The morning was sharp and loud. Exactly as a morning in the North ought to be. Daelays loved breathing in the smell of it — fresh air carrying the faint scent of hearth smoke. With the window thrown open, the sounds of the courtyard drifted up from below: the ring of steel on anvils, the shuffle and clatter of the castle waking. To the north, the land rose and turned rocky, unwelcoming. Above the Lonely Hills the wind never truly ceased — cruel and cold, it swept over the ridge without rest. Most mornings the high ground was swallowed by mist and grey weather, but this morning was different. Daelays stood at the window for the better part of half an hour, simply looking. Then a knock broke the quiet.
"Daelays, are you awake?" A hoarse, old voice.
Daelays knew exactly who it was. She rolled her eyes and called back.
"I am," she said, with forced brightness.
The door opened. A short woman in an apron came in, her hair tucked up beneath it as always — though Daelays knew there was a tight bun underneath.
"Breakfast is ready. Your sister and brother are waiting. Don't keep them again," the woman said.
"I know. I'm coming."
The woman pulled the door shut, and Daelays listened to the sound of her shuffling footsteps fade down the corridor.
When Daelays came down to the great hall — where the household took its meals, held its feasts, and marked its celebrations — her sister Crytharys, her younger brother Vaelric, and their mother were already well into their breakfast.
"Good morning," Daelays said brightly.
"At last," Crytharys said, looking her over. "I thought the view had claimed you again."
Daelays only smirked, then fired back with a grin:
"No. Just more honest."
She sat, and caught the eye of one of the serving girls.
"Bread, cheese, butter, and some fruit, please." The girl bowed and went.
"Any word from Father or our brothers?" Daelays asked.
Her mother lowered her head slightly. Everyone at the table stopped eating. A moment passed.
"No raven has come," Lyanna said, without looking up.
Daelays's face fell. The smile died on her lips. When she spoke, her voice had gone unsteady.
"But... they always write," she whispered. No one answered. Silence sat over the table like a weight.
The serving girl returned with the food just then, but when Daelays looked at it, she found she was not hungry.
A single tear ran down ten-year-old Vaelric's cheek.
"Don't worry. Your father has come through worse than this," Lyanna said, and reached over to wipe the boy's face. Vaelric gave a small, uncertain nod.
Moments later, Maester Halmar entered the hall in his white robes, a letter in his hand.
"My lady — a letter has arrived from Winterfell, addressed to Lord Kaelverion," the old man said, his voice carrying a note of urgency.
As Lyanna took the letter, Daelays caught sight of the grey direwolf seal pressed into the wax.
"What do you think, Maester? Ought we to wait for my husband?" Lyanna asked.
"I fear it is urgent, my lady. Maester Landor sent it by the fastest royal raven he had," Halmar answered — perhaps more gravely than the moment required.
Lyanna broke the seal and drew out a sheet of parchment covered in writing — and a small, rotting apple, crawling with maggots. She dropped it with a startled cry. One of the serving girls rushed over and swept it from the floor.
"Don't throw it away!" the princess cried. "Set it on the table. No one is to touch it."
Lyanna looked at the maester. His face had gone pale with something between alarm and uncertainty.
"Halmar — put the letter back in its envelope," she said.
"Guards. Here. Now."
When the guards arrived, the princess ordered them to escort the maester back to his chambers and to admit no one.
"The rest of you — out," their mother said, stroking Vaelric's head as she spoke.
When Daelays reached her room, her mind was still turning. What had been in that letter? Why the rotting apple? She could not shake it. She began to wonder how she might slip away and find out for herself. Daelays had always been too curious for her own good.
Then she remembered what had happened the last time she had been too curious.
It was six years ago, when she was still only seven. Her father had come back from a scouting ride with his men — but not alone. They had brought a man with them, a dark-skinned man unlike anyone Daelays had ever seen. Maester Halmar had told them such people existed, but none lived in the North. Crytharys had once told her these were the most dangerous men alive. Seven-year-old Daelays could not understand what could make a dark-skinned man any more dangerous than a pale one. She still could not, if she was honest.
He had not looked dangerous at all — if anything, he had looked kind. But his hands were bound and his mouth stuffed with a rag. The soldiers shoved him when he did not move fast enough, and he could barely walk. His legs were thick with wounds and bruises, an arrow still lodged in one of them.
"He doesn't seem very dangerous," Daelays had said to her sister.
"He must have done something terrible," Crytharys replied primly. "Murder. Worse." She listed the words with a kind of relish. Daelays had not believed her — had not quite understood what the words meant, either.
