— THE early morning in Silverpeak was bathed in a glistening layer of dew, with the sun's feeble attempts to penetrate the shroud of clouds veiling the mountain peaks. In the shadowed recesses of the stronghold, the routines of men and women began to play out against the backdrop of stone streets. The scent of smoke, curling from the chimneys of blacksmiths and various workshops, mingled with the chill morning air, filling it with the promise of another day's toil. The stirring songs of waking birds in the surrounding pine forest echoed through the valley, nature's morning serenade.

Within the fortress's protective walls, a symphony of servants commenced their daily chores. Among them was the spirited Lady Elira Valnor, the youngest daughter of Lord Arion Valnor. At seventeen, she possessed a strong-willed nature that often led her to favor the exhilaration of horseback riding and archery over the contemplation of matrimony. It was a subject her father had attempted to broach since she came of age, yet Lord Valnor harbored no desire to impose upon her the constraints that his own father had enforced on his older sister. He believed in granting his children the freedom to choose their paths, although recent reflections stirred a tinge of regret within him.

Elira's independence was not unique among her siblings. Of Lord Valnor's four children, only the twins, Isolde and Gareth, had exchanged vows of marriage. Isolde had wed a Tully when she was just sixteen, embarking on a journey to the Riverlands. Her twin, Gareth, had taken Mia Poole as his bride, and her transition into Silverpeak had been a relatively short one. It was the eldest and youngest of Lord Valnor's offspring who proved to be the most obstinate when it came to marital unions.

Caelan, Lord Valnor's firstborn, had embraced his responsibilities with unwavering dedication since his youth. He understood that his life's course was inexorably tied to Silverpeak. One day, he would ascend to the position of Lord over their house, a destiny he had accepted wholeheartedly.

In the quiet sanctuary of his study, Lord Arion Valnor sat in contemplation. The tall windows that lined the room were fortified with heavy wooden shutters, guarding against the intrusion of the cool mountain air and preserving the warmth of the crackling fire that flickered in the hearth. Before him, a grand desk dominated the space, its polished surface adorned with a meticulously detailed map of the North. Silver threads of molten metal traced the intricate roads and pathways that linked the region's formidable strongholds. As Lord Arion's eyes fixated on the map, his thoughts weighed heavily upon him.

The burden of concern for the future of House Valnor bore down upon him. Though he held unwavering faith in his son Caelan's ability to lead, the young lord, at twenty-nine years of age, had yet to provide an heir to perpetuate the Valnor line. There was no wife to bear his children, no lady to stand by his side and assume the mantle of House Valnor. In his youth, Caelan had displayed a streak of rebellion, a trait that Lord Arion had swiftly curbed. Yet, at times, he couldn't help but wonder if his son had left a legacy of his own, perhaps fathering children with a woman who were named Snow amid the rugged peaks of the Northern mountains. If there were such children, what would stop just one of them from claiming their own place within their house? House Valnor was one of tradition, and to have a bastard someday have a claim to Silverpeak was unnerving.

As Lord Arion Valnor sat in his study, his thoughts swirled with worries and uncertainties about the future of his house. The creaking of the study's wooden door broke the silence in the study, and he looked up to see one of his household guards, a messenger named Ben, stepping inside. Clutched in his hand was a scroll, sealed with the unmistakable wax seal of House Stark, its direwolf sigil etched in crimson.

Ben approached the lord's desk with a respectful nod, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. "My lord," he said, extending the sealed scroll toward Lord Arion, "a raven this morning from Winterfell."

Lord Arion accepted the scroll offering the boy a nod of thanks. Breaking the seal, he unrolled the parchment and began to read the words penned by the Lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark.

Lord Arion Valnor,

I trust this message finds you in good health. I hope that your children are also in good health, and I give my thanks to your son, Caelan Valnor, for capturing the Night's Watch deserter with such haste. As Warden of the North, I request the oath-breaker be delivered to Winterfell for judgment.

Winter is upon us, and the Night's Watch must remain vigilant in its duty. Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated.

Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North

Lord Arion's gaze fell upon the words, meticulously written in the distinctive hand of Lord Stark. It was a curious twist of fate, for there had been a time when Lord Stark's trust in their alliance had wavered. In the aftermath of the rebellion, doubts had briefly clouded Lord Stark's perception of House Valnor's loyalty. Whispers had insinuated that House Valnor had harbored sympathy for the Targaryens, sheltering the surviving children from Dragonstone within their walls.

At that time, Lord Arion had been but a young lord, still finding his footing in the role of ruling Silverpeak. He was older than both Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon, yet the burden of leadership weighed heavily upon him. Many had questioned whether he would remain steadfast in his loyalty to the North when he assumed his father's mantle. To quell doubts and suspicions, the only path had been to allow Lord Stark's men to conduct a thorough search of Silverpeak.

