The clang of steel echoed through Winterfell's training yard, sharp and rhythmic like a heartbeat. Snowflakes drifted lazily from a pale grey sky, melting as they hit the churned earth and packed snow beneath dozens of stomping boots.
Vaeron Targaryen circled Robb Stark, sword held in a high guard. The two boys were evenly matched in age, but not in style. Robb fought like the North — solid, direct, forceful — while Vaeron flowed like water around him, stepping lightly, feinting, never quite where Robb expected.
"You dance too much, Vaeron!" Ser Rodrik Cassel bellowed from the side. "This is the North, not the Water Gardens of Dorne."
Vaeron's lips curled faintly. He shifted his stance, dropped his hips, and parried Robb's next strike with northern steel and grit. Their blades locked with a hiss.
"I thought you preferred dancing, Robb," Vaeron said under his breath.
Robb grinned. "Only when I'm winning."
He swept Vaeron's legs, but Vaeron vaulted sideways, rolled, and came up with his blade poised beneath Robb's chin.
Ser Rodrik called, "Enough!"
The other boys in the yard — Theon, Jory's cousins, and a few squires — applauded with thin enthusiasm. Robb grinned and clapped Vaeron on the shoulder. Vaeron smiled back, but his gaze drifted to the others.
They whispered when they thought he couldn't hear.
"The bastard prince."
"Dragonling."
"He may have a prince's name, but no father."
He sheathed his blade and turned away, jaw tight.
---
Later, in the solar, Robb sprawled on a bearskin rug, sipping hot cider while Vaeron stood by the hearth, the firelight gilding his silver hair.
"You beat me today," Robb admitted. "Again. That twirl you did — did you learn that from Ser Rodrik?"
"No," Vaeron said. "From books. And from watching Brienne when she visited with Lord Selwyn."
Robb raised a brow. "You remember her?"
"She moved like a tower, but her footwork was clever. She fights with strength but uses misdirection."
"You watch everything," Robb said, admiring.
Because I must, Vaeron thought. If I do not excel, I am forgotten.
Out loud, he said only, "It helps."
The door creaked open. Catelyn stepped inside, a tray of fresh-baked bread and a leather-bound journal in her arms.
"Still warming your limbs, boys?" she asked warmly.
Robb scrambled up to help her with the tray. "Mother made honey-oat for your name day, Vaeron."
Vaeron's brows lifted in surprise. "You baked these?"
"Well," Catelyn said with a laugh, "I oversaw the cook's work. But yes."
She held out the journal. It was wrapped in a faded grey ribbon.
"This was your mother's."
Vaeron blinked. "My… my mother?"
"She kept notes on horses, herbs, things she noticed in the world. Thoughts about the gods. Lyanna was not one for embroidery or court games. She was bold… and clever. I thought you'd want it."
His hands trembled as he took it. The leather was soft, worn smooth. Her name was etched faintly inside the cover in a Stark hand.
"Thank you," he said, voice barely audible.
Catelyn touched his cheek. "You don't need to become anyone else to be great, Vaeron. You are enough."
Vaeron looked away.
But not for him, he thought.
---
That evening, a raven came from the south, bearing the seal of the Targaryen crown — three-headed dragon, crimson on black.
Maester Luwin broke the wax and read aloud at supper.
"His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, invites the Lords of the Realm to attend a royal tourney at Harrenhal, to honor his firstborn son and heir, Prince Aegon. Events to be held during the first month of summer."
Robb whistled. "A royal tourney? At Harrenhal? That'll be something."
Sansa clapped in delight. "Oh, will we go, Mother? Will we see the prince?"
Catelyn glanced at Lord Stark, who gave a slow, unreadable nod. "If the roads are safe and the King desires our presence."
Arya groaned. "Boring feasts and dancing."
Rickon stuffed bread in his mouth and mumbled something unintelligible.
Vaeron sat in silence. The letter passed to Lord Stark. At the bottom, in fine script, it read:
"To Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,
By order of the Crown,
Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
Nothing else.
No note. No name. No word for the son who bore his blood and his eyes.
Vaeron stared down at his trencher of venison, appetite gone.
That night, alone in his chamber, he held the letter over a candle. The parchment caught slowly, curling black, flame eating through the regal signature last of all.
If he will not speak to me, I will make the world speak of me instead.
---
The next morning, Vaeron rose before dawn. He trained until his muscles screamed — sword, spear, bow, balance. Then came language studies. Then heraldry. Then Northern law. He spent his afternoon in the godswood, reading from Lyanna's journal.
She had written in a strong, looping hand.
"A woman can love with all her heart and still choose freedom."
"Rhaegar played beautifully, but he spoke in riddles. I wonder if he ever truly saw me."
"Snow is silence. Fire is truth."
He read until his fingers froze and the page blurred.
---
That night, he dreamed again.
He stood atop a jagged cliff, the sea howling below. Ice and fire danced together across the horizon.
Above him, black wings blocked out the moon.
Cannibal.
The great beast circled, its hide veined with emerald light, eyes burning green.
"Grow stronger," the dragon whispered, voice deeper than the sea.
"You are not your father's shadow. You are your own fire."
Vaeron reached out, and the dragon descended like a falling star.
The world burned around them.
---
He awoke gasping, the sheets tangled, sweat pouring down his spine. The hearth was cold. But the walls of his room were warm — too warm.
He rose, crossed to the window.
Far to the northeast, beyond the mountains, something green flickered on the edge of the sky. Just for a moment.
The Cannibal was not just a dream.
It was real.
And it was waiting.