Winterfell was nothing like the castles of the south.
Baelon had known that in theory. Every map, every chronicle, every idle tale told by maesters spoke of the North as a land of stone and snow, built for endurance rather than beauty. Yet it was only now, circling above the ancient seat of House Stark, that the difference struck him fully.
Harrenhal sprawled like a curse upon the land, its vast courtyards swallowing armies whole. King's Landing climbed outward and upward in chaotic layers, all white stone and wide avenues meant to impress and overwhelm. Even lesser southern keeps favored space and symmetry, the confidence of warm skies and fertile ground.
Winterfell was different.
Its walls were high and thick, but its shape was tight, compact, almost inward-looking. The towers stood close together, their shadows overlapping. Buildings pressed in toward one another as if huddling against the cold. There were no broad, open courtyards here, no grand empty spaces left to the mercy of northern winds.
It was a fortress designed not to dazzle, but to endure.
Even the training yard bore signs of that philosophy. Hardy, dark-needled trees ringed the open ground, planted with deliberate care to break the wind. Their branches creaked softly beneath the weight of frost.
It was enough to deny landing to two of the three dragons.
Tyraxes circled above the main keep, massive and coiling, his wings beating slow and steady against the cold air. Sheepstealer wheeled farther out, restless and unwilling to descend into so confined a space. Only Grey Ghost, smaller and slighter than the others, managed to slip down into the training yard, folding his pale wings with visible effort.
The moment his talons touched the frozen earth, panic spread through the men drilling below.
Steel rang as swords slipped from numb fingers. Shouts rose, sharp and startled. Northern soldiers backed away in a ragged wave, eyes wide, faces drained of color.
Grey Ghost was young by dragon standards, barely a few dozen feet from snout to tail. His pale hide shimmered like mist in moonlight, and his movements were hesitant, almost shy. To Baelon, he was more endearing than fearsome.
But to the men of the North, he was a living nightmare.
"Go and announce me," Baelon said, his voice calm and even. He rested one gloved hand on the saddle horn as Tyraxes hovered lower. "Tell them Baelon Targaryen has come."
Tyraxes obeyed, lowering him with practiced care. The great dragon's wings stirred snow and grit as Baelon dismounted, boots crunching against the frozen ground. He moved at once toward Grey Ghost, reaching out before the dragon could retreat from the press of unfamiliar faces.
His hand found the smooth curve of Grey Ghost's neck, warm even through the chill. The dragon let out a low, uncertain hum, leaning subtly into the touch.
"It is all right," Baelon murmured, more for the dragon than the men. "They will not hurt you."
At his words, the soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. No one stepped forward at first. Their fear hung thick in the air, heavier than the cold.
At last, a single man moved. He was young, broad of shoulder but pale around the mouth. His boots crunched loudly as he approached, every step measured.
"P-Prince Baelon," he said, voice tight as he swallowed. "If you would wait here, my prince. I will go at once to find Lord Cregan Stark."
His eyes flicked to Grey Ghost, then quickly away. It was his first time standing so close to a dragon.
The old books had not lied. There was a strange, sharp scent clinging to the creature, something like smoke and iron and heat. Breathing it in made the man's limbs feel weak, as if his body knew it stood too close to death.
Baelon inclined his head slightly. "Go on. And do not fear. None of them will harm you."
As the man hurried off, Baelon continued to stroke Grey Ghost's neck. He spoke softly, a few quiet words meant to steady the soldiers as much as the dragon. Gradually, the shouts faded. The men kept their distance, but their panic ebbed into wary stillness.
Baelon lifted his gaze.
High above, Tyraxes and Sheepstealer circled with ease, steam rising from their nostrils. The northern cold seemed to trouble them little. Grey Ghost, however, shifted his weight uneasily, his wings flexing as if stiff.
Baelon frowned.
"I should have known better," he muttered under his breath. "Dragons are creatures of heat. The North is no place for the young."
Grey Ghost turned his head at the sound, nudging Baelon gently with his snout. There was a note of protest in the motion, faint but insistent.
Baelon blinked, then laughed quietly. He lifted his hand and pressed his forehead briefly against the dragon's warm scales.
"All right," he said, softer now. "Next time we march on Essos, I will ride you. Tyraxes and Sheepstealer can guard your flanks."
Grey Ghost let out a pleased trill, his tail flicking against the frozen earth. The simple response lifted Baelon's mood at once. The little dragon might lack the size and fire of his kin, but in spirit, he was unmatched.
Above them, Tyraxes had settled atop the main keep, coils draped over ancient stone. He released a low, disdainful snort, steam hissing into the air.
He had no interest in such sentiments.
Before long, the gates of Winterfell opened, and Cregan Stark strode into the yard at a hurried pace.
He was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his long black hair loose about his shoulders. Leather armor showed beneath a massive bearskin cloak, the head of the beast resting upon one shoulder. His hand rested near the hilt of his sword as his dark eyes took in the scene.
"Prince Baelon," Cregan said, stopping a careful distance away. His gaze flicked briefly to each dragon, measuring, wary. "What brings you to Winterfell?"
Every instinct he possessed screamed danger. Three dragons could reduce the castle to ash if they wished.
What troubled him more was the question gnawing at his thoughts.
Weren't men meant to bond with only one dragon?
Then why had Baelon come with three?
The realization struck him suddenly, like a blow.
Seven hells.
So that was the meaning of the three-headed dragon.
His posture shifted almost imperceptibly, spine straightening, expression sharpening. His respect for House Targaryen deepened in that instant. One dragon had conquered Westeros. Three could conquer the world.
"Lord Stark," Baelon said, inclining his head with practiced courtesy. "Forgive my sudden arrival. I come on urgent business."
He produced a sealed letter and held it out. The wax bore King Viserys's mark. Cregan accepted it, breaking the seal at once. His brow furrowed as he read, jaw tightening with each line.
"The Wall?" he echoed, lowering the parchment. His voice was controlled, but surprise flickered in his eyes.
Barely two months had passed since the Night's Watch last came for supplies. By all accounts, things should have been quiet.
Still, a king's command was a king's command.
"Rest assured, Prince Baelon," Cregan said at last. He straightened, resolve settling into his stance. "I will dispatch scouts at once to investigate the Wall."
His tone was impeccable, though doubt lingered beneath it.
"The scouts leave today," Baelon replied. "I will rest here for one night, then ride north myself."
Speed mattered. In the original story, Viserys had never looked to the North. That alone set his teeth on edge.
Cregan felt the unease as well.
"So urgent," he said quietly.
For a moment, he looked past Baelon, toward the dark line of the northern horizon. Then he nodded once, as if to himself.
"Then I will muster Winterfell's forces and march with you to the Wall," he said. "Once supplies are ready, we leave at once."
At the time, he sensed only danger, not its scale. Besides, he had long wished to lead his men north, and with three dragons overhead, hunting wildlings beyond the Wall seemed almost convenient.
Baelon studied him closely.
"Bold words, Lord Stark."
A brief pause followed.
"Very well," Baelon said. "We go together."
Only then did he truly recognize the man before him. Not merely the Lord of Winterfell, but the future architect of the Winter Wolves, the man who would one day bring the Hour of the Wolf to bear upon the realm.
Fierce men were common.
Fierce men with clear minds were not.
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Send the stones this way. Okay???