DISCLAIMER: Recognizable characters, plots, and settings are property of GRRM. I, unfortunately for my crescive student load debts, make no profit off of this. All I get in return is sleep deprivation and anxiety over whether readers will like it enough to review/hate it enough to flame ;).
Updated Timeline
275 AC: Cersei hears Maggy's prophecy (in which there is no valonqar)
276 AC: Samwell Tarly born
279 AC (Year -2): Rhaenys Targaryen is born. Elia takes a long time to recover from delivering Rhaenys.
281 AC (Year 0): Elia pregnant with Aegon. Maester Pycelle tells Rhaegar that if this second child doesn't die during labour and/or kill his wife, the next one will. Harrenhal tourney (and thus the QOLAB passover) is thus even more shocking because it happens when Elia Martell is pregnant. Aegon Targaryen is born. Lyanna 'abducted', Brandon Stark and Rickard Stark die per canon, Robert's Rebellion starts, including Ned's marriage to Cat. Willas Tyrell is 2 years old, Loras Tyrell and Theon Greyjoy are 1 year old, Renly Baratheon is 4 years old.
282 AC (Year 1): Robb Stark and Margaery Tyrell born. Viserys and a pregnant Rhaelle sent to Dragonstone for protection, but when Baratheons seize it, they run away via ship. Stannis chases them, but due to a storm, cannot find them. They are considered lost at sea and dead.
283 AC (Year 2): Jon Targaryen born and Robert's Rebellion ends. Lyanna Stark crowned the "Second Queen". End of war reparations (infamously known as 'Rhaegar's Reparations') announced. This includes the beheadings of Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, and Balon Greyjoy; Stannis and Renly getting traitor brands on their arm and hand, respectively; Lannisters paying reparations to the crown; and Tyrells being denied the betrothal of Margaery to Aegon at the time (though Rhaegar tells the Tyrells she is still one of the females to be considered in the future). Ned returns to the North sans fake-bastard. Gendry Waters born.
284 AC (Year 3): Stannis marries Cersei Lannister. Elia dies leaving behind three-year-old Aegon and five-year-old Rhaenys. Rickon Targaryen conceived. Sansa Stark born to Catelyn Stark. After stint in Maidenvault to ensure she wasn't pregnant with an Aryrn heir, Lysa betrothed to Jaime Lannister.
285 AC (Year 4): Shireen Baratheon (born to Cersei Baratheon). Rickon Targaryen born (Lyanna dies while giving birth to him). Shireen branded on her cheek. Arya and Bran – twins – born to Catelyn. Gendry's mother killed.
286-291 AC: Cersei miscarries twice.
292 AC (Year 11): Tommen Baratheon born and dies (leaving Cersei near-comatose). Aegon aims an arrow into Rickon's back, hitting his arm instead. Rhae arranges for Rickon (six turning seven) to get lessons with Sam (instead of with Aegon and Jon), and for Arthur Dayne to teach him.
294 AC (Year 13): Rhaenys (fourteen turning fifteen) poisoned. Rhaegar agrees to betroth Rhaenys to Robb, but refuses to let Rickon (eight turning nine) ward there. They try to run away, but are stopped by the Kingsguard. Rhaegar propositions Rhaenys in front of Darry, she declines. She is sent to Dorne.
295 AC (Year 14): Rickon (recently turned ten) and Sam save a boy by the dock, gaining support of the Brotherhood. Rickon starts his clinic. Wren witnesses Jon and Aegon brand Rickon with a 'bastard's brand' on his leg.
298 AC (Year 17): Shireen and Rickon (age 12 turning 13) befriend each other during Jon's nameday tourney. Shireen promises to write to Rickon. When he doesn't get a letter, he recruits Tyrion to fix Flea Bottom's sewage. Rickon (via Sam) sends Shireen a necklace via Tyrion. Shireen and Rickon begin corresponding.
299 AC (Year 18): Rickon transcribes then sends Shireen a copy of 'the Testimony of Mushroom' hidden as another book (age 13, turning 14). Shireen coerces Cressen to let her manage her own ravens from 'Sam.'
300 AC (Year 19): Arya send to ward with House Mormont. Rickon (14, turning 15) sent to ward at Winterfell. He convinces Luwin to let him manage his own ravens. Becomes super close with Bran, also friends with Robb and Theon. Other northern lords visit Winterfell in sequence, including Ryswells, Dustins, Karstarks, Manderly's, Umbers, etc.
301 AC (Year 20): Janei Lannister (Kevan's daughter) marries Maron Greyjoy (Theon – Winterfell's ward, not hostage – returns to the Iron Islands for a month to attend).
STORY SO FAR
Chapters 1, 2a, 2b, 2c: Please see the beginning of chapter 2d for the summaries of these.
Chapter 2d summary: Please see the beginning of chapter 3a
Chapter 3a summary: Rickon (using Sam's name as a cover) and Shireen write letters. Maester Cressen notices a leather pouch Shireen wears as a necklace (that she told Renly holds a token from Cersei), and Cressen ultimately decides not to report the frequency of the Shireen's letters to Stannis because he feels she would never dishonor/abandon her family by running away with "Sam". Rickon transcribes the Testimony of Mushroom for her as a birthday gift. Rickon asks Ned to if he can ward in Winterfell, and arrives sans Kingsguard. We learn Ned never extended the offer to Rickon because Jon apparently refused. Ned and the rest of the old gen are shocked at Rickon's similarities to the dead Brandon Stark. We learn the Greyjoy rebellion never happened through Ned's politicking (which involves talking on Theon as a ward) and that Arya was sent for fostering at Bear Island as 'punishment' for Bran teaching her swordplay. We learn that Arya wasn't sent to Lysa and Jaime because Ned still dislikes Tywin in this verse, and that Arya is due to officially end her fostering when Robb weds Rhaenys. Domeric Bolton is alive, and Ned is considering betrothing Arya to him. Bran is still angry at his parents over them sending Arya away, and sad that her letters to him have become infrequent. Ned requests his vassals each make a trip to Winterfell so the Karstarks, Umbers, etc. take turns. Rickon endears himself to them all. Benjen still ended up joining the Night's Watch. Theon has a thing for Wynafryd Manderly (heir to House Manderly), and Ned approves and plans on exploring the match for him. Cat wants Sansa to wed Willas. Rickon is very studious (learns High Valyrian), and befriends the 'help' to learn various things e.g. information on Valyrian steel and dragonglass arrowheads, how to forage food, how to send ravens from the north (he sent his own in the South). Ned's haunted by his past (Rickon's similarities to his dead siblings, Rickon and Brans friendship mirroring his and Roberts, etc). Rickon and Bran each behead a deserter, and we learn Ser Arthur never made Rickon his squire despite training him. Rickon and Bran enjoy climbing, Smalljon is betrothed to Alys Karstark, Osric Umber (youngest son) befriends Rickon. The northerners like Rickon, think him "more Stark than Targaryen". Seven direwolves found, one for each Stark and ward (Theon and Rickon), and one extra 'runt' that runs way. Shireen writes that Stannis is sending Renly back to the Reach to finish his squiring (he came back prematurely when Cersei was ill/lost Tommen). Renly lets Shireen come with him to the Westerlands and then the Citadel, but will not let her continue with him to the Reach (the Reach and Stormlands hate each other, Renly sent to squire initially at the request of the crown). Shireen mentions something 'dramatic' happened at Rhae and Robb's wedding, and that it involves her Aunt Lysa. Cliffhanger at the end, with a messy letter from Shireen warning Rickon that "Uncle Jaime knows..."
Members of the small council: Lord Commander Hightower, Garlan Tyrell (married to Desmera Redwyne) as Master of Ships, Headmaester Pycelle, Kevin Lannister (Master of Coin), Varys (Master of Whispers), Alliser Thorn (Master of Laws), Jon Connington (Hand of the King, level-headed, cold but courteous relationship with Rickon, Rhae told Rickon that Connington disliked her)
A/N: I am so sorry for the delay, just know that your reviews are what helped me get through this chapter and I appreciated every single one! I'd also like to give a huge shout out to thendlessdays. I just came across your post re: Wolves Aflame on tumblr from like July 2020 (during my google search to find this fic on my phone), and I was super motivated to get this chapter out this weekend because of it. Thanks for your kind words! :)
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"What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms… or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy."
~Aemon Targaryen, A Game of Thrones
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"Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well."
~Eddard Stark, A Game of Thrones
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Wolves Aflame
Chapter 3: castles without children
(Blots & Brothers & Betrothals & Betrayals)
Part 2
.x.
Sam teaches Rickon books, Sir Arthur teaches him swords.
But, it is Rhaenys who teaches her little brother secrets and sedition.
(And after the arrow incident, Rhaenys becomes less subtle with her lessons.)
292 AC
Six-year-old Rickon swings to a higher branch. His older sister follows from below, carefully monitoring each step of his climb.
He reaches midway up the tree, and approves of the surplus of plump peaches in the vicinity. "Here's good, I think!" He calls down happily.
Rhaenys climbs up so that they both sit side by side on a thick branch. In the distance, a few of the squires skirmish under the watchful gaze of Ser Lewyn. Rickon grins. "When I grow up, I'll be a knight, just like them!" He looks to his sister. "Hmm, no, no. I'll train hard to be the very best knight ever! And all thanks to you, because Sir Arthur will be teaching me! One day, if I train hard, he'll make me his squire! Wouldn't that be amazing! I'll be a squire for the Sword of the Morning, and then I'll be the best knight ever!"
"Oh really?" Rhaenys smiles gently, shining a recently plucked peach with her sleeve before handing it to an excitable Rickon. "And what is it you think knights do, Rickon?"
"Don't be so silly, Rhae! They train hard so they can fight in battles and tourneys, of course! And they win them! They slay beasts, and get songs sung about them by all the bards!"
"Yes, but there is more to being a knight than glory, Rickon." Rhaenys runs a hand through his curly brown locks as he messily munches on the fruit. "The most fundamental of all: knights are protectors. They swear to defend the weak and uphold the good. They are just, fair, and honorable beyond reproach." She looks him directly in the eye. "It's a very noble role, but one with high expectations."
"Well, that just makes me want to be one more!" Rickon beams, peach juice shimmering on his cheeks.
Rhaenys laughs lightly. "Of course it does, sweetling. I'm sure you'll become a wonderful knight, one day." She pokes his nose softly, then grabs his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth. "You'll be a prince that history never forgets; I bet you'll be the most faithful protector of them all."
There's a pause where the princess gets lost in her head. It's a maze she too often gets lost in, lined with sharp walls that leak shadows. The little prince notices, he always does, and tries yet again to help her find a way out of it. (It takes longer each and every time… she begins to wonder what will happen to her when he's no longer there to help her escape the dark grip of the cunning creatures breathing behind her eyes.)
"I know… that you're not weak, Rhae. You're the best and strongest person I know." Rickon's legs swing underneath him, his no-longer-peach-juice-covered hand reaches over to pat her larger hand on the branch. "But, I'll protect you anyways, even if I don't become a knight. I promise I'll protect you forever."
"Hey now," she teases. "I'm older, it's my job to protect you."
"You do already, all the time, from the meanest monster of them all." Rickon quiets, and though the offender goes unnamed they both know who he is referencing. "It's not just me though, I think. Even the people don't like the King very much, do they, Rhae?"
Rhaenys's voice grows somber, her eyes do a cursory sweep to ensure they are still alone. "And why do you think that is, Rickon?"
Her little brother's head tilts. "Because of the war?"
"…Partially." Rhaenys pauses. "Tell me, Rickon. When is the last time the King attended a celebration with the nobles? The last time he built something for the smallfolk?"
Rickon's eyes widen. "Kings do that?"
"Always remember this, Rickon. People remember those who help them. And they give back that care and respect in kind. An act of kindness to someone living in the absence of it will tie their loyalty to you forever." Rhaenys looks directly in her little brother's grey eyes. "If you give the people your love, they will return it a thousand-fold."
.x.
Later that afternoon, Rhaenys continues her lessons.
"Repeat after me. My father is my king, and my king is my father."
"Rhae, enough!" Rickon whines. "Please, I've already said it half a hundred times!"
"And you will repeat it a thousand more until you can make a lie sound believable. Again, Rickon. I never want anyone to think you don't mean it."
'No one can ever know we don't mean it.'
.x.
The next day, they're climbing for peaches once more. This time, when they sit on a branch, Rickon tries to shine a peach the way she did the day prior, and offers it to her with a toothy smile.
Rhaenys's heart melts and stiffens all at once.
"Sweet brother, one day… I think one day, he plans to take me from you. It's why he lets me see you so liberally now, I know it is. He wants you to love me, rely on me, and then he wants to rip me away. He wants us to break when that happens." Her grip on the gifted peach tightens, bruising the soft fruit. "In his twisted mind, it's a way to punish my dead mother, and a way to avenge yours. And if either of us give into what he wants, then he wins. Never forget that."
"Don't be silly, Rhae." Rickon sing-songs. "I'll be a knight by then, remember. I'll never let him take you away from me."
(There's another pause; but this time…)
The peach slips from her hands, and Rhaenys stops Rickon from bending to catch it. The fruit falls, and she watches as the broken body's juices bleed into the dirt. She mumbles to herself, but Rickon hears the words clearly. "A knight without a crown can protect no one from a king."
(This time, the princess tugs the little prince into the maze.)
