Rickon Stark (101 A.C. Elevnth Moon)

Winterfell

"He couldn't have felt happier; his father was returning to Winterfell, along with his cousins and aunt. His father had written that two dragons, the Black Dread and Vhagar, were coming with them. To a six-year-old, this was the most exciting news imaginable. He waited outside with his family in the courtyard. On his right, his mother held little Bennard in her arms, his brother who was just shy of his second nameday. The rest of Winterfell's people surrounded the courtyard.

"Our lord and the royal party are arriving," Yolen, a Winterfell guard he'd known all his life, announced. The household guards of House Stark led the way, followed by his father, who bore the same long face and grey eyes, though his beard appeared longer. Twenty Targaryen Household guards in the red and black of their house came next. Then came the two Kingsguards, both in pure white, except for the badges of their respective houses. One was a Westerling, as he remembered from his studies; that must be Ser Harrold Westerling. The other had a crab on his badge, which he couldn't recall. Following them was the royal carriage, with another ten Targaryen household guards trailing behind. He watched it all in awe, but his eyes were still eagerly waiting for the dragons, which had yet to be seen.

His father dismounted and opened the carriage door. Following tradition, he knelt with the rest of his family, as his mother and grandmother had mercilessly drilled into him. "Princess Lyanna Stark Targaryen and Princess Visenya Targaryen," his father announced loudly. But where was his older cousin?

"Thank you for that, brother. Please, introduce me to your family," his aunt said, her voice soft but with a sense of authority, as his father had described. She had a kind, long face with dark brown raven hair that shone in the sunlight. Her eyes held a hint of sadness, most likely from the loss of his uncle. It still felt strange to refer to Baelon Targaryen as his uncle since he was married to his aunt.

"Husband, welcome to Winterfell," his mother said, kissing his father on the lips. "Daughter!" his grandmother exclaimed happily, embracing her daughter and nearly crushing the little babe between them. "Mother, be careful; you might crush your only granddaughter," Lyanna said, tears in her eyes. "She's a beauty, with your hair and nose; the rest takes after her father," his grandmother said, looking down at the baby with the same love she reserved for him and his brother.

"Well, my husband was a handsome man," his aunt remarked, a mixture of sadness and happiness in her words. "I'm sorry for my goodson's death, my love," his grandmother said, stroking Lyanna's cheek. "Well, Lyanna, if Mother can leave you alone for a minute, I'm sure the rest wants to meet you," his father said, shaking his head.

"Of course, brother," Lyanna said with a chuckle. "Good-sister, Lysa Lock," his mother said, giving Lyanna a kiss on the cheek. "This is Bennard, my youngest," his mother added, holding Bennard in her arms. "He looks like you, Lysa, with the reddish-brown hair, but it seems he has his father's eyes, don't you?" Lyanna said, smiling and gently tickling Bennard's stomach, making his brother giggle happily. "And this one here is Rickon, my eldest and heir," his father said proudly, placing his hand on his shoulder, causing him to stand a little taller.

"Princess, it's an honor to meet you," Rickon said, bowing. "None of that, nephew; I'm your aunt. Call me Aunt or Lyanna," she said, ruffling his hair and smiling at him warmly. "You look like my father, but I see your mother and father in you," she added as she knelt down to look at him with a smile. "Thank you, Aunt," he replied, blushing and looking down at the ground.

"Where is my grandson?" his grandmother asked, her smile growing wider. "He should be here any minute." Then, the loudest roars he had ever heard echoed across the courtyard. Everyone in the courtyard, except those from the Targaryen party, knelt in shock and awe as two giant shadows flew overhead.

"By the old gods, daughter, please don't tell me my grandson is on one of those things," his grandmother said, her eyes fixed on the two massive dragons. Balerion appeared as black as coal, with golden eyes, and because of his size, Rickon was certain the giant dragon couldn't fit inside Winterfell's courtyard, which was quite spacious. The other dragon was bronze with blue and green scales, perhaps slightly smaller, but still a behemoth. Rickon wasn't entirely sure, but he believed this dragon was either Vermithor or Vhagar. Since Vermithor was the king's dragon, this one must be Vhagar, which had once been his uncle's dragon and Queen Visenya's.