When one of the soldiers pulled the rag from the man's mouth, the only thing he kept saying was:
"I did not want to come here. They made me."
Daelays had looked at her father, who stood with the man, Ser Harlon, Ser Olly, and the soldiers. Her father's head was low. He was saying something, quietly, as if he did not want to say it aloud. Then the man was dragged away to the dungeon beneath the castle, struggling the whole way.
As if he's afraid of something, Daelays thought.
"What will happen to him?" she had asked her sister.
"I don't know," Crytharys said, in a bored tone.
Daelays had spent the whole day fretting over the man. At supper, she asked her father directly:
"Father — what will become of him?"
Lyanna looked at Kaelverion. He paused mid-chew, swallowed, and answered with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
"Don't worry, Daely. They're only questioning him."
Daelays did not like the answer. Something felt wrong.
"They won't hurt him, will they?" she asked.
Her father went pale for a moment and looked at Lyanna with a hollow expression.
"He will come to no harm — but ask no more about this," her mother answered in his place, pressing a kiss to Daely's forehead.
Daelays said nothing. Only nodded.
When supper was finished and everyone had gone to bed, Daelays still could not get the dark-skinned man out of her mind. She wanted to know why he had come to be here. It was the same kind of wanting she felt now about the letter Cregan had sent to her father. When full darkness lay over the castle, and the last voices had faded, and no one moved but the guards, Daelays opened the window, stepped onto the sill, and carefully lowered herself until her hands found the ledge and her feet found the stones jutting from the wall below.
She had done this before — many times. She had slipped out into the night more often than she could count, usually because she loved to study the sleeping landscape, the dark castle in its stillness. She knew every stone on that wall, which ones held firm and which ones shifted.
She was terrified of heights, yet she could have climbed down from any tower in the castle if there was something worth finding at the bottom. She descended stone by stone, pressing her fingers and toes deep into the gaps between them. That was what made her feel safe. She always left her shoes off for this — there was a spare pair hidden at the base of the wall, because she could not bear the cold of the ground. She loved the feeling when birds circled her as she climbed — for a moment she felt as if she were one of them, that she too was flying. If she could take any shape, she would choose a bird. She would fly until she could fly no more. But her truest love had always been for dragons. When Maester Halmar first told them about dragons, she had fallen in love with the creatures on the spot.
Between the base of the wall and the dungeons, Daelays had three possible routes. The first was too long, though safe. The second was too dangerous. She would take the third — the route through the castle itself. She knew it better than her own palm, and at least she would not have to fear the dark outside.
At the servants' entrance she found the guard fast asleep at his post, slumped directly beside the door. She pressed the latch, eased the door open as quietly and quickly as she could, and slipped through. She was very young, but she had always had a gift for moving without sound.
Through the dressing room, along the passage connecting the washroom and the kitchen, she could reach the main corridor that led to the dungeons beneath the great hall. She had to be quieter now than she had ever been — so she left her shoes at the base of the tower as well. She pulled on one of the cloaks hanging from the wall, the kind the serving girls were made to wear, and had just managed to tuck her long grey hair under the hood when she heard footsteps approaching. She turned quickly away from the door and went through the motions of someone going about her evening work. She heard the door open behind her, then a sigh.
"Gods," the serving girl muttered.
Daelays made a neutral noise in reply.
"I hope they can actually chew it," the girl continued.
Daelays glanced over.
"Who do you mean?" she asked, in a carefully deepened voice.
"The Targaryens, who else," the girl said sourly. "They do nothing and live like lords. Why? For a name?"
Daelays burned with anger. She wanted to tear the cloak off then and there — but she was on a mission.
"That is not true. They defend the realm," she said, pitching her voice low.
"Of course they do. If you say so," the girl laughed, dismissively.
Daelays's jaw tightened.
"I don't recognise your voice," the girl added, narrowing her eyes.
"I only started the other day," Daelays said, after a beat.
As the serving girl moved away, Daelays decided it was time to go. She stepped toward the door, pushed it open, and said, over her shoulder:
"Think before you speak."
Then she pulled the door shut behind her.
The corridor beyond was empty — she relaxed, just a little. Bare feet on cold stone. The chill crawled up her legs at once, as if warning her she had no business being here. The passage was narrow, low-ceilinged, the walls stripped of any ornament — only plaster and cracks. The servants' road, bustling by day, hollow by night. She kept to the darker stretches, where no one would recognise her face. She moved slowly, close to the wall, holding her breath. She could hear her own heartbeat. Every sound seemed too loud: the whisper of her cloak, the faint grit of stone dust under her bare soles. One foot, then the other.
