RICKARD

The soft echoes of his pacing were only stopped when the piercing sound of a newborn's cries cut through them like a knife through butter. Raising his head up, his brother's Brandon stupid grin gleaming at him, his fear of losing his wife to labor transformed into an even bigger fear.

"Congratulations." Branda said, her bloodied visage smiling at him from the door of the room. "It's a baby boy, healthy and strong. Befitting the future Lord of Winterfell."

A cheer went out throughout the hallway, and even his granduncle and goodfather Rodrik smiled at the news. Rickard was still wrapping his head about it when he was shepherded into the room, his tired but glowing wife handing him a baby boy.

He was a small thing, the Lord mused, soft and fragile. To his hulking size, it felt tiny, and yet, Rickard could already feel strength in the little one's grip.

"A fighter, that one." Rodrik said in his deep tones, his eyes as mysterious as always. He had pushed back his wanderings, just to witness the birth of the Heir of Winterfell. Rickard was glad, since he always felt outnumbered by the women in Winterfell. Outwitted too.

"He'll be great." Lyarra said, and Rickard looked lovingly at his wife. She was softly cooing at the baby, caressing him with a care he had seldom seen in her. He was surprised by her gentleness, but if the looks others were giving him were being interpreted rightly by him, then his relatives were also astounded by his own gentleness.

"He is a Stark of Winterfell, Lyarra. We are all great." Groans followed his brother's statement, and Rickard laughed, being on the receiving end of a wink. Looking around, surrounded by his family, he couldn't help but smile.

"He will be loved." He whispered softly, intending on being heard only by his son. He noticed he failed when her wife caressed his hand, with tears in her eyes.

"Have you thought about a name yet, Rickard?"

"Please" Lorra said, a vehement tone in her voice. "Please, give him an uncommon name. We are balls deep in Brandons, and Benjens. Something original, my Lord, or I'll be forced to kidnap this kid and raise him as the first Naahario Stark or something."

"To be entirely honest" Rickard replied, suddenly sheepish. "I thought of naming him Brandon."

"After me!" His brother boasted, but he was later interrupted by his cousin and his uncle, all of them fighting for the rights of little Brandon being called after them. Lyarra groaned.

"Seriously, my love, do not name him Brandon. It's a cursed name." She said solemnly, her eyes twinkling in mischief. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is it?"

"Yes. Cursed with being a childish fool your entire life."

A chorus of 'Heys!' rang through the room, and everybody laughed, causing the baby to giggle. But Rickard was frowning slightly, mentally trying to come up with a new name. Looking at his son, taking for the first time the fierce glint of intelligence behind his grey eyes, a name popped in his mind. Uncommon, unheard even, but once he thought about it, the feeling of rightness filled him to the brim. Rickard placed him gently in his mother's arms, placing a calloused hand on his head. He smiled down at him, the smell of weirwood leaves filling his nostrils.

"His name will be…"

AERYS

Listening to his best friend and Hand, Tywin, musing about something or the other regarding coin, Aerys could freely admit that being a King was not as he imagined. When Summerhall had burned, he had felt giddy at the realization that all his lifelong dreams had just became true. When he had been crowned, following his father's death, he had sat tall and proud, his chest fluttering at the thought of becoming a King.

He sighed, wondering when he had lost all that emotion.

"And finally," Tywin said, eyeing him pointedly. "The last topic of this Small Council meeting. News from Winterfell. Lady Lyarra Stark has given birth. The Heir of the North was born strong, and healthy."

The news excited his council, but Aerys just waved his hand, intent of getting Tywin to finish what he had to say. He knew his friend, and he could spend hours delivering a message, piece by piece, if only to give it 'appropriate thought'. A waste of many things, in his opinion, primarily time.

"His name" Tywin continued, and then pressed his lips slightly. Aerys perked at that, knowing that in his stoic friend, that may have very well been a gasp of surprise. "His name is Robb Stark."

Author's note:

So, I know I have two stories pending update (lol). College's been crazy, but now I'm on break so yeah, more updates! Probably this week to both of them. I just couldn't get this idea out of my mind, and giving it more thought, I found I loved it! It will be great, don't you worry. Source: Trust me bro.