Winterfell sat quiet beneath a sky streaked with grey, the winds sharp, dry, and biting.
The snow had not yet fallen, but the scent of it lingered in the air, thick and cold. Lord Cregan Stark stood atop the battlements, his gloved hands resting on the cold stone as he gazed northward, where the land met the low clouds.
He was used to silence. The stillness of the North was a comfort to him a kind of strength. Until the sound came.
A low hum at first, like a distant avalanche rumbling across the mountains. Then it deepened, grew heavier, more alive. Cregan narrowed his eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck rising beneath layers of furs and wool.
It wasn't thunder. It was something else.
The guards along the walls began to murmur, turning their heads toward the sound. One of them, a younger man barely grown into his beard, muttered, "What in the old gods…"
Cregan saw it then. A shadow, far off at first, gliding through the clouds like a stain of smoke and scale. It grew as it approached, enormous wings beating the air with slow, deliberate power.
The shape of it sleek, blackened, edged in hints of bright red. Bore no banners. No saddle. No rider. Just a creature so vast and wild that it made the towers of Winterfell seem small.
"Seven hells," someone breathed beside him.
The dragon soared above the trees, low and slow, casting a vast shadow over the snow-dusted godswood. Its roar did not come it did not need to roar. Its silence was worse. The sheer size of it struck everyone dumb.
It passed overhead in a sweep of heat and smoke-scented wind. Its wingspan stretched nearly the entire length of the bailey. Cregan watched as it moved with terrible grace, each wingbeat a declaration of strength older than any man living.
Then it was gone not a flash, not a retreat, just gone into the clouds to the south.
For a moment, no one moved.
"Was that… one of theirs?" asked the same young guard, his voice barely above a whisper.
Cregan didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the path it had taken.
The Targaryens had dragons, yes. But none of them flew alone into the North. None.
He turned to his men, his jaw tight.
"No horns," he said. "No warnings. No ravens. No it was not one of theirs, send a ravens to warn the north of the dragons presence."
He left the walls in silence, the sound of wings still echoing in his mind. The wild dragon had not attacked, had not even lingered but it had looked down at Winterfell as if measuring it.
Not a threat. Just a presence.
And that makes a chill go down his back.
—————
Hope you enjoyed the chapter