features and an air of authority scrutinized him from behind the counter. "How may I assist you today?" the goblin asked, his voice clipped and businesslike.

"I am Harry Potter, and I need to know about my Potter inheritance and any other claims I have," Harry stated, making his invisible heir ring visible to confirm his identity and intentions.

The goblin raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing the ring before nodding. "Very well. Follow me." He led Harry through a series of labyrinthine corridors until they arrived at a dimly lit chamber. In the center of the room stood an ancient stone pedestal with a silver goblet and a sharp, gleaming dagger.

"Place a drop of your blood in the goblet," the goblin instructed. "This will analyze your ancestry.”

With a deep breath, Harry pricked his finger with the dagger and let a drop of blood fall into the goblet. The liquid shimmered, and a scroll materialized above it. The goblin reached out and took the scroll, checking the Goblin seal on it. The goblin started walking towards the House Potter handler.

They reached an ornate door with the sign "Senior Goblin Gornuk." They both entered, and the goblin left the sealed parchment with the senior goblin. Harry sat and observed the goblin with his senses. He could feel the magical armor and enchanted items on the goblin and sensed curiosity through his telepathy. If Harry had used Legilimency, even wandlessly, he was sure he would have been caught by the goblins.

"You are indeed the heir to the House of Potter," the goblin said. "But there's more. Since the parchment is sealed, you must open it yourself. I will gather the statements of House Potter."

Harry picked up the parchment and broke the seal. He sighed in defeat as there was no mention of House Black or any relation. The only note was "Son of House Peverell."

The goblin smirked at seeing his disappointment. "So what? Does it only say Heir Potter, and even the great Boy-Who-Lived doesn’t have multiple lordships handed down to him?" Harry could feel the smugness in the voice and through his telepathy.

"No," Harry replied calmly. "It also mentions Son of House Peverell."

The reaction was immediate as the smugness Harry sensed was replaced by panic and awe. He could feel the goblin's magic roiling as if preparing for a battle, but the goblin controlled it immediately with a deep breath.

Seeing the goblin's pale face, Harry's curiosity piqued. "What's the significance of the House of Peverell? You seem shocked," he asked.

The goblin cleared his throat, clearly unsettled. "Heir Potter, the Peverells were a powerful and feared family of archmages and magical lords in the wizarding world. Legends say they were the harbingers of Death, capable of great and terrible deeds. There are enough stories of slaughters, immortals suddenly vanishing, and even a god being tamed by them. Whenever a terrible threat rose against this world, there was a Peverell fighting against it or being that threat. The last was the invasion of Frost Giants and the Asgardian war that took place on Earth. The family magic of the Peverells has been dormant for centuries, and no one has been acknowledged as a son of that house. The Goblin Nation had no dealings with them, and we have no vault in that name.”

Harry's mind raced with the implications of this revelation. He did not think that the Peverells would have such notoriety in wizarding history.

"Well, it seems to me that my own meeting with that Killing Curse has made this possible. I would, of course, be happy if you do not mention this to anyone until I have revealed it," Harry asked with a calm smile, his presence filling the room.

The goblin paled further before anger appeared on his face. "I will not be threatened by a 10-year-old child in my own office, but I will only inform the Goblin King and no one else," the goblin said.

Harry scrutinized the goblin for a moment but then relaxed and nodded.

The goblin then took the statement to move past the awkwardness. "You have only 700,000 galleons in your vault, which is too little compared to your peers, and various shares in businesses. Your house was almost poor due to your grandfather’s spending during the fight against Grindelwald, and your father's funding against the Death Eaters didn’t help at all. Almost 200,000 galleons were added by the efforts of your magical guardian, Albus Dumbledore, who allowed your name to be used and published for children around the world. Before you ask, the headmaster has not taken a single knut from your vault and has been paying for your upkeep from his own considerable pockets. Even though your wealth in the wizarding world is abysmal compared to other houses, you are still one of the wealthiest wizards alive due to your holding of 5% of Stark Industries, a leading weapons company in the USA. The shares were given to your grandfather by Howard Stark for seed money and their relationship, with voting rights still with the Starks for which a hefty sum is paid yearly by the Starks. The liquid assets generated from Stark Industries holdings are reinvested in fixed income sources automatically, and you have almost 25 million dollars in various accounts."

Harry, expecting only a small amount of wealth, was surprised and glad about the holding in Stark Industries, which would only grow when Tony Stark became Iron Man. It would also be a connection with the genius to collaborate on future projects.

After some thoughts, Harry said, "I want to liquidate my galleons and convert them into dollars or pounds. Then, invest the money in Wayne Enterprises, Amazon, Lex Corp, Rand Industries, Queen Consolidated, Facebook, and Twitter. I will, of course, specify the amounts after the conversion is done, which will take some time, I guess? Also, if possible, invest in the Firebolt brooms."

The goblin nodded. "Yes, converting such amounts will take time. Luckily, we service the Muggle world too, and there is no legal trouble for converting such amounts."

Harry then requested to visit the Potter family vault. The goblin escorted him down a series of twisting tunnels, finally stopping at a massive door adorned with the Potter crest of a Griffin. With a touch of his hand, the door creaked open, revealing a pile of coins, books, and other knick-knacks.

The vault was filled with many artifacts, and he didn’t have the time to look through manually. He used his telekinesis to feel through every artifact. Seeing nothing interesting, he was ready to leave when he came across a worn, leather-bound diary on a bookshelf. Telekinetically summoning and opening it, he discovered it belonged to his mother, Lily Potter. Her neat handwriting filled the pages, detailing her research and experiments. Flipping through every page quickly while his memory cache partition concentrated entirely on the diary to store it in his memory, one entry caught his attention immediately: a formula to make potions non-lethal for Muggles and a revolutionary idea to transform them into pill form for easier use and sale to the Muggle world. There were also notes on hair potions, suggesting they could be marketed as gels, bridging the magical and Muggle worlds.

Harry immediately stopped flipping and read through every page mentioning the revolutionary idea, grinning madly at how much this would help in his plans. His mind buzzed with possibilities as he carefully tucked the diary into his bag. His mother had been brilliant, and her work would help him change the world according to his vision. He felt a small pang of sadness about using his mother’s work for profit, but he scoffed as he squashed the feeling. He left the bank happier than when he had entered.

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That evening, under the cover of his invisibility cloak’s magic, Harry visited the Burrow, the home of the Weasley family. He navigated the cozy, cluttered house silently, his telepathic field already identifying the traitorous rat who had betrayed his parents.

In the dim light of the kitchen, Harry spotted Scabbers, Ron Weasley's pet rat. Without any gentleness, he took control of the rat’s mind and told it to run outside. The rat obeyed without any resistance.

As Peter entered his vision, Harry grabbed the rat telekinetically and knocked the man out, planting the idea that he was a rat and nothing more. He threw Peter into an unbreakable cage and placed the cage inside his expandable trunk.

For the next five days, Harry focused on recuperating. He consumed potions and food, gradually restoring his strength until he felt healthy and strong, like a typical ten-year-old boy. But his mind was already on his next task: exploring the Chamber of Secrets, as it was the only lead he had for claiming the Lord Peverell mantle and finding the gift from Lady Death.

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Authors Note: I first thought to just have Viltrum portions here and next chapter entirely  Harry portion, but since it will readers with  more time with cliff hangers, I thought to do have both time period simultaneously so that next chapter will also have Viltrum War portions.

Read! Commend! Recommend!!!

ADS 14

Chapter 14: A Game of Magic

Oldtown

78AC

Otto Hightower

Otto Hightower was diligently reading a tome on the history of the Reach by an Archmaester when his father’s trusted guard approached his room. Even though he was only eleven namedays old, everyone acknowledged his intelligence and cleverness. He had even been offered a place as a maester, but he denied it, knowing he was meant for greater things than serving foolish lords who couldn’t even read and write. It was nighttime, and he knew it must be something of importance to summon him at this hour.

