A boy. A literal child was here to ask for her hand. Willem Blackwood might've been slight of stature, but he'd seemed all too eager to spill blood as he drew his sword against Jerrel Bracken. She wouldn't have minded seeing the boy put the man in his place; Jerrel was far too smug about his chances for her taste. Still, her guards broke up the fight quickly when the Blackwood drew first blood. The white cloaks dragged the two away even as they threw spiteful comments back and forth.
She sighed, sending Criston a long-suffering look. He barely suppressed a laugh. Just as she was about to stand and call an end to this farce, the next man stepped forward and caught her attention.
He was not bad looking, indeed. With dark hair that fell to his shoulders and barely a dusting of dark stubble over his chin, his grey eyes seemed far too serious for an event such as this. He even looked to be her age, surprisingly enough, and her eyes caught on the large greatsword strapped to his hip.
Valyrian steel. He had to be at least somewhat important, then.
"Lord Rickon Stark," The squire at the door announced, "Son of Lord Benjen Stark of Winterfell, the Warden of the North."
The entire room went silent and even Rhaenyra found herself at a loss for words momentarily. The Starks...did not partake in politics, nor did they care for matters of the court, and to see one in Storm's End this far away from the North was a shock. By the look on Rickon Stark's face, he'd rather be anywhere but here. That shouldn't intrigue her, but it did.
"I presume you do not need me to inform you of House Stark, princess." Lord Baratheon murmured at her side, eyes wide and locked on the young man with several Northerners at his back.
"No." She said quietly, before speaking up, "Lord Stark. A pleasure to meet you. I'm afraid it's a shock to see you so far from Winterfell."
"This...tour, I suppose it could be called," He looked around the room rather disdainfully, "Would not reach the North so close to winter. My lady mother believed it would be a good idea to send a representative. We were going to meet you in the Riverlands, but the weather permitted us to arrive early and cut through the Crownlands to be here today."
"And it was your lady mother's idea?" Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, mouth quirking up into a smile, "Not that of an ambitious father?"
"My father does as my mother wishes." He gave her a wry smile, "Alas, either way, I'm standing here."
"But you do not wish to be." Rhaenyra surmised, leaning back in her seat, "Tell me, Rickon Stark, why should I take you to husband when you would rather not be present?"
"Because the princess certainly wishes to be present today." He said dryly.
She only barely bit back a laugh.
"Princess, I assure you Lord Stark wouldn't make a fine husband." Some Lannister snickered off to the side, she believed it to be Ser Jason's younger brother Ser Tyland, "Say, Stark, have you even got a cock under there anymore, or has it frozen off by now?"
"Ser Tyland," Rickon turned to him, "I must say I never understood second-son syndrome until now. My own younger brother does not suffer from it, you see, so thank you for being an example."
The Lannister sneered, taking a step forward, and the Stark merely watched him with cold eyes as he placed a hand on the Valyrian steel sword that Rhaenyra now recognized as Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark. The Lannister's steps faltered under the unbroken gaze and the blond man's jaw tightened as he stepped back into the line of observers. She had already declined the Lannister's multiple proposals, yet they still hounded her steps no matter where she went.
This was...more than gratifying to see. She also realized her mistake now. Lord Rickon was not boring, nor was he placid. Where her anger boiled, raged, was made of fire...his was ice. Cold, tempered, a slow death.
The prophecy came to mind unbidden.
From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.
Those grey eyes swept back over to Rhaenyra, "Princess, my Lord father Benjen and Lady mother Lysa Stark of Winterfell offer the terms as follows. Our first child would sit on the Iron Throne and take the name Targaryen. Our second would inherit Winterfell under the name Stark and become the Warden of the North."
"Child, not son." She says carefully, "You would have a daughter inherit?"
"Are you not a daughter?" He said rhetorically, "Lady Lynara Stark, daughter of Torrhen Stark, was set to inherit a Queenship before Aegon the Conqueror came to these lands. As it stands, she became the Lady of Winterfell, but my point remains the same. The flowery rules of the south hold no weight in the North. What matters is strength, and I'd say you have more than enough of that, as any daughters or sons of ours would."
She looks at him closely for a moment. He's pleasing to look at, it's true. Nearly the polar opposite of her uncle, Daemon, truly. His character was tempered with steel, not quick to anger but she can tell it would certainly be a thing to behold. Standing, she walks down the steps to stand before him face-to-face. The chattering grows louder all around them, but she pays it no mind.
Looking over his shoulder, she sees the Northerners are not all men like she'd originally thought.
"And your party?" She asks, "Who are they?"
"My good sister's father Lord Elric Karstark, Lady Gillane Glover, and Lord Jorel Mormont." He nods to each of them in turn, "All trusted vassals of House Stark."
"I see. Have you ever ridden a dragon, Lord Stark?" She takes another step closer, clasping her hands behind her back.
"No, my princess." His lips quirk up.
My princess. By the seven, she liked the sound of that. She liked the sound of all of it, really, and the benefits far outweighed any objections she might have. The North was loyal, honor and duty ran thick in their blood. If she were to marry a Stark and endear herself to the Northmen, her claim on the Iron Throne was practically guaranteed. Even Otto Hightower, as much as the man was a conniving ass, didn't want to go toe to toe with the largest realm in Westeros.
Turning to Criston, he stood at attention as soon as her eyes found him, "Ser Criston, kindly take Lord Stark's party back on the boat with you. He will be riding Syrax with me back to King's Landing."
The muttering noises in the background turned to clamor as soon as the words left her mouth. The lords behind Rickon vying for her attention, the observers who'd already been seen begging her to reconsider; she paid them no mind, offering the Stark her arm. He accepted it readily, looking down at her with curious grey eyes.
