Harrenhal
Daeron had to admit that the cursed castle of Westeros was indeed monstrous in size. Larger even than Winterfell—a surprise, considering how vast Winterfell truly was. He had struggled to explore every nook of that keep, even with Jon's memories to guide him, and yet Harrenhal before him made Rickon's seat look small, which is currently under the administration of Sansa. Magic bless the souls of both Winterfell and Wintertown.
At last, Daeron and his host had reached the blackened ruin, with one new addition, Willem Rivers at his side and only a few loyal supporters of the man—men who still saw him as the last blood of Darry. Daeron had not yet legitimized him, for it was Willem's wish that such an act be done before all the Riverlords, and so here they were. The march from Castle Darry had been swift, for Daeron had left within hours of his arrival, after giving what little food he could to the handful of souls left in the charred husk of Plowman's village.
The gates of Harrenhal, vast as the Great Hall of Winterfell, groaned as they opened, straining on their ancient hinges, until the black stone keep of Harren the Black stood revealed in all its grim majesty. Daeron was struck silent for a moment, shocked and mesmerized by its scale. The towers might not rival the tallest skyscrapers he had seen in his past life, but they were no shorter than most of them—and that alone was staggering, for these walls were raised without the aid of any magic or machine, in an age when catapults were still considered the pinnacle of siegecraft. This world had yet to birth a mind like Johannes Gutenberg, Nicolaus Copernicus, Leonardo da Vinci, Francis Bacon, Isaac Newton, or the many others who had made life easier, brighter, and filled with luxuries that even the lords of this land could scarcely dream of. These people—be they smallfolk, merchants, lords, or kings—would never know the joy of mindless hours wasted scrolling TikTok.
Anyway.
Daeron was still turning his head in every direction, taking in the sight of the ruin, when he noticed Arthur staring at the keep with melancholy written plain on his face. Daeron sighed and asked, "What troubles you now, Ser?"
Arthur started at his words, then quickly smoothed his expression, though an apologetic look lingered. "I apologise, Your Grace. It is only … this is where it all began, when instead this place ought to have been remembered as the hall where the realm's fate turned for the better. At least, that was the plan."
Tormund and the other Free Folk chieftains, along with the Northern and Vale lords nearby, all looked thoroughly baffled at Arthur's meaning.
"I know not what you speak of, give two fucks about it, and don't want to know either," Tormund barked, slapping Arthur's back. "But I'll give you this, southerner—you're a dumb cunt for mourning what's long dead. Time's done, folk are gone, and I'll wager the gods don't want you whining like a milk-drunk babe instead of living. So quit brooding, old cunt."
Arthur's glare at the fire-kissed man could have scorched stone.
"I agree with Tormund," Daeron added evenly. "It is time you let go of the past."
Arthur looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. He only sent Tormund one last glare before bowing his head to brood in silence.
Tormund scoffed, turning his attention back to Harrenhal. He tried—and failed—to hide the awe in his eyes, as did his fellow chieftains. They craned their necks like chickens, trying to drink in every inch of the black stone.
Daeron pressed onward, lords and chieftains at his back, until they came to where Lord Royce stood waiting to welcome him. Many faces were gathered there, both familiar and unfamiliar, and Daeron's sharp eyes flicked across them, taking in the sigils on their armor. Each man had sent him letters, and he prided himself on remembering most of their names.
Daeron rubbed his eyes, closed them, then opened them again for good measure when he saw an old man with a black fish sigil. If Daeron squinted, the fish looked like a trout, which could only mean a Tully. The only one alive, other than the one still in his custody and yet to emerge from his or her mother's womb. Brynden Blackfish. Though Daeron was surprised by the man's presence, it was not the Blackfish who made him blink twice. No, it was the girl standing beside him—grey eyes, a long face too familiar, brown hair, short height, and a skinny build.
Daeron's heart began to pound in his chest as thoughts started to race in his mind at the sight of her alone: why Arya had avoided him, what she would think of him, whether she was still the wild sister he remembered, trying to hold back tears when he left to take the Black. Daeron shook his head, forcing deep breaths. Arya. Only Arya could stir up that old personality of Jon Snow, which had bled together with the memories Daeron now carried of the Lord Commander. Daeron could swear Jon Snow loved Arya more than he ever showed—first as a sister, later as the only person Jon believed would never wrong him, would always acknowledge him as brother, not as the bastard son of her father.
Failing to calm his heart, Daeron tried to look away, to focus on other faces, but as before, he failed miserably. He did not know when he dismounted, nor when the others took their knees before him. His legs betrayed him, carrying him until he stood before his sister. She looked up at him with the same grey eyes that once housed joy, mischief, and wildness when he last saw them. Now, that wild spark was smothered. The girl looking back at him was almost unrecognizable to Daeron, who knew Arya better than anyone—even her own parents.
Memories of Jon with Arya surfaced, along with the sharp pain of her leaving the Twins instead of meeting or confronting him. Had she gone to find the Blackfish? Daeron's eyes flicked toward the old man, who had yet to kneel. The thought of forcing him to bow his head and knee arose, but he composed himself; instead, he turned his face toward his sister and, locking eyes with her grey ones, he asked, "Why?"
