Don't know how many of these there are out there, but I finally decided I'd give it a try for myself. A trueborn son of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. I won't make promises that this story will be different from others that follow this idea, but I'll try my best to make my character appear different from those that have come before him. With him, another twin brother of Jon Snow. Again, I'll do my best to make him different than others out there. And finally, my own added house, with its own rich history. With that said...
This is a fan made story, all rights to Game of Thrones and the A Song of Ice and Fire series go to HBO and G.R.R.M. The only thing I own are the added characters
This story is made for those 18+ due to nudity, gore, profanity, adultery, rape, slavery, blood, etc.
NOTE! Bold text = Speaking in Valyrian
Underlined Text = POV
NOTE! Italics text = Flashback
Duncan
The crisp feeling in the air hinted that summer was nearing its end, and winter would be upon them. Not that it meant much, given it was the most northern kingom of Westeros. With its usual summer snows and cold air.
The North was the largest of all the kingdoms, everyone knew that. Some would say it could fit the other six within its borders. A land of vast wilderness, forests, pine-covered hills and snow-capped mountains, speckled with tiny villages and holdfasts. At its center, lays the ancestral home of House Stark, the Wardens of the North for generations. Before then, the Kings of Winter.
A huge castle complex spanning several acres and protected by two massive walls. Right outside, the village of Winter Town. Built over natural hot springs that has been piped through walls and chambers to heat them, making Winterfell more comfortable than other castles during the harsh northern winters. Inside the walls, the complex is composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces. Then there's the inner castle, which contains the Great Keep and the Great Hall.
All in all, it wasn't as mesmerizing to the eyes like some southern castles, but it held its own beauty, one that couldn't be beat. It was home, at least it felt that way to most. But for him, he never felt that way.
He sat nearby and watched with grey eyes that almost appeared black, which seemed to always be narrowed or full of mischief. A long face framed by equally dark brown hair, falling against his shoulders in soft curls. Signs of a beard could be seen as well, covering his strong jawline and upper lip.
His eyes watched his brothers. His twin, Jon Snow, not that they looked completely alike. His fathers eldest trueborn son, Robb. And the second trueborn, the young Brandon, or Bran as they called him. Also watching, but close to them, was the youngest son, the little Rickon.
The boy held a bow in hand, eyes kept to the targets across from him. From where he sat, he couldn't hear them, but he could see his twin point and look up towards the heads of the house.
The Lord Eddard Stark. By his side, his wife, Catelyn Stark. Not that he cared much for the woman. He had left Winterfell for a reason, and the reason was clear to see.
He could still remember that day. The only one he had actually said his goodbyes to were his twin, Jon. After speaking to him, he had simply walked past the rest and left without another word.
That was six years ago, and he had only returned just a few days ago. Why? He wanted to check in on the family, at least those that mattered to him.
In those five years, he grew, and not just in age or appearance. He traveled Westeros, from Winterfell all the way down to Dorne, and back up to the North. For the last few moons, he had been as far north as he could, facing off against Wildling parties.
He shook his head, knowing he'd be leaving to travel again. Mayhaps he would go across the Narrow Sea to Essos. Live the life of a sellsword and truly make a name for himself.
Another shake of the head. He could worry about that another time.
Focusing back on his brothers, he watched as Bran shot, only for the arrow to fly past the target. Jon and Robb both laughed, his own lips moving up in a small smirk.
"And which one of you was a marksman at the age of ten?" Lord Stark spoke up, causing the two boys laughs to falter, his eyes turning towards Bran. "Keep practicing, Bran." He encouraged, earning a smile from his son who turned back to the target.
Jon and Robb both gave pointers to help the boy, and just before he could release.
Another arrow flew past his head, hitting the target. All their heads turning, seeing the small Arya nearby, bow in hand. She gave a mock bow at her brother, who began to run after her, the older boys laughing.
He didn't join in, but he did see Rodrik Cassel and Theon Greyjoy approaching the Lord and Lady.
His opinion on the squid wasn't good at all. He was older than them all, which wasn't a problem at all. It was his attitude. He was arrogant, but what else could one expect from an ironborn. Reivers and rapers, that's all they were. His arrogance would make one forget that he was a prisoner, not that that seemed to matter to anyone.
One would think him and Jon the prisoners, given their own treatments when they were younger.