Lying is easy if it means protecting you
293 AC
About a month after her thirteenth nameday, Rhaenys accidentally damages Lyanna's shield. The horrible incident starts off entirely benign.
She playfully coaxes a curious seven-year old Rickon into the Second Queen's old chambers. They carefully approach the hallowed space when no one else is looking (because no one is allowed to enter, not even the maids, on unwaveringly strict orders from their father).
Rickon plops onto the long untouched bed with gusto. Dust plumes into the air, and they both momentarily choke on the thick mist. The prince, still in the middle of the grimy explosion, fights to breathe normally again while Rhaenys sets up the props.
She starts the tale the way the actors during the festivals do, with changing voices and swinging arms. Rickon watches on, enthralled by the performance. She revels in it, not just his adoration but the easy freedom of her play. There are no airs to put on, just a story to tell. She gets too caught up in the moment though, and during the 'battle scene,' she loses her grip on the heavy sword. To her horror, it drops across Lyanna's famous shield with a cringe-worthy shriek. They both watch, eyes wide, as large jagged line scratches through the smiling tree blazoned on the shield. The clang of the blade hitting the ground cuts off her story just as abruptly as it cut the shield.
Her heart hurts, and she recognizes that this unfinished story becomes nothing more than another botched attempt. How many of these have failed? This is hardly the first time she has tried to tell Rickon that (although she loves him with her entire being), Queen Lyanna (who once bravely went against expectations, and dressed as the Knight of the Laughing Tree to defend her friend) was more than the court's whispers… that she was amazing and wonderful, and Rickon's true mother.
'You never got the chance to know her, but she… She was a better person than me. She would have never let Aegon's arrow fly towards you. She deserves your love and recognition more than I do.'
The shock of the moment withers as reality blooms. Rhaenys's mission, as well as the tale of the she-wolf and crannogman, are swiftly forgotten. Instead, the Targaryen duo race to hide the evidence of their destructive presence in the forbidden room.
Rhaenys thinks them successful in their deception, until the next afternoon. She returns from a lesson with her Septa only to find Rickon with his arms wrapped over his knees, huddled away in the darkest corner of his chambers, on the back most edge of his bed.
His curled form greets her with a hoarse voice. She almost blames the crackling words on perhaps a recent bout of crying, until her gaze falls below his chin. She eyes the hand-shaped bruise around his neck with horror, and hides her mounting fury with concern. She quickly steps up to her little brother, sits on the bed by his side, and gently cradles his unmarked cheek to look closer at the purple stain on his pale skin.
"Who?" She inquires, voice deathly calm. She initially suspects the culprits to be two menaces shaped like brothers, the ones who just last year maliciously wedged an arrow into Rickon's arm. 'Aegon, you violent beast. Do you spend every day lurking in the periphery, hunting out opportunities to hurt Rickon?'
The youngest Targaryen refuses to answer. He looks down to the bedsheets, flinching as his neck flexes downwards.
"Tell me, Rickon," she coaxes slowly, even as her thoughts race. 'Jon confuses me most. He never seems to enjoy all the terrible things Aegon drags him into, yet he partakes in the cruelty all the same.'
Her youngest brother whimpers incoherently. She continues to pace her words with gentle enticements, tries to lure his answer with gentle strokes of his hair. He stubbornly remains silent. Finally, Rhaenys's protective anger outweighs her patience. "Tell me now." Rhaenys demands, voice firm. Her chest thuds.
'They hurt him. They hurt him. They hurt him. How dare they lay a hand on-'
He mumbles an unintelligible response, and she once more prods him before he finally faces her with wet grey eyes. "Father."
Rhaenys cannot fathom what could have inspired such blind rage in the King – the man is usually smart enough to avoid leaving visible marks. Rather, his abuse takes the shape of spiteful neglect and vituperation.
'What could have caused father to—'
Rhaenys blinks, sees the cracked smile of a laughing tree behind her eyes.
'Oh, Rickon.' She shakes her head, eyes burning. 'You took the fall for me.'
"You lied," she says instead, disappointment tinging her heavy voice. Disappointment not in him, but herself, for putting her little brother into a situation where he was harmed for her stupidity and carelessness.
"I know you say lying is wrong." Rickon whispers. "But… it was not a hard thing to do." His grey eyes meet hers, his gaze wet but steady. "Lying is easy if it means protecting you."
She shakes her head, rising from the bed. "I'm taking you to Sam. You need to have your throat seen to, right now."
Rhaenys turns towards the doorway, and takes a few steps forward. But, then pauses her stride at the lack of familiar pitter-patter behind her. She swivels back, her brother remains unmoved; the younger Targaryen stays seated and frowning, his eyes drift to his bedroom window.
"You would be a better King than him." His voice cracks.
His hand reaches for the bruise unconsciously, and Rhaenys goes dizzy wondering if her father's single-armed grip still carried the strength to snap her little brother's neck. She supposes the horrific image will be another sight to add to the ongoing reel that haunts her nights. Perhaps it will slot itself between her grandfather's fire-hungry gaze and the smell of charred bodies; or perhaps it will slot itself between her father's malicious sneer and a wailing baby's face being burnt before the entire court. Rhaenys swallows down bile, throat nearly as scratchy as her brother's when she responds.
"Women cannot be Kings."
Which is true. The Dance of the Dragons firmly set the rules of succession amongst Targaryens in stone. 'There is a reason Baelor's uncle was chosen to ascend the throne over Daena Targaryen.' Rhaenys softly approaches her pensive brother, and gently pokes the sullen boy's cheek, to remind herself it remains unmarred.
(Sometimes her nightmares cast baby Rickon instead of the Baratheon girl under the Kingsguard's burning blade. Sometimes she wonders if her nightmares are premonitions. Sometimes she wonders if they're all just cursed.)
"Oh," mumbles Rickon. "That's silly." He makes to push her poking hand away, but instead continues to clutch it with a tremulous grip.
Rhaenys blinks away the past (fire, corpses, wails, bruises) branded behind her eyes. "It's an important lesson all the same." She pushes an errant curly lock behind his ear, offers him a tender smile. "You would sooner wear a crown than I."
.x.
294 AC
At fourteen years old, Rhaenys teaches herself an important lesson.
She learns it while an ugly bruise crawls across her cheek, after escaping the hands of a drunken king in the Maidenvault.
'Perhaps a woman cannot be King… but there are other ways we can rule.'
Lesson freshly learned, she approaches a rotund figure with beady eyes, in the dark tunnels under the Red Keep. She meanders these underground passages easily, well-used to maneuvering mazes now.
"And what plans draw you into my web this evening, your grace?"
In a world where there is no bastard of Winterfell,
Arya Stark bonds with another brother
301 AC
Fifteen-year-old Arya Stark first meets her so-called cousin Prince Rickon Targaryen during the Mormont contingent's visit to Winterfell. As with the other Northern Houses, her lord father invited the House of Bears to visit Winterfell and discuss preparations for the upcoming winter and other administrative affairs. So consumed with happiness over once more getting to see Bran (and the rest of her family) after being away the entire past year for fostering, Arya nearly forgets the presence of her royal kin until Bran introduces them in the courtyard.
It's an introduction that goes about as well as can be expected.
(That is to say, not well at all.)
"You're short."
Arya bristles. "What did you just say!?" Her palm jumps to the training blade sheathed at her hip.
The prince tilts his head, response contemplative rather than malicious. "Bran is almost as tall as me. You are twins, so I expected, well…" And then the suicidal fool raises his hand flat over Bran's head, and swings his arm levelly so it stretches out about ten inches above the top of Arya's own. "…taller."
Seething, Arya jerks her gaze towards Bran who should be rallying to her side so they both might rip off the prince's arm. Instead, to her horror, Bran laughs at the (now soon-to-be-skewered) prince's remarks.
"I am still your older sister!" Arya blusters, before shoving Bran in the shoulder. "Show me some respect, baby Bran."
"Barely older," Bran scoffs, cheeks flushing as the prince mouths 'baby Bran' with a shit-eating grin.
"Older, nonetheless," Arya smirks. If she is to be called short, well, then the youngest Stark will be called a baby. (The prince at the periphery of her attention merits no moniker, except 'the marked one,' as he will meet the edge of her blade soon enough if his mouth keeps moving so carelessly. How dare he use her name for Bran.)
"Older by a dozen seconds, perhaps." Bran concedes, eyes twinkling. "But forever shorter by a dozen inches." There is a brief pause in their banter, before Bran's entire countenance softens. His arms stretch open. "Welcome home, Arya."
Without hesitation, she jumps into his arms.
Arya burrows her way into her brother leather-clad shoulder (how is he so much taller after just one year?) She eagerly embraces the eternal familiarity of her twin, her favorite sibling, her other half.
Growing up, Bran and Arya were inseparable. But now… if Lady Mormont's accounts from the other northern lords are any indication, Arya has been ousted by the marked one. This bloody dragon prince used his time at Winterfell to wheedle into her spot by Bran's side. The marked one replaced her as Bran's confidante; a transgression equating to a gambit act of war, a forever kind of insult that Arya refuses to ever forgive.
"Might you take a break from your brother's arms to introduce a stranger? I'd welcome an attempt at courtesies from our Lord Paramount's daughter."
Arya unhooks herself from Bran's grip, eagerly turning towards her sarcastic friend. "You're certainly no stranger," Arya playfully reassures as she pulls the other girl forward. "This is Lya Mormont," Arya announces proudly to her brother. "My training partner and my best friend."
Bran flinches, and for a moment she regrets her word choice, especially when she notes the edge of victory in the marked one's eyes. Eager to move past her unintended insult, Arya grasps for something else to say. "She's named after your mother."
The marked one's confusion almost lasts too long, before he finally seems to register her words. He replies with a tight smile. "An honor, I'm sure. Especially, if… Lady Lyanna is half the swordsman that her sisters are purported to be."
Arya hates the marked one a little less when he doesn't disparage her and Lya for their training, like she suspected any other Southerner might… like Arya suspected her own lady mother would have done ('after all, it's why they exiled her, wasn't it?') Before Arya's homecoming, fear settled in her gut at the thought of seeing her mother, but bitter disappointment replaces the fear now. While happy to see her father (who now converses with the senior Lady Mormont), Arya barely bites back her displeasure at the noticeable absences of her mother and older siblings.
"The plan was for the three of them to go to High Garden after your visit finished. But they left early – two weeks ago – heading first for Riverrun, because a raven had come saying Uncle Edmure suddenly grew very ill." Bran quietly confides to her, after most of the welcome party and Mormont contingent leave the courtyard. "They thought he wouldn't make it, but Mother just sent a letter the other day, saying they think he's turning for the better."
"That's good," nods Arya, before glaring at the marked one. "Given that your father slaughtered our grandfather, Uncle Edmure is the only direct heir House Tully has left."
"Arya!" Bran hisses warningly, while Lya's eyes widen.
The marked one offers her an annoyingly 'sympathetic' look, and spouts some apology that sounds too practised for Arya to deem genuine. 'I don't know how you've won over Bran, you lying snake, but I'll get him back from your clutches if it's the last thing I ever do. He's my twin, and you were nothing but a substitute to help him pass the time.'
"I'm sure Robb will let all of the River Lords know just how… apologetic the prince is for his father's actions," Arya parries, a triumphant smile curving her lips. 'Robb is stubborn, and Grandfather Tully's eldest grandchild. He will never love you the way you've coerced Bran to. You took Bran from me when he was vulnerable, and I'll never let it stand.'
"Oh, I'm sure of the same." The marked one grins back. "I'm certain all three will honestly answer any questions Riverrun has about the Stark's newest ward."
"Speaking of unwanted guests that refuse to leave, where's the iron menace?" Arya asks, deciding to direct the conversation towards one of the lesser annoyances in her life.
The marked one's mouth twitches. "At a wedding."
Arya snorts, annoyed that he's still talking instead of letting Bran speak. "And what poor soul got saddled with Theon Greyjoy for eternity."
"Not his wedding, Arya," Bran corrects gently.
"Yet." Rickon smirks, mumbling something about mermaids mating squids.
Bran huffs out a long-suffering sort of sigh that ends with a fond chuckle, much to Arya's annoyance and dismay; she used to have the monopoly on her twin's exasperated light-heartedness. Bran then tilts his head back towards her. "Theon is still back on the Iron Islands, for the wedding of his older brother and Janei Lannister."
Arya snorts. "Bet he's enjoying that."
Brain quirks a brow. "About as much as he enjoyed you underfoot and heckling him for archery lessons, I imagine."
Lya, the avid markswoman she is, perks up at the mention of bows and arrows. "Oh, he was an archer too?" She nudges Arya. "Was he any good?"
"Self-proclaimed: greatest archer from the West of Westeros to the East of Essos." Arya rolls her eyes. "What an arrogant little shit."
The marked one laughs, then suggests they all head to the archery area of the training yard. Arya catches a glint in his annoyingly familiar eyes, but ignores it in favour of the eerily familiar colour. The prince's eyes – his Stark looks in general – irritate Arya immensely. Her claim to those features is no longer just her own anymore. And worse, it's just one more shared trait to bond Bran to Rickon.
Both boys favor their mothers' looks, yet inherit their father's names… without their fathers' titles.
.x.
Her stay in Winterfell continues, and it takes every ounce of self-control (taught by Dacey) to not throttle the (Not-Stark-But-Looks-Stark) dolt every time he and Bran share some inside joke, or race each other, or run off to hunt in the wolfswood together.
