I do not own Game of Thrones
The last part to 'The Winter Queen's Statue'
Wintefell, the ancestral home of House Stark, the seat of the King and Queen of Winter. King Jon Targaryen and his Queen Sansa Stark. They had been beloved by all, even those in the south but none loved them more than their children.
Although he was the firstborn child of Winters King and Queen, Rickon Targaryen would never sit upon the throne in Winterfell. He'd never be claimed as a Stark because as the first born of his Father's children, it was him who would travel south and take the iron throne.
Only his siblings who were 'graced', as their aunt Daenerys said, with Targaryen traits were given the name Targaryen. The only Targaryen trait Rickon had, were his eyes, but that was more than enough for him to be named King once Daenerys stepped down.
The Targaryen name was not one loved in the North, and even with them following his Father, the North refused to follow Rickon once he'd taken his place in Kingslanding. Instead, choosing his younger brother Robb Stark, named for the Young wolf King who ruled before his Father.
Robb and Jon Stark, the twins, were everything a Stark was meant to be in the eyes of the North. They both looked like their Father, their coloring that of a true Stark.
His sister Lyra was said to mirror their aunt Arya, yet the two couldn't be more different. Lyra for all her Stark coloring was a quite girl, preferring to spend her time off with their uncle Bran, locked away in a keep where she could read about history to her heart's content.
Eddard, Edd to most or Ned to only Sansa, had been the last child to have been born with Stark coloring. Edd had come into the world with the whole of the North attending a feast in memory of Lord Eddard Stark, and so had been named after his Grandsire upon opening his gray Stark eyes.
Where Lyra Stark was quite, Marg Targaryen was as fierce and wild as any other wolf born in the North. Only her platinum blonde hair and amethyst eyes set her apart from her siblings. She was said to take after their uncle Brandon Stark, a warrior with a fiery temper, ruthless when it came to battle, many men even refusing to train with her.
Daenerys Targaryen, the last child born to Winters King and Queen. Of them all, it is said that she was the truest Targaryen of them all, having stolen the life of her mother as she entered the world, like her namesake.
Then there was Rickon, the eldest and the only one to have been born with his mother's coloring. His amethyst eyes were the brightest of his siblings, telling all just who he was, for none could mistake his red hair and purple eyes.
"You're going south?" Jon asked, standing in the doorway of Rickon's room, watching as his eldest son packed away his belongings into a trunk.
Amethyst eyes flickered towards Jon, the hatred within them burning bright like dragon fire. "I've never belonged in the North, and without Mother, I have no reason to stay."
Jon gave a tried sign, his children had barely been back in Winterfell two days and already Rickon was trying to get as far away from it as possible. "Don't say such things, Winterfell is your home."
"I'm not a wolf, Father." Rickon hissed, "I'm a dragon and I won't hide away in the North pretending that I'm anything other than what I am."
"You're my son," Jon growled, straightening.
Rickon shook his head, a smile gracing his lips he sneered at Jon. "No, I'm my Mother's son." He knocked shoulders with Jon as he pushed past him, having nothing else to say to his Father.
Every corner of the castle rang with his Mother's laughter, every room brought with it a treasured memory and every second he stayed, was a reminded that she was truly gone.
Rickon had never been the same as his siblings. Born during the great Winter, it's known that Sansa birthed him alone, Jon off fighting in the war which brought about the summer which they now lived.
Lord Davos often told him how the Southern Queen outright asked for Rickon upon seeing his eyes. When asked what his father had said, Davos had given him an answer and to this day, he can still remember the answer Davos had spoken to him.
"It was your Mother, actully. Your mother would have found a way to burn the Southern Queen had she tried to take you from her. She's a brave woman, your mother, you should be thankful that you'll grow up having known what it feels like to be loved, others aren't so lucky."
Knowing from a young age that he would one day have to travel south, Rickon hadn't taken the time he had left with Sansa lightly. Instead of traveling the North to visit the other Lords with his Father and the Twins, Rickon had stayed behind in Winterfell, learning from Maester Tarly what it would mean to be a King, not that he cared for it much, for the real reason he stayed behind was Sansa.
"So your leaving?" Marg questioned, still dressed in her training armor, the smell of stale sweat lingering on her skin.
Targaryen's, for the longest time it had just been the two of them, the outsiders of the North. They'd never truly been accepted by the North, and of the two of them, it should have been Marg who wanted to get away most of all. Marg, who was the complete image of what a true Targaryen should look like.
"We're Starks, we belong in Winterfell." She hissed pushing forward into his space, barely leaving an inch between them.
"Your not Stark, I'm not Stark, and no one will ever consider us Starks." It was cruel, Rickon wouldn't deny that as he watched as something cracked within Marg's eyes, but he didn't care as he pushed past her the same way he'd done his father.
