twin flames | daemon targaryen

fifty-eight

The North, Two Days After the Battle in the Skies of the Stormlands

The great hall of Winterfell was packed full as servants, guards, and smallfolk lined its ancient walls. They whispered and murmured amongst themselves, their eyes darting back and forth between the entrance of the hall and where their lord sat on the ancient seat of the Kings of the North.

Cregan Stark sat at the far end of the hall, his dark blue eyes narrowed as he stared in anticipation at the large oak doors closed at the entrance of the hall. One hand rested on the arm of the ancient seat, his palm lying over the head of a snarling direwolf carved into the stone seat centuries earlier.

Cregan's other hand laid on the hilt of Ice, the ancient Valyrian steel sword held by the old Kings in the North, passed down from heir to heir until Cregan. The sword was enormous, the tip wedged into the ground while the hilt came to the height of Cregan's chest. The ancient steel glimmered in the light of the hundreds of candles and torches lit in the room, script etched into it of a language long since dead.

The banners of House Stark hung from every wall, a gray direwolf stitched onto the white cloth, the beast's jaws pulled back into a threatening snarl, a hint at the might of the North. The fabric of the banners fluttered in the slight breeze weaving through the packed hall, and the direwolves appeared to run across the banners with the movement.

Aemma's amethyst-colored eyes were trained on the banners, a chill running down her spine as her mind raced, the Targaryen imagining the direwolves racing across the white snow to her, their jaws agape and snarling, ready to kill the invader who dared hope to gain their alliance.

The Targaryen could feel the eyes of hundreds of Northerners trained on where she stood on the raised platform to the left of where Cregan sat. Her riding leathers, Targaryen red, her mother's colors, were a sharp contrast to the dark grays, blacks, and browns of Northern fashion. Her hair was as light as snow, a stark contrast to the dark brown and black hair of the Northerners filling the ancient hall. It was clear that she didn't belong, that she was a Southerner amid Northerners, that she was an invader amid the descendants of once-Kings.

A side door opened into the hall, and Aemma and Cregan both turned to find an older woman walking through it, dressed in an elegant gray dress lined with fur. Direwolves and fish were embroidered into the fabric, the woman's dark red-brown hair falling down her shoulders in loose braids as was Northern fashion.

The woman walked towards where Cregan and Aemma stood on the raised platform, servants and smallfolk bowing and curtseying as she passed. The closer she moved towards Aemma, the Targaryen could see just how tired the woman looked, fatigue seeming to cloak her every movement, tired wrinkles beginning to etch themselves into her skin as signs of time passing and tragedy endured.

When the woman finally came to stop before the raised platform, her blue eyes, the same shade as Cregan's, met Aemma's. The older woman gave a small smile.

"When I heard that my dear friend's child was once again roaming through Winterfell's halls, I was overjoyed," the woman said warmly to Aemma. "It has been far too long, Princess Aemma. You look more and more like your mother with each passing year."

"Lady Madelyn," Aemma greeted, returning the woman's warm smile. The Targaryen woman watched as Madelyn Stark, once Madelyn Tully and ladies' maid to Aemma's mother, walked up the steps of the platform. Madelyn walked past Cregan, letting her hand rest gently on her son's shoulder before she resumed her position on his right.

There was a commotion at the front of the hall, and everyone turned, watching with anticipation as the large oak doors slowly opened. Four Stark guards appeared behind the doors, covered in large fur cloaks, wild beards hanging from their faces, gray eyes hardened with years of experience. Behind them was another man, tall and burly, a mop of brown curls upon his head. The man walked with his hands crossed behind his back, his large shoulders slightly hunched in a show of humility.