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Lord Eddard Stark certainly didn't look like a legend. But then again, this was only a statue.
The stone likeness of the former Lord of the North stared out towards the center of the dark crypts, longsword across his lap and stone direwolf curled at his feet. Luke knew as well as anyone that a statue carved from memory was bound to deviate from the actual appearance of its muse, but he had still been expecting to look at the effigy of the Quiet Wolf and feel as if he were looking upon greatness.
But instead he was simply looking at another stone face, similar in features to the dozens of others under Winterfell. Shaggy hair and beard carved around a stern face spoke nothing of the reputation of the man they represented, he who had in his youth bent the knee to spare Northern lives and in his middle years had died defending his castle from death itself. Ned Stark had been the first man to kill an Other, shattering it into a thousand pieces to save the life of his nephew Jaehaerys Targaryen, and then had thrust a dagger into his own brain to prevent himself from joining their undead army, a hero's death for a man still spoken of reverently north of the Neck.
To Luke he just looked like another dead Stark resting with his forefathers. But a stone can't capture the majesty of legends any more than it can the flush of life, and a man's deeds have little to do with his appearance. History won't tell of his brow, only his battles.
"Why in the name of the Seven are you still down here? Come, the King's party is in sight. Besides, it's even colder here than in our chambers, and a moment ago I wouldn't have thought that possible!"
A touch of a smile crossed his face as he turned towards the woman's voice. Daenella Waters hurried towards him, hugging her arms to herself as she near-sprinted down the center of the crypts. Layers of fur—Luke didn't know how many, for his wife seemed to add another every hour—were so thick around her shoulders that it hid the shapely form beneath them, rising so high off of her shoulders that they lay parallel to her prominent cheekbones. Her silvery-blonde hair was piled atop her head in in a mass of pins that was all the recent rage in King's Landing, though for the life of him Luke didn't understand why she and her handmaidens went through the process every day; his wife was a beautiful woman, showing the classic Targaryen beauty of their shared ancestors even if she didn't have the name.
"I have heard so many stories of Eddard Stark that I simply had to pay respects."
"To a statue?" Luke gave a surprised grunt as Daenella barreled into him, burrowing herself under his arm. He would have found it sweet if he didn't know it was for warmth. Okay, so I find it sweet anyway. "He's not even related to us in any way."
"He'll go down in history as a hero of the Second War for the Dawn, along with my grandfather. It's not every day you get to visit the grave of a future legend, of a man history will always remember the name of."
His wife said nothing to that, and Luke grimaced at his own stupidity. Their marriage was a happy one, even if they didn't quite love one another, but the means by which it had come about was always in the background, ready to rear its ugly head. Daenella and he had been betrothed nineteen years ago, when he was a young lord of two and she a bastard girl of four. Neither of them had been awarded a say in it even when they were older, but even if they had it would have been overruled. Their marriage had been agreed upon for the security of the Iron Throne, not for any compatibility or match of royal blood between the two.
Luke was a powerful lord and the grandson of the man who had twice saved the Targaryen dynasty, and whose loyalty to King Aegon had been drilled into him since the day he was born. Daenella was the daughter of the traitor who had saw his quest for the throne destroyed at the hands of Luke's grandfather, and who had a claim that overly ambitious men could try and press for their own means. It had been a wise match then, nullifying Daenella's claim through her father Viserys by marrying her to the loyalty-assured grandson of Aelor, but Luke cursed it often when it caused an issue between he and his wife. And it causes an issue much more often than I care to admit.
Loyal Lucaerys, defender of the Crown. Even from my wife.
Luke cleared his throat awkwardly, changing the subject to something that never failed to cheer his wife. "Where are the twins?"
As it always did at the mention of their children, Daenella's mood perked up and a smile crossed her lips. "Alysanne and Alyssa stole them from me in every sense of the word. I believe Lord Brandon's sister was in on it as well; I half expect a betrothal proposition from Lord Domeric to either of them, and you had best believe Lady Sansa will be at the heart of it."
Luke shook his head in exasperation, keeping an arm wrapped around his wife as they began a slow stroll back out of the crypts through which she had just came. "They are three. Three."
"They're also Targaryens, and every house in Westeros wants a piece of that pie."
He grunted, enjoying the warmth the contact almost as much as his wife did. And as Targaryens, our place is somewhere warm. My aunt is certainly a tough woman to survive such temperatures in the bloody summer. "The Boltons already have a Targaryen. Prince Jaehaerys' Alysanne married the heir Royce just this past year, remember?"
Daenella swung her hip into his playfully. "Oh, come now. They want a real Targaryen."
