Chapter 2: The Heir to The North
"When the North sends its sons, they do not come for warmth or glory—they come with the quiet strength of winter, unyielding as the winds that shape them."
Rhaenyra slumped in her ornate chair, the initial surge of excitement evaporating like morning mist. The great hall at Storm's end, a moment ago alive with tension, now felt as stifling as a windowless sept. She cast a weary glance at Ser Criston Cole, her faithful shadow. His eyes danced with barely concealed amusement, lips twitching as he fought back a knowing smile, he knew she would become restless.
Her fingers tightened in impatient foretell on the arm of her seat, each time she released and enclosed echoed her thoughts and displeasures. The Princess shifted, muscles coiled to spring up and flee this tedious charade. Visions of Syrax waiting in the yard flashed through her mind – scales golden glinting in the sun, wings unfurled and ready to carry her far from these suffocating courtly games back to the castle, to home, to her father. Yet going empty-handed was humiliating and tempting.
Just as Rhaenyra steeled herself to rise, movement in the crowd caught her eye. A figure emerged from the sea of preening lordlings, his presence somehow both unassuming and magnetic. The Princess found herself sinking back into her seat, curiosity temporarily overriding her desire for escape.
This new suitor stood apart from the rest, an island of quiet dignity amidst the posturing. Raven-dark hair cascaded to his shoulders in waves that seemed to absorb the flickering torchlight. A dusting of stubble, no more than a day's growth, emphasized rather than softened the sharp angles of his jaw. But it was his eyes that truly arrested her – grey as storm clouds over the Narrow Sea, adding to the underlying coldness that hinted at hidden depths.
His face was a study in elegant lines: high cheekbones that could have been chiseled from marble, a straight nose that spoke of noble breeding, and lips that managed to look both austere and sensual. He carried himself with the easy grace of a skilled swordsman, his body clearly honed by years of training.
Rhaenyra's gaze was drawn inexorably to the massive greatsword at his hip. The weapon seemed an extension of the man himself, worn with the casual comfort of one born to wield such power. The hilt caught the light, revealing an intricately carved wolf's head. Its eyes glinted with tiny chips of obsidian, seeming to watch the room with the same quiet intensity as its owner.
Despite her earlier weariness, Rhaenyra found herself leaning forward slightly, intrigued by this newcomer who seemed more substance than spectacle. He appeared to be close to her in age, perhaps a year or two older – a refreshing change from the parade of grasping old men, fumbling boys, and arrogant lords she'd endured thus far.
As their eyes met across the crowded hall, Rhaenyra felt a spark of something she hadn't experienced in far too long: genuine interest. This wolf among preening peacocks might just make the remainder of this tiresome tour bearable after all.
Rhaenyra's gaze drifted back to the greatsword strapped to the man's waist. The blade wasn't just any weapon; it was a living piece of history, and there was something about it that called to her. The rippling patterns within the steel—like waves frozen in time—caught the light as if the metal itself remembered the fires in which it had been forged. Valyrian steel. It radiated a subtle, dark energy that sent a shiver up her spine, its very presence a reminder of the power it held, both as a weapon and a symbol.
She could almost feel the chill of the blade's edge, the weight of it in her hand as if it were her own. But it wasn't the sword itself that drew her in—it was what the sword represented. The size, the unmistakable craftsmanship, the wolf's head carved into the hilt with eyes of glinting obsidian. Ice. The ancestral blade of House Stark.
Rhaenyra's breath hitched as realization dawned on her. If he carried Ice, then he was no ordinary suitor. He was Rickon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, and a man of great importance in the North. The knowledge settled over her like a heavy cloak, warming her with the thrill of discovery and the weight of what this meeting could mean.
Rickon's eyes caught hers, and she knew he had seen the recognition in her gaze. There was no smugness in his expression, no hint of arrogance. Instead, he offered her a small, almost reflective smile, as though he understood the thoughts racing through her mind.
"I see you've recognized my companion," Rickon said, his voice low and flat, carrying the soft cadence of the North. There was a quiet strength in his words, an unspoken history that Rhaenyra found herself eager to unravel.
She leaned forward, her eyes flicking between his face and the greatsword. "Ice," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the name too loudly would break the spell. "The sword of your ancestors."
Rickon nodded, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the blade, his touch reverent. "Forged in the fires of Valyria, tempered in the snows of Winterfell," he replied, the words rolling off his tongue with the ease of long familiarity. "It has served my house for centuries, through times of peace and war alike. A reminder of who we are, and what we stand for."
His words resonated with Rhaenyra, stirring something deep within her. She could feel the weight of his lineage, the expectations that must have been placed upon him from the moment he was born. It was a burden she understood all too well, and she found herself drawn to him in a way she hadn't expected.
"And what do you stand for, Lord Stark?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with curiosity. She watched him closely, noting the way his eyes seemed to darken as if the question had unlocked something within him.