Marg swallowed, her hand tightening into a fist, her nails drawing blood that slowly dribbled to the cold stone floor.
Rage burned within her, and only the fact that she knew that her brother was hurting stopped her from chasing him down.
"Stupid, why are you crying?" Blinking, she wiped away the few tears which had managed to escape her eyes.
Rickon seemed under the impressions that it was only him who'd lost his mother, but Marg had loved Sansa too.
"I hear Robin Arryn threw a fit when he heard about the Queen," A female voice spoke and Marg quickly hid, unwilling to let anyone see her moment of weakness.
"He's on his way here, should reach Winterfell within the next day or two. "
Maids. Gossiping maids, there was nothing worse in Marg's option.
"Pepper's from the Vale, she said that Prince Rickon looks very much like the Queen's cousin, a Tully,"
It is silent, the maids probably checking that there is no one to hear them.
"What of the baby?" The words are whispered as if they are speaking of something that should not be spoken of.
"A Targaryen," The words were spat as if saying them left a bad taste in her mouth. "Only the King and Prince Ned take to visiting her."
"They should send her South, with Prince Rickon. It's where she belongs." Came the hissed reply but before they finally left the hall to carry out their duties, there was a final whisper. "Dragon's don't belong in the North."
It was then silent, except for the tiny splatter of blood which dripped from Marg's fingertips onto the floor. She didn't know how long she'd stayed hidden in a little alcove, but from out of nowhere, there was a piercing wail.
Eyes lifting from the floor she searched the corridor, and it was then she realized that she hadn't even bothered to take note that she was doors away from the nursery.
The cries left unanswered were what slowly pulled Marg into the room. It had been a number of years since Marg had stepped foot in the nursery, not since Edd had been born. It looked exactly the same, if not for the baby crying in the cradle Marg would have destroyed it all.
A place once filled with her Sansa's laughter and sweet voice should not exist without her mother Sansa there to fill it. Checking over her shoulder that no one was coming, she slowly drew near to the cradle, peering down at her sister inside.
Daenerys, she been told was her sister's name and like the maids had said, she had the Targaryen look, just like Marg. It was strange at first, to look at someone who clearly mirrored her own appearance and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had once looked like her sister, who had grown quite as she looked up at Marg.
"She doesn't do much," She swung around to see her youngest brother peering at her from the doorway.
"Most babies don't," Edd, he'd grown while they been away and he'd been here alone shouldering the death of his mother without anyone to turn too.
"Mother said that I'm to look after her," He takes great pride in it she can see and why wouldn't he? If Sansa had asked the same of Marg, she would have put all her feeling aside, but it wasn't Marg Sansa had asked, so for now, she remains undecided on her sister.
"Do you think, perhaps, I might help you too?" She won't allow Edd to suffer alone.
He regards her with a frowned brow, clearly mulling over her offer, "Well, I guess you can help," She nods, hiding her smile as she returns to looking at her sister.
"You know, I remember when it was you in this crib. I used to stand over you like this and watch you for hours, you didn't do much back then either." She gives him a cheeky grin, which causes him to giggle as he draws closer.
"Do you...do you think that Dany will be sad?"
"Why would she be sad?" She asks, and wonders if it was Edd who shorted her name?
"Mother will never sing to her,"
"You and I could sing to her?"
His shoulders shrugged as he looked over to the rocking chair. "It won't be the same." His voice is soft, fading away as he speaks.
No one but Sansa had ever been allowed to sit in the rocking chair, her Stark blanket still hung over the back of the chair, ready to be pulled around whoever was lucky enough to be seated on her lap.
"Your right, It will never be the same,"
Outside the door of the nursery, leaned against the wall, he listened to Marg and Edd converse in the room. He cared little for the baby within the room, no, his reason for being here was Edd. Edd, who had watched over Sansa before she had been brought down into the crypts.
For Robb Stark, all his life he'd grown up knowing that one day he would be King in the North, like his Father. Yet, it was his Mothers name which he carried, not that he wanted the Targaryen name. He was fine being a Stark, the first Stark born as far as the North was concerned.
He didn't hate his Targaryen siblings, if anything, he pitied them. Rickon, his elder brother would one day have to leave the North, and Marg, no matter how much she tried to be a wolf, would always be a dragon. Daenerys would never know a Mothers love. Right now, Robb was still lost in his own grief to pity her, but one day he would.
Sansa Stark had been something different to each of them, always a Mother but always a little bit more than that. For Rickon, she had been the sun, the only thing in the North which could bring a smile to his lips, to cause his laughter to echo throughout the castle. Sansa had been his world, and Robb wondered if his brother would ever overcome his grief.