Of course, Bran consistently tries to include the girls, always asks if her and Lya if they would like to join him and Rickon.
'But that's the part that stings the worst.'
Because before she was sent away, Bran never asked. They always just did everything together. The weakened bond between her and her twin is something she will never forgive herself for. Even though she mostly blames the prince, she knows she has herself to blame as well. Because Arya hadn't written, like she said she would. She had always been so terrible at letters, and they had always seemed so dull to write in comparison to training with Dacey or having adventures with Lya.
(The voice in the back of her head hints that perhaps her lack of letter reciprocity was her own form of vengeance; an attempt to punish Bran for so easily agreeing to send her away, for not screaming alongside her at the breakfast table that awful morning her father announced her removal from her home. Another part of her wonders if maybe it just hurt too much to write because it meant remembering that her family moved on so easily when she was sent away, while she spent so many nights burying her face in her pillow, searching for a scent of Winterfell that never came.)
The prince and Bran always exit the wolfswood trading boyish shoves and wearing wide toothy grins as they lug out the bounty from their hunts. Two weeks after Arya's arrival, her and Lya are just about to set on a ride when they come across a beaming Bran atop his horse. The prince trots along behind him, his own mare slowly dragging along a sled of felled game.
The boys approach, and once closer, Arya notes the prince looks paler than summer snow. "It was Bran," He says despondently, eyes haunted as they lock onto the dead stag tied upon the sled. "Not me."
"A clean shot in the neck." Bran boasts, still ahead of and facing away from the prince, surprisingly unaware of his best mate's mood. 'Or perhaps mistaking it as a playful forced sadness over not being the one to make the kill,' Arya suspects.
"Now don't let Bran take all the credit," jests Lya. "You must have had some hand in it, Prince Rickon."
With Bran and Lya staring starry eyed at the venison, only Arya sees the prince turn puce, and looking ready to collapse.
"Are you okay?" Arya hedges.
He jerks at her words. "I'm fine!" The prince snaps.
'Well, then.' Arya thinks hotly, sneering back. 'That's the last time I take any care to make you feel better.'
Bran finally recognizes the prince's mood, squints his eyes at the stag before a soft understanding lights his eyes. "Let's get this game to the kitchens. Rickon and I had plans to spar later."
Arya hates that Bran and the prince share a language of their own. She hates that Bran's smiles now apparently come easier with the prince than with her.
But maybe a small part of her appreciates it as well. Because Bran deserves to be happy. So, even though Arya might not entirely hate the prince, might not refer to him as the marked one in her mind anymore, she doesn't trust him either. Not by leagues. Arya trusts her instincts above all, and her gut screams that this oh-so-likeable prince wears a mask.
'And no one innocent wears a mask.'
Last week, she had voiced her concerns regarding the prince's mummery to her father
("Oh Arya," her father offered her a sad sort of look. "Sometimes people build a mask as a shield, not a sword."
Arya had scoffed at the analogy. "Why would he need an extra shield when princes have thousands ready at their beck and call?"
Her father's mouth turned grim, while his voice turned weary. "That's what I thought, as well.")
Her lord father had staunchly refused to elaborate on his vague meaning further, despite her persistent prodding in the week since.
In truth, Arya thought the prince too cunning to be honorable… too sharp to be as sincere as he painted himself to be. There was a genuine goodness in the Mormonts, and in the Starks, that Arya could not find in Prince Rickon Targaryen.
For example, she found it suspicious that he could get along with the smiths as easily as the nobles. There was a strict dichotomy between smallfolk and nobility; Arya knew this intimately, being someone who got on better with the former than the latter.
'It's like he knows how to show people only what they want to see, and switches between faces at will.'
However, she refuses to define her first visit home by an obsession with the prince. Instead, she spends time with Bran and her father, and even visits some of her old friends (like Mikken, Jory, and Miccah). Rather, it's another new face that became her obsession… the morning after her arrival, Bran had introduced her to Nymeria.
"We found them in the wolfswood." Bran beams in pride while Arya cradles the golden-eyed direwolf lovingly to her chest. "I'd have let you meet her yesterday, but father always makes us keep the direwolves in the kennel the first day a new contingent arrives."
Arya scowls when she comes upon a green-eyed direwolf hovering loyally behind the stupid prince that afternoon. "What need have you for a direwolf?" Arya hisses hotly, striding up to him. "You are not a Stark."
"Some might argue I have as much wolf's blood as you." The prince shrugs insouciantly, petting his furry companion. "Theon received one too."
"Well, I bet even Theon-the-idiot didn't name his so stupid of a name as you did yours."
Rickon huffs out a short laugh and smiles sharply. "I think I chose the perfect name."
Arya huffs churlishly. "What manner of fool gifts a creature as noble and deadly as a direwolf with a name so childish as Shaggy? Are you a babe of four?"
Rickon raises a brow. "Shaggy is a nickname, not his true name." The prince bends down and scruffs both sides of 'Shaggy's' neck. "You like your name, don't you Abishag?"
'Okay, I guess that doesn't sound so dumb,' Arya mentally concedes. 'But I've never heard a name like that before.'
As if sensing her thoughts, Rickon continues. "It's High Valyrian for King's servant." Rickon's eyes bore into hers. "But if you say it with the right sort of accent, it means something different."
"Well, out with it?" She prompts, impatient.
Rickon smirks. "In Bastard Valyrian, Avishag means my father strays."
Arya doesn't know how to respond to such a blunt reference to their shared ancestry, to the tale of betrayal that incited the war – the tale that no one in the North ever mentioned. Luckily for her curiosity, the prince seems to be in an especially talkative mood. "Shame Ghost ran off, otherwise Lya could have had a direwolf too."
"I already told you to stop calling her that!" Arya bristles, shelving her thoughts on the implications of wolf names for now. "That's my nickname for her, not yours!"
"You let Bran use it plenty." The prince smirks again, eying the mentioned duo who have long-since wandered over a dozen feet away. Looking over at them, Arya strains her ears enough to garner that they're deeply engrossed in a discussion about different woods for bows.
"Then again," the prince continues. "Ghost was rather more of a recluse, perhaps he wouldn't have taken to Lya at all. Or maybe he was meant for-"
"You already have a cat!" Arya cuts him off, sneering. "Or are you abandoning it for something better?"
'Are you so fickle?' She says without saying. 'Will you abandon Bran one day too?'
The prince's eyes narrow sharply, his smile disappears. "I don't abandon those I care for, and I don't withdraw from those who love me." Rickon leans in closer, voice quiet. "I'm not you."
.x.
During the third and thus penultimate week of Arya's first visit in Winterfell, her and Lya catch Bran and Rickon exiting the Stark crypts carrying haggard looking tomes in their hands.
"What were you doing in there?" Lya asks, interest clearly piqued.
"Speaking with Winterfells' ghost, of course." Bran teases, as he pulls the prince's tome out of the royal's hand and atop his own. Then he genially approaches the girl from Bear Island and cheekily skirts around her, nearly close enough to touch, before making his way towards the stables.
Arya rolls her eyes at Lya's flushed cheeks, then resolutely turns to face the prince, partially to ignore the weirdness between her best friend and her twin. Mostly, though, because she knows a truth from a tale. "You're lying." Arya accuses, after Summer nudges Lya towards Bran's retreating form, well out of range of overhearing. 'You're lying about more than just the crypts.'
"We were exploring the tunnels, just as Bran meant to say." The prince smirks. "Nothing sinister, just for knowledge."
Arya snorts, pushing down her jealously that Bran has had yet another adventure with the prince instead of her. "To what end? Like that sort of knowledge means anything." It's more envy than anything that powers her response. It annoys her that this Not-Stark has seen a place in Winterfell that even she had yet to sufficiently explore.
"Perhaps what we found won't ever be needed." Rickon shrugs. He starts to walk away, his direwolf trotting along beside him. The prince makes it a few feet, before tauntingly calling over his shoulder. "Perhaps one day, it will."
(The quarrelling duo don't notice the castle's old Master of Horse, who walks alongside a young mare out of hearing range but not out of sight. They don't notice the way his skin chills, looking upon the ghosts of dead children. They don't notice the way Hullen's heart seizes at the familiar site of Little Lyanna huffing and puffing over her older brother's teasing. They don't notice the way he looks on with weary, aged eyes as the two wolf-blooded children of Rickard Stark once again get into another infamous tiff, dramatic and loud and everything un-Stark, to be continued until their other siblings intervened. "Oh, Ned." Hullen heaves a great sigh, eyes finally leaving the haunting tableau of the past. "I cannot imagine why the Old Gods would punish you so cruelly." In fact, sometimes Hullen couldn't help but wonder if maybe some part of Ned Stark had allowed his favoured child to be sent away because the girl wore his dead sister's face.)
.x.
Arya doesn't just leave Winterfell with a direwolf, she leaves with a needle.
.x.
She stares at the finely made rapier in her hands with muted awe.
"Mayhaps the adventures we wanted, we won't have them together. But we'll have them, and every time we meet, we'll tell each other of every one."
Arya's throat clenches at Bran's words, while her hands clutch the intricate handle of her twin's gift to her. "I'll write more," she whispers back.
Bran gives her an understanding but resigned look that says he knows she won't. That conciliating expression guts her more than the prince's frequent guilt-tripping quips over her lack of letters ever will.
"I will," she asserts.
Her eyes sting. 'You deserve a better twin than me. I'm sorry.'
"I will, I promise; this time I will." She repeats herself again, and wonders fearfully if Bran has lost faith in her promises forever.
He gives her a placating smile this time, patting her shoulder. "Of course." He gently takes the sword from her hands, placing it on her dresser, before wrapping his arms around her. "I'll miss you."
"I know I'm not supposed to say it," she whispers into his shoulder, "but I love you the most." And she does. More than Sansa, more than Robb, more than even her mother and father. How can she not? Bran is her twin, her other half.
"And I you, sister." His voice turns teasing. "Even if you're part-bear now."
"Oh, baby Bran," she smirks into his tunic. "I will always be a wolf."
Arya knows now that Bran recognizes that fact even more than her. She understands now from their conversations that he saved her, a year ago, with his suggestion of warding with the Mormont's. He had protected her from being sold to the South, the way her mother was selling Sansa now. It had probably broken his heart, but to protect her, Bran had convinced their parents to send her to Bear Island and delay her betrothal. Even now, before her once-more departure, Bran equips her with a way to protect herself…
And Arya refuses to leave Winterfell without doing the same for him.
.x.
Arya stomps up to the prince, who quietly cares for his blade in the Godswood.
He gracefully stands, sheathes his shining blade, and does nothing when she shoves his chest harshly. "Don't you dare get him killed." She hates her skinny arms, and hates that the royal is broad enough that her push did not send him flailing to the ground.
Instead, his smile sharpens the way it always seems to when he thinks they're alone - when he doesn't need to pretend in front of the rest of her family. "And is that a request from a guilt-laden sister… or a starry eyed Lyanna Mormont?"
"Fuck you," Arya hisses, and before she knows it a loud clang echoes between the trees, as his blade blocks the swing of her own.
Two efficient swings later, and he flicks Arya's training blade from Bear Island cleaning out of her hands. Her back meets the cold ground of the woods. Rickon's freshly sharpened blade hovers above the skin of her neck.
The silence is deafening.
She's in the middle of regretting packing away Bran's gift (to avoid her father censuring him), when the prince breaks the quiet with a loud sigh. "Bran is family to me now." He sheaths his blade and jerkily pulls her up from the ground. "I will always protect my family."
In the past,
before a dragon misplaced a crown of roses,
a quiet wolf on a mountain told colourful tales lauding his willful, wild, wonderful sister.
And a stag fell in love with the perfect picture painted by the wolf's words.
(history is a wheel)
302 AC
Today, nineteen-year-old Robb stands by his father's side. To his right, his siblings (and his royal cousin) are lined up precisely as their mother dictated. The entire Stark family, as well as the rest of Winterfell, eagerly await the arrival of his betrothed's travelling party. It takes everything Robb has to tame his restlessness; this moment marks the culmination of nearly a decade of anticipation for the heir of Winterfell.
Almost exactly seven years ago, Lord Eddard Stark had summoned Robb into Winterfell's solar. There, both Robb's parents informed him that, once nineteen, he would marry a princess. At the time, twelve-year-old Robb felt the thick chains of anxiety wrapping around his ankle on being told that he apparently had a wife waiting somewhere outside his world of Winterfell. He hadn't been sure what to think of the arrangement, and so swiftly decided to not think on it. He shook off the chains, left them in his father's solar to rust.
His plan of procrastination and willful ignorance succeeded marvellously until two years ago, when a Stark-looking Targaryen rode into Winterfell, drenched in rain and firelight, and reminded Robb of his fixed future during their very first encounter.
("My sister's betrothed. I'm keen to size you up, cousin.")
And then – to Robb's embarrassment – his upcoming betrothal became all he thought about. How could it not, when Rickon espoused such wonderful words about Robb's future bride with every other breath?
("She is kinder than any Septa… She is smarter than any Maester… She is the best person I have ever known.")
With such effusive praise, how could Robb not start to doubt his worthiness? How could he not start to question whether he was good enough for this fabled girl who bears a warm smile and holds blazing strength? Theon's frequent jibes certainly didn't help.
("Hopefully you don't need to best him before you get to wed his sister.")