She tried to fix her mind on something pleasant. Her first ride — only a pony, but it had felt like flying, without the terror of heights. Or the time Aeghal had taken her to one of the old watchtowers, damaged in some ancient storm and long since abandoned. That was where she had first seen a real eagle, nesting there. A peaceful bird, though it disliked being approached — Daelays had sat for hours watching it tend its nest, completely content. Or the feeling, warm and soft, that settled over her when her father returned safely from a scouting ride. She had never found the right word for it, but she loved it. It felt like warmth. Like something held still.
When someone came toward her in the corridor, she turned quickly and appeared to study the markings on the wall.
She made it through the passage at last and reached the junction, where she stopped.
She was still deciding whether this whole dangerous venture was worth it when a light flickered in the distance — brighter, sharper than the torches fixed to the wall.
"Who's there?" A guard's voice, his other hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.
Daelays did not know what to do, so she improvised.
"It's Daelays," she said, calmly.
The man's mouth nearly fell open, but he caught himself. He glanced around, as if someone might be watching him.
"What... what are you doing here, my lady?"
"I couldn't sleep. I came for an evening walk. It does one good, Ser — didn't you know?" she said pleasantly.
"That may well be, but these passages are no place for a lady. Come — I'll take you back."
When they emerged into the main hall, the guard bowed and returned to his post. Daelays continued toward the dungeons — no longer wrapped in a serving girl's cloak. She was Daelays Targaryen now.
At the dungeon stair, two guards stood watch. Daelays hesitated, then steeled herself and stepped in front of them.
"I want to see him," she said simply.
Both guards' mouths opened, then closed. They drew themselves up, blades pointing at the ground.
"See what, exactly, my lady?" one of them managed.
Daelays said nothing. She only looked toward the dungeon, as if she were pointing with her eyes.
The guard sighed, looked at the other. There was no order covering this. No rule that applied. A child was standing before him, wearing a name too large for her. He opened the door.
"Shall we come with you?" the second asked.
"No," she said at once.
As she stepped through the door, the smell hit her — blood, sweat, and something stale and close. It was a terrible smell. The sight was worse.
Further in, she saw that every cell was empty but one. A dark-skinned man lay inside it — nothing like he had looked that afternoon. He lay naked on his side, facing the wall, on the ice-cold stone floor. His body was covered in bruises and wounds. The bone was showing through one of his legs. He breathed in sharp, pained gasps.
Daelays screamed. She did not know exactly what she was looking at — she only knew she never wanted to go back into that room. The scream filled the dungeon and rang through the whole castle. Both guards burst through the iron door at once. Within moments, two dozen more had crowded in behind them. Daelays could only weep. Ser Harlon arrived soon after.
"Get the poor girl out of here!" he shouted at the guards. "Who allowed this to happen?"
The soldiers stood in silence as one of them gathered the sobbing Daelays in his arms and carried her out.
Her mother and father arrived soon after, along with Ser Olly and Ser Roderik.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Kaelverion demanded of the guards, his voice white with fury.
Daelays did not hear the rest through her crying — but she remembers that her father was angrier than she had ever seen him. She does not remember what became of the guards who let her in. She does not remember how she got back to bed. She woke in the morning feeling wretched. She was furious with her father for having lied to her.
A soft knock came at her door.
"Daely — are you awake?" Her father. He always spoke to her differently than he spoke to anyone else. Gentle, and careful.
Daelays said nothing. The door began to open. Her father's head appeared around it.
"May I come in?" Daelays said nothing.
Kaelverion came in and lowered himself slowly, carefully, onto the edge of the bed.
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "That man serves the Thief King."
"But they made him!" Daelays burst out.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. It is possible he killed women and children in the Thief King's name," her father said, running a hand through her hair. "Rest now."
He kissed her forehead and left.
Daelays spent the whole day turning over what her father had said.
She was still thinking when a sudden commotion broke through from the courtyard below. Soldiers running.
"Open the gate!" came the shout.
Daelays looked out and saw riders approaching in the distance — dozens of them.
"It's the scouts! They're back!" she cried, and ran downstairs.
They arrived minutes later. Forty horses, and the ground shook beneath them. When Daelays saw her brothers and her father, her eyes lit up and something warm moved through her. She spent more time with her brothers than with anyone else — with Aeghal most of all. Whenever they came back from a scouting ride, they always went to the forest first. She wanted to be there right now.