He was quite surprised when he was informed to meet in the lower tower made from Black Stone by his lord father, and not in the solar as usual. The guard escorted him down the stairs, and even with his knightly training, he was panting by the time he reached the lower tower.

“My lord, you must go alone from here; only the lords are allowed beyond this point,” the guard said.

“Thank you for escorting me, Ser Alan,” Otto replied.

He had seen the ordinary door many times and thought it was an abandoned area in the lower tower while the nobles lived in the upper tower and the servants in the middle portions. He approached the door and pushed it open; surprisingly, it moved smoothly and silently. He raised his lantern to spread the light and see around the room, but the light didn’t spread as he expected. As he stepped into the room, the door closed automatically, making him jump as the moonlight from outside vanished completely. A chill enveloped his body, and his breath became harder. He wondered if the loyal guard he knew from birth had turned traitor and ambushed him, as there was no sign of his father.

“Otto! Come,” a voice echoed from the front, and a light suddenly appeared meters in front of him from an open door.

He knew his father's voice and trusted him, so he walked forward. The new room he entered was surprisingly not dark. There were lights from the flaming torches in the middle of the four walls. He quickly identified that the light was not from the torches themselves but reflected using obsidian or dragonglass. It was the light passing through that material that was not absorbed by the black stone. He looked around and saw many murals painted on the black stone, though he couldn’t identify anything. Even with his thirst for knowledge, he couldn’t concentrate on the murals as the black stone attracted him. There was something beautiful about it, and he wanted to learn its secrets. The Stones enchanted him like nothing else in his short life. He walked towards the nearest wall to touch the black stones, to smell it, to lay his head on it and feel it.

“Snap out of it, little brother,” his brother’s voice snapped as he slapped Otto on the back of his head.

The sudden pain cleared his thoughts, and he had a panic-stricken face. He looked around and saw his father with an understanding smile.

“What... what is this, Father?” Otto whimpered, fear evident in his voice.

“What are our words, Otto, since Uthor of the High Tower built this tower and started our house? What is the name of our ancestral sword?” his father asked.

Otto looked at his father in bewilderment, as even any knight knew of Hightower and their words in the Reach.

“We light the way, and the sword is a Valyrian steel sword called Vigilance,” Otto replied with pride.

“Aye, we light the way,” Lord Hightower said. “To light the way, first there must be darkness, and you just saw the darkness.”

Otto’s eyes widened in surprise as he registered the truth.

“That is... I don’t know what to say. What is this darkness? What is this black stone?”

His father sighed. “Unfortunately, no one knows what this stone is or where it comes from. Maesters say that it was here before we built the Hightower, but not the true origin of this structure. The only thing that is passed down from father to son is that we must light the way for mankind to enlightenment.”

“Enlightenment? Father? Like the truth of the Faith of the Seven?” Otto asked.

His father scoffed. “Not the enlightenment of the Faith, Otto. You have shown exceptional intelligence in learning by seeing the truth of things, and you even saw the truth that the maesters are nothing more than one of our tools, which is why you rejected the Archmaester’s proposal for you to join them. You have learned the Faith and seen the workings of the Starry Sept, but you didn’t recognize that the Faith is also nothing more than a tool like the Citadel for spreading enlightenment.”

“I... I can’t believe it. This can’t be true!” Otto whispered. He was a follower of the New Gods, and this sacrilege was something he expected from oafish Stormlanders and wildlings in the North, not the Lord of Hightower.

“Well, then let me educate you on the truth. You see this black stone, don’t you? This is something that pervades throughout the world from its strategic positions on the map and corrupts everything near it,” Lord Hightower continued. “Something that can’t be seen or heard, just felt by accomplishing or seeing the outcome—magic. That is our purpose, Otto. To eradicate magic from Westeros so that this black stone couldn’t be effective and unleash untold horrors. It is our duty to enlighten the way for our fellow man to the horrors of magic and to stop its usage. From the first Hightower to me, we have done everything to accomplish this. The Citadel was started for the study of science and to prevent the spread of magic by offering a confirmed path to knowledge. We avoided endless war with the Gardener Kings and joined as their vassal when we understood that unleashing the horrors of war and conquest was not something to be done to prevent future horrors. We invited the Faith of the Seven when the Andals came and gave patronage as they were deadly afraid of magic after being under its mercy from shadowbinders, Essosi sorcerers, and the ever-expanding Valyrian empire of magic. We abandoned the First Men traditions which had a ritualistic nature to use the Faith to spread the message that magic is evil. We even bent the knee to the Conqueror so that we could slowly spread our influence to the entire Seven Kingdoms from behind the king, just like we did in the Reach behind the Gardener Kings. We were near success in at least spreading the maesters throughout the Seven Kingdoms when the FUCKING Septon Barth couldn’t keep his prejudice for the Old Gods and a bastard in check. Decades of hard work and influence on the royal family gone and the blood of thousands of the Faith wasted because of lack of patience...” Lord Hightower started muttering curses angrily too fast for him to understand.

Otto was entranced by the secret history of their house and influence but jumped in fright as his father finished yelling about Septon Barth and his angry mutterings. Even himself who knew the  Hightowers was the Greatest House in the realm, especially in the Reach, never knew that they served such a high purpose.  They may not be the Kings anymore for millennia, but they were the unnamed Kings of the Oldtown and their influence was almost equal to the Gardner kings. 

“Father,” Otto slowly tried to interrupt the angry muttering of his father.

“Don’t, Otto. Father is very angry. Let him vent it at least,” his brother sighed in tiredness.

“What happened, brother? ” Otto inquired.

“News has arrived from the Citadel, Otto. The Grand Maester has been punished harshly and the Hand is dismissed from his post for suggesting harsh punishments for the North and the northern bastard of Prince Aemon who suggested a way to get the Gift back to the Starks even when following the orders of the Iron Throne.”

Otto looked puzzled hearing that. “How in the name of New Gods they achieved that?”

“Well, the bastard suggested a lease contract, a contract where all rights to the land are transferred to the tenant except for ownership. The Starks rented the entire New Gift from the Night’s Watch in perpetuity,” Hobert said.

“That is devious, brother,” Otto said in admiration of the cleverness shown. He frowned and continued, “Truly, only a bastard born of sin could envision such trickery.”

Hobert laughed hearing the reply.

“Whatever the method,” his father interrupted, who finally calmed enough, “they have won and gotten away with it too. The fools tried even using the bedridden queen to get their way, and even I know that the king will not be happy if his beloved sister is touched. The true surprise was Prince Aemon; his stupidity for blaming the child for the girl’s death and his hate towards was such a good thing for us as the North, a place where magic still lingers, will be long away from the remaining magic users of the royal family. Now we must start another round of the game.”

"Magic users of the royal family?" Otto asked, perplexed. “According to history, only the cursed Queen Visenya practiced sorcery, and she never taught it to the current king or Aenys’s line. King Maegor didn’t have children to pass down any sorcery he knew.”

Father looked at him as if he were an imbecile, and Otto withered under that look.

"Otto, you have seen the dragons. What do you think allows them to fly and spit fire? What allows the Targaryens to bond with them and control them? This is the greatest blatant use of magic Westeros has seen since the Age of Heroes. It seems you still have many things to learn beyond what the maesters and books can teach before your part begins," his father said with tiredness.

"I apologize, Father. I understand I have much more to learn," Otto said with utmost respect. "But I have a question, Father. The king and queen have been here many times, and no horrors have been unleashed yet by the black stone. If dragons themselves were here, and unaffected, how can we know the black stone still has the power of ancient times?"

"Oh, Otto, the dragons have only been here for a short time. If you want to see the horrors unleashed by the Black Stone, you only have to look at the Ironborn. The horrors they unleashed just a hundred years ago in the name of their cursed Iron Price will be enough to answer your doubts. This is just the influence of the Seastone Chair, a throne made from black stone. Every man and even woman believes in treating others as thralls, which is nothing but slavery."