To both Jon and Robb, Sansa had been a watcher, always there to keep them from trouble but never ruining their fun. During their time at Bear Island, they quickly learned that life without their mother was dull and boring. No song sounded the same whenever it fell from the lips of someone over then Sansa, and each time they turned to tell her of how their day had gone, she wasn't there. In the end, they'd both be desperate to return to Winterfell.
For Marg, the relationship between her and Sansa had been different, so much like their Aunt, Robb hadn't thought much of the bond between the eldest daughter and Mother, until one night he'd came upon a surprising sight. Both had been sat under the Gods tree in the garden. Marg had been laid out, her head resting in Sansa's lap, allowing her mother to run her fingers through her thick blonde hair. It wouldn't be the last time Robb would come across the pair, but never did he interrupt, because Marg clearly enjoyed the time spent alone with Sansa.
Lyra, who was still locked away in her room was probably was the only one to show her emotions, she'd been crying none stop. Almost every day of her life Lyra had been there next to Sansa, whether it be sewing, praying, or simply just walking Winterfell, it had always been with Sansa by her side. It would take time for Lyra to come to terms with Sansa's death, and unlike Rickon who couldn't deal with his grief, Robb would be there for Lyra when she was ready to face the world again.
Edd, Robb had been watching over his youngest brother since he'd arrived back in Winterfell, although he'd been unable to utter a single word to the youngest Stark. When Rickon's cries of anguish had reached those still stood in the courtyard, in was the crypts which Robb found himself seeking out, only to find Edd. He'd been talking to the statue of their mother, and it was that moment which had truly broken Robb's heart.
"Father said I shouldn't have yelled at Lord Dustin, but he called me Ned, only you call me Ned." Robb had smirked, trust Ned to yell at a Lord over his Mother's name for him. "I look after Daenerys, just like you asked and I gave her a name too, Dany. I promise that I won't let anyone else use it, it will be her special name, for only you and me." It was quite. So, peering around he could see Edd hugging the bottom of the statue, one of his hands holding that of their Mothers outheld hand, he'd fallen asleep. He'd then creep forward, taking his sleeping brother into his arms, and had stood facing the stone figure of his mother. She was smiling, and if he didn't know better, Robb would have though she was smiling at the simple act of him holding Edd.
"I'll protect him, I'll protect them all." He'd made a promise in the crypts that day and he would rather die than go back on his word. Because it wasn't a vow he'd made to just anyone, it was a vow a made to Sansa Stark, the Queen of Winter, the Mother of Wolves and Dragons, but mostly, it was because he loved her as much as she had loved him and that hadn't changed one bit.
Her room had once been a place Lyra avoided if possible. She'd always hated being alone, fearing what laid in the shadows. It wasn't until her uncle Bran had come speaking about gifts passed down through Stark bloodline that Lyra realized that her dreams really did mean something.
A green seer, Bran had called her, someone like himself. She could see into the past and for the longest time, she'd tried to force her gift away, not seeing its use, until now. Now, she'd give anything to control her gift. Try as she might she was unable to find her mother in the past, having only found her once, when her mother had been nothing but a newborn, cradled in the arms of her Grandfather, Ned Stark.
Her Father Jon clearly favored the looks of his uncle, and her mother that of her own mother, Catelyn. It wasn't the mother that she'd wanted to see, but none the less, she stayed to watch over the newborn.
She'd stayed in the nursery for what was probably hours, just peering down at her Mother. It didn't matter that no one could see or hear her, for all that she spoke was for Sansa's ear's alone.
She was angry, angry at her mother, but she couldn't very well yell at a baby, so instead, she sat on the floor, her back leaning against the cradle and began to let loose everything that was in her heart.
"I made a mistake, and I don't know how to make it right again." She began, her hands twisting the fabric of her dress. "I told Father that I hated him and that it should have been him who died." She paused, biting her lips before she continued. "If you were here, you'd tell me how to make it better, but I don't think you'll be ready to offer any advice for another number of years." She finished with a tried sigh, listening to the soft breaths coming from her mother's tiny form.
She'd never went a day in her life without her mother, and only one trip south was that it had taken for Sansa to be taken from her, taken from them all. She'd been there that day, the day her father had asked her mother about having another child. She blamed him, had said so right to his face when he'd knocked on her door not a day ago.
She hadn't meant a word of it, but the words had spilled out and she couldn't take them back. Jon had been clearly hurt by Lyra's words, his eye's giving away just how much the words had affected him.
The door cracking open had Lyra lifting her eyes to watch the tall, broad-shouldered figure of her grandfather creep into the room. His face was long and brooding like her fathers, but it was Edd she saw when she looked at her grandfather. His voice was a deep gravely northern accent, slightly hushed as he bent over the cradle to watch his daughter.
"My sweet Sansa, we all make mistake's, but you, my love, are my greatest achievement."
A series of knocks against her door were what pulled her back into her body.