Judging by Lord Stark's expression, he knew what was to happen. A deserter, he would think. Could he blame them, though? Living a life alongside thieves and rapers who were too afraid of death in the coldest lands of Westeros. At least, the coldest they could stand. There was the Land of Always Winter, after all.
With a sigh, he stepped away from the wall he leaned against and headed for his own horse.
The man was taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Around the area were guards, two of which held the flags bearing the sigil of House Stark. The head of a direwolf, grey in color, on a white field.
It wasn't his sigil, though. His name was Snow, anyways, why not have his own sigil. Two white direwolves facing one another with a white sword between them on a field of black. A simple thing, and yet it was his, and no one elses. Well, mayhaps he could share it with his brother. After all, the sigil did have two direwolves on it.
"A wilding, maybe?" Robb spoke, stood with his brothers on their horses and Bran's pony. "A sword sworn to Mance Rayder?" He turned his way then. "Dunk?"
That's what they called him, a shortened version of his full name, Duncan. Although, he was no Duncan the Tall. No where near it.
"Just another deserter." He spoke flatly, the base in his voice deeper than most wouldn't expect from him. If he were older, than maybe.
His eyes traveled to the man bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall, awaiting the king's justice. He could laugh at that, he most definitely could. Some King the 'Demon of the Trident' was.
The man was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger, to frostbite he'd imagine. Dressed in all black, the same as a brother of the Night's Watch, only his furs were ragged and greasy.
Questions were asked and answered, before Lord Stark finally gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head onto the hard black wood as Lord Stark dismounted. Theon stepped forward, Ice in his hands.
The ancestral sword of House Stark. The largest sword he'd probably see in all of his life, though he couldn't be too sure of that. The blade as wide as a mans hand, and taller than Robb. Even with Valyrian Steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke, it'd take a great strength to lift the blade.
After removing his gloves, he held the blade with both hands and spoke.
"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."
So many titles, he couldn't help but think with a quiet sigh.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Jon move closer towards Bran.
"Keep the pony well in hand." He whispered. "And don't look away. Father will know if you do." Bran did as he was told.
Duncan knew those words well. Not only had he seen plenty of beheadings, he'd killed already.
Lord Stark took the mans head with a single stroke of the sword, his blood spraying across the snow, as red as summerwine. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched. The head bounced off of a thick root and rolled, right to where Theon stood.
The squid merely laughed, putting his foot on the head before kicking it away.
"Ass." He could hear Jon mutter, not that he would have. He'd have spoken it clearly, and made sure the ironborn heard it. "You did well." Jon told the youngest there solemnly, a hand on Bran's shoulder.
The air seemed colder as they rode back for Winterfell, the wind dead and the sun higher in the skies above. Duncan was at the head with his brothers, well ahead of the main party.
"The deserter died bravely." Robb spoke. Big and broad, he looked more tully than Stark. Fair skin, red-brown hair and blue eyes of the Tully's of Riverrun. Although, that was the case for most of Lord Starks children. Mayhaps thats why Lady Trout hated him and Jon so. They looked more Stark than any of her children. "He had courage, at the least."
"No." Jon said quietly. "It was not courage. This one was filled with fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark." Eyes so dark a shade of grey they seemed almost black, much like his own. They were of an age with Robb, but they looked nothing like the trueborn son. Where Jon was slender, Robb was muscular. Dark where Robb was fair. Duncan, he was strong, he knew that. But he was quick when he needed to be.
"The others take his eyes." Robb swore. "He died well. Race you to the bridge?"
"Done." Jon agreed, kicking his horse forward. Robb bellowed a curse and followed, galloping down the trail. Where Robb was laughing and hooting, Jon was silent and intent.
It took time, but the sound of Robb's laughter receded, and the woods around Duncan and Bran grew silent. So deep in though was he that he never heard the rest of the party until Lord Stark moved up to ride beside him.
"Are you well, Bran?" He asked, his voice not unkindly.
"Yes, father. Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid."
"What do you think?" Lord Stark wondered. Bran thought about it for a few moments, but a question came to mind.
"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?" It wasn't Lord Stark that answered, but rather him.
"That is when a man must be his bravest." He said, causing both to turn his way. Lord Stark nodded in agreement, before turning back to Bran.
"Do you understand why I did it?"