"Send for Caelan," Lord Arion spoke, his voice filled with a sense of urgency. "I must speak with him immediately."

Ben, the messenger who had just delivered the raven's message from Winterfell, bowed his head quickly in acknowledgment. Without a word, he swiftly saw himself from the room, leaving Lord Arion alone with his thoughts.

However, this time, Lord Arion's mind wasn't consumed by the grief his youngest and eldest children were causing him when it came to the future of their house. Instead, his thoughts were swirling with contemplation of what lay in store for House Valnor. It had been a great while since he had ventured to the imposing walls of Winterfell, years since he had last dined with Lord Stark.

Perhaps, he pondered, this task might reveal the true mettle of his son. Caelan had been a mere boy on his last visit to Winterfell, and the youngest son of Lord Stark had barely uttered his first words, still clinging to his mother's side. Now, if Lord Arion's memory served him well, that same Stark heir was a man of six and ten, poised to inherit the mantle of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. By then, it was likely that Caelan would have assumed the role of Lord of Silverpeak, if he hadn't already.

Sending Caelan to deliver the deserter himself wasn't just a matter of duty; it was an opportunity to impress upon the young lord the loyalty and steadfastness of House Valnor. It could plant a seed in the Stark heir's mind about the unwavering support of their house.

Yet, there was another, more delicate matter at play—a union that Lord Arion's late wife had once suggested. It involved the marriage of Caelan to Lyanna Stark, the twin sister of Robb Stark. It was a proposal laden with political significance, but Lord Arion knew it might not sit well with his son. Caelan had his own memories of Winterfell, including the image of a fussy child who had once resided within those ancient walls.

The heavy silence that had filled the study was abruptly shattered as the tall wooden door creaked open, and Caelan Valnor entered. His presence carried an air of authority, despite his relatively young age, and his strong, well-built frame spoke of years of training and discipline.

"You sent for me, Father?" Caelan's voice, deep and steady, cut through the stillness of the room as he crossed the threshold.

Lord Arion acknowledged his son with a nod, gesturing toward the elaborately carved wooden chair situated opposite his own. As Caelan took his seat, the fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across his face, emphasizing the strong, chiseled features that mirrored his father's.

With a deep breath, Lord Arion began to speak. "I received a raven from Winterfell," he explained, his hazel eyes locking onto Caelan's. "Lord Stark expressed his gratitude for our swift capture of the deserter."

Caelan nodded thoughtfully, his own hazel eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and determination.

"Lord Stark has requested that we bring the deserter to Winterfell for judgment," Lord Arion continued, his voice tinged with a note of caution.

Caelan leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression contemplative. "To be perfectly honest, Father," he began, his words measured, "I believe that man may be long past redemption. Some would argue that living in madness is a punishment in itself."

"Aye, but madness isn't a punishment fit for breaking an oath," Lord Arion replied, his voice firm and unwavering. He gazed at his son, the weight of his decision evident in his hazel eyes. "I'd like you to deliver the deserter yourself, son."

Caelan's hazel eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and apprehension flashing across his usually composed features. "Father, as Lord of Silverpeak, wouldn't it be more appropriate for you to deliver him?"

Lord Arion leaned forward, his expression serious. "Aye, perhaps. But you'll be in this chair one day, Caelan," he stated, emphasizing the importance of the future. "You'll need to forge your own relationships with the Lord of Winterfell. This could be a fair opportunity for you to meet his son. If things were to go well, you and the young Lord may work together quite effectively."

The concern in Caelan's eyes didn't go unnoticed by his father. Lord Arion had always been aware of his son's sense of duty and responsibility, and he trusted Caelan's ability to represent House Valnor with honor.

"I trust you would represent our house admirably," Lord Arion added, his gaze unwavering as he awaited his son's response.

But instead of a verbal response, Lord Arion was met with a heavy silence from his son, an acceptance of his father's wishes that hung heavily in the air.

Lord Arion pressed on, his tone gentle but insistent. "I'd also like you to consider seeing Lady Lyanna Stark."

At the mention of marriage, Caelan's reaction was exactly as his father had anticipated. He had always been reluctant when it came to the prospect of marriage, particularly one with political implications. Caelan leaned back in his chair, frustration and irritation clear in his serious features as he questioned his father's intentions.

"Is that why you'd have me deliver the deserter myself?" Caelan asked, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Lord Arion didn't waver, his hazel eyes locking onto his son's. "If the girl looks anything like her mother, I'm sure she's a fair woman, one you'd be content to marry," he stated, his tone filled with a mix of fatherly concern and a desire to see his house's future secured. "Do this old man a kindness, Caelan, and at least consider it."