"I see," Otto replied after careful consideration. "I understand, Father. What must I do?"

"You are to be squired under Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard. Your intelligence and cleverness will be noted by the court. Even now, your talents in administration have been spread by Redwyne among the court. You will be the new lead to the court as the maesters will be under scrutiny, and House Hightower will not be implicated because of two zealots who couldn’t control their prejudices. At least in this generation, it is time to remove all of our overt influence in both the Citadel and the Faith."

"I will not disappoint you, Father," Otto nodded and bowed in obeisance.

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79 AC

Braavos

The grand hall of the Iron Bank was a testament to its power and wealth. Opulent tapestries and gleaming chandeliers cast a golden glow over the assembled keyholders. The room hummed with hushed conversations and the shuffling of parchment, a prelude to the serious matters at hand. The high ceilings, adorned with intricate frescoes depicting the bank's storied history, added to the air of solemnity.

At the head of the long, polished table sat Bessaro Reyaan, the First Keyholder, his presence commanding respect. The other keyholders, a mix of merchants, nobles, and shadowy figures, settled into their seats, their faces reflecting a blend of curiosity and apprehension. The Reyaan family had held the title of First Keyholder of the Iron Bank since its founding, passing the role from father to son.

Reyaan raised a hand, calling for silence. "We are gathered here today to discuss matters of great importance," he began, his voice steady and authoritative. "Our bank's interests are vast and varied, but recent developments demand our immediate attention. It has come to my attention that recent events from the thrice damned Valyrians kingdom has made many of you tempted with taking the matters into your hands. This meeting is to officially state my orders."

"And pray tell, what matter requires such a meeting?" one of his thorns said slyly.

Bessaro looked at the thorn and scoffed internally at the prideful fool who thought himself powerful. "It seems you have not kept up to date with the matters. The second voyage of the North has also been a success, and they returned with untold wealth. Moreover, the North has made a move in the game of thrones and won. They managed to steal the Gift back from the Night's Watch and now have even more work and their old food granary back. This will affect our plans for trading with them. More importantly, the fact that the Iron Throne allowed it without punishing the Starks is startling. We must rethink whether the Starks are still viable when the King is friendly with them," Bessaro said with condescension.

"What do we care about the king's relationship with his vassals? We started trading with the Starks because they are nearer and for the profits and the supposed method of travel that allows them to avoid storms and pirates. The fact that we still haven’t learned their secrets or confirmed that such a method exists is what matters. We need to learn the method for the continued growth of Braavos as a free city," the thorn replied haughtily.

"Everything comes back to the Targaryen bastard," another keyholder snarled. "Those damn Valyrians have to go and be intelligent enough to invent the method and even introduce a new form of renting too."

"Daemon Snow? How are you sure it was his method? Leasing is an intriguing idea that anyone who saw the smallfolk of Westeros could come up with, but sailing is something else. According to our sources, the first time he even saw the sea was when the first voyage started," another keyholder asked.

Knowing that if not interrupted, his valuable time would be lost, Reyaan interjected, "It doesn’t matter where the method originated. We shall endeavor to get the secret and be friendly with the North as needed. Even without that, it is the most profitable trade agreement we have with anyone. We will not jeopardize that unless we are a hundred percent sure of the method and their workings.  Is that clear enough for everyone?”  Seeing the nods he finished, “Dismissed."

Reyaan didn’t wait for the others to disperse. He stood up and left through the back entrance of the room. He went to his office and activated the secret door to his true home: the House of Black and White.

Reyaan was a name he took when he founded the Iron Bank and Braavos all those years ago; it was the most used face of their guild. But now, he had to attend a more important meeting—a gathering of the elders of the Faceless Men, the men who originated from the slave pits of Valyria.

Reyaan, the first Faceless Man, was approached by the so-called Many-Faced God, not knowing it was just a demon sent by the Great Enemy to continue the sufferings of people on this planet. The growth of Valyria, with its dragonriders and magic, was a game-changer in the ongoing cold war between the Red Demon R'hllor and the Others in the North. The Valyrians could have ended the war by obliterating both factions in their expansion plans, so the Great Enemy had sent the demon. The demon found the perfect method of infiltration: the slaves, so abused they had almost lost their minds and will to live, were just breathing dolls. The demon chose to bond with a man without identity and appeared as the Many-Faced God granting him death. The nameless slave, seeking death, agreed wholeheartedly to the pact, and the first Faceless Man was born when the demon possessed the body, consuming his soul while retaining the memories.

Centuries among the slaves and even the Valyrian sorcerers made it possible for him to engineer the Doom. He had to sacrifice ten of his most powerful faces to enact it. It was quite spectacular, if he said so himself, to watch the Doom from Braavos. It was truly ironic that the Fourteen Flames themselves smashed down the arrogant Valyrians, who were nothing but shepherds before the Valyrian Gods started playing with them. The demon was still afraid, though, that despite accessing different sorcerers, the knowledge of the Valyrian gods themselves remained elusive. He couldn’t understand anything regarding the Valyrian gods, and only when he wore the face of the sorcerer could he remember what they were. Unfortunately, he had to sacrifice every face of a sorcerer in the Doom.

 The Doom was the greatest treat for the Great Enemy, who became a sloth in the feeding of misery and sufferings. Millions died in Valyria, hundreds of powerful dragons perished, and the Century of Blood that followed was truly a good dessert for the Great Enemy. The fact that there was no other outside power to challenge the Others and the Red Demon R'hllor, who were already fed a few sparks of the Great Enemy, was just a good aftertaste that would feed the Great Enemy for centuries more.

The demon then corrupted many others into the Faceless Men cult, and every Faceless Man became an extension of his will and powers. It was in this way that the Faceless Men knew when someone failed and the body was destroyed.  Even though he couldn’t form a new powerful pact like the original one, The demon could make a incomplete bond when his followers become fanatic enough and becomes no one.  This make him have access to any memories or skills of all the Faceless Men and peruse them as he pleased.

The current meeting was between the longest-lasting Faceless Men, even the demon himself couldn’t split his mind enough to contact everyone over the large distance  at once. So, the meeting was needed to share memories and discuss how to proceed in achieving their goal of maintaining the status quo and ensuring that the sufferings fed to the Great Enemy increased or remained the same.  Eventhough the elders ten only knew to  grant the death and do his biddings.

His thoughts came to a halt when the elder 10 entered the room and settled in their chairs. Even with them being an incomplete extension to him, with them physically close he could feel the connection more than ever. 

"Let the meeting begin. Start with your reports," Reyaan said to the second one sitting to his right.

"First one, I must apologize as there is no progress with the dragon eggs we acquired from that foolish girl. Even fed with much Valyrian blood, they do not hatch. The more blood they consume, the stonier they become. Even our agents in Asshai couldn't find any clues regarding how to hatch the eggs. Fire and blood failed, and that was our final hope as we thought maybe The Targaryens were arrogant enough to announce their secret as their house words."

First One snorted hearing that.  He was already surveying the connection checking for any lies or omissions which is not possible since no one had ever rebelled against their belief in him, The Many Faced God. Having almost all the members from Essos where slavery it itched in their souls itself is very good for maintaining fanatic loyalty.

"Second one, don’t be naïve. It seems we are at the end of our road with that strategy. Our goal of preserving the status quo and maintaining magic use at a reasonable level still awaits all the while granting the gift of death as per the will of Many-Faced-God. Let the eggs be stored in our secret vault if there is no other avenue to pursue. Even now, Balerion the Black Dread is sleeping his way to death from the fight he had with the monsters in Valyria. As long as he is dead, there is nothing to fear from the Targaryens, and all other dragons will perish with time since we have made sure of it."