"He was a wildling. They carry off women and sell them to the others." He said, earning a smile from his father and an amused chuckle from Duncan.
"Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it."
He could tell his brother had no answer for that.
"King Robert has a headsman." Bran answered, uncertainly.
"He does." Lord Stark admitted. "As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet, our way is the old way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."
Bran listened closely to his fathers words, words that Duncan had already heard.
"One day, Bran, you will be Robb's bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."
Bran nodded, earning a smile from his father before Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted their way.
"Father, Bran, Dunk, come quickly, see what Robb has found!" Then he was gone. Jory Cassel rode up beside his lord, a questioning look in his eyes.
"Trouble, my lord?"
"Beyond a doubt." Lord Stark replied. "Come, let us see what michief my sons have rooted out now." He sent his horse into a trot, with all the rest following.
They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. Duncan could see him cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.
They picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the uneven ground. Jory and Theon were the first to reach the boys.
"Gods!" The ironborn exclaimed, as Jory unsheathed his blade.
"Robb, get away from it!" He called as they both tried to keep control of their horses, but Robb only grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms.
"She can't hurt you. She's dead, Jory."
Duncan's curiosity was peaked. He moved off of his horse, patting her side a few times before stepping towards his brothers.
"What in the seven hells is it?" Greyjoy asked, as Duncan reached them. "A freak, I'd say. Look at the size of it."
Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had already began to form in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption and decay clung to it like a woman's perfume. Duncan could even see maggots where its eyes should have been, a wide mouth barely open full of yellowed teeth.
If it weren't for the size of the beast, he wouldn't have thought anything of it. But this thing was bigger than Bran's pony, double the size of the largest hound in Lord Stark's kennel.
"Mind your tongue, ironborn." He spoke then, kneeling at the side of the beast. "It's a direwolf, not a freak." Theon only scoffed.
"There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years."
"And yet I see one now." Duncan retorted with a snort, eyes never leaving the great beast. Only when he heard whimpering did he turn, looking back at the bundle held by Robb. Now that he was closer, he could easily see the pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed.
He almost laughed seeing it nuzzle against Robb's chest, as if it were searching for milk amonst the leathers, make a sad whimpery sound when it found none.
"Go on." Robb told Bran, who had followed after Duncan. "You can touch him."
The boy gave a quick and nervous stroke to the pup, before he turned when Jon spoke.
"Here you go." He handed him a pup, handing another to Duncan. "There are five of them." Bran smiled, sitting in the snow and hugging the wolf pup to his face while Duncan looked over the pup in his own arms, a warm smile playing upon his lips.
"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years." Muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not."
"It is a sign." Jory added, causing Lord Stark to frown.
"This is only a dead animal, Jory." He said, yet Duncan could tell something troubled him as he moved around the body. "Do we know what killed her?"
"There's something in the throat." Robb told him. "There, under the jaw."
Lord Stark knelt and groped under the beast's head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.
The gods and their games, Duncan sighed. The sudden silence descended on the party, eyes looking at the antler uneasily, no one daring to speak.
Eventually, Lord Stark tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow.
"I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp." He spoke, seeming to break the spell across them all.
"Maybe she didn't." Jory said. "I've heard tales...Maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came."
"Born with the dead." Another man added. "Worse luck."
"No matter." Hullen spoke again. "They be dead soon enough too." Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay at that.
"The sooner the better." Theon agreed, drawing his sword. "Give the beast here, Bran."
The pup began to squirm against Bran, as if it heard and understood as Bran held it tightly.
"No! It's mine."
Theon stepped closer, only for Duncan to unsheath his blade and hold it Theon's way.
"Sheath your blade, ironborn."
"We will keep these pups." Robb added, sounding as commanding as Lord Stark would, like the lord he would someday be.
"You cannot do that, boy." Said Harwin, Hullen's son.
"It be a mercy to kill them."
"A mercy for who? Your own fears?" Duncan sneered, standing back to his full height.
"Hullen speaks truly, son." Lord Stark spoke then, a frown and furrowed brow on his face. "Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation."
"No!" Bran shouted again, tears welling in his eyes as he turned away.
"Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week. It was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk enough."
"She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse."
"Lord Stark." Jon spsoke then, Bran turning to his half-brother with desperate hope. "There are five pups. Three male, two female."
"What of it, Jon?"
"You have five trueborn children." Jon told him. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."