Unwilling to let his younger cousin believe Robb overly invested, the heir to Winterfell had approached Maester Luwin first. He entered Winterfell's library, and quietly asked for tomes on Targaryen histories. The old Maester had given seventeen-year-old Robb a knowing look, handed over an aged book, and told Robb that he would offer whatever answers he could.
("But of course," Maester Luwin had teased, "the best source is likely the girl's brother, my lord.")
Lost between all the Aegons and dragon names and wars called dances, Robb approached Rickon. It had been two months into the prince's fostering, on a random night after Bran had finally left his cousin's side for the evening.
("Robb?" Rickon's surprise morphs into concern quickly. "Has something happened?"
It's a perfectly reasonable query on his younger cousin's part, given that Robb has appeared before the prince's chamber door at an hour closer to dawn then nightfall.
"No, not really. I just… well, I just had a question. Can I come in?"
"Sure." A confused Rickon opens the door wider, beckoning Robb inside to a (mostly) clean room. Rickon offers him the chair by the desk, but Robb declines. Rickon raises a brow, before leaning on the cluttered desk (the only messy thing in an otherwise impeccably maintained room).
Robb eyes the quarter-melted candle, still lit, and the open ink well beside it on the desk. Curious – and a bit eager to avoid the topic of his future wife for a moment longer – Robb nudges his head towards the scattered papers. "It's quite late. What were you working on?"
"Just some letters to some friends." Rickon crosses his arms, undeterred. "Why are you up at this hour?"
Robb coughs to clear his throat. This now seems a much sillier plan than it did before he left his own room. "I… well, I just… the princess… your sister… I'm… I'm going to marry her."
"I figured as much, given you're her betrothed," Rickon deadpans. "Good to know the North and South share the same definition of the word." Rickon's mischievous smirk betrays his attempted gravitas.
Robb shakes his head "I just mean… well…" Robb sucks in a breath deeply, deciding to just let his concerns run. "I'm going to marry her, and I don't know very much about her at all." Gates crossed, the words continue to race out. "What does she like? What does she not like? Does she know that it snows here? Well I suppose she must, after all, it is the North. But does she know I'm younger than her? Do you think she'd care? I mean, it's only three years and a couple months, right? Do you think she'll like Winterfell?"
'Do you think she would like me?' Robb wants to say, but instead asks, "and what about—"
"Robb." Rickon cuts in firmly.
Robb slams his mouth shut, mortified at his bumbling and rambling.
"You're a good person." Rickon offers with a small smile. "I'm glad. She deserves that… after everything."
Robb tilts his head, inquisitive enough to prod even if it isn't the polite thing to do. "Was it really so bad there? I've heard some of the comments you've made in passing, but…"
Rickon's eyes darken, his entire form tenses. "Worse than you can imagine." The prince's eyes gaze out the window. It's pitch black, but Robb figures it's not the scenery Rickon is seeing anyways. "She protected me, Robb. The nobles in that sty of a city… they're all so cruel and scheming and terrible and fake. And the so-called 'royals' are the worst of all. The people there… they'll smile to your face while watching your brother wrench a blade between your ribs… they'll stand in silence as children are branded for sport…" Rickon's fists tighten. "But she… Rhae guarded me from the King's ire, from Aegon and Jon's malice. She raised me and cared for me back when I had no one else." Rickon turns to attention back to Robb. "For so many years… she was all I had: sister, protector, teacher, even mother. She was my only family, my only true friend, for so long." Rickon's grey eyes bore into Robb. "There is nothing more dear to me than her, do you understand?"
Robb nods, solemn. "She'll be my wife, Rickon. I'll protect her." He fingers the sleeves of his tunic, shifting his gaze over Rickon's shoulder. "I don't just want her safe though… I'd also want her to be happy…"
'What if I can't make her happy?' Robb asks without asking.
"She likes peach trees." Rickon chuckles, his eyes lighten. "Climbing them, especially. And she likes cats. The black cat I brought with me—"
"That one-eared beast that lurks behind me everywhere I go?" Robb huffs. "You know, the smallfolk are more terrified of that temperamental creature than the direwolf at my feet."
Rickon smirks. "Aye, Balerion. He is her cat, and honestly, her truest guard." Rickon shakes his head fondly. "It's a good sign you've not earned his ire. Bal would hiss and scratch up any who meant her harm. And when she was sent away…" Rickon swallows roughly. "She lent him to me. She entrusted us to keep each other safe until she came back for us."
Rickon speaks of his sister with such reverence, that Robb can't help but feel a bit of envy, and even a pang of shame. He doubted Sansa or Bran spoke of him like that, and Arya most definitely not. (He still remembers the way her pleading grey eyes had turned to him that morning they announced her fostering, how he had initially been too shocked to protest, and later too nervous to go against his father's wishes). The princess was an eldest sibling as well, and she seems to have done the job a great deal better than him. 'Will that be the fate of our marriage as well? Me struggling to meet her expectations, and the perfect Princess Rhaenys Targaryen forever disappointed by my shortcomings.' Robb shakes his head, decides then and there to write to her. Perhaps he can lay some groundwork now, get to know her, and encourage her opinion to be more merciful for when they finally meet.)
Robb's father had swiftly nipped the idea of correspondence to his betrothed in the bud.
("What do you mean?" Robb reels, rising from the chair. "How can I possibly be 'banned' from writing to her?! She's my betrothed!"
Robb's father heaves a tired sigh from his desk. "When I agreed to take on Rickon as a ward, one of the crown's stipulations during the arrangement was that no letters be exchanged between Winterfell and the princess."
"Well that's just stupid!" At his father's reprimanding glare, Robb scowls and sits back in his seat, petulant. "Moreover, that's not fair." Robb continues, "and a cruel condition, besides. It is one thing to ban me from writing her by citing propriety or some similar Southern nonsense. It is another matter entirely to bar Rickon from his family." Robb glares at the ground of his father's solar. "Rickon told me they treated him cruelly there. That she was his only protection… You won't send actually him back at the end of his fostering, will you?"
His father sighs. "A lord cannot refuse a king's command."
Robb's eyes bore into his father's, dark with censure. "Jon Arryn did for you.")
The day following his argument with his father, Robb had joined Theon, Bran, and Rickon in the courtyard for sparring. Despite having happened two years ago now, Robb remembers that afternoon clearly. He recalls ranting to the others heatedly, telling Rickon of the injustice, only to be surprised that the stipulation on his communications was not news to the prince.
("He worries we'll plan a rebellion with our correspondence," Rickon shrugs blithely, continuing his arms stretches.
Robb resumes putting on his training gear, unsure of what to say. Rickon brought up war so casually, and Robb figures he might as well continue the topic. "I guess I suppose most Targaryen kings have worried about stuff like that. Well, ever since Daeron was almost usurped by his bastard half-brother in the first Blackfyre rebellion." Robb tags on the last bit with a small smile, proud to show off his recently acquired knowledge of the dragon house. 'Thank you, Maester Luwin.'
"Earlier, actually." Bran corrects, helping Theon sift through the shield bin. "Don't forget the Dance of the Dragons."
Robb wracks his brain for the exact names of the protagonists of that civil war. 'Damn the sorry soul that started the foul tradition of all the same-names and ae's in the dragon lineage,' he thinks, annoyed. The tradition made learning history so dreadfully painstaking. Robb doubts he would have even bothered with the nuances of the Targaryen tales at all if it weren't for the battles, and because of his newfound efforts to impress his future bride. Robb vaguely recalls the name of the main person involved was either Aemon or Aeron or another thrice damned name beginning with an Ae. He shrugs, offers a guess. "The one where Prince Aemon usurped his sister, even though her father had named Princess Rhaenyra heir?"
"Prince Aegon," Bran amends calmly.
It's hardly the first time Robb feels envious of Bran's intelligence.
"That's not the whole story." Rickon cuts in quickly. "Rhaenyra despised her half-siblings and step mother. The prince only reluctantly accepted the crown because Rhaenyra would have otherwise killed his sister... and mother, brothers, and children."
Robb frowns. "The book I read didn't say that."
"You can read?" Theon quips, swiftly dodging the arm guard Robb throws at his head.
"There are a lot of different sides to a story, Robb." Bran says. "Take the battle of Arryk and Erryk in the castle's citadel, for example."
Theon chuckles while handing an annoyed Robb back the arm guard/recent projectile. "A man battled himself?" The ironborn smirks. "Now there's a fun drunk."
Bran's brows rise, loudly exclaiming 'you must be kidding,' only to flatten in exasperation when realizing that, for once, Theon isn't. "No, Theon. The famous fight where Ser Arryk – spelled with an A – fought his twin, Ser Erryk – spelled with an E. The two Cargyll brothers were on opposing sides during the Dance." Bran pauses to properly pull his chest guard overtop his head. "According to Maester Eustace's account, Ser Arryk visited the Red Keep's Sept to pray forgiveness from the Mother. The twins came upon each other in one of the halls of the castle's citadel and fought to the death." Bran continues airily, almost mockingly. "The stories and songs say the brothers professed their love as their swords clashed and clashed throughout the night, and that they died in one another's arms at dawn after fighting for hours with duty in their hearts."
Rickon snorts. "Another account insists Arryk," he pauses to add on a jesting "with an A" towards Theon, "was there with the sole mission of assassinating Rhaenyra's sons. That author claims the brothers condemned each other as traitors and were both mortally wounded within moments."
Robb turns to Rickon. "What books are you reading?" They sounded dreadfully more entertaining than the histories hoisted upon him by Maester Luwin.
His best friend concurred with Robb's thoughts. "Your stories seem more bearable than the ones we're stuck with in Luwin's lessons." Theon chuckles. "More condense too."
The prince shrugs. "A few different ones. That specific version of the twins' story is from The Testimony of Mushroom."
"Now there's a book worth reading!" The Ironborn smirks lasciviously.
"The only thing you green boys will be reading is the back of yer enemy's blade if you lot keep lazin' about!" Rodrik Cassel yells, stoutly approaching the group of four.
"Come on Rodrik, that hardly made any sense—"
"What's that Theon? You want some sense smacked into yer head? Well, lemme help you there, lad!)
The harsh creaking of Winterfell's portcullis jerks Robb from the past and flings him forward two years into the present. Robb looks towards the wood gate as the entrance churns open, squinting at the blinding sunshine. The princess's entrance seemingly dismisses the clouds that consumed the sky for the past fortnight; her wheelhouse arrives on the brightest day that Winterfell has seen in weeks.
("An auspicious omen," Old Nan had whispered to Robb just that morning. "Our next lady brings light with her.")
Truthfully, the princess does so in more ways than one. Unlike Rickon two years ago, this dragon-blooded royal enters Winterfell surrounded by a large procession. Robb counts at least thirty Dornish knights marked with vivid Martell suns. 'Thankfully,' Robb thinks in relief, 'without her infamous serpentine Uncle or cousins.'
In passing, Robb notes the white cloak of a Kingsguard by the side of the sole carriage; at once, the Stark heir bitterly recalls how Rickon's procession had lacked one. The singular white cloak in Winterfell opens the wheelhouse door. A cloaked lady gracefully steps down from the carriage, barely using the proffered hand by her Kingsguard. 'Must want to seem strong and independent,' Robb reasons, buzzing in anticipation and anxiety over finally getting to meet her. It's all he can do to keep steady control over his restless legs. An embroidered red material covers the princess's face, though the rich fabric of the cloak flings open and the hood drops to her shoulders when she runs towards their line-up the second her feet touch the ground.
She needn't run far, Rickon also abandons all social protocol by racing towards her, catching her in tight hug. He swings her in a full circle, which seems to be a familiar embrace by the ease of their coordination, despite the eight long years of their separation. They both laugh freely with joy, and Rickon loudly proclaims how immensely he's missed her.
"And I, you, little brother." Her thumbs stroke over Rickon's cheeks, which must now be so much sharper than she remembers, Robb thinks. She knew Rickon when he had the smooth chin of a child, whereas now her deft fingers trace over a jaw lined with burgeoning stubble. "You've grown so much," she says wistfully, as if mourning the milestones she had missed.
"And I think you shrunk, Rhae." He shamelessly tosses back.
"Oh, Rickon." Perhaps it's meant to come out as a chastisement, but she murmurs his name softly, as though she might cry. She embraces her brother again, before demanding he make introductions. "Let's see if you've retained any of my etiquette lessons," she teases warmly.
The Stark heir watches on as Rickon, per procedure, introduces the princess first to Robb's father and mother.
"This is Lord Eddard Stark, and his wife, Lady Catelyn Stark." Rickon smiles, then stage-whispers. "Worry not about my care here, Rhae. Lord and Lady Stark both raised and disciplined me as one of their own. Actually, there was an especially creative dressing down when Bran and I were caught on an adventure in White Harbour." The prince plays at shaking away the distressing memory, and it does its intended purpose by engendering a light laugh from his older sibling.
"Uncle Ned, Aunt Cat, this is my sister, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. She cared for me, protected me, and raised me during my time in the South."
('He calls it the South, not home,' Robb observes, not for the first time.)
Expectedly, Robb's father greets their new arrival kindly. And though Robb initially suspected that his betrothed's… 'improper'… greeting to Rickon before the official introductions would have turned his propriety-obsessed mother's smiles false, the Northern heir instead finds the opposite.
"Welcome to Winterfell, my dear." His mother's eyes are warm and reassuring. She gently covers the younger girl's hand in hers. "I was once a Southern girl wedded here as well. You will find an ally in me."
