Chapter One: The Thirteenth Name Day
The godswood was quiet that morning, touched with frost that clung to the bark like stubborn memory. Snow still dusted the roots of the great weirwood, though the first signs of spring crept in — a subtle dampness in the earth, the faint scent of green things daring to grow again. Vaeron Targaryen knelt beneath the heart tree, his gloved hands clasped, purple eyes raised toward the pale, bloody face etched into its bark.
"Thirteen," he murmured. "And still no word."
The North had never felt cold to him, though others often called him dragonspawn — fire and fury born in a land of ice. Yet Winterfell had been his home as long as he could remember. He knew every tunnel beneath the crypts, every tower stair that creaked in the wind, and every crooked stone along the battlements. He had fought mock battles in the yard, bled on the training grounds, and wept beneath the old gods' eyes. This was his world.
But not his place.
Inside the walls of Winterfell, he was Prince Vaeron, treated with respect as Eddard Stark's foster son and the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen. In the North, that name meant something. But elsewhere — south of the Neck — he was spoken of in hushed tones, always with an edge of mockery or unease.
"The bastard prince of the North."
A title that burned like dragonfire under his skin.
He rose, brushing snow from his knees, the white streaks fading against the silver of his breeches. His hair — long, pale as moonlight — flowed freely down his back, and his violet eyes gleamed in the dappled light like polished amethyst. His mother's eyes. Her hair. Her death.
He had never known Lyanna Stark, only the legacy she left behind — a bloodstained bed, a broken prince, and a crown of silence.
"Vaeron," a voice called gently from behind.
He turned. Catelyn Stark stood at the edge of the godswood, wrapped in a thick wool cloak, auburn hair pinned back, green eyes warm.
"Come inside, sweetling. The kitchen girls have made you honeycakes."
He smiled faintly and approached her. She touched his cheek with a gloved hand, brushing away a snowflake.
"They remembered," he said softly, surprised.
"Of course they did," she answered, guiding him toward the keep. "You are a Stark of Winterfell, no matter your name. And today, you are thirteen."
He wanted to believe her. And when Catelyn said it, he almost could.
---
The Great Hall smelled of pine resin and roasted venison. A small fire crackled in the hearth, and a modest table had been laid out for the midday meal. There were no banners raised, no bard songs sung — not like Robb's name days, which always drew half the holdfast. But there was warmth in the room. Robb, Bran, and Arya sat near the fire, passing meat and cheese between them, while Rickon toddled about, waving a wooden direwolf.
Eddard Stark sat at the high table, his eyes unreadable as always — calm, quiet, and weathered as the northern stone. But Vaeron saw the nod he gave him, the small gesture that meant acceptance. Not affection, perhaps. But duty. Honor. That was enough.
Sansa approached him with a ribbon-wrapped package. "Happy name day, Vaeron," she said sweetly.
He took it with a bow of thanks, unwrapping it to find a fine pair of black leather riding gloves, stitched with silver thread. He smiled at her.
"They're lovely, Sansa."
Catelyn watched him from the high table, her gaze soft and proud. She would not call him "my son" before lords, but when the halls were empty, and the fire low, she did. She had sung him lullabies in the nursery, stitched his wounds when he fell, and stayed at his bedside during every fever.
She had given him what no one else could.
Love.
---
That night, after the others had gone to sleep, Vaeron stood on the battlements. The sky was clouded, the moon a pale crescent. The wind carried the scent of pine, smoke, and something else — something far off and ancient.
His thoughts turned to King Rhaegar, the father he had never met. He had seen his portrait in the solar once — silver hair falling over regal shoulders, eyes like molten amethyst, the ruby-studded armor glinting like stars. Everyone spoke of him with reverence. A dutiful king, a wise ruler, a beloved husband and son. Even Uncle Viserys and Aunt Daenerys, who visited King's Landing often, were said to adore him.
But he had never once set foot in Winterfell.
Not even to see his son.
I wonder if he even knows what I look like, Vaeron thought bitterly. Or if he'd recognize my voice, if I called to him across a crowded hall.
Their knowledge of each other was secondhand at best. Rhaegar received letters with Lord Stark's sigil on them. Vaeron received none.
Sometimes, he dreamed of standing in the Red Keep, announcing himself to the king. I am your son. But in those dreams, Rhaegar turned away, face unreadable, and vanished into shadow.
Vaeron clenched his fists.
I will make him see me. I will become the prince he should have loved.
---
That night, Vaeron dreamed.
He stood in snow — not Winterfell snow, but a deeper, wilder cold. Sharp rocks jutted from the white like broken teeth. Far to the east, towering cliffs rose high above the sea, and beyond them, a massive island loomed, blanketed in frost and silence.
Skagos.
He had seen it once on Maester Luwin's map — a harsh land of myths and monsters, where unicorns roamed and old gods whispered.
And now, fire burned there.
It licked the sky in sickly green flames, twisting like serpents. The snow melted in rivulets around a black shape curled upon a cliffside.
A dragon.
Not like the ones in the old Targaryen tomes — not red or gold or cream.
This one was obsidian — pure, glossy black, like forged volcanic glass. Its wings were vast, serrated at the edges like blades, its scales layered like armor. Emerald green pulsed in the thin seams of its hide, tracing the curve of its ribs and the fork of its tail. Its eyes were molten jade, burning with ancient fury.
It opened them and looked at him.
Not through him. At him.
You are the one.
Vaeron's breath caught.
He could feel its strength — disciplined, immense, coiled like a storm. It was not wild, not mad. It had not flown since the day he was born, but it had not slept. It had trained. Evolved. Waited.
I rise for no king. I burn for no banner. But for you, I will fly.
Vaeron took a step forward. The snow melted beneath his feet.
Who are you? he whispered.
The dragon opened its wings.
I am Cannibal. And you are my flame.
---
He woke with a jolt, breath ragged, body slick with sweat. The stone ceiling above his bed was quiet. The chamber was still. A fire crackled low in the hearth.
He rose and crossed to the window.
The sky had cleared. The stars were out, cold and bright. And on the eastern horizon, a thin streak of green fire flickered — too faint for others to see, but bright as a beacon to him.
Vaeron Targaryen, Prince of the North, pressed his hand against the cold glass.
The world would change.
He would become more than a boy forgotten by a king.
He would be the perfect prince — of fire and ice, of dragon and wolf.
And the world would remember his name.