Duncan could see it then, the change in Lord Stark's face. Even the other men exchanged glances.
"I would have to agree. A sign from the gods themselves, Lord Stark." Duncan added. Lord Stark kept silence for a few moments, before looking between the two.
"You want no pup for yourself, Jon? Duncan?" He asked softly.
"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark." Duncan pointed out with a twist of his mouth. He believed it unfair, truly he did, but nothing could be done about it.
"We're no Stark's, father."
"I will nurse him myself, father." Robb promised, rushing into the silence left. "I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that."
"Me too!" Bran echoed quickly.
"Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?" Lord Stark questioned.
Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licking at his face with a warm tongue.
"You must train them as well." Lord Stark continued. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"
Both Robb and Bran nodded.
"The pups may die anyway, despite all you do." Lord Stark cautioned.
"They won't die. We won't let them die." Robb spoke with clear determination.
"Keep them then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell."
Everyone moved back to their horses, Duncan handing the pup he held to Jory. However, as they crossed the bridge, both Jon and Duncan both stopped.
"What is it?" Lord Stark asked.
"Can't you hear it?" Duncan asked, his eyes moving in every direction. It was clear no one else could hear it, but they could. Like they were calling them.
"There." Jon swung his horse around with Duncan following as they galloped back across the bridge. When they came back, they were both smiling.
"They must have crawled away from the others." Duncan stated, as the pup he now held nibbled at his fingers. Not that he cared.
"Or been driven away." Lord Stark said, looking at the sixth and seventh pup. Their fur was white, where the rest of the little was grey. The one in Jon's hands has eyes as red as the blood of the deserter who had died that morning. While the one in Duncan's arms had eyes as white as its fur.
It was an interesting thing, these two pups having opened their eyes while the others were still blind.
"Albinos." Theon spoke with wry amusement. "Those will die even faster than the others." Duncan spat in his direction in answer as Jon spoke.
"I think not, Greyjoy. They belong to us."
Orys
Eye's of blue stared out at the lands of the north, an impassive look on his face as he sits upon his blood bay stallion of a horse, who would occasionally kick up dirt. It was the largest of all the kingdoms, everyone knew that. They were proud people, the northerners, sticking to their own gods of old, compared to the new of the Andals. Still, the lands held a beauty to them you wouldn't see in the south, especially King's Landing. For the first time in a while, he actually felt like he could breath. The air was fresh and crisp, filling his nostrils with a sweet and delicate scent that made him wish for more.
A head of long black curls. The portion that would cover his face, or at least cover the sides, was tied back, with other strands and sections falling over his shoulders and down his chest. A thin yet growing beard lining his strong jaw. Eyes as blue as the waters of the Narrow Sea. Although, there are those that would instead declare them a hue of purple, almost like gemstones. A strong build, as one would expect from a Baratheon. Wearing dark leathers under a cloak stitched with furs at its upper edging around the neck. Boots to match his clothing, with two weapons held at his waist on each end. On one, a bastard sword, and the other, a warhammer, crafted with almost the same appearance as his fathers. Over the leather he worn over his upper body, was a cloth with a sigil stitched into it. A red stag with a golden crown on a field of black.
"As quiet as ever."
His head turned to behind himself, where he saw another figure heading his way on horseback. A man in large silver armor, dark clothing underneath to contrast the bright armor. Its helmet was crafted to where the visor opened on two ends, moving to the sides and back to reveal the face, with strings of blue hair attached at the top of the helmet. When closed, the visor made a thin and outstretched 'Y' shape. A cloth attached at his waist, covering the sides and back of his legs down to the calves, a thinner piece also attached, but between the front of the legs. Possibly the most noticable feature of the armor, the large spikes protruding from the pieces of armor at his shoulders.
Given the visor was open, he could see the mans face. A male with dark hazel colored eyes, hair cut short and dirty blond in color. A sharp goatee around his mouth, which wouldn't be considered too thick nor too thin. His nose is large, but not to the point it takes up too much of his face. High cheekbones, and a finely shaped jaw. Not the most handsome of men, but nice enough to look at.
"Lucius." The first greeted, the armored returning it with a short and quick bow of his head. "What is it? What message have you been tasked with getting me?" He asked of his sworn shield.