"There are still years left for that happy occasion of the last of the creatures that saw the cursed Valyria die, First One. There is another avenue yet to be explored about hatching the eggs."

"What is it?" First one looked intrigued.

"Daemon Snow. The bastard of the North. He is of blood, and we have relations with the Starks. We could invite them and make him our sacrifice for fire and blood. Then maybe the eggs will hatch," the second one said.

First One looked intrigued. "No, that would be a waste of a perfect match to ignite wars in Westeros if needed. Maybe the eggs will hatch in his hands, and we could always use it to trigger a war there if the need arises. Moreover, the boy is intelligent, and we could still benefit from our association with the Starks, and even then, fifth one has not yet learned the secret of their navigation. Am I right?"

The fifth one looked surprised at First One's knowledge, not knowing there was a direct linkage of minds between them.

"You are, as always, correct, First One. No amount of coercion, money, or threats made them say it. I even took a face to spy upon them, but they grew agitated by something and became tight-lipped as time went on."

"Interesting. Very interesting," First One said. "Also, Prince Aemon has even challenged the king in protection of Daemon, and harming him would start a war. I am confident in killing every dragonrider on the ground, but our own survival and mission would be jeopardized. We should remain in the shadows for now and not pull the sleeping dragons tail."

The rest of them nodded in acceptance.

"First One," another underling said, " Finally the Red Demon has become content in playing with his little followers and sacrifices again. The sacrifices has gone down significantly after the trouble in Volantis Red Temple eight years ago. Whatever damaged him was something significant since the number of sacrifices was so high and there was no vision or any overt signs of power from him to his red priests for almost 3 years after the event. There have been no new movements from him."

"I also report the same from beyond the Wall. The Others are also content, slowly adding soldiers to their army, similar to the Red God manipulating millions of followers for himself. The Night's King is, as always, unseen, and even I couldn’t venture to the Lands of Always Winter."

"Good, very good. The main threats for our goals are of Ice and Fire, and they both remain in equilibrium with each other. So, as long as they remain as it is, it will be of no consequence for us. What about the rest of them?"

"There have been stirrings in the Shadowlands beyond Asshai, and every other Entity just exists as it is. There is no change in any of them," the seventh replied.

"That is good, as we are free to concentrate here and in Westeros. There is something in the air that I am sure will trouble us. The changes happening in the world are more than what they should be. You shall be vigilant against any overt use of magic. You have all your orders." Reyaan ended the meeting.

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Harlan Pike

79AC

Harlan Pike stood at the prow of his ship, the salty wind whipping his long hair around his face. The sea, his true home, stretched endlessly before him, the horizon a thin line separating the turbulent waters from the stormy sky. Behind him, his men moved with purpose, securing the loot they'd taken from the soft-bellied merchants of Essos and the pirates of the Stepstones. His heart swelled with pride and satisfaction; his first raid as a captain had been particularly fruitful.

"Harlan, you have started your true journey and proven yourself as an Ironborn captain. This is the day we have been waiting for," one of the Drowned Priests who raised him said.

He turned away from the whispers and declared, "Well, I am the son of the sea and twice drowned. Let the Greenlanders tremble at the sound of my exploits."   

He again turned to the alluring sound of the sea.

As long as he could remember, he could read the sea and winds like no one else. The sea whispered to him about the boats sailing on it. He could sense approaching storms even before the winds began to hit the sails. He could swim in the sea at the age of three without anyone needing to teach him. He was a lowly bastard left to die on Naga’s Hill when the Drowned Priests found him. In their belief, they saw him as the answer to their prayers to the Drowned God for a solution to the tyranny of the Dragonlords who subjugated the Ironmen from the air.

The Drowned Priests became more enamored with him when he drowned at the age of three and started to swim to the shore. Whispers of him being of the Hoare bloodline spread among the priests, and even the place they found him was said to be a sign from the gods that he was meant to be the Iron King.

He thought it was all nonsense until that day ten years ago when a Drowned Priest, a Greyjoy, decided he must die. They were anchored near shore for the night, and everyone was resting and deep in their cups when the priest smashed his head from behind and dragged him to the shore to drown him as a sacrifice for Greyjoy prosperity. The man held him over his shoulder while descending from the ship, and Harlan was teetering between consciousness and unconsciousness.

He later swore to the priests who questioned him that he heard the Greyjoy whispering maddeningly

“Must Kill at all costs. Should be drowned, the Drowned God commands it, should kill him for Greyjoy’s to pay the Iron Price. Kill him. Drown him.”

 The man threw him into the seawater. The moment he touched the water, he felt his lethargy dissipate and an energy surge into him. He heard whispers and a sinister laughter that sent chills down his spine. As the man landed in the sea, Harlan suddenly moved and struck him in the groin.

"Bastard!" the Greyjoy screamed, pulling out a knife.

Harlan was only seven, and he knew fighting a fully grown man was certain death, so he jumped backward into the sea and started swimming as the retreating waves carried him away from the shore. The Greyjoy, being an adult, just ran and jumped toward him, landing on him. They both started drowning as the waves bobbed them up and down. While holding Harlan from behind with his left hand, the Greyjoy used his right hand to stab at Harlan's face. Seeing death approaching, Harlan grabbed the knife with both hands. His palms bled as the knife's edge cut into them. Blood mingled with seawater as the knife neared his face. He moved his head at the last moment, slowing the knife with his hold. Still, the sharp edge pierced through his left eye and stayed there.

Pain enveloped his side, and darkness consumed his left eye. The additional pain jolted him while he felt the Greyjoy struggling for breath as the sea carried them away. Blood loss made him faint, and he laughed hard, thinking he was going to die. Anger enveloped him along with seawater burning his lungs. The Greyjoy, knowing he had achieved his goal, took his left hand around from Harlan and started swimming upwards. Suddenly, Harlan turned and used his right hand to grab the knife's hilt and pulled it from his left eye.

"Drowned God, give me strength," he yelled in his mind and started swimming upwards.

A haunting laughter was heard as he was almost sure he heard a reply,

‘With immense pleasure.’

He felt something push him, rapidly gaining on the Greyjoy. As he neared the Greyjoy's legs, he grabbed them and used the knife to stab him repeatedly, not caring where he pierced. By the tenth stab, he lost consciousness, welcoming death with a smile, knowing the Greyjoy was dead.

He gained consciousness two days later in the captain's cabin of the ship.

"Harlan, the twice-drowned, the Drowned God has blessed you twice. You are the leader we have been waiting for since Black Harren was burned by the cursed Black Dread," the priest said.

Pain enveloped his entire body as he tried to sit up in bed.

"How?" he hissed in pain.

"How, you ask?" the priest laughed madly. "The greatest message from the Drowned God. You can feel him, can’t you? Every Drowned Priest can feel him somewhat—a nudge here, a small whisper there—but you are different from the moment of your birth. Something whispers to you secrets of the sea more than even the most faithful Drowned Priest. It was the Drowned God who saved you.

He sent The Kraken to save you."

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The Crowkiller.

Finally, after all the waiting, the day had come. Well, the night had come. Crowkiller thought as he stood on the edge of the encampment, watching as the moonlight reflected off the snowy landscape. The Stark forces and their soldiers were trapped in Queenscrown by an unexpected summer snowstorm, their spirits as frozen as the landscape around them. The wildling leader felt a thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

The plan had been simple yet brutal. His scouts had ambushed the Stark scouts, catching them off guard. But even then, it became evident that these were not ordinary men. The skirmish had cost him eleven men to take down just five Stark scouts. They were faster and more aware than anyone he had ever faced. A grin spread across his face as he considered this. If the scouts were this good, how much better must a Stark be? He could already imagine the envy of his fellow wildlings when he returned as the Starkslayer.