Robb's chest tightens in pride at his mother's words, at her genuine acceptance of his dragon-blooded bride-to-be.
"And this is Robb Stark," Rickon introduces next, bringing the princess to stand before the oldest Stark son. "I've already given him an overly-detailed and morbidly descriptive account of the horrors that shall befall his person should he less than worship you," the words are light, and his smile teasing, even if the sharpness of Rickon's gaze is anything but.
("There is nothing more dear to me than her, do you understand?")
"Oh, Rickon." The princess laments, amusedly exasperated, before turning to Robb and giving another perfect curtsy and offering him a shy smile. "Lord Robb, it is a pleasure."
Now that he finally has a straight and unobstructed view of her, his eyes refuse to leave her. After such a long journey, she should look worn out and travel weary. The few strands of ink-black hair that escaped her side braid when Rickon so joyously swung her around the courtyard should make her look like a mess instead of framing her delicate face. The gold ornaments lining her neck and strung into her hair should make her look ostentatious; instead, she looks like the fabled queens from the Age of Heroes.
'By the Old Gods and New, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.' No bard's song, nor description by Rickon, had ever done her unearthly beauty justice. Large dark eyes and full red lips, softly curved shoulders visible under her house-coloured cloak, and a shapely figure outlined by her dress. The burnt orange and gold fabric swathing her form accentuated her smooth, tawny skin and thick, wavy hair. The curve of her smile makes his gut tighten, shoots a pleasant tingle down the back of his spine, especially when "worship her" echoes in his head. Robb's mind easily takes his cousin's earlier words out of context. But how can he not?
The princess's voice is a smooth, sweet cadence. He wonders what it would be like to kiss her, to steal her breath away, to make her sing his name as he—
He wrenches his wayward thoughts to a halt.
'In two months' time, I'll know. Until then, if Theon's chortling and Bran's barely-contained snickering are any indication, I've probably spent far too long with my mouth at my feet.'
Robb's cheeks redden, but he collects himself in an attempt to salvage her opinion of him. He wracks his brain for something semi-intelligent to say. 'Has speaking always been this difficult?' In his desperate search for words, he vaguely recalls Theon's advice to be confident. And so, he reaches for her hand, the way he remembers Theon once did for Wynafred Manderly.
"Trust me, princess." His eyes slam into hers as he kisses the soft skin of the back of her wrist. "The pleasure is all mine." The kiss is a custom, expected, but the way he delays the release of her hand is not. "Even the songs do your beauty no justice. I look forward to getting to know you better."
A pleasant pink dusts her cheeks. Her dark eyes widen, likely surprised at his forwardness. Honestly, he is too. ('Fucking Theon.') For a second she looks uncomfortable and he worries he might have offended her, but then, a teasing light enters her eyes, ('so that's where Rickon gets it from'), as she playfully responds. "You are too kind, my lord. But surely my brother's florid tales of my overbearing ways have dissuaded you from spending all your attention on me?"
"Quite the contrary, princess. I can no longer imagine any better use of my time."
Her smile twitches, perhaps in shyness, Robb supposes. Her cheeks flare further; she seems almost abashed. His eyes stay locked on her own, searching her soul. There is a fire in those orbs, no, in her. ('Remember her house words?') The blaze draws him closer and closer and—
"And this is Bran." Rickon announces loudly, clearly unsure about how to deal with the fact that his cousin is outright flirting with his sister in front of him. "Bran is… Bran is good, too."
By his side, Bran snorts loudly at Rickon's clear discomfort and distracted introduction. "Your Grace," Bran nods before smirking. "I think the sight of you seducing Robb may have broken Ric- Ow, Sansa!" Bran yelps, swiftly turning towards their sister. Their sister, who stands with perfect posture, a fading rustle of her sleeve the only evidence of her having harshly pinched Bran's side in reprimand.
Sansa offers no indication of her guilt, smiling pleasantly as Rickon introduces her next. "This is Sansa, she made me this cloak! And she likes lemoncakes just like you do Rhae!" The princess and Sansa make small talk over some of the fabrics the Dornish contingent has brought with them. The redhead seems positively enamored, and Robb begins to suspect Sansa might actually surpass Rickon's excitement over the princess's presence.
(He's glad mother and he brokered the match with the Tyrells last year. Even though he'll miss her when his parents send her to the Reach after her nineteenth name day, she really seems to enjoy the frills and fabrics of the South.)
.x.
Robb doesn't mean to eavesdrop that afternoon, but he also doesn't leave when he overhears his betrothed's soft voice coming from the hallway leading to the prince's chamber.
"He is more yours than mine now, little brother."
"Rubbish," Rickon responds vehemently. "Bal is and will always be yours."
"I gave him to you."
"No, you let me borrow him. You gave me a guard and a friend for a time where you knew I would have no one else. He cared for me loyally, and I love him for it, but I am no longer some helpless child. It is time for him to return to you."
"You are forever a child in my eyes, Rickon," she says gently.
"And you are forever my sister. No matter what. These people, my family, they are kind and good. They will come to care for you as dearly as I do, I know it. I promise you will find a happiness and safety here that we never had in the Red Keep. You'll-"
Robb leaves quietly, not eager to let the duo catch him overhearing such a private moment. He reaches the shelter of his room and groans in defeat, utterly helpless now. This day had proven it; he was already desperate for her. There was something about her interactions with Rickon that had humanized this fabled girl, had allowed Robb to see the tender, vulnerable part of her beneath her beauty.
And it had spurred a ravenous longing to have her warm affection directed towards himself.
.x.
Come eventide, they feast.
The Dornish bards play an array of upbeat tunes. Robb loses his breath and half his head when the princess agrees to dance a song with him. He spends so much energy trying to remember the steps, to not stare at her chest or her hips, that he is silent until she speaks first.
"You seem troubled, My Lord?"
"Robb," he corrects her gruffly, then immediately softens his tone. "Please call me Robb, princess."
Her cheeks flare endearingly once more, a rosy pink against her tawny skin. 'She blushes so easily.' Robb wonders how warm the skin under her flushed cheeks would be.
"Thank you for caring for Rickon in my stead. Your family loved and protected him during his time here. For that you have my sincerest thanks." She smiles kindly, and Robb hates the way his gaze lingers on her glossy lips.
'She's more than a body for you to consume.' He chastises himself, ignoring the way his mouth goes dry. He wants to keep her talking, to hear more of her sweet voice. "I think your voice is so beautiful," he unintentionally blurts out, and then feels his own cheeks burn at the childish outburst.
Her smile stays, she even lets out a soft laugh. "Well, I believe that's the first time I've ever had my voice complimented."
Robb and her whirl the turn required of the dance. The breeze of the spin calms him a bit, gives him a bit of his confidence back. "And here I thought all princesses sang pretty songs?" He teases.
"Oh, I do. Just not well. And certainly not often."
'I know a way to make you sing.'
Robb thanks every single one of the Seven and the Old Gods that he has enough sense to keep that lecherous thought behind his teeth. He staunchly ignores the image of her underneath him in his bed, and continues to tease her instead. "Then again, where would you have made the time to perfect the skill, when you were so busy climbing every peach tree in sight?"
"Oh dear, it seems Rickon's told you everything about me. Perhaps I should gain the same favour from him, or even Lord Greyjoy? Surely they have at least one story of a drunken gaffe or even a miffed lover for me to hold over your head?"
Theon was his best friend, of course he had more than one such story… they had just all happened before the arrival of her brother. And he'll make sure Theon knows to never tell her of them; Robb refuses to let anything taint her opinion of him.
'I want you to fall in love with me… I want it almost more than I've ever wanted anything.'
"Are you prodding for information on paramours, princess?" Robb smirks. "Worry not. The only lady I'll ever have eyes for is you."
Her smile still stays, but for a second, Robb almost thinks it looks strained ('disappointed?'). Before he can examine the nuances of her expression further, the song ends, and Rickon cuts in. "Surely three whole dances are plenty, Robb. May I steal my sister back for a round?"
.x.
That night, there is a stern knock on his door many hours after the moon rises. Robb rushes to open it, then flushes with guilt when he sees the knowing censure in Rickon's gaze.
"Not the Targaryen you were hoping for, huh?"
Robb pinches his nose, but the action fails to hide his flushed cheeks. "What brings you here at this hour?"
"The same topic that prompted our last moonlight tryst." Rickon jibes, but his playful nature comes across sharper than expected. Perhaps sensing Robb's discomfort, Rickon sighs before stepping into Robb's chamber.
Robb closes the door, turning to face his cousin.
"You're a friend to me, and we are cousins by blood. I know you to be a good man."
Robb doesn't respond; he is well aware Rickon's isn't done.
"But Robb, if you ever betray her…" Rickon's grey eyes narrow, his expression darkens. "Or dishonor her…" his fingers caress the pommel of his sword intentionally, eyes harder than the steel beneath his wrist. "Hurt her in any way, and you will find no mercy from me."
Robb's chest thuds. 'Perhaps Rickon uncovered more of my past than I thought.'
.x.
Winterfell's heir catches his betrothed one morning, as she walks along the balconies above the training yard, with her black cat loyally trailing behind her. It's an intentional collision, of course, manufactured three mornings after Robb overhears Sansa offhandedly comment over dinner to their mother about her routine of joining the princess on the royal's earlier-than-dawn walks.
This morning, Robb's incidental presence is deliberate.
And the princess is sharp enough to suspect it.
"Lord Robb," her smile seems anxious and her shoulders tense. "How uncanny to find you on one of my walks the very morning Lady Sansa feels too tired to join me."
He shrugs off her pointed allegation, even though it's entirely true. He'd intentionally had Theon keep Sansa and Jane up too late with his shenanigans the night prior. Robb can't think of anything to say in his defence, and rakes a hand through his hair to calm his nerves. He catches her eyes skimming the muscles beneath the tunic on the limb's way down, and feels some of his flighty confidence return. "Would you like some company?" He holds an arm out to her, grinning. "And it's just Robb, remember?"
"How could I possibly refuse?" She gently places her hand onto his forearm, and his heart skips six beats at their proximity as they walk side by side along the outer balconies. This close to her, he notes she smells of something honeyed and earthy. He uses her nearness to once again admire her beauty from the corner of his eyes. Whether day or night, she radiates. In the day, her skin glows and her smile shines. In the evenings, the warm hearth spins streaks of fire into her dark hair. His stomach squirms.
"Tell me princess, where did you spend all yesterday hiding? I saw naught of you except for meals."
She hums adorably, gaze on the scenery. "I spent most of the afternoon and evening with Lady Sansa."
Robb chuckles. "You spend more time with my sister than I do. Should I be concerned that I've competition for your affection?"
The princess turns her gaze towards him, and raises a finely trimmed brow. "I spend my time with her sewing thicker cloaks." She uses her free hand to finger the fragile fabric of one of the (multiple) layers she wears. "I sometimes wonder how my thin southern blood will survive the infamous northern winters."
'Oh, I can think of many ways to heat your blood.' He eyes the delicate shape of her hands. 'Much more pleasurable ways than pricking your pretty fingers raw with needlework.'
"There are warm havens in our castle," he says instead.
'I'll make sure our bed becomes one for you.'
Robb hates himself a little for the persistent direction of his thoughts, but honestly? He doubts any man would blame him. She is literally the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
"Your mother did mention that one of her favourite places when she arrived was the glass gardens." The princess's entire demeanor seems to relax. "The mechanisms behind them is just so fascinating! Your Maester explained to me that…" She goes on an unexpectedly passionate rant regarding the genius of the design behind the gardens, and Robb falls a bit more in love with her. "But it truly isn't fair for only the large Keeps to own their own glass gardens. I think it would be a wonderful venture to see if we could arrange for public glass gardens for the townsfolk. I'm sure we could trade for the necessary supplies from…" Robb isn't sure what she says next, entirely too enamored with the girl on his arm. He thinks on how blessed he is, to be granted a future with someone as kind and brilliant as her.
'Beauty, heart, and brains; the Seven surely picked a favourite in her.'
"Am I boring you my lord?" she asks, brow arched.
'Shit.'
"I could spend a thousand lifetimes by your side and never know boredom, my lady." Finally, something smooth.
She rolls her eyes, then freezes in her walk. He's surprised to see that she looks utterly mortified, cheeks flaring in embarrassment. "I apologize, I… I don't know what came over me." She stutters, and Robb's confused for half a second before he realizes she's apologizing for rolling her eyes at him.
"Princess, relax." He slides his fingers to meet with hers. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, but the reason my parents' marriage works so well is that my mother is always unforgivingly herself with my father, and he with her. I'd like to think we might become the same with each other."
She lets out a small smile. "Rather wise words."
He smirks. "I like to think I'm rather wise."
"You mispronounced arrogant, my Lord," she quips with a cheeky smile.
"Such sharp wit!" He dramatically throws his free hand against his chest. "Your words wound me deeply, my lady."
She lets out a small laugh. 'A genuine one, this time,' Robb suspects, by the way the sides of her eyes crinkle and her small hand covers her mouth. She is so endearingly lovely…and no one else is around...
…He wonders if she'd let him kiss her.
He pulls her closer, letting his voice drop. "You leave me no choice but to find a way to temper your tongue."
He expects continued playful banter in return. He doesn't expect her to stiffen, to step away from him as though he were a beast from Old Nan's stories. 'Was it something I said?'