"Your father wants you back with the rest of them, Prince Orys." Lucius Rivers answered. Orys turned back to the lands in front of him with a sigh, before turning his steed around with an amused smile.
"Very well. So, we're nearing Winterfell, then?"
"Aye. You know how your mother gets, keeping up appearances and all that." Lucius responded, and soon enough, they were back with the long trail of horses and wagons. "It's a wonder, isn't it? That they get such nice air up here, unlike us. All shit smelling and poisonous I feel." Orys chuckled at that.
"My thoughts exactly. I have half the mind to stay here, rather than return to King's Landing. Would make life much easier." Orys responded. "I-"
"GET HIM UP HERE! BOY!"
The voice of his father cut through the air all too easily. Orys turned to Lucius, who only smirked in response. The prince poked at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, before riding up the collum, passing by the ever large carriage that carried his 'loving' mother and younger siblings. He didn't know how many times it had broken down on this trip. Too many to count, he thought.
Eventually, he reached the owner of that bellowing voice, slowing into a trot.
"You summoned me, your Grace." He spoke, eyes on everything but his father. The large and overweight man turned to him, looking him over.
"Hmm, 'bout time you showed. Your leading the rearguard into Winterfell." Robert told him, earning a raised eyebrow.
"Does that not sound like something the Crown Prince would do. Where is my 'beloved' brother, anyways?"
"Wrapping himself in his mother's skirt every time the wind picks up, I'd imagine."
"Huh...that does sound like him."
"Enough of that, get to the rear." With a mock bow, Orys turned and left the King to himself. As he passed Lucius, he simply beckoned him and he did so.
"The rearguard." Orys simple stated, earning a nod from his sworn shield.
Duncan
Duncan stood next to Jon in line behind the rest of the family. Unlike Robb, Jon and Theon, Duncan didn't bother with the shaving of his beard or cutting of his hair. If Lady Trout cared so much, he did not. He was a bastard, after all. What reason did he need to look nice for some stuck up royals? They wouldn't pay him any attention, at least most of them wouldn't.
"Where's Arya? Sansa, where's your sister?" Lady Trout asked of her eldest daughter, who only shrugged her shoulders to answer. Such a naive child she was. Filled on stories of knights and tourneys and nothing of the true world. He doubted she'd survive southern kingdoms. Sure enough, the missing child appeared, a helmet on her head.
"Hey." Lord Stark was quick to stop her, gripping her shoulders softly. "What are you doing with that on?" He questioned as he removed it from her head, handing it back to Rodrik Cassel before gesturing for Arya to get in line with the rest of the family.
She shoved Bran to make room, just before they began to pour in to the courtyard. Lannister guards were the first to do so. Following after them are two of the Kingsguard, not any of the important ones, he could tell. Then comes in the Crown Prince. Golden haired and greed eyes. Duncan could feel himself gagging already, that sick smile turned Sansa's way, the innocent dove eating it all up. Not that Robb liked any of it.
The Hound, sworn shield to Joffrey, pulls up next to the Crown Prince, lifting his hound shape helm to reveal his face. A scared mess it was.
Then, in comes the carriage carrying the Queen, its wheels creaking as they trudge through the dirt. Following the large coach is King Robert Baratheon himself. Duncan swore he could see the shock on Lord Starks face at the appearance of his long time friend.
No longer strong and fierce, but stumbling and overweight, fat and red-faced. He even needed a step to help get off of his horse. Duncan had to hold his laugh in, as even he knew the steed was grateful to be rid of the extra weight.
They all kneel, as Robert marches towards Lord Stark with purpose, but Duncan's eyes can see someone else entering. The rest of the family could barely keep their shock at seeing the sheer contrast between the two princes. And yet, they were considered twins. Perhaps born together yes, but nothing more. At least he and Jon looked somewhat alike.
Lord Stark probably would have mistaken the prince Orys for Robert had he not already seen the king.
Robert finally stands before them, shortly signaling with his hand for them to rise. Lord Stark is first, slowly followed by the rest.
"Your Grace." Lord Stark greets, as they meet the others gaze.
"You've got fat." Silence followed that statement from the king, but Lord Stark only gestured towards the king's stomach with his eyes, as if to say 'you're one to talk.' Slowly, the king begins to wheeze in laughter. Duncan was sure his double chin would have jiggled from the movement had it not been for the large beard.
The two friends embrace, before he does the same for Lady Trout.
