Game of thrones: A storm is coming

The sun hung low over the bustling streets of Gulltown as Daeron strolled with quiet purpose. The orphanage where he had spent his earliest years loomed in his mind like a specter from a half-forgotten dream.

His visit there had left him with more questions than answers; no one remembered his mother, or they claimed not to. The records were incomplete, and the staff who might have known her had long since passed or moved on.

Frustration gnawed at him as he wandered aimlessly through the market streets. Lost in thought, he didn't notice the woman in front of him until he collided with her.

A basket tumbled to the ground, spilling bread and vegetables onto the cobblestones.

"I'm terribly sorry my lady ," Daeron said, crouching to gather the scattered goods.

The woman knelt beside him with a soft laugh. "No harm done, milord. Though you do owe me a new piece of bread; it's been flattened beyond saving."

He looked up, meeting her curious brown eyes. She was middle-aged, with lines of hardship etched into her kind face. "I'll replace the bread," he promised, offering her a sheepish smile.

She waved him off. "Nonsense. But you're polite for a lordling—or whatever you are. You have beautiful grey eyes, though. They remind me of someone I once knew ."

Daeron straightened, handing back the basket. "Do they? Who might that be?"

The woman tilted her head, scrutinizing him. "A friend of mine. Come to my home, and I'll tell you about her. It's not far, and I owe you a proper thank-you."

The woman's name was Matilda, a widow who lived in a modest cottage tucked away in a quieter part of the city. She ushered Daeron inside and set the basket on the table before disappearing into the kitchen. When she returned, she carried a tray of bread, cheese, and stew.

"Eat," she insisted, sitting across from him. "We can talk after you've had a proper meal."

Daeron didn't argue. The food was simple but hearty, and Matilda's hospitality eased the lingering edge of his earlier disappointment.

When the dishes were cleared, Matilda opened a worn out steel trunk at the foot of her bed. "This," she said, running a hand over the lid, "belonged to my dearest friend, Saera Snow."

Daeron's breath caught. "Snow? Was she a northerner?"

"She was," Matilda said, pulling out a bundle of old belongings. "Saera came here years ago, alone and with little more than her sewing skills and wild spirit . She was the sweetest soul, but life wasn't kind to her."

Matilda unfolded a hand-drawn sketch, revealing a striking woman with long, dark hair and hauntingly familiar eyes. "She looked like this. Your eyes are hers, and the shape of your nose too."

Daeron took the sketch with trembling hands. For a moment, he could only stare at the image, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. Could this really be his mother?

Matilda placed a hand on his shoulder, breaking his reverie. "There's more," she said, pulling out a few garments. "Saera embroidered these herself. She was a tailor, the best I ever knew. But look closely."

Daeron unfolded one of the garments, his gaze falling on the sigil of a direwolf, intricately sewn into the fabric.

"Why would she have Stark emblems on her clothing?" he asked, frowning.

Matilda sighed, her expression tinged with sadness. "Because she was a Stark—at least, by blood. Saera was the bastard daughter of the late Lord Stark.

She left Winterfell after her father's death because her brother, Bennard, resented her for her birth. He made her life miserable there. Her other brother, Rickard, begged her to stay but ultimately helped her leave when she refused. He gave her enough money to start a new life, and she came here."

Daeron ran his fingers over the embroidery, his mind racing. "And what happened to her here?"

Matilda's face darkened. "She fell in love, or so she thought. A Targaryen prince—or perhaps just a bastard pretending to be one. He abandoned her when she was pregnant.

Saera never gave up hope that he would return and make them a family, but he never did. She died shortly after giving birth. Illness and heartbreak took her."

Her voice cracked, tears pooling in her eyes. "I tried to help, but I was barely scraping by myself after my husband's death . I couldn't take in her child, so I made sure they had something to eat after She was bed ridden.

I visited when I could, but... I should've done more. She was my friend, but I couldn't help her nor her precious son. I only found out after she passed away that night, but I could not find her son, only her belongings that were left."

Daeron set the garments down gently, his heart aching for the woman in the sketch and the woman before him. "You did what you could," he said softly.

Matilda wiped her eyes, offering him a watery smile. "Thank you. It means more than you know."

Daeron leaned back, lost in thought. His mind pieced together the fragments of Saera's life and her tragic end. If she truly was his mother, then his blood carried the legacies of both the North and the Dragonlords of Valyria—a union of fire and ice. 'My life seems to be filled with irony.' Daeron sighed.

The quiet of Matilda's cottage was broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards as Daeron shifted in his seat. His fingers traced the delicate embroidery of the garments that had once belonged to Saera Snow, his mind a tempest of thoughts.

As he lifted one of the dresses, a folded piece of parchment slipped from its folds, fluttering to the floor.

Daeron picked it up with nervous hands. The paper was worn, its edges yellowed with time, but the ink remained bold and clear, despite the shaky writing. The address was simple, yet it struck his heart with the force of a hammer:

To my dearest son, Daeron.