Caelan sat in silence across from his father. The look in his fathers eyes almost seemed to be pleading with him to at least humor the idea of a marriage with the eldest Stark girl. Marriage had been thought that lingered in the back of his mind. But he had always dreaded an arrangement made for the sake of politics, he had no doubt that he would marry. If it was up to him, he'd marry a woman from Silverspear—he had watched his mother seclude herself when his grandmother died, she hadn't been able to see her before she passed. She had felt secluded in the mountains, and it was that seclusion that he believed killed her. He didn't want to force that same life upon anyone else for the sake of politics.

He was a boy when he had last been to Winterfell, his father traveled there to congratulate Lord Stark for the birth of his heir and his twin. His heir had been fine, he was quiet and reserved already. His sister however had been a nuisance. He couldn't recall a single meal within the dining halls of Winterfell where she wasn't screaming herself hoarse. That was the girl that his father suggested he consider for a marriage.

With reluctance, Caelan nodded in agreement. "We'll leave before the sun reaches the peaks." he said, a long sigh filling the room. "I'll gather a few men and the deserter and we'll bring him to Winterfell."

His father leaned back against his chair, "I'll write to Lord Stark, tell him to expect your arrival."

As Caelan prepared to leave the chamber, Lord Arion cleared his throat, "I'll also mention the possible union," he spoke, "I suspect to hear from him after you've met Lady Lyanna."

Caelan nodded in reluctant agreement, his expression showing a mix of understanding and apprehension. While he had his reservations about a marriage driven by political necessity, he also recognized the duty he had. As long as his father remained the Lord of Silverpeak, the final decision rested with him.

Caelan moved from his fathers study, his steps came naturally as he made his way through a narrow archway that brought him directly to a winding staircase. The stones beneath his feet had been there since the last northern dragon had flown the northern skies, and as he made his way down the stairs, his mind was swirling with the tasks that his father had laid before him. Though he chose to focus only on the task of gathering the men that would be accompanying him to Winterfell.

Jorik Snow would be among them, and Ser William Stone—he was skilled on horseback and was skilled with a blade. Although his temperament wasn't exactly one that Caelan was excited to spend more time with. Then perhaps Elays, the boy that Ser William had first scrutinized. The boy had been eager to be the one to bring Caelan to the deserter, he thought it may be wise to bring the boy along so see it through. Then, to be the voice of reason that Caelan would be lacking without his father accompanying them on the trip south to Winterfell, likely would be Martyn White.

Caelan made his way through the corridors of Silverpeak. The stone walls, weathered by centuries of harsh northern winters, bore the marks of time like ancient storytellers. As he walked, his hand brushed lightly against the cool, rough-hewn stone, feeling a connection to the past and the future of his house.

The torches lining the walls cast flickering shadows that danced across the tapestries and banners adorning the halls. These intricate pieces of art depicted House Valnor's history, from Lord Valarius and his dragon Sylverscale riding alongside Aegon the Conqueror, the marriage of Lord Valarius and young Lady Mia Stark; starting the alliance between their houses. Growing up, they had always been told that the marriage between the two of them had been one forged from both political gain and love, but now with the looming suggestion of a marriage with yet another Stark, he couldn't help but wonder if it was only for political gain.

Caelan made his way past the tapestries and then made his way past the grand doors that sealed the Great Hall away from the rest of the stronghold. Inside, the walls were adorned with the crimson flag that depicted the silver dragon with the head of a direwolf. The large hearth now dark, had warmed the room for countless feasts and gatherings. The skull of one of the last dragons in Silverpeak, Littlfyre, a dragon that had never grown to be larger than a wagon, hung above it and then sealed the the top of the hearth with silver were the saved teeth from the last dragon their house had, Volcanar. Then, sealed behind yet another door in the Great Hall, was a stored egg. The last dragon egg that Littlfyre had brought to them but had never hatched. Instead had been frozen in time, and was a permanent display in the private chambers for House Valnor.

Caelan made his way to the armory where weapons were displayed and stored until they could be repaired. There was one weapon that was removed from its display on a regular basis. It was tradition that when on a trip on behalf of either the crown or the Warden of the north, the Lord of House Valnor or the man of his choosing would take Valarius Valnor's sword, Scalebreaker, on the journey. A magnificent sword made of Valyrian steel by a blacksmith in Old Valeryia. The handle carved from a polished dragonbone that has a worn appearance from the generations of use. The crossguard made of bone carved to resemble dragon wings, with each tip of the wing curving towards the blade. And at the end of the hilt, the shape of a coiled dragon, it's tail enclosing a red stone, and it's eyes small shimmering sapphires.