Full Synopsis:
What if you were born again after death? What if you become the very thing you expected to see at the end of the tunnel? Believe in something great, something divine, but somehow "IT" never greeted you upon death. What if you could gain that power? What would you do with it? Bound peasants to the lands of dragons? Make Kings kneel before you? Spill the blood of traitors? Lay with the enemy?
My name is Daemon from House Stark, second in line to the throne, and son of Eddard and Catelyn Stark.
Winter is coming.
Chapter One
The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a clarity that hinted at the end of the summer. We set out at dawn to see a man get his head cut off, there were twenty of us, and I rode among them, excited. Why? I do not know. It was the first time I was considered old enough to go with my father and brothers to see the King's justice. And it was the tenth summer of my new life.
Dying was a bitch.
But I remember everything.
I was merely 16 years old when men broke into our house. I got home one evening to find my mother and my sister murdered in the living room covered in a pool of blood next to my Game of Thrones collection. I heard noise upstairs and hid in the bathroom but I guess that was too cliché and they found me. They gutted me like a fish and let me bleed to death near my family. My father had died the year before from overdose, so I was the only man in the house. And I …did nothing. How could I? I couldn't do shit. But now I was someone different. I have a new life ahead and my old one doesn't exist anymore. It's not like I could wish to go back there and kill them all with an army at my side.
But that was the past. My present is, Daemon of House Stark, and we rode off to a little regiment in the hills where the man they were going to execute was held. The man who was to be executed today waited in the distance cover in black. Was he one of many who sworn their sword to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall?
Or was he part of the Night's Watch?
I was ten years old, so I couldn't meddle in the affairs of adults. Old Nan used to tell me that the Wildlings were cruel men, slavers, and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children. Her bedtime stories were nightmare driven, but ironically true, partially anyway.
At our arrival the man bound was older than my brothers and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears to frostbite as well as one of his fingers, and wear the robes of a brother of the Night's Watch, except that his furs was tattered and oily.
The breath of the men and horses mingled, smoking, in the cold morning air as my father had him cut from the wall and dragged before us. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, and I was between them on my pony, trying to look older that I appeared. The may think that I was trying to pretend that I had seen it all before, but that was far off from the truth.
But they don't need to know that.
An obscure wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf raced across an ice-white field. My father sat majestically on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. Exactly like the TV show, I never notice before, but all from House Stark of Winterfell appeared to be portrayed by the actors.
It was odd.
There were many questions asked and answers given in the chill of morning, but it was not of interest to me. I wanted this to be over, so I could go home to my bed. Finally my father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. My father dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy, my bastard stepbrother of sort, brought forth the sword.
"Ice," the sword was called. It was as wide across as a man's hand, as and taller even than brother Robb.
The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel. I had my eye on that material. Steel that remained sharp forever without the need for honing, aside from its sharpness, Valyrian steel was recognizable by its striking power and light weight in comparison to ordinary steel, and from the distinctive rippled pattern visible in blades made from it. It is one of the few known substances that can kill White Walkers after all. One that is accessible to me on Westeros.
My father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He lifted the great-sword high above his head.
My bastard brother, or better said half-cousin, Jon Snow moved closer.
"Keep the pony well in hand," he whispered. "And don't look away. Father will know if you do."
"I won't." I said.
My father took off the man's head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as surnmerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting. I could not take my eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as I relieved the memories of my past life once more.
The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy's feet. Theon laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away. "Ass," Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear. He put a hand on my shoulder, and I looked over at his bastard brother. "You did well," Jon said calmly. Jon was seventeen, an old hand at justice.
It seemed colder on the long journey back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. I rode with my brothers, far ahead of the main group, my pony fighting hard to keep up with the horses.
"The deserter died bravely," Robb said. "He had courage, at the least."
"No," Jon Snow said quietly. "It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes."
Robb was not impressed. "The Others take his eyes," he swore. "He died well. Race you to the bridge?"
"Done," Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail. I did not try to follow. My pony could not keep up. I preferred to think about the future and what awaited us all. The Night King was coming and many will die by the end of all of this, if only I had the power to prevent it. After a while, the sound of Robb's laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.
Perfect, I prefer the silence.
I was so deep in thought that I never heard the rest of the party until my father moved up to ride beside me. "Are you well, Dan?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Yes, Father," I told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse, my father loomed over me like a giant. "Robb said the man died bravely, but Jon argued that he was afraid."
"What do you think?" my father asked.
I tried to remember what Bran would have said in this situation but failed, after all, Bran was never born in this world. I was. So I replied, "Both?"
"That is the only time a man can be brave," my father said, "Do you understand why I did it?"
"He was a criminal," I said. "Justice had to be done."
My father starred. "Yes and no. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it."
I had no answer for that, "King Robert has a headsman," I said, uncertainly.
"He does," my father admitted. "As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
One day, Daemon, you will be Robb's bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."
"I understand." A lie of course, I was a Stark by fate, not by choice. I was not going to sit and watch as Robb became King and I his bannerman, ridiculous. And then Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill. He waved and shouted down at us. "Father, Daemon, come quickly, see what Robb has found!" Then he was gone again.
Jory rode up beside them. "Trouble, my lord?"
"Beyond a doubt," father said. "Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now." He sent his horse into a trot. I, Jory and the rest came after. We found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. I knew what came next, Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the others talked in hushed, excited voices.
The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach my brothers. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. I heard the breath go out of him. "Gods!" he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.
Jory's sword was already out. "Robb, get away from it!" he called as his horse reared under him. Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. "She can't hurt you," he said. "She's dead, Jory."
I was afire with curiosity, the sight of a direwolf for the first time and besides my father made me dismount by the bridge and approach on foot anyway. By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. "What in the seven hells is it?" Greyjoy was saying.
