In the heart of winter, when the world should have been shrouded in snow, a rider approached the ruin, her cloak snapping in the cold wind. It was Daella Snow, a bastard of the North, though her name was more whispered than spoken in noble halls. Dark hair framed her face, streaked with snowflakes that melted as soon as they touched her pale skin. Beneath her furs, a sword rested against her hip—a blade forged in the cold of Winterfell, carried south with a heart brimming with secrets.

The stories of Summerhall had haunted Daella since she was a child. Her father, Lord Stark, had told her the tale of the place as though warning her against something inevitable. There were always ghosts in the past, he said, and some ghosts were better left unprovoked. But Daella had never been one to heed warnings, and now the whispers that had once seemed distant felt as though they called to her, drawing her south as if she had no choice but to come.

The castle loomed ahead, little more than a skeleton of what it had been. Its towers, blackened and broken, reached toward the pale sky like grasping hands. The cold was biting here, an unnatural chill that crept through her furs and armor, settling in her bones. She had been told it never snowed in the Reach, but a thin layer of frost coated the ground, shimmering under the gray sky.

As her horse picked its way through the ruined gates, Daella dismounted, her boots crunching on the frost-covered ground. The air smelled of burnt wood, as though the fires that had destroyed Summerhall had never truly gone out. Her breath misted in front of her, curling in the stillness.

She stepped forward, toward the heart of the ruins, where the great hall had once stood. The stone walls were crumbled, half of them lost to the flames, and yet there was an echo here, a memory of voices long silenced. They whispered as the wind blew through the hollow corridors, as though trying to tell her something she could not yet understand.

Summerhall's ghosts were said to be restless, forever tied to the Targaryens and the fire that had consumed them. But Daella wasn't here for the old king's folly or the doomed birth of a dragon prince. She was here for something older, something darker.

"Daella Stark," a voice said from the shadows.

She spun, hand on her sword. The voice had come from a figure standing at the far end of the hall, where the light barely reached. Cloaked in black, the stranger was tall and gaunt, with skin that seemed to have been drained of warmth. His eyes were dark, almost unnaturally so, as though the shadows themselves had taken residence there.

"You've come," he said. His voice was like the cracking of ice on a frozen lake—quiet, but capable of shattering the silence.

"I didn't think anyone still lingered here," Daella said cautiously, though her grip on the hilt of her sword remained firm. "Summerhall is abandoned."

The man smiled—a thin, humorless smile that never reached his eyes. "Abandoned by the living, perhaps." He took a step forward, and she could see him more clearly now. His features were sharp, angular, like a man cut from ice. "But some things linger, especially where fire has left its mark."

Daella tensed. She had expected ghosts, perhaps, but this man was no specter. He was real, and there was something about him that felt wrong, as though he belonged neither to the world of the living nor the dead.

"What are you?" she asked, her voice steady despite the cold that seemed to wrap tighter around her with every moment.

The man's smile deepened. "I am the last remnant of a long-forgotten house, one that perished before even the Targaryens rose to power. Summerhall was built atop something ancient, something that should have stayed buried."

She had heard rumors, whispers of things beneath Summerhall—an old magic, perhaps, or a curse that predated the Targaryens. Some claimed it was the land itself that was cursed, while others spoke of a great power that had been sealed away long ago. None of the stories had ever been clear, but now, standing here, Daella felt as though she was on the edge of understanding something terrible.

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

The man's dark eyes gleamed. "You are of the North. The blood of the First Men flows in your veins. You are closer to the old powers than you realize."

Daella's pulse quickened, though she did not show it. "I have no interest in power."

"Perhaps not." The man tilted his head, considering her. "But power is interested in you. The Starks have always been tied to the ancient forces of this world, whether they wished to be or not. You are no different."

The wind howled through the ruins, and for a moment, Daella thought she could hear the crackle of flames, though no fire burned here. Her grip tightened on her sword, though she did not draw it.

"I didn't come here for you," she said, her voice firm. "I came for answers. There is something buried here, something that doesn't belong in this world."

"And yet here you are, standing before it." The man's smile faded, and his expression became more serious. "You seek to bury it again, to return it to the darkness. But you will not succeed. Not alone."

Daella narrowed her eyes. "And you'll help me?"

The man shook his head. "No. I will watch. I will bear witness to what comes next, as I have always done."

Before she could respond, the ground beneath her feet trembled. A low rumble, like distant thunder, echoed through the ruins. Daella's heart raced as the frost-covered stones shifted, as though something far beneath the earth had stirred.

The man stepped back, fading into the shadows. "It awakens," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the growing roar. "It has been waiting for so long..."

Daella turned, her eyes scanning the ruins. The air had changed, thickening with an unnatural heat. Her breath, which had once misted in the cold, no longer did.

.