Luke raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "And Prince Jaehaerys isn't? He's as much Targaryen as either you or I."
"Oh, you know what I mean, one that actually looks like a Targaryen…and isn't constantly surrounded by wolves the size of horses."
Luke laughed aloud as they began to ascend the stairs out of the crypts. "Aye, they are frightful beasts aren't they? Who would've thought a large dog would give me more of a chill than massive dragons do?"
Another voice spoke from halfway up the stairs of the crypts, full of humor and fake-reprimand. "Large dogs, Lucaerys? I dare say you'd best never let Meera here you call them that."
Luke grinned at the tall, attractive woman standing a few steps above them, fists on her hips as she shot them a sly smile. Lady Saera Targaryen Stark of Winterfell was by blood his aunt and by reality more like his sister, for they had been raised together at Duskendale on the shores of the Narrow Sea. At five and twenty she had grown from a long limbed girl to a tall, dignified woman, with a beauty that put you more in mind of her mother Alysanne despite the violet eyes, silver hair and broad shoulders Saera had inherited from her father. She had gone north to marry Lord Brandon the Wise Wolf nine years earlier, and in that time had adopted the northern furs and wools of her adopted home. She even wore her hair in a long, silver braid draped over one shoulder, a style considered fashion suicide in the south but seemed much more practical to Luke than his wife's elaborate hair.
Not that he'd ever tell Daenella that; he enjoyed life after all.
Saera moved to the side as the two other Targaryens stepped up even with her, Luke pressing a quick kiss to her cheek as she joined them in ascent. "By the Seven you're right, she'd likely feed me to Summer on the spot. Even in his old age that direwolf could rip my throat out."
His aunt hooked her arm through his, smile never having left her pretty face. "Aye he could, and I advise you not forget it. I half expected to find you two on top of one another disgracing Bran's ancestors down here; from what Alyssa wrote me, it was near a nightmare trying to save oneself from being traumatized in the early months of your marriage."
Daenella and Saera laughed while Luke blushed, a reaction that caused both women to laugh all the louder. Despite the embarrassment Lucaerys couldn't help but smile, swinging open the ironwood doors of the crypts to allow the two women to exit ahead of him. The courtyard of Winterfell was already bustling with activity, giving credence to his wife's earlier proclamation that the King's party grew nearer.
It was a largely unintended gathering at Winterfell, but Lord Brandon and the Starks had adjusted to it well. While the Northerners hadn't been prone to many gatherings under Lord Eddard and had continued down that isolated path under Lord Brandon, the Wise Wolf had organized a celebration for the birth of his new heir, Cellador, whom Saera had given birth to four moons ago. It was meant to be a feast for Lord Brandon, his lords and Saera's family, along with a melee in the Northern tradition.
That large-but-not-too-large event had more than quadrupled in size, however, when Prince Aelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, had made known his intent to ride north and participate. It had then increased in size again by a near unfathomable factor when his father King Aegon had decided to travel north to see his son fight and visit with his brother Jaehaerys. While jousting tournaments had been, was and likely always would be the rage of southern life, hundreds of knights and lordlings had opted to go north alongside their King both present and future. Even houses that wouldn't have members participating were coming, because the Seven knew if that house was going than this house certainly was as well. If a melee in the snows of the North was agreeable to Prince Aelor Targaryen then it was certainly agreeable to nearly all of the rest of the south, particularly if it opened an avenue for access to the Targaryen's as-of-yet not betrothed and may result in their houses being looked favorably upon by King Aegon.
Luke could have told them that the King didn't work like that, but such had been the way of court intrigue for nearly all of time.
The Starks had risen to the challenge, creating as much housing in Winterfell and Winter Town as they could for the coming influx of nobles. For those they couldn't house Lord Brandon had ordered massive tents and outdoor hearths to be built, to keep the guests as warm and happy as they could be made. Lucaerys imagined it was all one big headache to Saera and her husband, but the Lord of Winterfell was nothing if not a gracious host.
As if to confirm his earlier thought, Saera let out a great sigh. "I had best round up Meera and Cellador and fight my way to wherever my husband is in this mess. Ella, you'd best come with me; when I last saw my son, my sister had him in one arm and Baela in the other. Lady Sansa was making her escape with Baelor at the same time."
Daenella laughed, turning to press a kiss to Luke's lips. "I'll be back with the twins in just a few moments, love. Fight for a good spot; I want to see how young Vaekar handles all the attention!"