"Cat!"
"Your Grace." She returned the greeting as he embraced her, pulling away and patting Rickons head before turning back to Lord Stark.
"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?" The king asked with a smile.
"Guarding the north for you, your Grace. Winterfell is yours." Lord Stark responded, as Queen Cersei and the youngest children descent and exit from the carriage.
"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked, which seemed to have been heard by most in the courtyard. Even Orys turned to her, looking her over before turning away. A simple child's curiosity, he deduced.
"Will you shut up?" The elder sister could also be heard, her voice making him wince at the pitch.
"Who have we here? You must be Robb." The king moves down the line, shaking Robb's hand, who does so with a nod, before the king moves onto Sansa. "My, you're a pretty one." She smiles, eyes turning to the ground. "Your name is?" He questioned the second daughter.
"Arya." Robert nodded, moving to the second trueborn son.
"Ooh. Show us your muscles." Bran does so, rolling up his sleeve and flexing his arm, earning a chuckle and nod from the king. "You'll be a soldier."
The queen approaches then, holding her hand out for Lord Stark to take. He does so, placing a soft kiss to her knuckles.
"My queen."
"My queen." Lady Trout also greets with a bow of her head, as the queen smiles and slowly takes her hand back.
"Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects." Robert ordered, earning a roll of the eyes from Orys, as the queen spoke up as well.
"We've been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait." The king didn't listen, nodding to Lord Stark as he moved to the crypts. Lord Stark gave the queen an apologetic nod, before following after his friend.
"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked again. The queen, humiliated in front of them all, walks towards her brother and Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister.
"Where is our brother? Go find the little beast." She then turns her second sons way. "Orys, help him, please." The boy raised an eyebrow in response, before removing himself from the saddle of his horse. Instead of joining his uncle, however, he walked up to the Stark family still stood there.
"Well met. Although...I only see five Stark children." Those words caused Lady Trout to jerk slightly, as Orys then looked behind them. "Let me see them."
"My prince, it wouldn't-"
"Nevermind all that. My sworn shield is a bastard. Do you think I care for their status? Let me see them." He said again, and Lady Trout did so begrudgingly. Jon and Duncan stepped forward then, with Orys first shaking Jon's hand.
Feeling the grip he got, he gave a nod respect Jon's way, before turning to Duncan, a sly smile growing on his face. Duncan matched it, as they shook hands, patting each other shoulder.
"So good to see you again, Dunk."
"I'm sure it is, Orys."
"You've met the prince?" Arya asked, leaning their way with a curious look in her eyes.
"It was during my travels, I made a stop in King's Landing for a new blade. Managed to bump into the prince on the Street of Steel. Talked for a bit, before I was on my way." Duncan explained, as Orys smiled.
"That and we shared a meal at the nearest inn." He added, making Duncan sigh as he turned to Lady Trout. "I'll have Dunk here show me to my quarters, give us time to catch up." Orys voice left no room for argument, that much Duncan could tell.
The prince could be easy going, much like Duncan himself, but he was authoritative when he needed to be. And so, Lady Trout reluctantly agreed as everyone began to move for indoor weather.
Derron
His scouts had seen the royal party move past, and surely by now, they were in the north. But, he was sure the king would visit on the way back to the capital. If it was up to him, the king would never step foot in his keep. No matter his station and status, however, he couldn't deny the king.
He sat in his solar, eyes turned to the window to his right. It gave him a clear view of the lands beyond the forests, an easy way for him to see if there was trouble headed there way. Black hair that fell in thick curls framed his face, a patch of silver blond hair on the right side of his head. A beard covered the lower half of his face, neither too thin nor too thick. The sideburns had been cut and kept short, while the hair around his chin and lips were kept thicker, making them stand out more. As was normal with his family, his unnatural golden eyes glowed from the candles light.
Sat on his desk was a stack of letters, all from different houses. He had already read them all, and he was going to burn them all soon enough. Marriage proposals, all from greedy lords who wish to use his families name for their own gain.
No, he would never allow it. The pride he had for his house and its history, he wouldn't let it be tainted by the greed of outsiders.
His thoughts were interupted by a knock at the door to the solar.
"My lord, the Lady Diloreah to see you." He heard the guard speak from the other end.
"Let her in." His voice rang throughout the room, both deep yet soothing to the ear. After all, the Karthmere's were known to be as handsome or beautiful as they were dangerous.