As his men descended upon the Stark encampment, chaos erupted. The night was filled with the sounds of clashing steel, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh commands of captains trying to rally their men. Crowkiller observed from behind, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. His men were falling to the ferocity of the Stark soldiers; it was costing the wildlings many lives, but he cares not as he has a thousand lives to spare against the Stark’s two hundred.

In the midst of the fray, he spotted a man clad in armor bearing the emblem of a snarling direwolf. The Stark was cutting through his brothers like a scythe through wheat. Crowkiller's eyes narrowed as he watched the Stark fight. Suddenly, The Crow attempted to stab the Stark from behind. Fury surged through Crowkiller's veins. This was his kill, his glory. But his anger turned to surprise when the Stark dodged the attack with a fluid grace and turned, swinging his sword in a deadly arc. The crow was skilled, managing to skip backward just in time, but not before the Stark's sword slashed through his nose, leaving a bloody gash.

Crowkiller cackled with glee, his excitement mounting. He moved forward, pushing through the throng of fighters. His men were overwhelming the soldiers in front of the Stark and the crow, creating a clear path to his prey.

“Damn you to the seven hells and curse the old gods! How are you fighting and moving when you and your men should be under the effects of the poison?”  The Crow shouted, his voice a mix of frustration and curiosity. “It shouldn’t kill you, but it should weaken you. Yet your army fights as if untouched!”

The Stark heir, breathing heavily yet standing resolute, smirked at the Night’s Watch Men. “Wouldn’t you like to know, betrayer?” His voice dripped with disdain. “First, you betrayed the oath you swore to the king, and now you’ve betrayed the oath to the Night’s Watch by colluding with this scum. It is time to pay the price.”

“Well, it will not be today,” Crowkiller retorted, his eyes gleaming with malevolence. “I need him alive for now, Stark. Crowkiller has become an old name. Killing you will make me rise in the army of the King Beyond the Wall.”

The Stark’s eyes widened at the mention of the King Beyond the Wall. But his surprise quickly turned to fury. “What are you waiting for, winter? Let’s dance,” the Stark snarled, raising his sword and charging forward.

Crowkiller tried to parry the attack, but the Stark was faster than anyone he had ever faced. Without the advantage of ambush or arrows, Crowkiller found himself outmatched. The Stark’s strikes were precise and relentless, each blow driving the wildling leader back. Crowkiller realized too late that he had underestimated his opponent.  The last thing he thought before the sword neared his neck was he should have waited more for the Stark to tire or injured and regretting the fact that some other fucker would become The Starkslayer.

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ADS 13

Chapter 13: The Lull

Winterfell

78AC

Dameon Snow

I was sitting before the heart tree in Winterfell's Godswood, contemplating the things I had just seen. It had been a month since the tourney for my half-sister was held, and rumors regarding Aemon’s actions had reached Winterfell. I was astonished that my father had fought so hard to prevent my punishment and had even threatened those who insulted me. After bleeding quite a bit and expending hours of practice, I could finally see the entire event using the weirwood network. There was some blockage initially, but my persistence and additional bleeding to power the weirwood overcame whatever blood magic protection left by my Great-Great-Uncle Maegor that tried to block me from scrying the Red Keep and the events there.  I wonder why I have felt no such thing while using my warged birds.

It was truly astounding what guilt could do to a man. Aemon was so enveloped in guilt for abandoning me that he would even defend me against dragons, all the while harboring enough hatred to kill me. What a bipolar behavior, and I wondered why the Old King still entertained my father. According to everything I knew from stories and what I could overhear from King's Landing itself, the king was pragmatic to the core and hard-ass enough to even disinherit Aemon and make Baelon his heir. My guess, based on gossip from both the smallfolk of King's Landing and the nobles, was that Aemon was the people's beloved prince. From what I could gather, in the two years he was essentially living among them—fighting, drinking, whoring, and killing any criminal he could get his hands on—he had charmed anyone he met and become a trusted friend among the nobles.

Both versions of my parents' affair made Aemon the perfect choice for heir. In one, he was the tragic lover, a foolish knight who fell for a seduction attempt, which made the nobles love him as someone they could manipulate, unlike King Jaehaerys. In the other version, my father knew the seduction and used it to have a child with Stark blood, ensuring he might have a puppet lord in the future after causing some accidents. I laughed hard the first time I heard the second one.

"So, is it true, my prince?" The voice of Brandon interrupted my thoughts. I groaned at hearing him call me prince again. After the lesson I learned in the swamp, being unconscious and leaving my body unprotected, I always made sure there was protection when using such abilities outside. Brandon had turned into such a fanatic that he even called me prince when we were alone.

"What have I told you, Brandon? Do not call me prince again. It is an order now. I am a bastard, and I don’t want the closer scrutiny we will have here since the lease contract to find anything of importance."

Brandon tried to protest, but I raised my hand to stop him. "I am telling you now, Brandon. Stop it, or I will banish you from my presence."

Brandon looked chastised and nodded his acceptance.

I sighed tiredly, knowing that more chastisement would be needed in the future. "As for your question, yes, it is true. King Jaehaerys has declared that only the blood of the dragon will judge another of the blood, and will be even applicable to me even if I am a bastard. Aemon also made the threat and even whipped the Grand Maester for wishing to spill the blood of the dragon and trying to start a civil war."

Brandon nodded gravely. "It is the least they could do after abandoning you."

"It is of no problem, Brandon. As you know, I could achieve whatever I wished with my own work and not have it handed down to me."

"I thank the old gods that you grew up here, and even the animals are blessed now," Brandon said.

I grinned and nodded, knowing that farm animals, after careful feeding of my diluted blood, had been improving themselves. Every generation was slightly bigger, hardier to cold, and produced more than before, whether it was wool, milk, or meat when they were slaughtered. This led to a great question I had been pondering for quite some time.

What will happen to the people who consume it? Will their children be more than them? By the third generation, where will they be? Peak human level without even doing anything or a supersoldier level? I was clearly itching to find out, but the only opportunity was Cregan as of now. Even then, his mother had not improved significantly, but I was sure my little cousin Cregan would have additional benefits, as my grandfather made sure Lady Stark would survive the birthing bed by giving more than required.

It also led to a question my grandfather asked, which I hadn’t considered in all my plans for the future—a very big mistake on my part.

What will be the abilities of my children?

Luckily, it is all hypothetical as of now, and my guess, which is usually correct, is that they will inherit the already modified body as a base, even though it may not be as developed as my own, and my own ability to adapt and heal will be inherited. Lucky bastards, I cursed, as they wouldn’t have to suffer the pains I did to develop from a base human. I am almost sure that the learning talent itself will not be inherited, but they will be prodigies in something that will come very easily for them.

I was going to climb the tree where my own pet eagles had made their nest to check on the eaglets. This was one of my personal experiments. The breeding pair had been fed my blood from their young days and trained by me to fly faster and longer without any rest, to fight more, and to eat more. Now they had three eaglets, and all of them had survived. They were bigger than any eaglets I had seen, and they were developing faster. From their behavior, I could see that they were more intelligent too. They realized that I was their true caretaker and bonded with me immediately. The moment the warg bond happened, I also knew that this was different from all the others. All other animals were just tools in view and discarded easily. I needed special eagles to send to Essos and, for the first time, observe the players there.

I was almost in the middle of the tree when I heard yelling from behind.

"There you are, Daemon," the loud, cheerful voice of the four-year-old Cregan interrupted me from the entrance to the godswood.

I groaned as I closed my eyes. For some reason, Cregan admired me very much. I was the exotic-looking person near his age and an elder brother figure. I knew it would bite me in the ass when one night I caught him wandering and decided to tell him some fairy tales. Then I had to go and indulge him with stories almost every day. I quickly ran out of stories and had to start telling him about Harry Potter. Now, even Harry Potter was finished, I started Lord of the Rings and going very slowly so that I will not have to start another story, but he tries to get me to tell the remaining story everytime.