Luke watched his wife scurry away, smiling to himself as he drifted towards the edge of the growing crowd. Half of the Lord Paramount's were already present, with a handful of others still on the way. Luke could see the graybearded Lord Edmure Tully and his son Hoster in conversation with Edmure's sister, the aging but still beautiful Catelyn Stark. The Lord of the Riverlands was leaning heavily on an ironwood cane with a golden trout as its head, having never fully recovered from the wound that nearly cost him his leg at the Neck two decades earlier. Hoster, as Tully looking as Tully's got, had his young betrothed's arm linked through his, the young Beony Whent of Harrenhal unable to tear her eyes from the heir to the Riverlands handsome face.
Lord Willas Tyrell, he too leaning on a cane from an injury taken three decades earlier as opposed to two, stood with his wife Rhaenys, his youngest son Garlan and his brother, also Garlan, as well as his fiery daughter Aelora and her husband Lyonel Baratheon. Lord Willas' heir, Alester, and Alester's own young son Lorent had remained in Highgarden, but his second son Osmund would be arriving shortly with the King's retinue, the newest member of the Kingsguard. Lyonel's family stood with them, Lord Steffon holding his well-bundled daughter Argella on his shoulder. His wife Alyssa, another of Luke's 'aunts', was inside the castle, currently being tracked down by her sister and Lucaerys' wife.
House Mallister, new to their roles as Lord Paramount's, was interspersed with the nobles high and low in the courtyard. The longtime lords of Seagard had fought the Ironborn for generations, and had been granted dominion over the ravaged Iron Islands after King Aegon, Lord Aemon and Princess Daenerys had bathed them in dragonfire during the Cleansing seventeen years past. Lord Jason had been the first Mallister to reign from the half-destroyed Pyke, abdicating Seagard to his second son Kyle as he and his heir Patrek, the current lord, began the settling of their new home. It was a tough business, for the Ironborn smallfolk often rose against their Faith of the Seven overlords, but with few noble Ironborn houses left the revolts never grew to anything the Mallisters couldn't handle. The integration of the Iron Islands to the mainstream of Westerosi politics would be a long process, but Luke was certain the capable Eagles of Seagard would see the job done.
Only two of the Lord Paramount's wouldn't make the trip to Winterfell. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, was managing the Iron Throne in the absence of King Aegon, and had deferred representing the Lions of Lannister to his son and heir Jaime, who was still travelling north alongside his mentor Lord Aemon Targaryen of the Golden Tooth. Word around the capital was that the Halfman was in declining health, his age and dwarfism beginning to take their toll on the Giant of Lannister. Luke knew those rumors were in fact true; what his contacts in King's Landing didn't tell him Lord Tyrion himself did, for Lucaerys and the incredibly smart Imp had formed a friendship. It would be a sad day for Westeros when the Lord of the Westerlands died, but that day seemed to be drawing ever nearer. It broke Lucaerys' heart.
The other Great House representative not attending would be the chief Martell of Dorne, which was not surprising. Princess Arianne was a smart and diplomatic ruler, but Dorne was about as far from Winterfell as Westeros got. Regardless, her younger brother Trystane and her bastard son Aller Sand had sailed to White Harbor to represent their House, having joined the still-travelling Arryns of the Vale when they had also sailed into the city from Gulltown.
Luke smiled again as he watched the dozens of nobles laughing and talking negotiating. The coming weeks were bound to be one hell of a time.
Daenella found him not long after, carrying their silver-haired and indigo-eyed son in her arms. Behind her came his squire and half-brother, Alaric Rykker, making funny faces at Baela whom he carried in his arms. Luke's mother Myrcella Langward had remarried his father Renlor's childhood friend Aelor Rykker a few years after Ren had fallen at the Second Battle of the Trident. They said the future Lord of Hollard Hall looked much like his grandfather Alaric Langward had when he too was four and ten, tall and thin, though this Alaric had the golden hair of their mother as opposed to the black locks of the other Langwards and Rykkers. His twin brother Dontos—twins were strong in the Lannister-Langward bloodline, none could deny that—followed closely behind, identical in nearly every physical way to Alaric, though the former was dour of personality and the latter as gregarious as his father had once been.
Luke took Baelor from Danella, nuzzling the toddler's soft silver hair and eliciting a delighted giggle from the heavily-bundled child. His younger half-brothers stopped to either side of him, making Luke feel as short as Tyrion Lannister. While Lucaerys' father and both grandfathers had been tall men, Alaric Langward six and a half feet and Aelor and Renlor a few inches shy of that mark, Luke himself hadn't inherited it, being an inch shy of six feet. But while he hadn't gotten the height of his father or grandfathers, he had been gifted with the broad shoulders and muscled build of Aelor, almost twice as broad as his rail-thin younger brothers.
