The snow of Winterfell
The Kingsroad was even cleaner after the snowfall. The horses' hooves clattered on the icy surface, their sounds mingling with the low whistling of dragon wings sweeping through the cold wind, creating a distinctly clear sound across the the North wilderness.
As Daemon rode Glutton at the head of the procession, Winterfell finally pierced the morning mist in the distance—the ancient castle built by Brandon the the Builder. Two thick gray stone walls, like the arms of Giants, tightly embraced the inner castle. Among the pheasant leaves on the walls fluttered the House Stark Direwolf banner, its silver-gray silhouette against the white snow exuding a sense of solemnity and majesty.
"That is Winterfell." William Dustin reined in his horse, his voice filled with awe. "The heart of the the North, untouched for eight thousand years."
Gael rode Dreamfyre alongside, her pale blue dragon wings slightly folded to protect Mysaria in her arms. "It's more magnificent than I imagined. I heard there are hot springs inside?"
"Yes!" Beren looked up from her book, snowflakes clinging to her glasses. "The book says that the hot springs of Winterfell flow into the rooms through pipes, making it warmer than southern castles in winter."
The procession reached the city gate, but Duke Ellard, whom they had expected, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, they were greeted by a man in brown-grey leather armor, with a resolute face, a taut jawline, and a longsword with Direwolf emblem hanging at his waist —Benjen Stark, who had been late to last year's tournament due to his wife giving birth.
Standing beside him was a woman in a brown dress, holding a young child wrapped in a fur coat. The hem of her dress was embroidered with the House Locke crest. She was Benjen's wife, Mrs. Lysa Locke.
"Your Highness Daemon, Princess Gael." Benjen stepped forward and bowed, his voice steady. "My elder brother, Duke Ellard, accidentally fell into the the Neck while attending the tournament last year, so I went in his place. Upon his return, I was shocked to find that he had suffered frostbite on his leg and had been bedridden ever since, only able to move around in a wheelchair. It has been truly inconvenient for him to greet you; I hope Your Highness will understand." He stepped aside to make way. "This is my wife, Lysa, and my son, Rickon, who has just turned one."
Lady Lysa, holding Rickon, curtsied. The little boy's face was flushed, and he stared curiously in the direction of the Glutton with his round eyes, his little hands unconsciously clutching his mother's clothes.
Daemon's light fell on the child, and a slight tremor ran through him—he clearly remembered that this naked Rickon Stark was the father of Cregan Stark, the future "Wolf of the North" who would lead his army south during the Dance of the Dragons.
"No need for formalities." Daemon dismounted, the scabbard of his Blackfyre lightly tapping against the stone slab. "His Excellency's health is of utmost importance; we would never mind."
He looked at Benjen and suddenly understood Rodrik Dustin's dying wish: Duke Ellard's eldest and second sons had died young, and now Benjen, as his younger brother, was the first in line to the throne. The lords of the the North were bound to have wavering hearts. The House Dustin's "axe is always ready" was both a sign of loyalty and a way of supporting Benjen.
At last year's tournament, Brandon Stark mentioned the House Stark's succession issues: the former Duke Edric was the eldest grandson of the former Duke Alaric, but died young without an heir, so the title passed to Alaric's second son's eldest son, Ellard. Now that Ellard is ill, the succession in the the North is even more fragile.
"Little Daemon! You really came!"
A cheerful shout suddenly came from inside the city gate, interrupting Daemon's thoughts.
A burly man strode in, wearing black leather armor and a dagger with Direwolf bone handle at his waist. He was none other than Brandon Stark, the man who had given Daemon Che the dagger at the tournament last year.
Before Daemon could react, he grabbed the boy's shoulder from behind with such force that Daemon nearly knelt down.
"Why didn't you give me a heads-up?" Brandon laughed, patting Daemon on the back. "I thought you were going to wait until the height of summer to come, so I had the kitchen marinate some deer leg, just waiting to have a few drinks with you!"
Daemon laughed and slapped his hand away, "I'm afraid you'll do what you did last time and neglect your business for drinking."