I knew I had to keep the eaglets from the exciting hands of my cousin and dropped myself from the tree.

My knees didn’t even buckle from my landing as my body had adapted to falls from larger heights. I didn’t know how Daenerys or Jon rode the dragons bareback without the fear of falling and dying. I would not get on a dragon even with a saddle when I knew I couldn’t at least survive a fall. I had been diligently increasing the height from which I could jump, and even now, I was nowhere near the top of the trees in my parkour attempts. At least I could almost complete 500 meters of running before I usually slipped and fell down.

Cregan looked at me with wonder as I casually walked towards him from the jump without even stumbling.

"Daemon, you have to teach me that," Cregan said with enthusiasm as he ran towards me.

"As I have said to you, Lord Stark, Daemon is here to continue the balance of his story, but not to teach you jumping. You have to be older to learn such things," Aethan said as he entered the godswood with a grin aimed at me.

I narrowed my eyes, and he grinned harder.

Cregan pouted, hearing that he had to be older to learn such things.

"Aethan is correct, which is a wonder in itself, Cregan. So, what was the important story you couldn’t wait for and wanted to disturb my training?"

Cregan pouted again, but then he grinned. "Please, Daemon, tell me what happened after the Steward-Prince tried to take the One Ring. I can’t wait anymore."

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It was only later that day that my grandfather had time to meet with me. I was summoned to the Lord’s Solar to report the happenings in King’s Landing.

"Daemon, you are a welcome sight for my sore eyes. The amount of work you have generated for me is truly huge, my son," Grandfather said tiredly.

I grinned mischievously. "Well, at least you don’t have to worry about the king's decision. I finally managed to overcome whatever block Maegor put in place and scry the meeting. It took several tries to correctly guess the day, but I succeeded."

"So, the rumors are true then. Your father did try to protect you. Interesting," Grandfather said curiously.

"No, he didn’t protect me. He was trying to appease his own guilt for disregarding his beloved Lyarra's son. He is a walking, talking bag of contradictions, and I suspect he is half mad," I said derisively.

My grandfather scoffed at that. "You don’t know him, Daemon. He can never be mad when he is so charming. He is still that, by all reports, even though for two years after your birth there were rumors of a drunken prince who gambled and whored like a dying man. But his rise to Master of Laws is not something done impulsively by the king. I must advise you to never disparage the royal family outside the North and give arrows to our enemies to point at you. Why should you antagonize them when the king himself has acknowledged you as his bastard grandson and atleast care for you enough to punish the people asking for grave punishment?"

I scoffed, "The Old King has no love for me and doesn’t care for me. You didn’t see the meeting, Grandfather. The king was only angry that someone dared to think to harm the blood of the dragon. Moreover, he was mad that they tried to use his beloved wife, who has not yet recovered from the death of Prince Gaemon. As for my father, let's agree to disagree. I don’t care enough to debate about him. Anyway, at the end of the day I am unpunished and our plan worked. The King preserved  his image as The Good King while  our acquisition of new gift is written off as a gift to his grandson.  The North will have some increased taxes for the next decade, and the king has proclaimed his blood is greater than everyone else's and that no one could judge his acknowledged blood other than the blood of the dragon."

 Suddenly, I smiled mischievously and continued, "That means I am beyond your authority and you couldn’t punish me at all, Grandfather."

Lord Stark snorted, "If you think you are beyond my reach, you are in for a rude awakening. We old folks always know how to make a lesson stick."

"Well, it is good that I don’t have any time for mischief that would lead to punishment then. My training is more important. I have almost reached the middle of the hot lake, and I can only stay there a little time before my body starts burning and I have to swim upwards," I said.

My grandfather's face showed displeasure at my harsh training, a major argument between us. "Daemon, take it easy, please. There is no need for such torture when you could gradually increase your abilities. You have said that you will live for a long time and the Long Night is still a hundred years away."

"As I have told you, there is no torture or pain when I can control my body and make it not feel the full pain by concentrating hard. I cannot depend on the visions; they change by my interference. Septon Barth was to be Hand till his death, but he has been dismissed. Similarly, what happens if the Others attack next winter?"

"Even then, be careful, Daemon," my grandfather warned. "You have to be in full health to fight in the first place. By the way you train, even with your godly abilities, I am afraid of losing you too."

I smiled at his concern. "Do not worry, Grandfather. I will be perfectly fine, and no amount of training could harm me permanently."

And it is true too. The limitless potential is truly a cheat, and my own healing has increased by all the training it gets put under. If my own wish was to have twenty percent of Wolverine's powers, it has developed to atleast twenty-five by now, which is, tremendous growth, as Wolverine has survived even nuclear bombs in hours.

"Can I be excused, Grandfather? I have to sleep after all," I said, as tiredness enveloped me.

Grandfather dismissed me with a wave of his hand. "Daemon, how do the Others' attacks start in your vision?" he asked suddenly as I reached the door.

"Well, it starts with the wildlings coming together for protection and fleeing as they lose entire villages," I answered, turning back to look at my grandfather. I saw him grimacing at my answer, and suddenly my heart started beating rapidly.

"What is it?" I hissed as panic enveloped me as doomsday scenario of Others coming to kill everyone early flashed in my mind. 

"There have been troubling reports of wildlings coming together beyond the Wall and attacking the remaining settlements in the Gift more than before. The frustrating thing is, they are not retreating; they remain hiding in the Gift and mountains. Earlier, we couldn’t do anything as they were not in our control, but since the Gift is now ours, we will have to do some hunting. I am planning to send Rickon with enough men to hunt down the wildlings."

I sighed in relief. "It is just normal wildlings. Nothing to worry about, Grandfather. If it were the Others becoming more active, they wouldn’t stop at the Gift; they would keep coming south to escape in fear."

Grandfather nodded in acceptance and dismissed me again.

79 AC

Lord Benjen Stark

Benjen Stark was contemplating several things while watching his grandson Daemon make a mockery of all the soldiers. Daemon's swordsmanship had increased tremendously, and his enhanced physical abilities made it a cakewalk for him.

He still couldn’t believe the things his grandson had achieved thus far. Benjen had been lauded as the greatest Lord Stark for increasing food reserves, introducing new grain, boosting trade, and even building a fleet. But the truth was, everything was inspired or suggested by his grandson. Lord Stark could still hear the smallfolk whisper about blessings from the Old Gods when he was not near. And who could blame them?

Daemon's blood and ideas about cleanliness had made a difference as significant as the Wall itself for the health of folks in Winterfell and Wintertown. He still couldn’t believe the improvement in even farm animals.

"Daemon is too good. I want to be like him, Grandfather," the voice of his other grandson interrupted his thoughts.

"So, you have again escaped the lesson with your uncle Bennard, Cregan. Why must you be so troublesome?" he asked tiredly.

Cregan just grinned at his grandfather and said, "As I said, I want to be like Daemon, and Uncle Bennard is such a boring man. It is very easy to escape with the help of my little friends."

Stark looked at the younger grandson curiously, as Cregan had no friends as of now. No heirs were fostered, and his friends were just Aethan and Daemon. He looked again and saw Cregan trying to be nonchalant as if he had uttered something to be kept secret.

Stark's face became stern, and he asked, "Little friends? Who are they, and why are they helping you to escape?"

Cregan pouted, knowing it would be impossible to say nothing. "It is the cats. They love me and allow me to see through their eyes. I use their senses to escape and hide."

Stark’s eyes widened as no one knew Cregan had developed warging at such a young age and with such power. Daemon grew into the power by training, but Cregan could already warg multiple animals. "Why have you not informed me, your father, or even Daemon about this?" Stark asked curiously.

Cregan looked down in worry and embarrassment. "I sort of saw some meetings between you and my father talking about how magic should be a secret, and even in Daemon's story, magic is a secret. So, I didn’t inform you. I am sorry, Grandfather."