Alaric spoke first. "You've never told us, brother; are you going to participate in the melee?"
Dontos elbowed his ribs none-too-gently. "That's not how you address him. Luke may be our brother but he is also our liege lord and the man whom we're squiring for."
Alaric returned the elbow with a one-handed shove, also none-too-gentle. "How many times do we have to have this conversation? He's our brother first."
"No, he's our liege first you imbecile."
"Imbecile?"
"Enough!" Luke cut in before it could escalate into a pissing contest between the two, his voice authoritative and firm. His squires/brothers instantly desisted, both having to clamp their mouths shut around the insults they had been about to hurl at one another. Daenella was barely containing her smile at the twins' bickering, his wife always finding their exchanges humorous. I once found them humorous too, until their training matches became more about practicing their wit than their swordsmanship. "I haven't decided yet. When I do, I assure you you'll be the first to know."
Alaric wasn't happy enough with that answer it seemed, for he continued speaking. "Well, even if you don't, are you opposed to us entering? I think my brother and I would make quite the deadly duo."
"If you can remain silent for more than five minutes I may consider it." Inwardly though Luke knew the answer was already no. Melees were much more dangerous than jousting, particular the vicious ones of the north. Most of the Kingsguard would be participating, as would Prince Aelor and Ser Melwys Celtigar, as well as dozens of other notable fighters. The twins were good and Luke was no slouch himself, but he knew his limitations and the limitations of his brothers; the level of competition in the coming melee was far above their respective levels.
He was saved from whatever smart response Alaric had been about to give—for their certainly would have been one, Luke had no doubt—by the clatter and clop of an approaching party. The disorganized mass of noble bodies burst into action, by some black magic beyond Lucaerys' comprehension metamorphosing into even lines of waiting nobles in only a matter of moments. Lord Brandon was center of it all, as was his right as the hosting Lord. The other Lord Paramount's and their families were spread to either side, with lesser nobility behind them. Lucaerys' chosen position perpendicular to the Starks and other Great Houses but still in the front was perfect for his family; they were Targaryens, after all, though his holdings were a duchy and not a region.
The Royal Party was led through Winterfell's gates by Lord Commander Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, the greatsword Dawn at the aging knight's side. Behind him rode two other Kingsguard side-by-side, Sers Alex Bulwer and Alex Rollingford, known as Red Alex and Blue Alex respectively for their birth house's colors. Behind them was a line of Targaryen retainers, twenty of them riding two abreast. This lead party turned their horses to both sides, forming a gauntlet that five figures rode through the center of.
Luke already had Ser Arthur pegged as the winner of the melee unless he was forced to face down Prince Aelor, in which case the Sword of the Morning would yield as his position demanded. Despite the age creeping up on the legendary knight he was still the greatest swordsman alive, with only one man truly skilled enough to challenge him. That man was one of the next five figures, a crimson dragon on his shield the only embellishment to his pure white Kingsguard armor. Baelon Blooddragon was said to be an embodiment of his father's two most prominent sides, the great warrior and the half-mad Targaryen. Grim, silent and perhaps even more ruthless a fighter than Luke's grandfather had been, the infamous knight was also the most trusted man in King Aegon's retinue, as loyal to the King and his family as any man ever could be.
If Blooddragon had been participating in the melee, Luke wouldn't have been so certain of Ser Arthur Dayne's victory. But Baelon hadn't participated in a tourney, be it jousting or the melee, in over six years, since that faithful day at Rosby. All agreed it was a freak accident; there was no way Baelon could have made his lance split in just the right spot for the remaining half to slip under his brother Daemon's helm, stabbing through his neck and killing him. No one, not even Daemon's young widow Daena—Daenella's twin—blamed the knight of the Kingsguard. Luke had been there, though he was still a young squire to King Aegon, and had watched in confused awe as Baelon never said or word or let a single emotion cross his face as his brother's lifeless body was carried from the tilting yard.
But the Blooddragon had yielded his next tilt that day before it could even be announced, and had never participated in a tourney since.
As it was, the Blooddragon dismounted first out of the party of royals, even as all others present—Luke included—sank on one knee. The Kingsguard assisted his sister Princess Vaella, stern-faced but beautiful, off of her mount—the future Queen hated carriages and loved the saddle—as the other three dismounted their own stallions. One was Ser Melwys Celtigar, consort to Princess Daenerys. The second was young Prince Vaekar Targaryen, eight years old and letting his violet eyes look over the sea of knelt people as if he had seen it all of his young life. He has, of course.