The air left his lungs as he unfolded the letter. The elegant handwriting, though shaky, bore the care of someone pouring their soul onto the page. He began to read.

My dearest son Daeron,

If you are reading this, then I am no longer with you. Forgive me, my sweet boy, for leaving you so soon. Fate has been cruel to me, but I pray that they have also been kind enough to place you in loving arms, to shelter you when I could not.

I write to you now, as I sit by your cradle. You are so small, so perfect, and I cannot stop my tears as I look at you. Your eyes, so bright and gray like mine, and your silver hair and jaws remind me of your father. He would have adored you, my little dragon.

You are born with the fiery spirits of a dragon, my sweetling, yet the northern cold chills your temper, making you the prince born of ice and fire, it feels as if destiny has brought me and your father together.

Your father was Prince Aemon Targaryen, a man of great honor and warmth. He was a dreamer and a warrior, someone who believed in justice and love above all. Though he looked stern on the outside, he had a rare gentle side which I got to see and love.

Though he never got to hold you, know that he loved you fiercely. He dreamed of a life with you, one where he could teach you to ride dragons, to wield a sword, to live with courage and honor. But that dream was stolen from him—and from us.

News of his death reached me just after your birth. He fell in battle, far away from us, defending the realm he cherished. The grief was unbearable, but the thought of you gave me strength. You, Daeron, are the light he left behind.

I wish I could have stayed with you longer. My health is failing; the birth has left me weak, and the sorrow is too heavy to bear. I have little time left, and yet I must believe that you will endure.

I must believe that you will rise above the circumstances of your birth, that you will live a life filled with joy and purpose. Maybe even have a nice family of your own.

My son, forgive me for not being there to guide you, to comfort you when the world is unkind. But know this: you are not alone. Even if the world seems dark, remember that you are loved. You are the pride of both your parents, and I know you will achieve great things.

Live a long and happy life, my sweet boy. Carry us with you, not as a burden but as a source of strength. When the winds whisper through the trees, when the stars shine brightly in the night sky, know that we are with you, watching over you with love and pride.

You will always be my greatest joy, my little dragon. Never forget that.

With all the love I have,

Your mother,

Saera

Tears blurred Daeron's vision as he finished the letter, his hand trembling as he caressed the worn parchment. For the first time in years, he felt the ache of something he had long buried—a yearning for a family, for the love he had never known.

He pressed the letter to his chest, as though holding it there might somehow bring him closer to the woman who had poured her heart into it. "Mother," he whispered, his voice breaking, "although I might not be your real son, but I'll make you proud. I swear it."

When Matilda returned, she found Daeron sitting silently, the letter still clutched in his hands. He looked up at her, his expression a mixture of gratitude and sorrow.

"She was my mother," he said softly.

Matilda's eyes widened, and then, without hesitation, she pulled him into a warm embrace. "Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured, tears streaming down her face, " I knew I sensed a familiar feeling from you" . "You grown up to be a kind and good boy. Saera would be so proud of you."

Daeron allowed himself a moment of solace in her arms before gently pulling away. "Thank you, aunt Matilda," he said, his voice steadier now. "Thank you for keeping her memory alive."

Matilda offered to let him stay, but he declined with a polite smile. "I have responsibilities I cannot ignore. But if you ever need anything, please let me know."

Matilda smiled and refused, " an old lady like me doesn't need much. Meeting you today was all I needed. It was a blessing. Do come and visit this old lady from time to time if possible."

He requested to take his mother's belongings, and Matilda agreed without hesitation, her expression soft with affection. She asked if Daeron needed a place to stay, but he politely refused, saying he didn't want to burden her more.

As he left her home, he discreetly instructed his guards to watch over her and ensure her safety. He ordered a few of his men to stay here always and protect her safety and help her as much as possible. The world was cruel, so he'd ensure she lived a safe and happy life.

Later, on the rocky cliffs outside Gulltown, Daeron approached Acnologia. The great dragon lowered its head, sensing its rider's unease. Daeron rested a hand on its snout, his silver hair glinting in the fading sunlight.

"I don't know how to feel buddy," he murmured. "She loved me so much, even when the world gave her nothing. My father... he never even knew me.

But they both believed in me. How do I honor that? Specially when I know their son died and and I took his place!" he punched a rock, shattering it while bruising his knuckles.

Acnologia nudged him gently, a low rumble vibrating through its massive frame. Daeron smiled faintly, patting the dragon's head.

"You're right, buddy . I'll keep moving forward. I am Daeron, and I'll honor them as my parents. It's just sad that in both my lives, I lost my parents without ever having the chance to become a real family."

With a deep sigh , he mounted Acnologia and took to the skies, the wind carrying him higher and higher. The letter was tucked safely against his heart, a reminder of the love that had shaped his existence.

As the stars began to light the heavens, Daeron resolved to build a legacy worthy of the sacrifice and love that had brought him into this world, a legacy that would honor the memory of his mother and father.