"Lyra, I brought you dinner," It was her brother, Jon, again. The only one of her siblings who actually bothered to still try to get her to open the door.
Instead of answering she turned away, willing her mind to dive back into the past where this time, she'd hopefully find her mother at the right age.
He waited, his hand pressed against the door, hoping that this time around she'd answer him. She didn't and Jon was at a loss of what to do.
'I hate you, it should have been you who died!' She'd shouted at their father and maybe Jon would have agreed with her, only he knew his father well.
Like him and his siblings, his father was suffering. Sansa had always told them stories about how it was their father who saved her, but once his father had told him a different side to the story.
'She alway says that it's me who saved her, but really she saved me. Life was meaningless until she rode into castle black. She saved me, gave me a purpose, gave me something to hold on to again and she gave me each of you.' Jon had never known his father to be anything other than sullen, but when he was surrounded by only his wife and children a different side of him showed. Happiness could be seen gleaming in his father's dark eyes, his laughter which was more than rare was uncontained when surrounded by those he loved.
His Father was a good man, a fair king and so Jon could not hate him for something he had no control over. Death was a cruel part of life. It often felt like death took those who were good, those who were treasured, and left behind those who the world would be better off without. Sansa had been one of the good people, treasured and loved by all who had known her.
Rickon could claim to feel her loss most of all, but Jon knew the truth. His father was the one who truly felt the loss of Sansa most.
"She'll come out when she's ready," His aunt Arya's voice carried from her own room just doors away. Walking toward the open doorway, he stood outside watching as his aunt polished the sword in her lap, never once bothering to look up from her work. "She's like Sansa in that respect,"
His aunt's room was bare of anything other than what was necessary.
"You know, you shouldn't be so hard on Rickon."
This struck a nerve, why was Arya talking to him about Rickon when he hadn't even mentioned his brother.
"I know exactly what all of you are thinking about your brother. And if I didn't know any better, I would be thinking the same."
"Then tell me why he gets to act the way he does? We all miss her! I miss her! And when we need him most he just runs away?"
Arya nodded, a sad smile gracing her lips as stood and walked the short distance to where he stood in the doorway. "Since he was little, Rickon has been told that one day he would go south, that he would be a great King. That was all well and good until he was told that it would be only him who journeyed south." Arya shook her head, the short strands of loose hair gleaming in the light. "Your brother's smart. He realized quickly that one day he would have to leave, and so he decided to make sure that he wouldn't waste a single moment with Sansa. While you and Robb were both off traveling around the North with your father, Rickon was here, making precious memories to take with him south, because he knew that visits would be short and long in between."
He'd never known any of this, never once had it crossed his mind that the reason Rickon didn't leave Winterfell was because one day he wouldn't get to see it anymore. Had things gone differently, had their mother lived, Jon, Robb, and the others would have still seen Sansa every day, still basked in the love she showered upon them, and Rickon? He would have been hundreds of miles away, in a place that wasn't home, surrounded by strangers, and without the one person, he loved most.
"Right now, he's angry and sad," She exhaled, her hand reached up to grip his shoulder.
"He's never going to come back, is he?"
Arya wasn't one for showing her emotions, so the pat on his shoulder was the only answer he would receive before she turned back to the stool and returned to polishing her sword.
King Rickon Targaryen never again set foot in the North after his mother, The great Winter Queen Sansa Stark's death. His brother Robb Stark would later become King in the North when their Father King Jon stepped down. King Rickon and King Robb were never to see one another again after Rickon left Winterfell.
There is a tale of a war that almost began when Rickon requested that his mother's bones be handed over to him. An army was sent North to recover the long dead Queen and it was only through their brother Jon, that the war did not come to pass. It is unknown how exactly Prince Jon succeeded in stopping the war, but a statue the same as one in Winterfell was later sent South.
King Rickon was quite the painter, his paintings to this day still hang around the Red keep. Visitors queue for hours in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his work, but there is one painting which the King did that is not for public viewing. It is kept hidden in one the tower rooms, where only those of his bloodline might see it.
The Great Winter Queen Sansa Stark is captured in what appears to the nursery of Winterfell. She sits is in a rocking chair, a Stark blanket is wrapped around both her and the baby she cradles to her chest, her fiery hairs hangs loose, her eyes closed, a smile gracing her lips.
Many would believe that baby she cradles in her arms is King Rickon himself, for it's known that he never truly got over the loss of his mother, but his family knows this to be wrong. They know the truth, that the baby is none other than the king's sister, Daenerys Targaryen.
Rickon upon completion of the painting had written a note on the back. 'For my mother, so that she may at last cradle her baby whom she never got the chance to hold.'
Century's later, tales are still told of Winter's Queen, about how she was beloved by all, but it is a fact that none loved them more than her husband, and their children.