The last figure was a spitting image of a younger King Aegon the Sixth. An inch or two taller than Luke with an athletic build, Prince Aelor of Dragonstone looked like the perfect Valyrian royal. Dressed all in black save for the Targaryen three-headed dragon stitched across his chest, a ruby-pommeled sword—mirrored after the fabled blade of his namesake for certain—was at his side. His silver hair was to his shoulders, violet eyes peering out of a clean-shaven, sculpted face. The stallion he had ridden was black of hide and as mean as his father's dragon, a descendant of the fabled destrier Warrior that had fallen alongside Luke's father at the Second Battle of the Trident.
Vaella stepped to his side, and Luke was struck by how equally beautiful and royal the pair looked.
Aelor stepped forward with a gregarious smile, beckoning them all rise with both baritone voice and waved hand. He stopped before Lord Brandon, reaching out to grasp the Wise Wolf's hand.
"Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."
Aelor smiled one of his many smiles. Luke knew the Prince had a smile for every occasion, some genuine and most not. This happened to be a genuine one. "Thank you, Lord Stark. Winterfell grows more beautiful each time I visit it." He turned to address all the nobles in the courtyard. "You'll have to forgive me, for I was so excited that I rode ahead and left most of the royal party." A course of expected laughter filled the castle bailey. Aelor let it finish as was also expected, ever the excellent diplomat. "My mother, son and cousins are a few miles back, along with House Arryn. As for my father…" A smile, this one also genuine, crossed his Valyrian lips. "I think you're about to find out."
As if on cue, the roar of a dragon filled the sky.
Aelor certainly has a flare for the dramatic. I can't blame him, for it has quite the effect on us all.
Despite having seen them a thousand times over the years, Lucaerys still looked skywards along with every other head in the courtyard. Moments later a massive black form, winged and muscular with streaks of crimson in his scales, zoomed overhead to both delighted and terrified squeals. A smaller but still monstrous form, white and gold, was close on its heels, and finally a green and bronze brought up the rear, clearly in no rush. Balerion was still double the size of Aelon and Rhaegal, be it from having hunted earlier or just his nature, but all three were bigger than anything anyone would have dreamed of years earlier. Though they were the only flying dragons still, Rhaegal had lain one egg a year for four years straight, and to the realm's delight the first had hatched a mere half year earlier. The dragon, small and red, had seemed to bond with Princess Daenerys' youngest child, Prince Vaelon, who had named the dragon Raedes, or Scorpion. A childish name perhaps, but the dragon and the blood of the dragon seemed to be near soulmates.
Luke couldn't deny he was jealous of a boy of seven.
The dragons had been a brilliant show, but also one that had been planned for. While the dragons and particularly Balerion still did whatever they wished quite often, their bonds with their riders had given the dragonriders much more control over their beasts since the early years. An area away from the army of tents encamped outside of Winterfell but close enough for the dragonriders to control their mounts if necessary had been prepared, and it was from there that the King and his fellow Targaryen dragonlords rode horses into Winterfell's courtyard.
The King had always looked kingly, that none could deny. The spiked crown of King Maekar the First and Jaehaerys the Second covered long silver hair, which in turn framed a bearded Valyrian face. Also dressed all in black save for the crimson inner-lining of his cloak, Aegon the Sixth stood tall and straight, back straight and Blackfyre by his side as he strode from his black stallion to Lord Brandon, who had led the gathered nobles in kneeling again. He walked with the confidence and command of a man who had ruled an empire for nearly all of his life, and his charisma was as strong now as it had been in his youth. Luke wished for all the world he could look half as noble as his cousin did.
It was my grandfather who taught him that. Perhaps one day I will learn it myself.
Luke watched from his kneeling position as Ser Melwys swept Dany, as beautiful at near forty as she had been at near twenty, off of her horse in a display that made Daenella sigh in a small swoon, a sound echoed by many a kneeling lady. Lord Aemon, growing portly around the middle and still uncomfortable in large crowds, had instantly walked to Vaella's side, engaging his younger sister in conversation as the King bid the nobles to rise once more.
Formalities were exchanged, great displays made, but before long the groups intermeshed, soon joined by the Arryns and the rest of Lord Aemon's party. More nobles were gathered in Winterfell's courtyard than had visited King's Landing in the last half a year.
With an inward twinge of delight, Lucaerys stepped into the fray of negotiations, both of deals and of relationships, that had begun in earnest already, ears out for anything that sounded remotely like what Varys had sent word for him to be wary of.
He had a job to do, one he was good at and one he oddly loved.
He was, after all, Loyal Lucaerys.