"Not this time!" Brandon pointed at Benjen. "I Benjen I'd only keep you company today, no drinking!" Despite saying that, his gaze was still unconsciously fixed on the town, clearly already longing for the taste of ale.
Benjen shook his head helplessly and said to Daemon, "Brandon is my distant nephew. He's very easygoing, and we usually address each other by our first names. Please don't take offense, Your Highness." He stepped aside to lead the way, "Let's hurry into the city. My brother is waiting in the main hall. The hot springs are ready; warm yourself up first."
Stepping through the gates of Winterfell, Daemon truly felt the uniqueness of this ancient city—unlike the splendor of southern castles, Winterfell's architecture exuded a rustic and weighty feel, with hardy vines climbing the gray stone walls and the stone slabs underfoot worn smooth by time, yet still sturdy.
The courtyards within the city were arranged in a pleasing, staggered pattern. Several teenagers were practicing swordsmanship in the training ground. Upon seeing Daemon and his group, they all stopped what they were doing and looked at the two giant dragons with curiosity.
"This way." Benjen led the group through an archway, and suddenly a lush Godswood appeared before them—unlike the Godswood in other places, the weirwood trees in Winterfell were exceptionally thick, with trunks that gleamed with a silvery-white luster. Sunlight filtering through the leaves fell on the snow on the ground, creating dappled patterns of light and shadow.
The giant tree in the center of the forest was particularly eye-catching; the human faces carved on its bark were long blurred, yet they still exuded an ancient aura.
"This is the heart of Winterfell," Benjen said, gazing at the Godswood with reverence. "For eight thousand years, every lord of House Stark has prayed here."
Holding Mysaria's hand, Gael sighed softly, "This place has even more spiritual energy than the Godswood in Riverrun."
Passing through the Godswood, the main fortress gradually came into view.
Unlike the thick outer walls, tiny pipes can be vaguely seen on the walls of the main castle, from which hot air slowly seeps out – these are the pipes for hot spring water, keeping this the North castle warm even in the cold winter.
The doors to the hall were open, and faint voices could be heard coming from inside, along with the crackling of burning firewood.
"My brother is inside." Benjen stopped and gave Lady Lysa a look. "You take the princess to the guest room first. I'll accompany the prince to see Ellard."
Lady Lysa nodded, hugged Rickon, and smiled at Gael, "Your Highness, please come with me. The fire in the room is ready, and there's hot milk."
Gael glanced at Daemon, and seeing him nod, she left with Lady Lysa. Mysaria hesitated for a moment, then said to Daemon, "I'll go check on Her Highness, and then I'll come to the hall to find you later."
Daemon nodded and followed Benjen and Brandon into the hall. The hall was more spacious than he had imagined, and portraits of the House Stark lords of all time hung on the stone walls, from Brandon the Builder the former Duke Edric, each one exuding the fortitude of the the North.
The fire in the center of the hall was burning brightly, and a man in a wheelchair was looking towards the door—he was about forty years old, with a pale face and some gray hair, but one could still see the heroic spirit of his youth; he was none other than Lord Ellard Stark.
"Your Highness Daemon," Ellard's voice was weak, yet still carried the authority of a lord, "Welcome to Winterfell. Winters in the the North are cold; please have a seat and a cup of hot ale to warm yourself."
Daemon stepped forward and bowed, saying, "Your Grace, there's no need for such formality. I apologize for disturbing you."
"Not at all," Ellard smiled, gesturing to the seat beside him. "The House Stark and Targaryen have always been allies. King Torrhen knelt in exchange for peace in the the North, and you've come here today for the same peace."
He looked at Brandon, "Brandon told me about last year's tournament. His Highness's martial arts are superb; even this ' Wild Wolf ' from the the North praised him highly."
Brandon immediately chimed in, "Indeed!" He patted the dagger at his waist, "This wolf-bone hilt dagger was originally a pair; the other one was my 'warrior's gift' to His Highness."
