The Forgotten Brother's Son

47: Tears Of A Dargonwolf

Daemon didn't think he'd feel so quite out of place leaving the camp of his own Legion.

In theory, he knew that he always felt more comfortable with the Nords than General Tullius and his soldiers, but he never experienced it like this, to be true. It wasn't something he expected to feel and it irked him somewhat.

He only wondered briefly why he felt this way as he trudged through Wintertown without bothering with a horse.

He liked walking, missing the time he had walked a lot across all of Skyrim, caring nothing about carriages and horses.

His shadows were silent as they followed him. Not even breathing too loudly. Not even complaining about the fact that he walked instead of riding.

They were alert to any potential threat, though, just like their Emperor, who, even if he were deeply in thought, were vigilant against whatever fool would try his or her hand at attacking him.

They reached the great first heavy gates to Winterfell fairly unbothered by the imagined foes, crossing the bridge and passing into Winterfell through the second gates, where they found Young Griff conversing with Robb Stark of all people while shivering under his fur cloak, not used to the cold harsh Northern evenings.

"Did you enjoy your visit to your soldiers?" Robb asked as Daemon joined them.

Daemon nodded, but didn't reveal anything more. Instead, he reached out to Aegon, letting a little warming spell flow into him.

It is one Brelyna Marion taught him when he attended the Mages College of Winterhold. Strangely enough, she was one of the healers back at the Legion camp.
It had been good to see another familiar face and speak to her. He only wished he could've seen Lydia amongst them, alive and well.

He swallowed, pushing down the feeling of grief that tried to consume him. He would never forget his friend and probably would always mourn for her.

"Thank you," Aegon said awkwardly, not knowing how to handle this simple gesture of someone whom he didn't know well enough to call his friend. Though, Daemon was fast becoming his friend, make no mistake about it.

Daemon only waved his hand dismissively, caring nothing about a simple thank you. It is the least he could do, helping someone who was cold. He didn't want the true heir to the Iron Throne to succumb to sickness.

"Let us us go indoors," he said, gesturing towards the castle. He wanted to take a long warm bath and get some sleep.

Tomorrow he will be flying to Dorne upon dragon back with Oberyn Nymeros Martell and mayhaps Aegon also, though he didn't think the younger man know that yet.

His thoughts turned to the big old dragon who made his temporary home in an abandoned fortress in the forest not far from Winterfell.

His help at sea had been very much appreciated. And the talk Daemon had had with him afterwards had heightened his spirits greatly.

The warmth of Winterfell's walls enveloped them as they walked through her doors and Daemon had to bite back a sigh of relief of feeling her warm embrace.

The cold wasn't really that bad, he afterall did stay in the coldest part of Skyrim for a time during his adventurous days there. Yet, he do really prefer Cyrodiil's weather most days.

"Daemon!"

He looked over his shoulder at Aela the Huntress, a small smile forming on his lips as she approached, her fiery hair aflame in the light of the wall sconces.

She looked like a goddess to him and a certain part of him agreed that maybe he should find someone to help him relief his needs for the night....

He mentally shook his head at himself, thinking of Sansa and of course, his uncle who wouldn't approve of him bedding maidens while betrothed to Sansa. It would be a rather irresponsible mistake on his part.