The First Dragon Of Winterfell

Chapter 1: The Burden of Duty

Dreams Are Messages From The Deep

Y/N stirred from her sleep. The cool air of the castle brushed against her skin, but it was the remnants of a vivid dream that truly woke her, leaving her with a lingering sense of unease. She inhaled deeply, the salt of the sea mingling with the cool morning breeze, and tried to shake off the feeling. The dream was still fresh in her mind, a fragmented vision of a man she had never met—a man with eyes as blue as stone and a presence that both comforted and unsettled her. But she couldn't dwell on it now. The day had begun, and with it, her duties as a Targaryen.

Y/N rose from her bed, dressing in the simple but elegant garb befitting her station, and left her chamber. The corridors of Dragonstone were quiet at this hour, the castle still waking from the night. Her footsteps echoed softly off the stone walls as she made her way through the familiar halls, her mind still half-lost in the dream.

She found her sister, Rhaenyra, in her private chambers, already awake and breaking her fast. The room was warm, the fire in the hearth crackling softly, filling the space with a comforting glow. Rhaenyra sat at the table, her silver hair catching the light as she delicately ate, a quiet strength in her every movement.

"Good morning," Y/N greeted her sister, her voice subdued as she took a seat across from her.

Rhaenyra looked up from her meal, a small smile playing on her lips. "Good morning, sister. It's good to see you up early."

Y/N returned the smile, but it was faint, a mere shadow of her usual warmth. She reached for the food laid out before her, but her appetite was absent. She found herself pushing the food around her plate, her thoughts elsewhere, her mind still clouded by the lingering images of her dream.

Rhaenyra noticed the silence that hung between them, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. "You look tired," she observed, her tone gentle but probing. "More dreams?"

Y/N hesitated, her hand pausing as she absently nudged a piece of bread. She had always been cautious about discussing her dreams. They were often vivid, unsettling, and full of images she didn't understand. But this one—this dream of a man whose face she couldn't quite place—felt different. It felt... important.

Yet, she didn't want to burden Rhaenyra with her worries. The war, the tensions within their family, and the heavy responsibilities of being Targaryens weighed on her sister enough already. So, Y/N shook her head, forcing a reassuring smile. "No," she lied, her voice steady. "I'm fine."

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment, her expression unreadable. There was a bond between them, a sisterly connection that often allowed them to understand each other without words. But Y/N had always been good at hiding her true feelings, even from Rhaenyra.

-

The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the crackling warmth of the hearth and the low murmur of conversation. A thick carpet of wolf pelts covered the stone floor, and the air was heavy with the scent of burning wood and roasted meat. Jacaerys Velaryon, the young dragonlord, sat at the head of the long table, his eyes keen and determined. Across from him, Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, looked on with a mixture of curiosity and guarded reserve.

The two men had been seated for some time, and the heavy oak door at the end of the hall remained closed, as if to shut out the rest of the world while this crucial discussion took place. Jacaerys had come with a purpose, and his words were carefully chosen as he spoke.

"Lord Stark," Jacaerys began, his voice steady, "I am grateful for your hospitality and your willingness to consider my proposal. The matter I wish to discuss is of great importance to both our houses."