Ellard shook his head helplessly and said to Daemon, "Your Highness, please excuse Brandon's antics. That's just his nature." He then changed the subject, his tone becoming serious, "I heard that Your Highness resolved the conflict between House Bracken and Blackwood in the Riverlands and also repelled the Ironborn invaded Seagard?"
"Just did what needed to be done." Daemon picked up the hot ale offered by a servant, letting the warmth flow down his throat. "The stability of the Riverlands is also good for the the North." Benjen Stark said quietly, "At least most of the food the the North needs to get through the Long Winter will come from the Riverlands."
"That's true." Ellard sighed, his gaze falling on his legs. "My body is failing me. The situation in the the North is all thanks to Benjen and Dustin Rodrik Brandon. Benjen has already told me what House Dustin meant, and House Stark will remember it."
Benjen added, "Recently, some lords have been privately discussing the succession, but with the House Dustin's support, they should put those thoughts aside."
Daemon nodded. He knew that what Ellard needed most at this moment was the support of the lords, House Dustin's "axe" undoubtedly added another layer of security to the the North.
As they were talking, Gael walked in, followed by Beren— the boy was still holding a book in his hands, clearly not having put it down even in the guest room.
"Your Grace," Gael slightly, her pale purple eyes sweeping across the hall, "Winterfell is warmer than I imagined; the hot springs truly live up to their reputation."
"I'm glad the princess likes it." Ellard smiled. "Dinner is ready in the kitchen, all the North specialties: roasted deer leg, stewed red cabbage, and bread made with hot spring water. Try it and see if it suits your taste."
As dusk deepened, the halls of Winterfell gradually came alive with activity.
The firewood crackled in the hearth, the rich aroma of ale mingled with the scent of roasted meat, and the House Stark, Daemon's followers, and William and Beren of House Dustin sat around the long table, chatting and laughing about the the North and the interesting stories of the Riverlands.
Brandon would occasionally raise his glass in a toast, talking about the tournament, which made everyone laugh.
Benjen listened quietly, occasionally adding a few words about the customs of the the North;
Despite his frail health, Duke Ellard occasionally spoke, recounting ancient legends of House Stark.
Daemon sat at the long table, looking at the scene before him, and suddenly felt that the warmth of Winterfell came not only from the hot springs, but also from the honesty and enthusiasm of the House Stark.
This ancient city, with a history of eight thousand years, has witnessed countless storms, yet it remains like Direwolf, guarding its own warmth and resilience in the cold.
As night deepened, the banquet ended. Daemon stood on the terrace of the main castle, gazing at the distant figures of the Glutton and the Dreamfyre— the Black Dragon and the blue dragon huddled in the open ground, their breath condensing into white vapor in the cold air, reflecting the lights of Winterfell. The northern sky was exceptionally bright, the Milky Way stretching across the heavens like a silver ribbon.
"What are you thinking about?" Mysaria walked over, wearing a thick black cloak, and lifted the thick hood to reveal her platinum blonde curls.
"I was thinking," Daemon said, turning his gaze from the star-studded night sky above to the face of the girl beside him—her skin, once as smooth as cream and as white as freshly melted milk, was now tinged with a pale red by the Winterfell, even the tip of her nose was pink, "Would the snow in Winterfell help one see oneself more clearly than the rain in the south?"
Mysaria's laughter was as soft as cotton wool scattered by the wind. She moved closer to Daemon, her shoulder almost touching his arm. "At least the people here don't harbor ulterior motives like the Frey Household." To others, this might have sounded like a casual remark, but she and Gael knew all too well that in the days after leaving the Twins, the regret hidden in Daemon's eyes when he sat silently by the campfire at night could not be concealed by a simple word like "mercy."
From the distant Godswood came the cries of night birds, mingling with the whispers of the cold wind, as if telling the story of Winterfell's past and future.
Daemon knew that their pilgrimage was only halfway through, and that the snow of Winterfell and the warmth of House Stark would be one of the most unforgettable memories of their journey through the Seven Kingdoms.