"Well, then, I won't," Lyanna replied with a laugh. "Come, we shall meet our prince," his mother said, visibly gulping as she looked at the dragons. Rickon could feel his own mix of dread and excitement bubbling up inside him.

They all walked out of the courtyard, and as the two dragons landed, the ground trembled beneath them. A boy of his age, or maybe a bit older, with curling silver-golden hair, Valyrian cheekbones, and a build reminiscent of his grandfather, stepped off the ropes of Balerion. His eyes were Stark grey, but a hint of purple could be seen when the light hit them. The mix of both Stark and Targaryen in the boy.

As they all stood there watching, he noticed his cousin petting the two giant dragons as if they were hounds. Both dragons could devour his cousin in a single bite, and it wouldn't even be a substantial meal, but a mere snack, he thought as he shook his head.

Approaching, he knelt along with everyone else as their prince spoke. "Please, rise, all of you; we are kin, and there's no need to kneel for family," his cousin said with a strong, authoritative voice—an unusual trait for someone his age. Rickon hoped he could emulate that authority when he grew older.

"Grandmother, Aunt, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said with a warm smile. His grandmother walked over to his cousin, and they embraced. "I thought you were just a dragon, but your eyes are all your mother's. You're like my Rickard," his grandmother said with teary eyes.

"Thank you, grandmother. It's good to know I have the Starks in me as well," his cousin replied.

"Aunt, I've always wanted to travel to the lands of the mountain clans. I've heard many good things. King's Landing could use some of that Northern humor my mother always brings," his cousin said with a chuckle.

"Well, the North has long awaited its Northern prince to come home. You are a welcome addition to us all, nephew," his mother said, and his cousin kissed her on the cheek.

"Who is this little one?" Aemon asked, looking at his brother. "This little one is Bennard Stark." He noticed a small frown briefly cross his cousin's face upon hearing the name. "He has a lot of Lock in him, I see, but also his father," his cousin said with a smile.

"Well, he's a Stark, nephew, just like you," his mother said with a smile. Then he locked eyes with his cousin, those familiar Stark grey eyes that held a weariness one wouldn't expect in a boy of his age.

"You must be Rickon. I'm Aemon. I hope we'll have many adventures. If you'd like, I'll even take you dragon riding, cousin," his cousin said, extending his hand. he couldn't contain his excitement. He embraced his cousin, knowing that this was a definite yes.

"That's a yes, I take it," his cousin chuckled, and his words were met with laughter from the rest of the family.

Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C. Eleventh Moon)

Winterfell

He stood in the crypts of Winterfell, his gaze fixed on the stone that bore his new grandfather's name, it was the same as his old one. But a different man. It resembled the one he had seen when he played in Winterfell as a child, but now, he was here again, with no statues of his mother, uncles, cousins, or grandfather. Rickard Stark had inherited the Lordship of Ellard Stark, his nephew. He never sired children and Edric died at the young age of four and ten. His own uncle and mother's older brothers also passed before their time, passing away in infancy. It seems House Stark had much the same premature deaths as House Targaryen.

"You look a lot like him, Aemon," his uncle said. It still felt strange to him. The first time he had seen Benjen as the Lord of Winterfell, it felt like a step back in time, to his younger days. The only noticeable difference was that Benjen looked taller and more muscular than the Uncle Benjen of the Night's Watch. Thought the two of them had, a familiarity between the two.

"It's a regret of mine that I never got to meet him," He replied, his voice tinged with sadness. At the age of 43 namedays, Rickard Stark died at a relatively young age. "He was excited to meet his grandson, who rode the fiercest dragon in the world, with the blood of both dragon and wolf. But it seems fate is taking the people we love too quickly these days. My father and yours, both passed away within a year of each other. A true loss for the realm." Benjen clasped his shoulder in a comforting gesture.

"Ah, one thing my mother always said to me was, 'When the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," He said, reciting the words his uncle had once told him, and his mother as well in this timeline.

"Very true, nephew. If you ever need help, remember that we are your pack. The wolfs of the North will come howling down," Benjen affirmed.

