The Northern Dragon

Chapter 1: The Cold Tides of White Harbor

The snow-covered waves of White Harbor stretched out before *Barristan Targaryen*, the dark, frigid sea crashing against the rocks below as if to remind him how far from home he truly was. The distant sound of gulls cut through the air, their calls echoing faintly as he stood at the window of the Manderly guest chambers, his breath misting in the cold morning light.

Winter was settling in, a harsh reminder of the North's hold over the land. Barristan, cloaked in furs, stared out at the endless stretch of white that met the grey horizon. He traced the frozen water with his gaze, wondering for what felt like the thousandth time how his father had ever found solace here. *The North*, his father had called it *home*. But for Barristan, born under the blazing sun of Dragonstone, the cold was foreign—an enemy as much as a curiosity.

The door to the chamber creaked open behind him, the soft padding of footsteps across the stone floor breaking his thoughts. He didn't turn.

*"Barristan?"* A familiar voice, warm and soft, came from the bed behind him. *Mary Manderly*—the daughter of Lady Wylla Manderly—sat propped on one elbow, the heavy furs slipping down her bare shoulders. The faint glow of the morning light outlined her figure against the fire's flicker. *"What are you doing over there? The sea will be here tomorrow. Come back to bed."*

He smiled slightly, though his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. *"I've never seen the sea frozen like this before,"* he murmured, his voice quiet in the stillness of the room. *"The cold doesn't touch the water in the South. But here..."* He shook his head. *"Even the sea is as cold as the land."*

Mary's laugh was soft, almost teasing. *"That's the North for you."* She rose from the bed, wrapping herself in a fur-lined robe as she crossed the room to him. *"You're not meant for this place. Not really."*

He turned to face her, his smile fading slightly. She stood close, reaching out to brush a strand of his dark hair back from his face. *"You're a Targaryen. Fire and blood. Not... ice and snow."*

Barristan caught her hand, his grip gentle but firm. *"Half the blood in my veins is Stark."* His words were quiet but held a weight that silenced her teasing.

Mary tilted her head, studying him for a moment before stepping back. *"But you don't feel it, do you? Not like your father."*

Barristan didn't answer. He had never felt the pull of the North the way his father had, never found the peace in the cold or the snow. But the Stark blood was there, mixed with his mother's Targaryen fire. The constant push and pull between those two worlds haunted him more than he cared to admit.

Before he could say anything more, a sharp knock echoed from the door.

*"Prince Barristan,"* came the familiar, gruff voice of *Ser Jorah Hightower*, one of his mother's Kingsguard. *"You're needed. Your mother has requested you join her for breakfast with Lady Wylla."*

Mary sighed, her expression hardening slightly. *"Your mother requests, and so you go,"* she muttered under her breath, turning away from him as she moved back toward the bed.

Barristan hesitated, guilt gnawing at him as he watched her retreat into the shadows of the room. *"Mary..."*

*"No, go."* Her voice was cold now, matching the air outside. *"You're always leaving. What's one more time?"*

He didn't respond. The weight of his duty pressed down on him as he quickly crossed the room to the wardrobe, retrieving his clothes. He slipped into his dark riding leathers, the Targaryen dragon stitched across his chest, and fastened his cloak at the shoulder. There was no time to explain. No time for apologies. There never was.

As he turned back to the door, Mary's voice stopped him once more.

*"You'll be king one day,"* she said softly, her back to him as she sat on the edge of the bed. *"But you'll be alone. I hope you know that."*

The words stung, but he said nothing as he left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Ser Jorah was waiting for him in the corridor, his weathered face as stoic as ever beneath his silvered helm.

*"She doesn't like to be kept waiting, Your Grace,"* Ser Jorah reminded him, falling into step beside him as they made their way through the cold, stone halls of the Manderly estate.

*"I know,"* Barristan muttered, his thoughts still lingering on Mary's parting words.

They walked in silence, the faint sound of the sea outside the walls the only accompaniment to their footsteps. The corridors were sparsely decorated—practical, northern. Banners of House Manderly hung on the walls, their sigil of a merman holding a trident, surrounded by waves. White Harbor was the North's largest port, a vital hub for trade and diplomacy. It was no surprise that his mother was here, ensuring Lady Wylla's continued loyalty. The North was an unpredictable ally, even with his father's blood running through it.

They reached the doors to the Great Hall, where a small group of courtiers and servants were already preparing the long table for the breakfast feast. The air was warm, the smell of fresh bread and roasting meats filling the room. At the head of the table, Queen *Daenerys Targaryen* sat, deep in conversation with *Lady Wylla Manderly*, the ruler of White Harbor.

Lady Wylla was a tall, imposing woman with sharp eyes and a reputation for fierce loyalty to her house and the North. She had been an ally to his father during the wars that had torn Westeros apart and had remained loyal to Daenerys once Jon had returned to the North. But loyalty could be a fragile thing in these lands, and Barristan could sense the tension in the air even before he stepped fully into the room.

Daenerys looked up as he entered, her expression softening slightly. *"There you are,"* she said, motioning for him to join them. *"Lady Wylla was just telling me about the preparations for our journey to Winterfell."*

Barristan moved to take his seat beside his mother, nodding respectfully to Lady Wylla. *"My lady,"* he greeted her.

Lady Wylla returned his nod, her sharp eyes studying him for a moment before turning back to Daenerys. *"The North is ready for your arrival, Your Grace. My daughter Wylla will remain here in White Harbor to oversee our affairs while I accompany you to Winterfell. The Stark bannermen will be waiting."*

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully, but Barristan could see the calculating look in her eyes. She never missed an opportunity to read the room, to assess her allies and enemies alike. It was part of what made her such an effective ruler—and part of what made her so dangerous to cross.

As they began their meal, the conversations around the table shifted to lighter matters—trade routes, the state of the harbor, and the coming winter. But Barristan could feel the weight of his mother's expectations settling on his shoulders. This journey to Winterfell was not just a visit—it was a test. A test of his ability to navigate the treacherous politics of the realm, to secure alliances and keep the North loyal to the crown.

And as much as he wished he could return to his room and forget about it all, to lose himself in the warmth of Mary's arms, he knew that was no longer an option. He was his mother's son. And the burden of that legacy was growing heavier by the day.