"I apologize, I didn't mean–" His hand reaches out.
"Don't touch me." As if slapped, she rears back further from him, back crashing against the balcony's railing. Panic flits wildly across her eyes, her chest heaves deep breaths as her arms cross around herself.
He suspects that she is no longer seeing him in front of her. 'What horror are you reliving, princess?' He keeps his distance, but he doesn't leave. He lets the terrible vision play across her eyes, vowing to one day find the source of her nightmares and ensure they never come near her again.
More than a few minutes pass, before he sees worry replace her panic. He wants to help her more than anything, if only she'd let him.
"Are you okay?"
"I-I'm so sorry." She stutters, a first for her. "Y-you… I…"
Robb spares her from searching for an excuse, interrupting her gently. "My words reminded you of something painful that happened in the Red Keep."
Her eyes widen.
Robb tilts his head, tries to convey that he understands her hesitancy to elaborate on her phantoms. "Rickon sometimes gets the same look in his eyes, when he's remembering something terrible that happened there."
He leans towards her, slowly bringing his hand to her cheek. So, so, so slowly and cautiously, ensuring that she has the chance to back away. But she doesn't. 'So soft.' He takes her lack of recoil to mean she isn't completely averse to him in this moment. But she still looks so small, so scared, and he wants nothing more than to protect her. So he steps closer and closer until he folds her into his arms. "You're safe here." He whispers into the top of her head. "I will never let any harm come to you." One of his hands strokes the back of her hair, while the other holds her to him by the small of her back.
Robb tries to ignore the way his chest aches when her arms stay limp at her sides.
.x.
A month before the wedding finds Robb and his best friend drinking by the wolfswood.
"For all your flirting, you two skirt around each other like skittish children." Theon teases. "Buck up Robb, or she'll think you've other interests." The Ironborn shoves another flask towards him. "Time for some liquid courage!"
The next day, Robb will really wish he had refused.
('Fucking Theon.')
First, Rhaenys learned how to weaponize Elia's face.
Second, Rhaenys learns how to weaponize Rhaella's body.
(and she forces herself to, even though the very thought of it nauseates her)
During their introduction, Rhaenys easily recognizes the lust in Robb Stark's eyes. Every man since she turned three and ten has looked at her the same way – eager to possess, eager to devour, eager to bed. Queen Elia Martell was short and slim, attributed to her sickness. But the faultless expanse of her skin, her warm colouring, the silky waterfall of her hair, and her fine structured face was the subject of multiple songs. And the royal matriarch before her, Queen Rhaella Targaryen, had a full figure that dubbed her the most sought after woman in the realm during her youth.
Rhaenys grows into both her mother and grandmother's most coveted features, and so, has been practicing maneuvering out of reach of hungry hands since she flowered in King's Landing.
But then her approach to her appearance changed. When she was shipped to Dorne at fourteen, she realized it was possible to lure a man's loyalty and evade their clutches all at once. She honed her skills under Ari's eager tutelage. And the southern tip of Westeros was a safe training ground, so to speak. For despite Dornish culture's more liberal opinions on sexuality, no one from Dorne dared overstep with her. They were entirely too fearful of the wrath of her infamous uncles and cousins. And even for the braver men, she still had another reliable barrier to unwanted suitors: her status. She was a princess, above their station and out of their reach.
Unfortunately, Robb Stark had no such temperance for his hunger; after all, she had belonged to him since they were children. From lingering touches in public, to talking to her and walking beside her without an escort, the Northern heir's forward actions loudly confirm to her that he already considers her to be his... that his need for her consent in anything is superficial at best.
Her plan prior to arriving to Winterfell was to play coy, until she realized a predator would rather devour timid prey than protect it.
("A savage boy eager to show off to the Northern Lords just how much power he holds over his Targaryen bride.")
She'd rather not play the part of victim in this lifelong pairing so early. So, she quickly switched her countenance to play the teasing vixen instead, aiming to ensnare him the way that Ari taught her too.
("Men have two heads, sweet cousin. Never forget how easy it is to win them through the second. Speak to their base instincts, and they will follow your whispers to the ends of the shadowlands.")
She works out a solid plan of attack all within the span of their introductions. And to execute her strategy, she needs to keep a calm head on her shoulders. So she bites down the anxiety and nausea that churn when Robb Stark's kiss lingers on the back of her hand, covers her concern over how he looks at her as though he already owns her.
("But, when I ship you North, well… from what I hear, Robb Stark will quite enjoy tempering your tongue. Why, I can only imagine what sordid things he will do to you.")
But days pass, and ultimately, Robb Stark turns out to be more man than beast. At times he seems so genuinely earnest; he alternates between making her laugh and making her smile. Robb is nice.
'But so what if Robb is kind?' Her unforgiving mind rages against her softening heart. 'Kind men can hurt you just as easily as the evil ones can. Sometimes worse. You have enough proof of that.'
("If he had not realized I wasn't my mother, would you have stopped him?")
And Rickon – bless his protective heart – could never safeguard her from the strikes of an angry husband. With a cold shiver, Rhaenys remembers how Grandma Rhaella flinched whenever her younger self hugged her. (Rhaenys is no longer four years old, she knows now why her late grandmother showed no skin, winced at any touch, and limped when she walked).
Rhaenys shakes away those dreadful thoughts, forcibly reminding herself that this man is her and Rickon's ticket to freedom. So she doesn't turn away when he stands just a bit too close, doesn't yank her hand away when his fingers trace the outside of her wrist every time he greets her. She forces herself to get over it. To get over her discomfort with Robb's heady gaze, to get over the way she wants to flinch anytime his hand reaches for her own. She forces herself to suck it up and employ some of those thrice-damned feminine wiles she adapted from libertine older cousin.
(She was supposed to be the one in control, but it started slipping the moment she saw the possessive glint in his eyes… which had all but further pried open the box in her head where she chained the horrors from her childhood. She started to see a glimmer of violent in his eyes, and it terrified her. She spent as much time as possible with his sister and his mother, endearing herself to them. She doubted they'd do anything to stop his fists but they might be kind enough to help her heal the wounds after.)
Sometimes her control isn't enough. Sometimes she sees the strength in Robbs limbs, and realizes how easily he could overpower her. And every time she remembers his strength, her mind shows her flashes of him getting angry and drunk and violent and her being tossed on the ground of the Maidenvault and—
More than once, sweet Rickon comes to root out the cause of her unease that he so astutely senses.
'Eight years later, and he still knows me best of all.'
She reassures him the same way every time.
"It's just nerves, Rickon. That's all."
Despite her brother tossing performative gags whenever she interacts with Robb, Rickon does endeavor to quietly endear her to her betrothed. "He's a good person, Rhae. He'll take care of you. I know he will. I've even helped coach him to become the only person I'd trust to treat you the way you deserve to be treated."
So Rhaenys tries, she truly tries, to pretend to care for Robb Stark in order to ease Rickon's worry. "I want you to be happy here, Rhae."
'Oh Rickon, I sacrificed prioritizing my happiness a long time ago.'
("Promise me, Rhaenys.")
But her little brother is more to her than a promised obligation. Rickon is the one person who never left. Rickon is the only stability she has ever known. She'd sell her soul if it meant protecting him - she already had - so what more was her body too?
"I will be fine Rickon, don't you worry your sweet little head." She says lightly while reaching up to poke his nose, much to his affectionate annoyance.
She tightens her hold on the chains. 'The webs are laid, the game is in play. There is no room for error now.'
.x.
At first it's just pretend.
But then her chest starts to flutter at his smiles. He grins freely, speaks to her gently, and she curses her masochistic heart six times over. She hates herself for how weak-willed she becomes in the face of his kindness. If her heart had any desire to continue beating it had best stop befuddling her mind.
'I am doing this for an army,' and she forces herself not to forget. 'Two armies, if I ensure he maintains good relations with his Tully relatives.' Every time he makes her uncomfortable, she recalls young Rickon, cheeks round and wet the night she was ripped away from him. She remembers waking up in the Maester's healing chambers after the heir to the throne tried to kill her. 'You will get on your back,' she instructs herself harshly. 'You will lay on his bed, spread your legs, and entertain him however he needs. You will give him his heir. You will not let your petty fears and past traumas jeopardize years' worth of planning.'
Sometimes his blue eyes are soft, but sometimes they're hungry. Given his ravenous gaze, she suspects the only reason she maintains her maidenhead is Robb's respect for Rickon. Her betrothed's esteem from her brother is likely the only barrier preventing Winterfell's heir from sneaking into her chambers at night and ripping through her nightgown.
(And it burns her more than she will ever admit, that Robb respects Rickon thrice more than he respects her.)
'But of course he does,' Rhaenys thinks bitterly. 'Men respect men.'
'And even if he crawled into my room at night, there would be no one to stop him.' Rhaenys thinks. Ser Darry stands vigil outside her room, and she has no ladies-in-waiting yet because it's leagues more politically savvy for a foreign Lady of the North to acquire handmaids entirely from Northern Houses after the wedding.
Then night after night passes with her unmolested, and she starts to think that maybe her betrothed isn't the type of person who will ruin her before their wedding just to show he can. Because even though he looks at her with lust, he also looks at her with care. He is… nice. And sweet, and has a boyish charm with a man's broad shoulders and such open blue eyes, and auburn hair that looks so soft, and he's so tall and kind of funny when he stutters around me, and too innocent to be cruel and… and he smiles at me like he means it.'
'Stop it!' Her mind berates her heart. 'Stop losing yourself in him. Are you so sickeningly desperate for affection?'
Rhaenys feels as mercurial as she was before she forced herself to grow up, and hates herself for it. For years, she exercised self-discipline. In fact, she had mastered how to control her expressions and her words as a mere child. She learned how to encourage soldiers to want to protect her - the contingent she arrived here with was made entirely of volunteers.
(She purposefully designed her entourage to be without anyone who she suspected would prioritize her Uncles' orders over her own, hence the lack of Sand Snakes in Winterfell. She learned her lesson on loyalty years ago, on the floor of the Maidenvault.)
She taught herself how to make people care for her, while preventing herself from becoming invested in them. She practiced it on her own family just to ensure she was capable to do the things she'd need to do in the future.
'A liar born out of necessity,' she reassures herself. 'I didn't choose to be this way. I am not… I am not a terrible person, despite the terrible things I've set in place to happen, and the lies I've told.'
But Robb's damned kindness makes her honest, makes her answer him honestly and react to him honestly. He makes her think that maybe she doesn't need to whore herself out to him to gain his protection, that maybe she has a chance to win his love instead of just his lust.
He makes her honest… but that makes her sloppy.
"You leave me no choice but to find a way to temper your tongue." Is what he says but "Robb Stark will quite enjoy tempering your tongue." Is what she hears.
She cannot believe she allowed her betrothed to witness one of her breakdowns. Out in the open. On a bloody balcony, where anyone passing could have seen had it been an hour more amenable to the living. She hadn't had any debilitating attacks like that since her first year in Dorne. And even then, she restricted them to nights alone behind the curtains of her bed. "Are you okay?" His tender words had tightened the knot in her stomach, something unknown and unfamiliar and unwanted stuttering in her chest.
She hates that Robb put her in a situation where it had happened. She hates that he held her afterwards. She hates that she let him hold her afterwards. She hates that she didn't want him to let go. She hates that she wanted to cling to him, and nearly did. She hates that she heard herself wonder if maybe he could fix her.
He makes her weak, when she spent eight years training herself to be strong.
'He makes me hate myself.'
Her thoughts and feelings are scattered, swing back and forth with such inconsistency it makes her head ache. Utterly frustrated at herself, betrayed by her own emotional frailties, she forcibly starts to think of him as a tool. A weapon. Because that's what he is, and that's all he can be, until her plans unfold. Perhaps, when she and Rickon are safe from the King's grip and Aegon's whims, she might entertain that foolish stutter in her chest for the man with kind blue eyes – the man with the arms that feel so safe.
Perhaps, one day, she might embrace him back…
If he survives her plots, that is.
(It does no good to fall in love with pawns, she remembers having once cautioned Rickon within the lines of their banned correspondence.)
.x.
Her nightmare becomes reality when, a moon's turn before their wedding night, Robb Stark's shadow knocks on the window to her chambers.
'This is what happens when you trust people.' Her mind reprimands her heart as she hesitantly walks towards the glass. 'It was all a game, and you lost.' Her hands shake as she opens the window. 'Looks like he's here for his prize.'
'You don't know his intentions,' her heart fights back. 'Perhaps there is another explanation. Give him a chance,' the foolish thing pleads.
Winterfell's heir staggers through the window, taking a few steps into her chambers. She reaches out to latch the window back shut. The steep darkness below reminds her that her chambers are on the fourth floor of the tower. Disbelief overcomes her fear for a moment. "Did you climb?" She whispers, stunned.
He smirks. "Who do you think taught Bran and Rickon?"
'Me!' Her mind supplies bitterly, enviously. 'For all Rickon seems to admire you, it was me, not you, who taught him that.' She turns towards the darkness of the window, unwilling to let him see her anger and insecurities. She knows it is stupid to believe Rickon more enamoured with his cousins than with her, but the fear crawls up her throat every time she sees Rickon laugh and roughhouse with them. She sees the way he treats Bran Stark like the twin he never had, the way he treats Robb Stark like the older brother Jon and Aegon never were. Every time she witnesses this, she hears a warped version of the King's voice warning her that Rickon will abandon her, just as everyone else in her life has.