Before Arya could speak—or Daeron could hear her answer—he was pulled, forcefully. Rage boiled within him, hot enough that he nearly struck out at whoever had dared interrupt his reunion with Arya. But the rage vanished in an instant once Daeron realized who the perpetrator was. The sensation of being in Ghost's skin was too familiar to mistake. His direwolf had dragged Daeron's consciousness into him, which shocked him, for he had not known Ghost was capable of doing such a thing.
The next thing Daeron noticed was the change of setting. They stood in a small clearing surrounded by woods, with the sound of rushing water nearby—a stream or small river within earshot of Ghost. And the reason for this pull was impossible to miss: Nymeria. Daeron could feel Arya within her, skinchanging, but the she-wolf did not submit to her mistress. Instead, Nymeria growled, warning Ghost to retreat.
Daeron realized Ghost had brought him here to decide what to do, and they were not alone. Both their packs bared fangs at one another, one wrong move away from bloodshed that would end only in death or submission. Daeron instructed Ghost to remain calm, hoping Nymeria might step back if Ghost did not press. But to their misfortune, Nymeria took his restraint for weakness and pressed forward.
Daeron knew nothing of wolf psychology, nor how long Nymeria's patience would last before she lunged. But he and Ghost bought as much time as possible, hoping Arya might do something, anything, to end this before it began. Ghost's pack, however, whined and shifted, looking to their leader for courage or command. Though Daeron had encouraged Ghost to form this pack—knowing his direwolf preferred to be a lone hunter—those days now felt long past. Ghost had grown fiercely protective of them. Seeing them wagging tails in fear and doubt only angered him, and Ghost stepped forward, growling in defiance.
Daeron, sensing the situation slipping beyond control, locked eyes with Nymeria through Ghost's sight, making one last attempt to avoid the clash. The scent of helplessness and defeat hung in the air—but it was not Nymeria's. It was Arya's. Daeron sighed inwardly. He could do nothing. Ghost was dear to him, and he could not command his companion to back down further without branding him a weak leader. And Ghost was no weak leader.
Daeron's final request was simple: do not hurt Nymeria too much. Then he relinquished his hold and let Ghost prove to the world that it was not Daeron alone who was growing stronger through magic. Both Daeron and Arya could only watch, helpless, as their companions howled and prepared for the inevitable confrontation.
Then, as if a silent signal had passed between them, the packs crashed together.
The clearing dissolved into chaos—teeth and fur, snapping jaws and shrieks of pain. Wolves tumbled over one another, slashing with fangs, yelps drowned by snarls as the earth turned dark with churned soil and blood. Ghost surged forward, ignoring the melee, his focus fixed solely on Nymeria.
They collided in the center with a sound like stones breaking. Ghost's white bulk slammed into her, and for a heartbeat they were one writhing mass—flashing teeth, thrashing limbs, a storm of blood and fury. Ghost struck for her throat; Nymeria twisted, catching his shoulder in her jaws, hot pain flaring down his side. Ghost snarled, red eyes blazing through the haze of pain, and drove her back, step by step.
Nymeria was strong—every muscle taut with raw wildness—but Ghost carried greater power. He had fought direwolves before, killed them too, beyond the Wall. He feinted low, then sprang high, jaws closing around her neck just below the ear. She thrashed, dragging him off his feet, the two of them rolling through mud, breaking apart only to lunge again.
Around them, the packs clashed savagely. Ghost's wolves sank their teeth into Nymeria's followers, driving them back, though not without cost. Yelps of pain cut through the din as some of his own fell beneath superior numbers, yet Ghost's ferocity lent his pack strength, pushing them harder, tighter, until Nymeria's pack was forced toward the tree line.
The direwolves met again. Nymeria leapt, her weight smashing Ghost onto his back. For a heartbeat, her jaws hovered a breath away from his throat. Ghost twisted, claws raking her belly, leaving deep furrows that sent her staggering with a howl. He surged up, blood streaming from his torn shoulder, and hurled himself forward with all his weight. His jaws clamped down on her muzzle, forcing her head into the earth. She fought, thrashing, but inch by inch her strength waned beneath his.
At last, she stilled, sides heaving, her growl sinking low and defeated. Ghost released her and stepped back, chest heaving. His white fur was streaked with blood—hers and his own. His pack howled their victory, while Nymeria's wolves circled their fallen leader, protecting her with their bodies though none dared challenge the bloodied Ghost.
He stood tall in the clearing, crimson soaking his shoulder and flank, one hind leg limping where Nymeria's teeth had found him. Not a mortal wound, not enough to break him. He growled at his sister, as if to say it should end here—he had no wish to kill her. No reply. Ghost growled again, sharper this time. Silence. Stubborn.
With a furious howl, Ghost limped toward Nymeria, intent on finishing what he had begun. Daeron could stop him, could call him back from the kill. But should he? They had given Nymeria so many chances. Ghost had never demanded her submission. Had she grown so arrogant that she would not accept her own brother as an ally?
Should Ghost and Nymeria be mates, or do you all just want them to see each other as brother-sister and allies?