Lord Stark looked at his grandson and sighed. "It seems you are also just like Daemon, exploring the unknown too early. Come on, let me tell you the basics of warging, and later Daemon can train you personally."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been almost one month since Cregan's ability was discovered, and now Benjen Stark was dealing with the temper tantrums of both his grandsons. He sighed in tiredness, remembering the argument he had with Daemon, who was adamant about going with Rickon to the Wall to deal with the wildlings in the Gift. Even though Daemon's argument of being almost invincible compared to the wildlings was correct, Benjen couldn’t allow a 12-year-old to go to a battlefield.

Cregan's temper tantrum was because his teachings had been stopped as he was busier now due to his heir being sent away.

"Grandfather, you should not deny me this. This is a chance for me to further train and to see where I stand regarding my abilities," Daemon said.

"Daemon, I told you already, you will not go to a battle until you are at least 16, an adult. This is not negotiable," Benjen Stark snapped.

"Grandfather, please, I feel something awful is going to happen. You must send me too, and I could scout better than any others. You know about my warging ability," Daemon said.

Benjen Stark looked at his grandson carefully and concluded that the warning was just a trick to see whether he would agree or not and nothing serious.

"Grandfather, you must continue the lessons. It is unfair that you stopped just because Father has to go and hunt some stupid wildlings," Cregan yelled.

He arrived at a solution. "Stop it. There shall be no more arguments from either of you. I have ordered what will happen, and it will happen so. In fact, Daemon, you will start teaching Cregan everything I have taught you."

"What?" Daemon yelled. "You want me to babysit?"

Cregan looked happy at the prospect of learning from Daemon but spluttered when he called him a baby.

"No. I want you to teach him the lessons I taught you in the Stark Vaults."

"Ah, I see. I will do as you say, Grandfather." Daemon nodded grudgingly knowing that no amount of tantrum will change his mind.

Benjen sighed in relief and prayed that Rickon would return soon after hunting the wildlings.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Gift

Months Later

 The Crowkiller

It had been months since their warband was allowed south of the Wall through Nightfort by one of the brothers of the Night’s Watch. It took all his control not to kill the Night’s Watchman on the spot. He loved killing crows more than even fucking a woman, but orders were orders, and even he was afraid of the leader of almost 7,000 wildling warriors with spies even in the Night’s Watch. He hated crows more than anyone in the world from the first crow he killed at the age of 10 when he saw the crow coming out of his mothers hut after killing her.

The leader was adamant that he must not be called King beyond the Wall, but only a normal clan leader. As far as Crowkiller was concerned, he would have followed the leader even to the Lands of Always Winter. But lately, as he rose in position, he came to know that the majority of the plans were made by a fucking crow. A betrayer of their oaths, more than that, he was an aged crow and was not named by anyone.

He knew there were more traitors in the Watch, as it was another brother who opened the gates of Nightfort, which no wildling knew about. His job was to harass and kill the kneelers and steal whatever they could throughout the Gift. The warband was very happy with the loot and women they stole. The majority of the women didn’t survive their hospitality.

It was nighttime, and they rested around a fire when a brother of the Night’s Watch arrived on horseback. How he knew them or why he was there was a mystery.

“Crowkiller, you have new orders from the Leader.”

Crowkiller looked furious at that. “What is it?”

“Heir Stark and a force of 200 mounted soldiers have arrived at the Wall for hunting you and other free folk in the Gift. You are to join with other raiders and arrive at Queenscrown the day after tomorrow morning. The sentries will be dealt with, and you are to kill every single Stark man there, including Heir Stark.”

“Well, Crowkiller has become rather old. Stark Slayer has a nice ring to it.” He said while wondering when and where other raiders entered and why he doesn’t see anything about them till now.

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Authors Note: while we wait for heir stark to arrive at the wall, let us see what some others are up to in;

 Chapter 14 : A Game of Magic

AFM 8

It was time to apply to UA, and Izuku was still angered that he had to cater to his father's insane plan. Standing before the most intelligent being, Nezu, and even All Might, who would be teaching at UA, the risk of exposing his abilities and AFO himself was rather high. With the choice taken out of his hands, he decided to utilize the situation to the maximum. He could never work within the official system as AFO envisioned, and turning to the so-called villainy seemed inevitable. The moment he believed he had a chance to escape from AFO’s influence or even damage him, he would take it and leave the hero system for the naive fools.

Achieving his goal of being free from the Titans and destroying what they achieved by creating his own version of society—one where everyone has freedom of choice and where discrimination based on the label of "villain" from a young age, due to appearance and quirk, is eradicated—would be very hard if he were just a villain. To influence the public and others, one needs an inspiring story. For all his faults, Bakugo’s claim that he would be the only one to pass to UA from their "shitty" school had some truth in it. At UA, Izuku would be the most heroic student of all, and his willingness to help others must be prominent.

Izuku knew that the moment the truth about his ability and father became known to heroes or the public, he would be persecuted by the HPSC and All Might. He wanted ordinary people to know that he tried to become a hero with all his heart and was thwarted by the corrupt system. He wanted the public to know he only became a supervillain because of the corrupted government, and even then, he would help the common man. Izuku knew the public loves an underdog story, and what’s more underdog than being a chess piece between two titans and their 200-year-old war? He knew that to achieve that status, he must build on the image he already had among the public. Even though he had never appeared in any public media, many forums had stories about him helping in hospitals and old age homes.

For that, he must be the highest scorer in the entrance test and be the speaker at the sports festival. He would have to use his powers very carefully to maintain the story of Boost. Izuku thought about the quirks he had acquired in the last two years using the Double quirk. Taking that quirk was the greatest help in his plans and path to power. Giran had come through, and the quirks he asked for were delivered. Individually, the quirks were not significant combat quirks, but collectively, they were on another level.

The ability of his All For Me to combine quirks was a godly gift. He had a hard limit of five simultaneous quirk uses as of now, and the ability to combine quirks permanently made it almost a non-issue. This was his ace up his sleeve and the improvement on his father’s quirk. Izuku had a single quirk called Elemental Fire, which he merged from five different fire-related quirks: Dabi's cremation copy, fire resistance copy, dragon breath, fire change (where he could change the fire's color and make it not burn), and fire manipulation. The merged quirk was green in color and powerful. Even though the cremation copy had reduced power, it was still almost Endeavor-level. Izuku got decent fire resistance outside and good fire resistance inside his chest, face, and mouth, along with the ability to control released fire. It made a very good combo and versatile fire quirk.

The reason Izuku went for fire first was Endeavor and other fire heroes. His physical weaknesses were covered by cell activation, but fire could overpower it if it was hot enough, and cremation was certainly hot enough if Dabi betrayed him in the future. Izuku’s Boost was his registered quirk, and he had merged night vision, stamina generation, and stockpile into it. Sadly, even with a stamina quirk and all the training, Izuku’s threshold for fight time was low. Maintaining five different quirks was very hard in terms of energy consumption.

Izuku was looking for a healing quirk and discovered a cell manipulation quirk in a hero, but it worked only in blood type A. He looked into the hero's son and discovered that his son had the same quirk but worked on everyone. Izuku portaled to Nabu Island. The dangerous thing about cell activation was that it could harm him if enough energy or nutrients were not in his body. It would eat through his body while keeping him alive. Izuku got a copy of a quirk that let him generate energy through kinetic movements. This was a very important quirk as it allowed him to generate and store energy. He merged this with Boost.

Then there were the utility quirks. Pocket gave him a small room as a pocket dimension. Double acted as a support quirk too, as he could create non-living things as well. Izuku acquired five mental quirks: brainwashing, empathy, high-speed thought, perfect memory, and parallel processing. He merged all of them into brainwashing and received many benefits. His thinking speed and planning increased drastically, and he could predict the movements of his enemies almost accurately. At least this made the usage of Double very easy. Izuku considered this his most important quirk, as the parallel processing and high-speed thought, along with mental boost, made him behave as others expected. This one helped him play the role of obedient but slightly rebellious teenager in front of his father. The perfect memory helped him recall every bit of the lies he had told to sell his act.

