At that, Daemon's smile turned dangerous, and his hand drifted to the hilt of Dark Sister.
Maester Red hurried forward, his chain links clinking. "My lords, I beg you, calm yourselves. Consider the courtesies between guest and host..."
Daemon released the sword hilt and, unexpectedly, laughed. There was a note of genuine appreciation in it.
"Ah, now that is a Stark," he said, shaking his head. "At least you dare to say it. You dare speak truth to my face. Not like those southron cravens who only whisper slanders behind a man's back."
He walked to a long table where a pot of mulled ale and several stone cups sat. Daemon poured himself a measure, tossed it back, his throat working.
"You're right, Lord Cregan." Daemon wiped his mouth and set the cup down with a soft thump. "Some of us Targaryens are exactly that. Proud. Wrathful. Mad, and holding rules as dust. Maegor the Cruel was such. I am such. And Aemond has become more so. But do you know where that arrogance comes from?"
He paused, his purple eyes fixing on the young lord. "Because a Targaryen can truly do what mortal men cannot. Aegon the Conqueror, my ancestor, took the Seven Kingdoms with his three-headed dragon. Why? Not because the Starks, the Lannisters, the Darklyns, the Manderlys, the Storm Kings were weak. Because the dragon changes every rule of war. A thousand knights and ten thousand footmen are nothing to a dragon's flame."
Cregan was silent. The rain had softened now to a fine drizzle. The young lord turned back to the high seat but did not sit. Instead, he looked up at the greatsword Ice, the blade of House Stark, hanging on the wall.
"What would you have me do, my prince?" Cregan asked, not turning, his voice echoing in the hall.
"Raise your banners," Daemon said, his tone turning serious. "Not to march on King's Landing. Not yet. I would have you, as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, send a formal petition to King's Landing. A request to see the king. To confirm the health and freedom of Viserys the First."
Cregan turned. "They may refuse."
"Then all the better," Daemon smiled. "If the Greens refuse, does that not prove to the realm that His Grace is held captive and they usurp his authority? Then it will not only be the North. The Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands—every lord who chafes under Green rule will have their pretext. So long as they will not let us see the king, every decree of Queen Alicent's regency is built on sand. We need more than swords, Lord Stark. We need a righteous cause."
"Have you sounded the other kingdoms?"
"House Arryn of the Vale—Lady Jeyne, Rhaenyra's cousin, has pledged her support. The old Lord Tully of Riverrun leans Green, but his sons favor us. Lord Borros Baratheon of the Stormlands was our friend for many years, and he has no love for the Hightowers lording it over the Red Keep."
Daemon stepped closer. "Cregan, this is not merely a quarrel within House Targaryen. It is a choice for the future of the Seven Kingdoms."
Cregan closed his eyes, thinking. The fire had burned lower. Maester Red stirred the logs with iron tongs, and the flames rose again, illuminating the young lord's face.
"If I agree to send an emissary to King's Landing," Cregan said at last, opening his eyes; they held decision. "I need assurances."
"Name them."
"I need the combined word of the other three realms. Not the North alone, but emissaries of all four—North, Vale, Riverlands, Stormlands—traveling together. In the name of defending the peace of the Seven Kingdoms, we request to see the king and confirm the authenticity of his decrees."
Daemon's smile widened, genuine warmth in it. "A wise move. I have already sent riders to the three kingdoms you named. Within a month, the representatives of four kingdoms can meet at King's Landing."
"Lastly," Cregan met Daemon's gaze directly, his eyes like grey steel. "If... if it proves the king is indeed of sound mind. That all decrees are his own, and Aemond merely acts on command? If this is truly King Viserys's will?"
Daemon's eyes grew shadowed. "Then I will go to the Iron Throne myself and kneel. I will take Rhaenyra and the children east, and never return to Westeros."
He paused, his voice dropping. "But you know that will not happen, Cregan. I know my brother. We grew up together. He might name Aegon his heir—he did. But he would never stand idle while his grandsons were butchered. He would never disinherit and attack my daughter Rhaenyra's birthright."
Cregan drew a long breath. "Good," he said, his voice firm in the silence. "In one month, I will send an emissary to King's Landing. But first, I must see the formal letters from the other three lords. With their seals. With the same demand."
"Naturally." Daemon nodded.
The negotiation was done. The atmosphere in the hall eased somewhat. Daemon sat again, and servants brought stew and dark bread. The northern diet was plain and hardy—turnips and onions floating in a rich broth, bread so hard it could knock on the table, but hearty when sopped in the stew, driving the chill from the bones.
"I hear your lady wife is with child," Daemon said casually, tearing bread.
Cregan paused, knife and fork stilling over his plate. "Yes. Three months. The maester says it will be a strong babe."
"Congratulations," Daemon said sincerely, raising his cup. "The Stark line endures in the North. That is a blessing for the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of the wolf never falters."