"I'm in your hands, my princess." He said simply, waving a hand for her to lead the way.
White cloaks fell into formation around them as she led him outside Storm's End to where Syrax lounged on the rocks by the shoreline. The great dragon rose as Rhaenyra approached, Rickon right beside her. She gave credit where it was due, he did not so much as flinch when warm breath showered over the both of them. Rhaenyra stroked the bronze scales for a moment before releasing Rickon's arm and gesturing to the saddle.
"You'll ride behind me, arms at my waist. This is no time for propriety; if you let go, you'll fall to your death. I'd hate to have Lord Benjen and Lady Lysa think I was plotting to kill their heir."
"Nevermind propriety," The look on his face was nearly rakish and she particularly liked it, "I couldn't possibly allow my brother to be the only son. He'd drive our mother up the wall."
He filled the space behind her nicely, her back pressed against his firm chest and his strong arms circling her waist. Just for a moment, she longed to feel more; some in the south called the Northmen savages. She wondered, despite never having known a man's touch in bed, if it would be an accurate descriptor.
"Naejot, Syrax. Naejot se mele lua." The High Valyrian fell from her tongue and Syrax was off like a shot.
She heard a rough breath tear itself from Rickon's chest as the wind whipped in their faces and she was momentarily disappointed. Was he, perhaps, afraid of the height or the speed? She turned to look at him and found nothing but the thrill of adrenaline in his eyes, his smile like a wolf bearing its teeth.
Mayhaps, she thought as she turned her eyes back to the sky, she could get used to having the Stark around.
_
They landed in the Dragonpit without ceremony, only for Rhaenyra to spot Caraxes in a space that had been vacated since Daemon had begun a war with the Velaryons against the invaders taking root in the Stepstones.
"Is that one important?" Rickon eyed Caraxes up and down, taking in his size compared to Syrax as they dismounted.
"My uncle's dragon, Caraxes." She said, slightly distracted, "He hasn't been home in some time."
"Fighting a war in the Stepstones, yes?" Rickon asked, taking note of her surprised glance, "We do still get ravens in the North, my princess."
Ignoring the fluttering in her lower stomach, she instead nodded, "You are correct. I just wonder what has brought him back to court."
Have the Stepstones been taken in favor of her father? Or has her uncle done something that would potentially get him re-exiled? It wouldn't be shocking at this point, certainly, especially after that stunt he'd pulled with the dragon egg. Despite that, she had business to attend to and refused to let her focus be swayed.
She noticed Rickon kept a distance of two steps behind her as they walked; the distance just enough to be deferential. Acknowledging her title as Crown Princess, where men like Jason Lannister tried to push themselves up by her side. As they approached the throne room, she saw the surprised looks on the faces of the white cloaks that guarded the entrance. They opened the door at once, nevertheless, and all she heard was the sound of applause.
Not for her, however. Her father and uncle stood before the throne, hugging. She supposed he'd managed to find himself forgiven yet again.
"Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen of Dragonstone," The knight announced before he glanced behind her with a raised eyebrow.
"Lord Rickon Stark." Rhaenyra supplied quickly.
"And Lord Rickon Stark of Winterfell."
The room was quiet, similar to Storm's End upon his announcement, and Rhaenyra began the long walk to the throne without even a glance to see if Rickon was following. She knew he would be; so far her little wolf had been fearless, and she expected no less here. As they approached, her father looked at her in confusion while Daemon only raised a playful eyebrow.
"And where did you find a Stark, dear niece?" Daemon eyed the younger man up and down, "I was under the impression that they were reclusive."
"Of course not, Prince Daemon." Rickon smiled derisively, "We simply aren't fond of the heat in the south. It can be...unbearable."
Daemon and Rhaenyra both knew he wasn't talking about the heat, and her uncle outright laughed. Her father, meanwhile, was only looking at Rhaenyra with concerned eyes.
"You have two months yet on your tour. Why have you returned so early?" The king's eyes wandered to Rickon, "Unless..."
"Yes, father. I do intend to put forth Lord Rickon Stark for your approval. House Stark has offered a marriage contract in which my first heir will take the throne as a Targaryen, and my second will inherit Winterfell as a Stark. It seemed amendable." She said, "And strengthening our ties with the North couldn't hurt."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Otto Hightower watching the two of them critically.
"My King," The Lord Hand began, "Surely we should give this more thought. There could be a more suitable match somewhere-"
He knew Rhaenyra could not be touched should she birth heirs under the Targaryen and Stark banners. He knew, the conniving ass, and from the look in her uncle's eyes, he was thinking the same thing she was. Daemon was many things, it was true, but he was right all the times he called Otto Hightower a cunt.
Rickon shifted behind her. She couldn't see him, but she could see Daemon's grin widen and Otto's face pale.
"Otto." Viserys interrupted, eyes wide as he shot a glance at Rickon, "My daughter has chosen well. I can think of nothing better than further allying ourselves with the Starks of the North. It will be a joining of two great houses which has never been seen before. Lord Rickon, I accept my daughter's selection and invite you to send word to your Lord father to come to King's Landing at once so we may draft an official contract."
She finally turned to see him bow, "I will at once, your grace."
He cut a sharp look at Otto once more before giving Rhaenyra a slight smile and allowing a servant to show him to his temporary quarters. A smattering of applause broke out as the assembled crowd realized the princess was now as good as engaged, which turned into a roar of cheering very quickly.
Viserys reached out, patting his daughter on the cheek as he spoke lowly, "I'm proud of you, my girl."
She couldn't help the grin that enveloped her face as she bowed her head, "Thank you, father."