"Come, nephew, let's leave our ancestors to their rest," Benjen suggested with a chuckle. "I'm sure my bannermen would like to meet the dragonwolf."

Over the past week, many of the Northern houses had traveled to Winterfell to welcome their Northern princess home and her children. As they emerged from the crypts, they made their way to the Great Hall, where there was a flurry of activity. Bannermen of the North filled the hall, and they all cheered proudly at the arrival of their northern prince.

"My lords, thank you all for coming and welcoming my nephew, the dragonwolf, to the North," Benjen bellowed. "Of course, my sister, the she-wolf of the North, and her daughter, Princess Visneya Targaryen," he said, and the hall erupted in cheers, welcoming their Northern dragon.

"My lords, I offer you my gratitude for your support, whether you voted for my brother or my cousin, Princess Rhaenys. Both are my family—one my brother, and the other my future goodmother," Aemon proclaimed. "Also, thank you all for joining us here at Winterfell for this welcome feast. Know this: as long as I live and breathe, I will fight for the North. This land is a part of me, as it is of you. I will never desert it, I promise you."

The hall resounded with cheers and chants of "Prince in the North" and "Dragonwolf," and Aemon felt a sense of belonging and purpose wash over him. His new title as Prince in the North held great weight, and he was determined to live up to the expectations and protect the land he now called home, just as his grandfather and father had done before him.

Rhaenyra Targaryen (101 A.C. seventh moon)

Dragonstone

Dragonstone loomed ahead as the ship carrying Rhaenyra Targaryen and her cousin Laena approached the island fortress. The young princess, just seven years old, stood at the rail, her eyes fixed on the imposing black castle that jutted out of the sea like a jagged obsidian tooth. The sight sent shivers down her spine, and not just because of the chilly sea breeze.

Her uncle's departure to Winterfell had been a difficult moment for her. He had always been her friend and protector, and she missed him dearly. The North was a far cry from the warmth of Dragonstone, and she wondered how he was faring in that distant land. But she had her cousin Laena now, who had joined her on this journey. Laena was two years older than Rhaenyra and betrothed to her uncle. She was to become one of her ladies and she was glad for her company.

As the ship docked at Dragonstone, she clutched her mother's hand tightly. Aemma, heavily pregnant, was visibly tired from the journey, but she had insisted on accompanying her daughter. Rhaenyra's father, Lord Corlys, had accepted the offer for her cousin to be one of her ladies, and Dragonstone itself felt more like home than King's Landing ever had.

The castle's black stones, as dark as a raven's feather, reminded Rhaenyra of the great dragon Balerion, the Black Dread. The dragon had been her favorite uncle's companion, and the image of its massive black scales flashed through her mind. Her father had been named heir to the Iron Throne, and her mother's late pregnancy was taking its toll on the family.

She couldn't help but hope for another sibling, a son for her father. She knew the importance of having a strong male heir in their lineage, and the thought of a new addition to the family brought a smile to her young face.

The gangplank was lowered, and she took her first step onto Dragonstone. The air smelled of salt and brine, and the cries of gulls filled her ears. She looked around, taking in the rocky coastline, the crashing waves, and the towering castle that would be her new home. Dragonstone was unlike any place she had ever seen, and despite the initial chill it sent down her spine, she couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement.

As they made their way into the castle, her small hand still firmly grasping her mother's, she knew that her life was about to change in ways she couldn't yet imagine. Dragonstone held secrets, history, and mysteries waiting to be uncovered, and she was determined to explore every corner of her new home, just as she had done in King's Landing.

With a quick glance at her cousin Laena, who wore a reassuring smile, she took a deep breath and stepped further into the heart of Dragonstone. This was the beginning of a new chapter in her young life, and she was ready to embrace it with all the courage and curiosity a Targaryen princess could muster.

Coryls Valeyreon (101 A.C.)

Driftmark

Ser Corlys Velaryon, the head of House Velaryon, sat in his chambers, his mind heavy with thoughts of power and succession. His wife, Rhaenys, a woman of striking beauty and grace, watched him with concern and understanding. Her voice, soft yet filled with wisdom, broke the silence.

