Old Valyria: House Baelaeron

He slowly opened his eyes to the chirping of birds as they struggled to adjust to the bright rays of the sun. He propped himself up with his hands as he slowly stood and stretched, receiving the familiar crack of his back in return.

It's on journeys like these that he wonders why he keeps doing this. He could be comfortably sleeping in at Valyria, surrounded by thousands of people catering to his every whim, willingly or not, enjoying life. But no, he has to get these ideas into his head.

Oh, who is he kidding? That's just his grumpy self talking because he slept poorly. When he returns to Valyria, he definitely needs to figure out how to make an enlarging rune thougth. Something similar to what they have in Harry Potter, so he can bring a bed on such trips in the future. Or even a whole portable room. That way, he could bring everything with him, including clothes, a bathroom and even servants if the magic of this Universe allows it. But maybe I will get to make an exception once again.

As I was just enjoying the fresh air, I heard screams of terror in the distance and turned in that direction. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw a farming family innocently sitting on their cart, which was being pulled by an old horse. Dragons were not exactly on the daily agenda of creatures one might see on the way to the next town. Even less so for a simple farming couple.

I felt particularly humorous today and gave a slight wave in their direction. Judging by their reaction and their attempt to get away from Ancalagon as quickly as possible, I can only conclude that they either didn't see me or, due to my large fiery friend, didn't notice me. Or maybe, I was simply irrelevant to them.

I had a feeling that today was going to be a good day.

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Harren Stark, King of the North, or as it was called in ancient times, King of Winter, sat on his throne in the Great Hall, listening to the grievances and complaints of his people. The throne he sat on was large and carved from a single rock, a single piece made in the times of legends and heroes. The armrests had wolf heads chiseled on both sides. Fine craftsmanship, or perhaps magic? A question he had pondered many times.

The last of his subjects complained that his neighbor had stolen his sheep. A serious crime. Not just the theft but the stealing of potential future protection from the cold and the food a sheep provides. Especially here in the North, the last kingdom of the First Men, where food is sacred when a long winter looms. Things the Andals in the South do not have to worry about unless a plague or pestilence spreads through the land.

Beside him stood his loyal King's Guard, Wylam Umber of the ancient House Umber. A steadfast and good friend. He was a giant of a man and often joked that he had read in an old book that an ancestor of his had slept with a giant, and thus his line was born.

Harren stood up and said with a sigh, "Finally, I thought I might have to take my meal in the Great Hall today."

Wylam chuckled, his deep voice rumbling through the hall. "Aye, my King. But at least it would keep you away from your wife, the Queen," he joked.

His beloved wife, Elara Stark, Queen of the North, was a beauty about whom stories could be written. He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her in the Great Hall. It was a feast that his parents hosted to celebrate his fifteenth namesday. It was supposed to be an evening like any other. He planned to drink and have fun with his friends, not giving much thought to women, when he saw her and suddenly everything else lost its significance. Nothing his friends and brothers said could distract him, though they certainly made fun of him and teased him.

She was tall for a woman, nearly as tall as he was at 1.92 meters. She had beautifully braided black hair, brown eyes, and a face blessed by the Old Gods. He still chuckled at the memory of asking her for a dance, and her almost rejecting him despite his princely status, only agreeing because etiquette demanded it.

In return, she invited him to follow her into the garden. In his naive teenage self, he thought perhaps something more would happen. But when she threw a sword at him and challenged him to a duel, he stood there stunned and bewildered. He didn't know many women who could handle a sword, but he humored her. Something he later regretted as she thoroughly bested him. Never before, not even when he trained with the house guard as a boy, had he been so thoroughly defeated.

In that moment, as he lay on the ground looking up at this beautiful warrior woman, he knew she was the one for him and no one else. And that temper he so loved in his wife only showed more when she was pregnant.

He already had an heir, his firstborn son, Cregan Stark, his second son, Edrick Stark, and his youngest daughter, Anya Stark. He loved them with all his heart, and soon his wolf pack would welcome another member. But until then, he would have to endure the whims of a pregnant woman, king or not.

As he walked through the halls towards his chambers, the echoes of his footsteps on the stone floors filled the air. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the ancient walls adorned with the banners of House Stark. The sigil of the direwolf seemed to watch over him as he made his way through the castle.

Just as he was about to enter the great wooden door, he heard it. Loud and clear, like a beast from long-forgotten times.

The roar echoed through the stone corridors of Winterfell, sending a shiver down his spine. Harren paused, his hand hovering over the door handle, his senses on high alert. The sound was unmistakable, one that he had heard only in legends and the oldest of stories told by the fire.

"Wylam!" he called out, his voice firm and commanding.

"My King," he answered.

"Sound the alarm, and call the guards. Take every boy who can wield a sword and arm them." The worried look Wylam gave him went unnoticed, for Wylam didn't know what the roar meant—but Harren did.

"What is it?" Wylam asked, his concern now matching that of his king. For if his king was worried, he should be as well.

"Dragon." That single word drained all color from Wylam's face, and terror was clearly etched across his features.

Without another word, Wylam rushed to carry out Harren's orders. The alarm bell rang through the castle, its toll a haunting sound that echoed through the stone walls. Guards scrambled to their posts, and young men barely old enough to be called warriors were hastily armed and prepared for battle.

Harren turned back to Elara, who had come running out of the room he was about to enter, equally startled by the roar.

"Elara, my love," he called out, grasping her by the shoulders.

"Elara, take the children and go to the crypts. You'll be safe there," he urged.

"But Harren—" she started, but he cut her off with a fierce look.

"Please, Elara. I need to know you and the children are safe. Go now," he insisted.

Reluctantly, she nodded and hurried to gather their children, herding them towards the safety of the ancient crypts beneath Winterfell. Harren watched her go with a heavy heart, uncertain of what would happen in the upcoming battle.

Like his men, he quickly went to his room and, with the help of a young squire, donned his armor. He then took his sword in hand and followed his men to the walls.

The sword Harren wielded was no ordinary weapon. It was a weapon that had been passed down through generations in House Stark. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, worn smooth by the hands of countless ancestors. At the pommel, a direwolf's head was intricately carved from silver, its eyes made of pure gold.

As he reached the wall, he saw for the first time the beast from which the roar had come, and just at the sight of it, he was almost ready to lay down his weapons. Nothing he knew or had could stop such a creature of destruction.

But then he noticed something: the dragon was not a wild dragon. Not that he had ever heard of one before, but he could vaguely make out that the dragon had a rider and, if he wasn't completely mistaken, even a second one. Additionally, the dragon was calmly resting in front of Winterfell's walls and showed no further aggression.

After some time, when nothing further happened, he gave the order his soldiers were so eager to hear. He looked to his left where a young man stood, obviously not a soldier judging by his clothing and stance. He also carried only a sword. Harren recognized him; he was the stable boy.

"Saddle the horses and get them ready," Harren commanded.

"My king," one of his soldiers protested.

"Do as I command," Harren snapped, his nerves finally getting the better of him.

The soldier nodded and stepped back, while the stable boy hurried off to carry out the order. Harren turned his attention back to the Dragon, wondering what the Rider of it was doing here.

A dragonrider from the Valyrian Freehold would hardly be here for treasures and riches, as that is something the North scarcely possesses. The upcoming conversation would hopefully provide him with answers to his countless questions.

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Yours,

Jasonenrick.