'When will you learn that everyone leaves, everyone lies, and you trust too freely?' Her mind jeers in the King's voice. 'You'll never be worth staying for.'
The thud of Robb stumbling into the nightstand cuts off her thoughts. She turns, and he's close, too close, not even a foot away. With the window now shut, there is no more northern breeze to hide it.
She smells ale.
'He's going to drag you to the bed by your neck and rip through your maidenhead.' Her mind sing-songs in the King's voice. 'He'll mock you for falling for his kindness, then he'll pin you to the sheets and plow into you until you're ruined beyond repair.'
Her heart has no counter, not this time.
"Are you drunk?" She tries to make it sound accusing, but it sounds a little too quiet to be anything but meek.
'Weak. Look how weak you are because of him.'
He grins at her, eyes glazed. "Not so much that I don't know what I want."
"And what is it that you want, my Lord?" She cringes, eyes him and the bed behind him warily.
'You lost control, you sought protection from someone other than yourself, and this is the consequence. You mistook a smile for a promise yet again. Maybe now you'll finally learn your lesson and -'
"A kiss," his voice interrupts her mind. "Just one. From the beautiful girl who'll be mine forever."
He says it so softly; she almost believes that's all he wants. But even if he makes her weak, she's through with letting him make her stupid.
"I doubt you came here for just a kiss, my Lord. What else do you want from me?"
'Say it. Admit what you came for, you monster. You, who is no better than other men, for all your pretty smiles.'
He frowns, the glaze in his eyes starting to clear. "Why are you calling me that, Rhaenys. It's Robb, remember?"
'He didn't answer the question. He wants you and now he's going to take you.'
Her betrothed gently pulls at her arm, but in the dimness of the room his grip becomes rough, his hair turns pale, his eyes turn violet, and it is her father holding Rickon's life over her head, and the cold chill of the Maidenvault and the unmoving back of her trusted friend, and "how badly do you want to be queen?"
The loud echo of a slap shakes her from her trance.
Her hand stings, her chest seizes.
'Oh no.'
His face is twisted in shocked disbelief, and probably in betrayal, and probably in fury. Thud. Thud. Thud. Rhaenys feels her heart race viciously as she calculates the repercussions of her stupidity. He is all she has to protect herself and her brother from the King, and she has just jeopardized it all.
'Stupid, stupid, stupid girl!' Her mind chastises then sniggers, 'what do you think he'll demand as payment for his protection now?' Her gut twists. 'Naïve little girl, do you think princesses are spared from their husband's anger? Rickon isn't here to save you this time.'
She wonders then, looking at his violet eyes, if she should scream for Ser Darry.
'And ruin years of planning? You might as well slit Rickon's throat yourself. Besides… you know better than most that no one will ever come to save you.'
Rhaenys remembers being thirteen, and the ugly bruise wrapped around Rickon's neck when he took the fall for her careless mistake with Lyanna's shield. Rhaenys remembers swearing to herself that she would never again put her little brother into a situation where he was harmed for her stupidity and recklessness. Now terrified of her betrothed's reaction and desperate to keep his favor, she throws her arms around Robb's neck and kisses him. He seems surprised into stillness at first, but only for a moment. Then, his arms quickly reach around her. The fingers of one of his calloused hand's tangle in her hair and force her mouth to stay on his, while the other hand forces her hips against his own.
She feels a hard length press into her stomach, and hopes he's drunk enough to ignore the tears tracking down her cheeks.
He isn't.
He leans back from her. His hands release her.
'So now my consent matters?'
He brings a hand up, almost as if he means to wipe the wetness of her cheeks, but then he shakes his head. His shoulders tense and he looks… he looks heartbroken.
"Is… is there someone else?" he asks, stepping away.
'Fool! You suicidal girl!' Her mind roars. 'The moment he questions your fidelity, is the moment you lose his armies, and the moment you and Rickon lose your heads.'
"No, no of course not. Never, I swear." She replies too quickly. Rhaenys reaches for him again, but he gently pushes her arms to the side.
"I'm not the kind of man who will force you into anything."
'Liar. You came into my bedroom, knowing I would be alone, demanding a kiss you knew I couldn't refuse.'
"I'm just nervous. That's all. Just nerves, my Lord." When she reaches for him once more, he rebuffs her again. She feels her throat start to tighten. She makes another attempt, only this time he holds both her hands away from him.
She sees no more lust in his gaze.
Dread and panic bubble in her gut. 'Even drunk he refuses my advances.' Has she managed to lose even his hunger for her body? What will she use to ensure his pliability now?
'His heart,' her mind supplies coldly. 'He took yours, now you take his.'
"I care for you," she pleads. "I do."
"No… no, you don't." Robb says it quietly, like a sad realization. "Arya was right. You're only pretending to. It was wrong to come up here, I'm so sorry. I just, you were starting to… I thought you cared the way I… I thought we…" he shakes his head. "I misunderstood. I'm so sorry." He releases her hands, and steps around her. She hears his heavy steps walk back towards the window.
Rhaenys knows if she lets him leave now, she will lose the war she didn't even get a chance to wage. Her mind sees the crown above Rickon's head fall around his bruised neck and tighten into a noose. And so Rhaenys, desperate to buy back Robb's trust, considers selling him the story of the king. (The one even Rickon never heard. The one no one was ever supposed to hear.)
"What has Rickon told you about our family?" She swivels quickly, poses the question to his back, and uses the word family even though she doesn't mean it at all.
He pauses in his retreat, then turns away from the window to again face her. A mix of confusion and curiosity (and even a glimmer of hope) all show on his face.
'Got you.' She thinks, simultaneously congratulating and despising herself. 'I win.'
"Honestly? Not much. He always sums it up the same, I guess. All the other Targaryens in the Red Keep are foul, the other nobles in King's Landing are almost as bad, and you are the only redeeming one." Robb pauses. "I supposed he's also mentioned his friend Sam. And some friends he had made in Flea Bottom while trying to avoid the King and the princes, too."
She nods, directs her gaze to the floor. "Do you know why the king agreed to send me here?"
Robb frowns, looking unsure as to if he heard her correctly. "Well, a marriage alliance."
"Oh no." Rhae smiles, it's not a nice one. "I didn't truly realize it until later, of course. I just wanted a place to hide Rickon. A place where he and I could escape the swords of our brothers and the King. But the King, he had a few reasons. First, he wanted me gone, far away from the Keep. He feared how much the people – nobles and smallfolk alike – loved me and despised him."
Robb's eyes widen.
"Second," Rhaenys continues, "The North has the largest armies, and he wanted to ensure through blood that you'd never lend them to the Baratheons or Lannisters. After all, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark would never wage war against his daughter-in-law's kin. Third," her voice quiets. "I did something to anger him."
("I'd sooner slit my throat than be your Queen.")
She doesn't realize that she's shaking until Robb takes a step towards her again, offering his hands palms out for her to hold. 'He's not taking... this time he's giving you the choice.' Her heart reappears, continuing to plead his case in a voice that sounds so much like young Rickon's. 'He's learning; you just have to give him time. He could be good to you if you only gave him the chance to prove it.'
'Grab his hand or lose your hold on him,' her mind orders brusquely. 'It matters not if you still see violet in his eyes.'
"And the King…" Rhaenys continues, carefully slipping her hands into his. She hopes she doesn't need to describe the Maidenvault in detail to earn him back, she doesn't quite trust him enough for it. Not yet. "He wanted to punish me for it. So he sent me to a place he suspected I would be ill-received. To a place where no love from the people would save me if my Stark and Tully blooded husband took revenge on behalf of his families through his Targaryen bride."
Robb recoils, aghast, but doesn't let go of her hands. "I would never strike you."
"Do you think princesses are spared from their husband's anger?" Rhaenys sounds bitter; she doesn't care. "If you chose to beat me within an inch of my life - after I give you an heir and a spare, of course," she tags on glibly. "Do you think anyone in my family other than Rickon would see you harmed?" She snorts. "Oh no. They'd toast you in their private meals."
"You truly believe me capable of that?"
She looks up, meets his horrified eyes. Blue eyes, this time.
Rhaenys ponders on how Rickon, and even Bal, approve of Robb Stark, and almost tell him she knows he isn't.
But then she remembers how easy it is for her and Rickon to put on masks, and how easily people fall for them, and how effortlessly people can mold masks of their own. She remembers how he smiled innocently at her this morning… only to have his shadow linger before her window in the night. (She remembers being thrown onto Maidenvault's floor, she remembers looking with pleading eyes to Ser Darry – someone who she trusted since she was a young child. She remembers how her protector, her trusted friend, had abandoned her to a monster.)
So instead she answers, "I think anyone is capable of anything."
"Even you?" he asks.
She eyes the window behind his shoulder, and sees her plots smiling back at her from the darkness, salivating with anticipation. "Especially me."
She leans forward, and brings her arms around him. She lays a sweet kiss on his neck before once more eyeing the hungry creatures laying in wait beyond the window.
-x-
Robb thinks on the past weeks. He remembers the way she enticed him with her smiles, but the way she flinched at his touch. He remembers Arya's warnings. He begins to wonder if she was forcing herself to tolerate him even now.
Understanding hits Robb violently, suddenly.
Earn his affection, earn his protection.
He thinks on the rumours he's heard of Arianne Martell, and wonders if Rhaenys acts this way because she feels it is easier to win his affection through his lust rather than his love. And perhaps for her it would be to most men, because he is not blind. She is the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen, and one day she will be his. The thought of her under his cloak and under him are enough to feed his dreams for an eternity, enough to make him wage a war to keep her as his.
{Dangerous thoughts, volatile thoughts.
Maybe she wants you to have them?}
But what Rhaenys does not understand is that she had his protection the moment she arrived in Winterfell – that duty and honour would never let him ever raise a hand against her. His own family would never see her harmed under their roof, not even by him. 'But how could she understand?' He thinks sympathetically. 'To her, family is her father and the elder Princes. Family is the Mad King. She thinks her and Rickon are the exception.'
"I'd never lay a hand on you; I'd protect you with my life." He swears, trying to pull her gaze from the darkness in the window, where all he knows she sees are the beasts clamoring from her past.
She turns her head and know their faces are so, so close. But her repaying smile is empty; the realization that she doesn't believe him sobers him of any romantic notions. Her voice is vacant when she whispers, "I wonder if the King made pretty promises like yours to my mother when they were betrothed too."
"That's different. I lov-"
"You don't love me Robb." She leans back, her arms leave his sides. "You love that I have a pretty face and a soft body. You don't even know me."
"Won't you give me a chance to?" She doesn't answer, Robb continues. "Already, these past weeks, I've learned that you're smart enough to engage Maester Luwin on any topic from glass garden mechanics to histories thousands of years old. You're patient enough to sit through Sansa's tittering on her future in the Reach and endless questions about court. You're kind enough to visit the smallfolk of Winterfell, and genuinely ask them how they fair. You forgive every blunder I make. And you're strong enough to share bits of your past with me, even though it hurts.
"Don't paint me as perfect Robb. You'll be sorely surprised."
"You're hot and cold, and more times than not I am lost with where I stand with you. You'll look at me like you care, and then you'll look at me as Rickon does his books or his sword. Arya's warning that you're merely acting any affection you've shown me makes me feel so uncertain in your presence. I sometimes doubt you'll ever grow to trust me, even though I sincerely hope you will." Robb sighs. "I know you're not perfect, I never expected you to be." Though you're the closest thing to perfect that I've ever seen. He's reads her mood well enough to not speak his last thought.
There's a heavy tension between them now. Robb detects some other insecurity brewing beneath her silence. He searches his memories, again and again. Finally, he thinks he identifies it in the bits of their banter over the past two months, words which he now realizes had many more layers than he had initially understood. "I'm not your father, Rhaenys." A pause, a guess. "And you're not your mother. I have no plans to ever betray you."
To his complete shock, she laughs. Laughs. It's more snark than affection, but he'll take anything over her indifference or her panic.
"I never hated her, you know? Despite everyone thinking I should. So many of our people dead at our gates, my mother publicly shamed, every soul in the castle brutalized by the Mad King, and all so that a wildling girl with no manners could wear a crown. That's what everyone tried to whisper around me, anyways. They alternated between painting her as a hapless fool and a scheming harlot. But… she was kind to me, cared for me and stayed as best she could during a time when everyone left me. She even told me more than once that she never wanted a crown, and I believed her."
Personally, Robb wonders if that makes it worse. Thousands dead for the whims of two lovers. No scheme, no greater end, just pure selfishness. But then he can't help but wonder... would he not have done the same for the girl in his arms? Would his father not have done the same for his mother? He decides not to voice his consternations, figures his silence will leave space for Rhaenys to continue.
"I saw Lyanna as more a friendly companion than my mother's usurper. Looking back, sometimes I wonder if my opinion would have been different had I been less lonely and she less isolated." Rhaeny's voice turns wistful. "At the time, she was the only one to see me instead of my mother." Rhaenys's eyes darken. "Sometimes I wonder at that too. Question if maybe I was a conniving little child even then. Mayhaps I befriended her just to—"
"I think you were a child who sought a friend, nothing more and nothing less."
He takes a chance, and reaches a hand to cup her cheek…
…then feels something crack in his chest when she flinches away, bracing for a blow.