"Husband, what weighs on your mind?" Rhaenys inquired gently, her eyes searching his troubled expression.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, his fingers absently running through his dark, ebony hair. "It's the matter of succession, Rhaenys," he replied, his gaze distant. "It appears that we and our children have been wronged in the eyes of the realm. But there's still hope for change. Our daughter is betrothed to the most powerful dragonlord. Both Viserys and Daemon lack sons to inherit the throne. And the princess remains unmarried. Our son and daughter could still rise to greatness."

Rhaenys, ever the voice of reason in their marriage, regarded her husband with a thoughtful look. "Corlys, the path you tread is fraught with peril," she cautioned, her tone measured. "Ambition, if unchecked, can lead to disappointment and ruin. We must be cautious and not put too much hope in uncertain alliances and betrothals. Our children's happiness should be at the forefront of our concerns."

He nodded, acknowledging his wife's wisdom. "You are right, my love. Our children are our greatest treasure, and their well-being should always come first. But I can't help but see the opportunities before us. The rise of a second son of House Hightower as Hand of the King is a sign of changing times. And our daughter's betrothal to the rider of Balerion, the Black Dread, is a chance for her to wield influence."

As he spoke, he couldn't help but think of Ser Otto Hightower, the second son who had achieved the esteemed position of Hand of the King. It was a clear indication of a shifting paradigm within the realm.

"The lords have chosen Viserys, and the realm will hold to that precedent," Rhaenys said, her voice filled with a mixture of love and understanding. She reached out, taking his hand in her own. "I implore you to make peace with it, my husband. Our daughter will be the lady of a great fortress, and our son the future lord of Driftmark. Perhaps that should be enough."

He squeezed his wife's hand and nodded, the weight of his ambitions gradually finding a place of acceptance within his heart. They were a family, and as long as their children were happy and safe, that was what truly mattered. The future held uncertainty, but together, they would face it with love and unity.

Otto Hightower (101 A.C.)

Kingslanding Tower of The Hand

In the wake of the Great Council, the realm had settled into relative peace. Ser Otto Hightower, the second son of House Hightower, had emerged as the Hand of the King, a position unprecedented in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. It was a testament to his influence and the trust that the old king had placed in him. The first Hightower in history to hold that position.

However, Ser Otto knew that his rise to power was only one step in a carefully calculated plan. The key to maintaining control and influence in King's Landing was to have a line to the king himself. Initially, he had hoped to use his own daughter, grooming her for a future marriage to the grandsons. Such a union would have solidified his family's position within the royal court. But those plans had been abruptly halted when the late queen had betrothed the king's grandsons to another ladies of the realm. Daemon the had been sent to the Vale, to marry Lady Rhae Royce, and the rider of Balerion had been betrothed to the sea snake's offspring, disrupting Ser Otto's carefully laid schemes. Both

His daughter, Alicent, was now the king's closest companion. She had been placed at the old king's side as a trusted confidante, and this had borne its fruits. As she entered her father's chambers in the Tower of the Hand, Ser Otto couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in her accomplishments. But she was still young, perhaps in the years to come. She could seduce, one of the prince's.

"Ah, daughter, how is his grace?" he inquired, his tone measured and composed.

Alicent's expression softened as she spoke of the king. "He is getting weaker, father," she replied, concern lacing her words. "He often confuses me with his past daughters. But he enjoys it when I read to him from the histories."

Her small smile did not go unnoticed by her father. Alicent possessed a captivating beauty, and her charm was a weapon that would become even more potent when she reached womanhood. Ser Otto recognized the value of his daughter's allure in the intricate dance of court politics.

"Very well, my dear," Ser Otto said, his hand gently caressing her cheek. "Tell me immediately if his condition changes, for better or worse. You have done exceptionally well in your role. Perhaps in the future, you will strive even higher."

Alicent nodded, her eyes meeting her father's with a hint of determination. She knew the importance of her position, and she was willing to play her part in advancing the Hightower family's ambitions. The Tower of the Hand was a place of power and intrigue, and Ser Otto Hightower was determined to ensure that his family's legacy endured in the annals of Westerosi history.

Notes : Thanks for the read. Next up will be a two-year time jump and the death of a king.