"A wolf," Robb told him.
"A freak," Greyjoy said. "Look at the size of it."
I was smiling as we pushed through a waist-high drift next to my brother Jon.
Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman's perfume. I glimpsed at blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. It was disgusting in real life. But it was the size of it that made me gasp. It was bigger than my pony, twice the size of the largest hound in my father's kennel. The perfect fantasy mounts, if trained.
"It's no freak," Jon said. "That's a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind."
Theon Greyjoy said, "There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years."
"I see one now," Jon replied.
I tore my eyes away from the direwolf. That was when I noticed the bundle in Robb's arms. I smiled with delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb's chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. I reached out hesitantly.
"Go on," Robb told me. "You can touch him."
I gave the pup a quick stroke, and then turned as Jon said, "Here you go." My half-brother half-cousin put a second pup into my arms. "There are five of them." He said. I sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to my face. Its fur was soft and warm against my cheek.
"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not."
"It is a sign," Jory said. Father frowned. "This is only a dead animal, Jory," he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. "Do we know what killed her?"
"There's something in the throat," Robb said, proud to have found the answer before father even asked. "There, just under the jaw."
Father knelt and groped under the beast's head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.
A sudden silence descended over us. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Even I could sense their fear, though I did not understand. Father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. "I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp," he said. His voice broke the spell.
"Maybe she didn't," Jory said. "I've heard tales . . . maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came."
"Born with the dead," another man put in. "Worse luck."
"No matter," said Hullen. "They be dead soon enough too."
"No," I gave a cry of dismay.
"The sooner the better," Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword, "Give the beast here, Daemon." The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood. I couldn't give it away! This was a weapon! "No!" I cried out fiercely this time.
"It's mine."
"Put away your sword, Greyjoy," Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as father, like the lord he would someday be, if it was not for his sudden death at the wedding... "We will keep these pups."
"You cannot do that, boy," said Harwin, who was Hullen's son.
"It be a mercy to kill them," Hullen said. I looked to father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. "Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation."
"No!" I could feel tears welling in my eyes, and looked away. I did not want to cry in front of father, but it was all an act that I practice for before today, just in case of course. I needed that direwolf no matter what.
Robb resisted stubbornly. "Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week," he said. "It was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk enough."
"She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse."
"Lord Stark," Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. I looked at him with desperate hope. "There are five pups," he told Father. "Three male, two female."
"What of it, Jon?"
"You have five trueborn children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."
I saw father's face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, I understood what my brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own. But for Jon that was not the case, father held his secret very tightly.
Father seemed concerned, "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" he asked softly.
"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," Jon pointed out. "I am no Stark, Father."
Jon was something much greater, a secret that father will take to the grave. Father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence and left. "I will nurse him myself, Father," he promised. "I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that."
"Me too!" I echoed.
Father long at us carefully with his eyes. "Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"
I nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.
"You must train them as well," father said. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"
"Yes, Father," I said.
"Yes," Robb agreed.
"The pups may die anyway, despite all you do."
"They won't die," Robb said. "We won't let them die."
"Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell."
It was not until they were mounted and on their way that I allowed myself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, my pup was snuggled inside my leathers, warm against me, safe for the long ride home. I was wondering what to name him.
Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.
"What is it, Jon?" father asked.
"Can't you hear it?"
I could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of my hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else. Even if I couldn't hear it from this far away, I knew exactly who he was about to find. I smiled.
"There," Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. We watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to us, smiling.
"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.
"Or been driven away," father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. I thought curious that this pup alone opened his eyes while the others were still blind.
"An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others."
Jon Snow gave father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."
We spend the rest of the day in the kitchen at Winterfell, arguing about names for the wolf pups. My sister, Arya, was already in love, and Sansa my eldest was charmed and gracious, but Rickon my little brother, was not quite sure. It was a lot to lay on a six year old. But how am I kidding, I am only ten.
Robb, and Jon weren't with us, and the others left for the dining table. I was left behind day dreaming about lemon cakes. Lemon cakes were a relatively expensive treats enjoyed by upper-class noblewomen of the Seven Kingdoms, mostly serve at noble courts, and also Sansa's favorite type of cake. I didn't have a taste for them, but I wanted something sweet, so why not a lemon cake.
Unfortunately they hadn't made any kind of cake at all yet. That made me angry. I went back to the table with my brothers and sisters and imagined when I could eat a lemon cake again.
I think I lied.
I did like them!
I shouldn't have imagined Lemon Cakes so much since the next thing that happened was something out of this world. Well, I was an outworlder in Westeros. Is that even a word?
"Daemon, look! Lemon cakes!" Arya said, running at me. She pulled my arm to join them at the table.
"What? Where did all these come from?" I asked in that moment of disbelief. The table was filled with lemon cakes in four rows all the way down to the end.
"They just appeared out of nowhere," said Sansa in shook. "Father needs to see this."
Arya wasted no time at all to make mischief. "At least we have enough lemon cake to throw at Sansa's girlfriend!" She replied muddying Sansa's dress in lemon cake.
"Arya!" Sansa barked storming out of the room, and Reckon couldn't hold his laughter.
"W-What who is Rhea?" I voiced clumsily remembering that name the moment I tried to imagined who Arya spoke of.
"Rhea? Rhea Baratheon! Who else dummy?" Arya uttered.
Wait. Sansa was supposed to be fifteen years old when she met Joffrey in the Game of Thrones TV-show, but here she is a year older than Arya. I never paid much attention to the little details growing up in this world, but isn't Joffrey sixteen? Wouldn't he be twelve too in this reality? And who the fuck was Rhea Baratheon?