The young lord's grey eyes sharpened with suspicion. "What do you mean to say, my prince?"
Daemon set down his knife and folded his hands on the table. "Rhaenyra is also with child," he said, and there was an unfamiliar softness in his voice.
Cregan understood. Marriage alliances—the oldest way of the Andals since they came to Westeros.
"The blood of the wolf is worthy of a true dragon," Daemon continued, serious now. "My son, or Rhaenyra's child in her belly—boy or girl..."
Maester Red started to speak, then stopped, his chain links whispering. The old maester knew what this meant. With such a match, the North would be bound irrevocably to the Targaryen civil war. No neutrality left. Eight thousand years of Stark rule might end—or reach for the highest power yet.
Cregan was silent a long time. He looked at the hearth fire, at the tapestries of his ancestors on the walls—kings who had led the North through the Long Night and survived. The flames danced in his eyes, light and shadow shifting across his young face as if he saw futures in the blaze.
"The child is not yet born," Cregan said slowly at last, each word weighed. "It is too early to speak of marriage. In the North, our way is to see a man's measure before we seal a contract." He paused. "But a Stark will consider all paths that serve the North's future."
It was enough. Daemon knew that for a northman, to not refuse outright was the greatest sincerity. These children of the First Men gave their word sparingly—but once given, it was iron.
Supper ended in a relatively peaceful atmosphere. Daemon was shown to a guest tower, with a warm fire and a bed piled high with soft furs. But he could not sleep. He rose, went to the stone window, unbarred the shutters, and looked out at the Winterfell night. The rain had stopped. Stars glittered in the black sky.
"My prince." An old voice behind him.
Daemon did not turn. Maester Red. The silent, watchful old man. The soft clink of his chain was distinct in the quiet room.
"What counsel does the maester offer?" Daemon asked, still gazing outward.
Red approached the window, an aged hand resting on the cold stone. "Lord Cregan is young," the maester said slowly. "But he is no fool. His father taught him, before he died—a Stark's duty is to defend the northern folk, not to entangle himself in the quarrels of the south. For eight thousand years, that has kept the Starks honored in the North."
"So you oppose his decision."
"I remind him of the risks." Red turned his head; his dim eyes were unusually clear in the darkness. "Prince Daemon, what you said tonight—the king held captive, decrees forged, Aemond seizing power. How much of that is fact... and how much is conjecture? Rumor?"
Daemon smiled. Dealing with clever men was easy, especially old men from the Citadel.
"Seven parts fact, three parts conjecture," he admitted, turning to face the maester. "Viserys is gravely ill. I have not seen him preside over a council meeting sober in half a year. That is fact. Alicent serves as regent, and all decrees bear her signature. That is also fact. Aemond commands the King's Landing garrisons, and the city watch answers to him. Fact. As for whether the king is drugged, whether decrees are forged—from what I know of my brother, it is truth beyond doubt."
"And the battle at Dragonstone?" Maester Red asked curiously.
Daemon's eyes darkened. "That battle... it surprised us all. Those dragonseeds Jace raised, those bastards with thin dragon's blood. But Aemond... that madman actually leapt from Vhagar's back onto Bronze Fury in mid-air, while the two dragons fought at speed, and ran him through with his own blade."
The old maester gasped, his chains rattling. "A mid-air leap? That is... that is suicide. A death wish."
"It is a death-seeking madness," Daemon agreed, his voice low. "But he succeeded. And Aemond himself does not fear death. Worse—he believes he will not die. A madman who cares nothing for his own life—what care has he for others?"
He faced Red fully, violet eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Maester, you have read history. You forged many links at the Citadel. You know what madmen the Targaryens have bred. Maegor the Cruel—he slew his nephew, butchered the Faith Militant, and died alone on the Iron Throne. Aemond—he may be more dangerous than Maegor. Because he is not only mad. He is cunning, and patient. I was a madman myself. I know."
Red was silent a long while, only his breath whispering in the room.
"So you hope the North will stop him."
"I hope all who still have conscience and foresight in the Seven Kingdoms will stop him," Daemon said. "Not for Rhaenyra. Not for me. For the future of Westeros. A prince who at sixteen dared kinslaying, drowned High Tide in blood, took Dragonstone—when he has unchecked power over the Seven Kingdoms, what do you think he will do?"
The old maester did not answer. The answer was too obvious. Too terrible.
"I will counsel my lord to be cautious," Maester Red said at last, weariness in his voice. "But the decision is his. House Stark has served the North for eight thousand years—from the Long Night to the dawn, from Kings in the North to Wardens of the Seven Kingdoms. I trust Lord Cregan will choose what serves the North best. Even if that choice means many may never see this frozen homeland again."
He bowed, his chain links whispering, turned, and left. His footsteps faded slowly down the stone corridor.