The wind struck fiercely as the horses descended the old Kingsroad. The snow had been left behind days ago, and the air no longer smelled of ice but of damp earth and smoke from distant villages.
Daron Snow rode in silence, wrapped in a black cloak trimmed with gray, the Stark emblem discreetly embroidered on his brooch. Beside him rode eight men of the North, personally chosen by Lord Stark: two minor knights, four veteran soldiers, a young stable boy, and Maester Gawen, who had insisted on accompanying him for part of the journey.
"You could show a bit of excitement, boy," Gawen grumbled as they took a dangerous turn. "Not every day does one receive a direct invitation from the King of the Seven Kingdoms."
Daron rolled his eyes, not out of annoyance but because of how ridiculous it all sounded.
"Should I be excited to go serve wine to a man I do not yet respect?"
"He is King Viserys Targaryen!" Gawen countered. "Of the blood of the dragon."
Daron allowed himself a barely visible smile.
"So am I."But he did not say it.
Sometimes he forgot that no one else knew. That they could not see the truth burning beneath his skin. That he was not just Daron Snow, a bastard of the North, but the son of Baelon the Brave—father of Viserys and Daemon—and a Stark lady. A secret sealed by time… and by blood.
A secret he himself would not have believed, if not for the memories that still haunted him in dreams: trains, cell phones, electric lights, television series… and the Dance of the Dragons, the story he knew better than anyone.
And now, he was inside it.
In a village at the foot of the riverlands' hills, the group made a brief stop. Daron dismounted without a word and approached a group of peasants arguing heatedly near a well.
"What is the problem?" he asked calmly.
One of the men, his face hardened by work and distrust, glanced at him sideways.
"Riverren wants to raise taxes on water use. Says this is Tully land, but my grandparents dug this well."
Daron nodded, taking no sides.
"And what was the original agreement?"
"That we could use it as long as we paid a tenth of our harvests."
"Then make it official. Signed. Sealed by a septon if necessary. If you're going to live under a lord, best to know how he fastens his chains."
The peasant blinked, surprised by the response.
"Are you a lord?"
Daron smiled.
"Not yet. But I'm not as stupid as I look."
He returned to his horse while Gawen watched him, half amused, half concerned.
"You speak as if you were older than me."
"I am."
Two days later, in a dense forest not far from Harrenhal, the trees began whispering things that were not the wind.
One of the soldiers raised his hand.
"Halt. Silence."
The group stopped.
Then, they emerged. Five men. Poorly armed, with rusted swords, sun-hardened skin, and hungry eyes. They bore no banner. Only intentions.
"Hand over your bags, and no one dies," said the one who seemed to be the leader.
"How classic," Daron sighed, dismounting.
One of the northern knights stepped forward, but Daron stopped him with a hand.
"They're just five. Leave them to me."
"You alone?" Gawen asked, scandalized.
"Yes."
He unfastened his cloak. It fell to the ground with a whisper.
Daron unsheathed his sword with elegance. It was not a heavy, crude northern blade but a fine castellan steel blade, perfectly balanced to his measure. He had named it Swiftflame, for its speed. It was not Valyrian steel. But in his hands, it might as well have been.
The first bandit fell without understanding what had cut him. The second defended himself better, but Daron's thrust went straight to his throat.
The third tried to flee. Daron severed his Achilles tendon with cruel precision.
The fourth and fifth surrendered.
Daron looked at them with the eyes of someone who had already lived too many lives.
"You may run. If I see you again, you die."
The men fled like rats.
No one in his retinue said a word. They only watched him. Some with admiration. Others with fear.
Gawen murmured,
"You fight like Ser Calros the Swift, the swordsman of the tales. They said he could cut a hair in the air."
Daron wiped his sword with a cloth, indifferent.
"Ser Calros was a legend. I have centuries of stories in my head."
That night, they slept at a roadside inn along the Kingsroad. The place smelled of tobacco, damp wood, and onion stews. Daron settled in the room farthest from the common hall, ordered hot wine, and shut the door.
And then he dreamed.
The room faded. The world turned to mist. And in the middle of the fog… green eyes.
Not just any green. A deep, reptilian green, gleaming like gems beneath the moonlight.
And then, a voice. Feminine. Distant. Ancient.
"Daron..."
He tried to move, but he was paralyzed.
"Fire… ice… blood… betrayal."
The words burned like embers in his chest.
"Awaken… and choose."
He woke up drenched in sweat. Outside, it was raining.
He crossed his arms, breathing deeply, feeling his heart pounding.
He told no one.Because Daron trusted no one.
Because in the game of dragons, secrets were weapons… and he did not plan to unsheathe his so soon.
The next morning, as they rode in silence, Gawen asked,
"Did you sleep well?"
Daron glanced at him and nodded.
"I dreamed of ancient things."
And as the sun rose over the hills and King's Landing appeared on the horizon, Daron Snow knew that nothing would ever be simple again.Not for him.Not for the dragons that still slept in the court.
_ _
Did you like this chapter?Support this fanfiction for more!