The only way Izuku could add so many quirks with his drawback of adaptation time was by using a quirk in Tomura. Tomura had two quirks: a minor adaptation one and Decay. Izuku created a clone of Tomura and took the weak adaptation quirk for himself. The adaptation quirk was the longest one in Tomura’s body and answered how he became so strong with such a skinny body. The adaptation quirk increased the body's natural adaptation to increased stress to very high levels. There is a reason Endeavor could throw a car when his quirk had nothing to do with strength. Every night, Izuku snatched a quirk and slept, keeping Minor Adaptation and merged Boost active, allowing his body to adapt to the quirk strain more quickly. Cell Activation also boosted adaptation, as the body healed by cell activation became stronger and took much more damage to injure it similarly. So, Izuku even used cell activation after every training session to make his body stronger. Interestingly, there was no light when he used Cell Activation on himself, and even his father couldn’t see the quirk being used, even with his plethora of sensory quirks.

Izuku knew he would easily pass the written exam, and the practical would be easy as his registered quirk was a physical one. It still made him angry that even with all his practice and quirks, he was still a "Deku" in front of the Titans. Only the knowledge that he was constantly moving towards achieving his revenge stopped him from just snapping and killing Tomura just to have a short revenge on his father, who was basing many of his plans on that insane man-child.

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Principal Nezu

Nezu sat in his office, sipping tea while contemplating various scenarios using his high-spec quirk. For the last four years, Japanese society had been thriving. Nezu and Sir Nighteye orchestrated the 'Might Speech,' which the Number One Hero delivered with his signature passion and charisma. This 'Might Movement,' All Might's brainchild conceived during a public meet, was a resounding success, assisting many people despite some frivolous calls from fans wanting to speak to All Might himself.

However, Nezu was now preoccupied with what the "demoness" might be planning as revenge. For four years, the approval ratings for commission-sponsored heroes had plummeted. The public was starting to think for themselves, and the lack of real punishment for the three heroes involved in the Midoriya incident had sparked significant backlash against both the commission and the heroes. Even Nezu was puzzled by the demoness's protection of those heroes.

Nezu's attention turned to an application for the Hero Course from an unexpected student: Midoriya Izuku, the catalyst of the Might Movement and the true victim of the Midoriya incident. The application was noteworthy, boasting one of the highest scores in Japan across all subjects for the past three years and an excellent essay on the essence of heroism. The prose was of a caliber akin to college-level work, with an underlying arrogance and unwavering belief in his acceptance into the Hero Course. Nezu would have been eager to accept and mentor this interesting and intelligent kid if it was the first time he was hearing about him. But it wasn't. For the past four years, Izuku had been a person of interest, and Nezu had tried to follow the boy to find answers to his ever-increasing questions.

Nezu had identified Izuku on I-Island as the new owner of a 10% share under a different name. It was fortuitous that Nezu was on I-Island for a board meeting. Seeing the kid with white hair, red eyes, and aristocratic features bewildered him.  Nezu had then stalked Izuku through official records, social media, and security cameras across Japan. He even created a virus to alert him whenever Izuku's face was identified by any security camera. The results were perplexing.  The virus revealed that Izuku was remarkably elusive, often keeping to the shadows, his head low, and his shoulders slouched, making him almost invisible to cameras. Any time he was visible was the time he spent helping voluntarily in Old age homes and hospitals. How he managed the overseers there to allow a child to work there is another matter entirely and Nezu has no answer for it. 

Upon returning to Japan, Nezu delved deeper into the name Izuku used on I-Island. Surprisingly, there was almost nothing. For three generations, the same pattern emerged: reclusive, intelligent, private study, no public appearances, and minimal digital footprint except for bank transactions with I-Island. It was all too perfect, raising more questions than answers.

Izuku's registered quirk was 'Boost,' enhancing both mind and body. The mental boost was so significant that he could manipulate small objects psychically. Nezu, a quirk counselor and teacher for countless years, had never encountered such a quirk. No mental quirk had ever combined telekinesis and pure mental power. With his intellect, Izuku should have telepathy or at least some telekinesis. Another question without answers.

Then there was Hisashi Midoriya. Careful digging revealed no digital footprint or photos. His registered quirk was Dragon Breath. He hadn't been to Japan in ten years but booked a flight within an hour of the Midoriya incident. After a week, he left again, leaving no further details. Another question without answers.

A ten-year-old Izuku had shown a potent killing intent and hatred towards heroes during the Midoriya incident. Nezu recognized the look in Midoriya's eyes, similar to his own when he swore revenge against the scientists who mutilated and experimented on him. True to his oath, he had his revenge, with only the person who approved the experiments remaining. Nezu wondered if Izuku was scheming revenge, otherwise why change his decision? Another question without answers.

Despite finishing his tea, Nezu couldn't reach a conclusion. Thousands of scenarios flashed through his mind, but none seemed correct. He even considered the absurd notion of Izuku being the secret son of All For One, seeking revenge for his father's death. Nezu snorted and dismissed the idea as fiction created by his high-spec quirk.

Nezu decided to call on his vice principal and weapon against any enemies, the Eraser Hero: Eraserhead. Aizawa was scouted and trained in observation and analysis by Nezu. It was Nezu who arranged for the underground hero to train Aizawa, and after he gained experience, Nezu kept him close as a strategic asset. "Mr. Aizawa, please come to my office immediately," Nezu announced over the comms.

"What is it, Sir? Make it quick. I have a nap to get to," Aizawa said, irritated.

"Ah, it seems your hour of sleep is over. Come read this applicant for next year's Hero Course," Nezu said with a cackle.

Eraserhead read Midoriya Izuku's application and was impressed but couldn't forget the scene from two years ago. "How can a person who won't save someone about to commit suicide become a hero? Accept him now. At least then we can see if his arrogance and belief are warranted and assess his current skill level. If he passes the exam with more villain points, reject him. More rescue points, then only accept him."

Nezu smiled. "Interesting, very interesting. I didn't even show you my well-founded reasons for non-approval, and you're already almost rejecting him. What happened two years ago on that rooftop?"

Eraserhead explained the situation, and Nezu's eyes gleamed with fondness and cruelty only a predator could have. "Thank you for sharing this, Aizawa. I have decided to accept him, and when he passes the Hero Entrance Test, he will be your student," Nezu said gleefully.

Aizawa was outraged. "Didn't you hear a word I said? He has no respect for the lives of others and is suffering from many traumas. It's a textbook case of turning to villainy. At least follow my plan."

"Oh, Aizawa, I heard and understood what you said. It will be more dangerous if he is rejected and turns to vigilantism or villainy. His mindset is very similar to mine. With the revenge and hatred he showed in the Midoriya incident video against the three buffoons on the scene and heroes in general, it's like a mini-me turning to villainy. The hatred he showed is akin to my own against those who experimented on me. Even now, I have many unanswered questions about him, all painting a dangerous picture. We should at least try to steer him right before cutting ties. Maybe he will turn a new leaf, like I did. I won't reject him like All Might did to him. I owe the hero society and the man who took me in that much. If he rejects this opportunity and harms my students, then there will be hell to pay," Nezu said with open honesty and weariness.

Eraserhead was stunned. This rare moment of openness from the Rat God revealed his exhaustion. Aizawa could see the overwhelming details of the Midoriya case. Individually, they were innocent and unimportant, but collectively, they painted a worrying picture. Eraserhead nodded in acceptance and started to leave.

"Ah, Aizawa, you are not allowed to expel him. All details should go through me. Only I have that power," Nezu said with a cackle, and Eraserhead cursed the Rat God in his mind as he walked out of his shrine.