The door opened, and in she walked. Silver blonde hair that is braided at the sides and tied once more at the back, reaching the mid of her back. Golden colored eyes that are light and yet so serious. A long yet beautiful face. Dressed in cloths of black and gold colorings, along with a short sword attached at her hip. Diloreah Karthmere, his aunt and protector of Karthmere Keep whenever he is away.
She moved further in the room as the guard closed the door, setting herself upon an open space on his desk. Her hand trailed until it landed on the top letter.
"A Bracken?" She spoke, her voice as soft and warm as her eyes.
"Hmm. Marry them, and I'd be inclined to help them with their bloody fued against the Blackwood's." He responded, causing her to laugh softly as she set the paper down.
"A man of nine-and-ten name days and still without a wife?" She questioned, but he recognized the teasing words she spoke. He smirked her way, standing from his chair and moving around the table as Diloreah remained sat on the desk.
"And why would I need to marry some unknown lady? Surely not for the better of my house, I would hope your not suggesting." He spoke again, now stood in front of her, his hands placed on the table at each side of her. "Enough of that for now."
"Of course, you asked me here for a reason. What is it?" She asked, as his own eyes turned serious.
"When the king comes back down south, I'm certain he'll make a stop here with the whole party." That was enough for Diloreah's own expression to turn serious.
"And you don't wish to house him within our halls?" She questioned, even if she already knew the answer. With a low growl, he pushed away from the table and moved closer to the window, a hand holding the stones of the wall. Diloreah only kept her eyes on him.
"What reason is there to let that man enter this keep? It is not a long ride from here to King's Landing. Surely the red-faced king can make that journey without coming here." He spoke once more, turning to his aunt as he bit at his own lip in frustrastion. Slowly, Diloreah stood from the desk and moved his way, rubbing his back softly.
"He is a king, Derron. That is reason enough for him." That did not lessen his annoyance, causing her to sigh. "It has been fourteen years, Derron-"
"And fourteen years of patience, my dear aunt. Fourteen." He bit back. "It just makes me think, hehe...how different things could have been, had my father not died at the Battle of the Trident. I..." He paused, moving back to the desk and grabbing the stack of letters. He moved to the hearth, and threw them within the flames. "I would have had more time, to prepare to be a lord. Instead, because of this family and that family..."
Derron sat back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face, not in annoyance now, but in exhaustion.
"You and Alyxander, and all of my captains, are all I have left. It is you who raised me, helped me become who I am, but...All the same, I can't forget, nor forgive the past." Silence followed for a few moments, before Derron sighed. "Fine. He is king, so I can't do anything against him coming."
"Try to keep civil. We don't need to give the Lannister queen a reason to call for your head."
"Heh. The dumn cunt can't do anything. Not now, nor will she be able to when Robert Baratheon does die. That much is clear to the both of us, aunt." Diloreah cracked a smirk, before nodding and exiting the solar. Once the door was closed, Derron slumped in his seat with a sigh. He lifted his right arm, before rolling the sleeve up to reveal his wrist. There on his wrist, was a simple thing. A necklace obviously made by a child. A thin thread with small yet beautiful clear pebbles attached through it.
He could not take his eyes off of it, as he slowly moved closer and placed a soft kiss against one of the pebbles, his breath shaky.
278 AC, the year he was born, and the year the Rebellion began. It took a long five years before it ended, and by that time, his family was basically all gone. And with them, the woman who treated him as if he were her own son.
He swore it to himself, that she'd be avenged. Her and her children, no matter what.
And thus ends chapter 1!
Already important information. For one, Robert's Rebellion last five years, not less than one. Why I did this will be explained eventually, but until then, you'll have to wait.
I don't plan on having any other POV's besides those of the three main characters for this story. Those being Duncan Snow, Orys Baratheon, and Derron Karthmere, though I might do some POV's of other characters occasionally, if I feel it necessary for important information to be shared. And as the story progresses, the history of my created house will be told.
Pairings are already decided for all three of our main characters. Some are more OC's, others are characters from the books/show. I'd also like to point out that this story will focus more on the events of King's Landing than any of the other sections, given thats where all three main characters will be for most of the time. If you've got some constructive critism for me, then let me here it so I can make this story better. With that said...
That's it, be safe ya'll!