-x-
She hadn't meant to cringe. But somehow, once again, her body refused to lie to this northern boy. It refused to put on airs for Robb Stark when there was no audience to act before. What a sweet, kind, stupidly naïve boy who Rhaenys feared she would slowly twist beyond repair.
'Another Stark-blooded boy to add to your collection of twisted toys,' her mind jeers in her father's voice.
Robb looked so forlorn in front of her, a hand still frozen in the air. His voice breaks when he breathes, "I worry your mind makes a monster out of me."
("How badly do you want to be Queen?")
Rhaenys thinks of her secrets: her turbulent past, her seditious contacts in the South and across the Narrow Sea, and the war she brings with every quiet whisper and hidden letter. 'I'm sorry.' Robb makes her honest, and honestly? She thinks she hates the person she has become, suspects she hates the poisonous soul writhing within her. She'll be the death of him, won't she?
Her eyes burn. "And I worry that Rickon let you fall in love with a lie."
'I worry he did so intentionally.'
("Lying is easy if it means protecting you.")
First, Rhaenys learned how to weaponize Elia's face.
Second, Rhaenys learned how to weaponize Rhaella's body.
Third, Rhaenys learns how to weaponize Rickon's love.
"I worry I've made you too fluent in the language of lies." Rhaenys voices her concerns while seated at her vanity. Though her tone is light, her words are a targeted accusation. She softly brushes a comb through her dark hair, meeting her brother's Stark gaze through the mirror.
"I've told Robb nothing but my own honest opinions, Rhae." Rickon shrugs. Without betraying his affected lackadaisical manner, his eyes turn concerned. "Do you not love him yet?"
She nearly laughs at his gumption, but realizes it comes from care. 'No, I don't love him. But, perhaps I could learn to, after my plans come to fruition... should he survive them, that is.'
It took an adjustment period, but Rhaenys is back to herself know. So what if Robb Stark has a hold on her heart? She'll leave his stubborn grasp buried in her chest for now, and when the time comes, she'll simply cut off his arm if his grip on her ever threatens her or her little brother.
Speaking of, a bit of pride stirs in her chest, because the part of Rickon's question that wasn't borne from care arose from him trying to redirect their conversation. 'You're better at this game than when you were a child, but you'll never outplay me in words.' She thinks affectionately as she very deliberately responds, "silly brother, love takes years, not mere moments."
Rickon's smile strains at its ends. No one else would catch his burgeoning apprehension, but Rhaenys does. "It's possible to love someone in a moment, Rhae."
Rhaenys had begun this conversation with the hope to take more time before directly broaching the topic they currently dance around. She had meant to slowly draw it out of him, to see for herself how long his wordplay could protect him from her assault, but alas, time is short. "No, sweet brother." Her eyes harden. "Curiosity and lust. Those are born in a moment. Love is born with time."
The smart boy clues into her gambit, his shoulders start to tense, but just minutely. She doubts any without her astute gaze would have noticed his growing unease. "Three years is time." He hedges quietly.
"Perhaps in certain situations."
'But not yours, brother.'
Rickon heaves out an exhausted sigh, before leaning on the corner of the windowsill. "Please don't talk in riddles, Rhae."
"Why not? Are you out of practice?"
"I've just got nothing to hide from you."
She'd almost believe his innocence if it weren't for her own reconnaissance.
"You've lied to me." Rhaenys places her comb down, then slowly turns to face him, disappointed. "I know about her, Rickon."
Rickon's smile remains unaffected. "You've always known."
Rhaenys frowns. "No, Rickon. I know."
Rickon's entire body goes taut, his smile falls.
'We'll have to fix that response,' she notes to herself. 'Seems you are out of practice. But am I so surprised? You're in a land with those whose honesty even I find hard to not reflect.'
He stutters. "I-I never lied to you. I'd never do that… I just…" He eyes his boots. "I maybe…didn't tell you everything."
Rhaenys frowns sternly. "Lying by omission is as much a breach of our bond as lying by commission."
Rickon's eyes are round when he looks back up at her. "I never meant—" He cuts himself off, continues softly as he eyes the corner of the room. "She matters to me, Rhae."
Tender thoughts of Shireen Baratheon linger so obviously in her brother's eyes. 'Oh, Rickon,' Rhae's heart tightens. 'In some ways, I worry you are more like the young King than any of us.' Instead she continues cautiously, "I worry history means to make a lesson out of you both."
'Shireen will become Lyanna. The real question is, are you Robert or Rhaegar?'
He steps towards her, pulling a nearby stool from her window with him to sit before her. "Please, Rhae. I want her. Can't I have her, please?"
Rhaenys frowns. "Did you not understand my messages?"
Rickon shakes his head. "No, truly have her. She means more, Rhae. It isn't just about our plan, not anymore, at least not with her…. I care for her… I care for her a lot."
'I know. And that's why I don't trust her.' Rhaenys hates to manipulate him, to wrench at his guilt so unforgivingly, but he leaves her no choice. She widens her eyes, questions him in a quiet voice. "More than me?"
Rickon looks as if she's punched him in the gut, before shaking his head in palpable horror, leaving his stool and dropping to his knees before her. His arms reach for her waist, and she runs her hand's through the back of his hair the way she did when she comforted him as a child. "I'm sorry," he mumbles into her lap. "I'm so sorry," he repeats more than thrice, and Rhaenys suspects the fervent apologies are actually directed instead towards a girl by the sea. "I…I remember the plan," he whispers. Which is enough for Rhaenys, because even if the apologies are for the girl with the burned face, Rhaenys knows she has Rickon's devotion in a way the Baratheon girl never will.
("An act of kindness to someone living in the absence of it will tie their loyalty to you forever.")
She shakes the possessive, selfish thought from her head. For all her ploys and maneuvers, Rickon is not a pawn. She will not let him become disposable, the way the others are. Rickon her only family, her truest friend, her closest confidante, her loyalist protector. She wants to believe he will always stand by her side… but her own insecurities over what would happen should he ever leave terrify her. Those same insecurities have grown ever since she realized just how tightly Shireen Baratheon held his heart. 'Foolish boy, you were supposed to steal hers, not share yours. And as much as you promise me you won't leave… One day you might. One day all my plotting might finally drive you away.' She pauses her thoughts. 'If I don't give you a reason to stay.' She mulls over her webs, and sees some variations where perhaps there is a way she can let Rickon keep his Baratheon heiress at the end of this all. 'But for now, it does no good to get his hopes up.'
She continues to stroke his hair. "Sam and I taught you your histories well."
He nods. Likely aware that this non-sequitur is anything but. 'He knows better than anyone how everything I do and say has a purpose.'
"During the War of Conquest," she continues, "it was Rhaenys and Orys who conquered Storm's End during the Last Storm."
Rickon grip on her waist tightens. "This is different, Rhae," he whispers hoarsely, his face lifting up to meet hers. "It could be different with her."
"I hope so." Rhaenys gives him a pitying look. "In that time, Orys first had to kill Argella's father before he could take her for wife. I doubt Lady Shireen would ever forgive you for harming her family."
"I'd never harm her so irreparably."
'Not irreparably, no.' Rhaenys feels her heart break a bit at the realization that maybe Rickon out of her purview has grown to be as possessive as the rest of the men in Westeros. 'You'd let her come to you chained, just as Orys did. Only instead of unshackling her, you'd convince her the manacles were trinkets of your affection, with the very same pretty words I trained you to use.'
"In another world, she wouldn't be a bad choice, Rickon. She'd be a brilliant choice, actually. She has the blood of two Great Houses, has a kingdom as a dowry, and is the granddaughter of the richest man in Westeros."
She feels him bristle with every accolade. "She's more than-"
"I know." Rhaenys placates, lifting his head up off her lap and directing his gaze unto hers. "I know you care for her." 'Even if I worry your obsession far outweighs any genuine affection.' She places her hand over his heart. "I know a part of you already belongs to her. But remember her loyalties, Rickon."
'Remember yours.'
"I'll make her loyal to me," he asserts, rather naively. "I've even already started."
"If she could not turn you against me, what makes you think you could turn her against her family?"
"I'll make her families turn with me. I am a prince that could be a king, and Tywin Lannister is ambitious."
'I understand his ambition more than I will ever let you know, sweetling.'
"No, you are a Targaryen prince, Rickon. Her families will never forget what our grandfather and father did to them." In that moment, Rhaenys's mind stutters. She hears the names of Rickard and Brandon Stark, of Jon Arryn, and of Hoster Tully.
Her throat dries, she realizes a truth she never considered. 'Is Robb just pretending until Rickon leaves?'
Rickon hears her unspoken worries. "Robb is good, Rhae. I would never let you wed him if I even suspected he would ever treat you poorly on my leaving, I swear. There are no Stark or Tully grievances that will see you come to harm when I depart. He'll be good to you, I promise." He smiles. "You'll be safe here."
She hugs him, tightly, eyes stuck seeing the past.
("They cannot crown a corpse.")
She whispers into his shoulder, "until you wear a crown, there are no guarantees for me."
"I know." Rickon's arms around her tighten, and his whispers hasten. "But there must be a way for us to win and for me to get to keep her, Rhae. I won't ask for anything more. Just let me have her, please."
For all that Rhaenys prides herself on her control, it's not the first time Rickon has won a concession from her. 'He's been through so much pain, surely I can arrange for him this small bit of pleasure?' Ultimately, she cares too much for his happiness, and cares too little for the freedoms of the Baratheon girl. 'It's her own fault,' Rhaenys justifies, hardening her heart to the hammering of her conscience. It warns her loudly that Rickon has changed - that he is just as warped as she is, now - and that he will devour the girl's soul in an attempt to repair his own. She shakes away the traitorous thought. 'It is her own fault,' Rhaenys reminds herself again. 'Shireen Baratheon knew the risks when she earned a dragon's gaze. What she wants is no longer relevant.'
So Rhaenys whispers, she plots, and she tells Rickon all the ways to win a lonely girl's heart.
(She'll let him have Shireen for now, even if she can't let him have the girl forever.)
End of Chapter 3b
How do you feel about Arya and Rickon's interactions? Thoughts on Rhae's insecurities and PTSD? What do you think she's plotting? Are you happy to see Rhaenys and Rickon reunited or wary of what their plots entail for the others? As always, I'm a total review addict, and would love to hear your thoughts on this story :) And if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes, please let me know so I can correct them!
Big thanks to my reviewers: Lord Villarreal of house Grand, Aryadna Stark, Storagehunter, Arian Arch, SUNSHINGIRL, Ullholmoz, Iyalode,
Lightningscar: I promise I'll try to keep Bran alive; you're totally right about the past/future bit and I know this chapter was too much filler, but the wedding and other future things are coming I promise! I just get too caught up writing their pasts *sweatdrop* I promise there was foreshadowing/important bits from Cressen's story, they're just not quite relevant yet ;) Thank you as always for your wonderfully detailed feedback, I really appreciate it!
WaywardCollision: Rhaegar's actions will be explained, I'm just working my way up to it ;) Also, in hindsight, I totally regret not naming him Jaehaerys and having Jon as a nickname. I will probably go back and fix that one day lol.
and
MomiWolfie: unfortunately, no Sansa/Ned Dayne in the works! Hopefully you got an answer re: the pups though ;)
Your reviews all keep this story alive :-) THANK YOU!
PREVIEW
(flashes of chapters to come!)
...
I think the realm is quite through with Stark girls stealing married men!
…
Her grandfather's eyes harden... If you dare conceive a bastard, I will bleed it from your womb. Do you understand me?
...
"Love is forgiveness, that's what you said, right?" ...Her back hits the bedsheets. His legs straddle hers..."You'd forgive me anything, wouldn't you, my love?"
…
So when Jon Connington approaches Rhaegar, claiming that Ned Stark has agreed to take on Rickon as a ward in the North, and drones on about how it would ease Rhaenys's transition, soothe Northern tensions that still rang high, etcetera, all Rhaegar hears is that Rickon will finally be gone.
So he agrees without hesitation.
If he paid more attention to his Hand's concern instead of his prophecies and his ghosts, perhaps the King would have registered the part where Jon suspected that Rickon was becoming more beloved than Aegon even amongst the nobles.
…
Jaime wonders if his foolish wife realizes she whispers another man's name in her sleep.
…
If Lord Tywin was searching for an excuse to be rid of you, you've surely served him that.
...
~Bran appears hesitant to broach his topic… "Lady Shireen is already at the Reach…. she would be an appropriate bride to consider." … If this is truly something you want Bran, then I will write to Stannis.
...
Ser Brynden scowls. "This could end in war, Bran!"
"It was always going to come to war, uncle. I just put our families on the right side of it."
Brynden sighs deeply, and for once the lines on his face appear deep, and the fabled Blackfish looks his age. "There is no such thing as the right side of war, Brandon."
Bran pauses before responding. "There is a side that bleeds less. And this time, it will be ours."
...
~ Catelyn sighs wearily. "And here I never thought I'd be grateful for Arya's willful nature." The Lady of Winterfell lets out a tired, almost derisive laugh. "But here I stand corrected, thanking the Gods for it…
~ Tell me, does it give you some sort of sick thrill to warm the bed of the family responsible for destroying yours?
~ I know a threat when I see one, Lord Varys. What it is that you want…
~ "Is lying so easy for you now, sweet niece?"
~ "Lady Baratheon, where is your crown?" A sinister voice drawls from behind her. Shireen's blood chills.
"The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that." ~ Jeor Mormont