Rickon took a moment before responding, his gaze steady and unyielding. "Honor, duty, and the protection of those who cannot protect themselves," he said, his voice deepening with conviction. "The North is a harsh land, Princess, and it demands much from those who call it home. But it also teaches us the value of loyalty, of standing firm in the face of adversity."
Rhaenyra felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words. There was no bravado in them, no empty platitudes. He spoke with a sincerity that was as rare as it was refreshing, and she found herself leaning closer as if drawn by the strength of his character, not knowing why wanting him closer.
"And Ice?" she asked, her eyes flicking once more to the greatsword. "Do you see it as a burden, or as something more?"
Rickon's sides quirked up a little there was a hint of sadness in his eyes but his whole face transformed. She thought if a sight would be to see him smile full. "It is both," he admitted, his voice softening. "A burden, yes, but also a reminder of the strength and sacrifice of those who came before me. It is a legacy that I must uphold, one that I carry with pride, even if it weighs heavily at times."
Rhaenyra studied him for a moment, her heart beating a little faster. There was something in the way he spoke, in the way he carried himself, that made her feel as though she were standing on the edge of a great precipice, staring down into the unknown. It was exhilarating like the first flight on Syrax all over again.
"Do you intend to wield it against your enemies, or is it here merely to impress?" she asked, her tone light but laced with genuine curiosity. She wanted to see how he would respond, to see if the fire she sensed within him would reveal itself, she sensed a different fire a colder one but brightly shone, nevertheless.
Rickon's lips quirked for real, a touch of warmth now in his eyes. "A Stark does not draw his sword unless he intends to use it," he said, his voice taking on a firmer edge. "But I did not come here to impress, Princess. Not you, not the lordlings, nor on one. I came because I believe in something greater than myself, something that perhaps you seek too."
The great hall had never been so silent. Even the crackle of the torches seemed to fade into nothingness as the weight of the moment settled over the gathered lords and ladies. Rhaenyra, too, felt the stillness press upon her, stealing the words from her lips. The Starks… They were not known for their interest in politics or courtly intrigue. They were a house of the North, steadfast and unyielding, and the presence of Rickon Stark here in this den of southern ambition felt like the clash of two worlds.
Rickon himself stood with a kind of quiet discomfort, his posture as rigid as the icy winds of his homeland. His eyes, though calm and composed, held a flicker of something she couldn't quite place—an unease, perhaps, or a longing to be anywhere but here. Yet, beneath that, she could sense a mutual curiosity, a recognition that their exchange was more than just words. The intrigue caught her off guard, stirring something within her that she hadn't anticipated.
"I don't know what I seek," Rhaenyra admitted, her voice breaking the silence like the first drop of rain before a storm. "I thought I came seeking a husband." She spoke slowly, the words feeling heavy on her tongue as if they held more weight than she realized. "Lord Stark, this has been a delightful discussion, but I must be practical for both our sakes. This tour was organized by my father to find me a husband—"
Rickon raised his eyebrows, a subtle but effective interruption that stopped her in her tracks. There was something almost amused in his expression, a slight tilt of his head as he glanced around the room with a touch of disdain, as if to say that the entire affair was a folly he had no desire to be part of.
"This tour did not reach the North near winter," he said, his voice carrying the clipped precision of someone who rarely wasted words. "My mother believed it would be wise to send a representative and who's better than her own son and heir? We planned on Joining at Riverlands; however, I prefer to travel fast, and the weather was with us. With the gods' help, we got here today, not an hour ago."
There was a subtle edge to his tone, a challenge wrapped in politeness. His words hung in the air, unspoken but clear: I was almost too late, wasn't I? And he was right—if she hadn't seen him when she did, she would have been long gone, soaring into the sky on Syrax's golden wings. The realization sent a thrill through her, a sense of what could have been lost.
"So, it was Lady Stark's idea, and Lord Stark simply followed her lead?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice laced with a subtle curiosity. She raised an eyebrow, the gesture slow and deliberate, while a half-smile tugged at the corners of her lips. There was a glint of something sharp in her eyes, a mix of amusement and challenge. "No ambitions of his own, then? Just dutiful obedience?"
Rickon's expression softened, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips. "My father does as my mother wishes, as most Northern husbands do," he replied, a hint of warmth in his voice that softened the rugged edges of his demeanor. His gaze drifted for a moment, as if recalling memories of a simpler, quieter life in the North—a life shaped by harsh winters, but also by a deep, unspoken respect between men and women, where strength was found in unity rather than dominance.
"To live in the North, you need a strong will," he continued, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of pride that was impossible to miss. "Man or woman, it makes no difference. The land doesn't care about titles or birthrights. It demands strength, resilience, and the wisdom to know when to lead and when to follow."
There was a pause, just a breath, as Rickon's eyes met Rhaenyra's, the teasing note in his voice giving way to something more earnest. "And to marry one of us, you need to accept that strength comes in many forms. My father learned that long ago, as I have, too."
His tone lightened again, a touch of self-deprecation creeping into his smile. "Alas, no matter the reason, here I stand before you," he said, almost as if confessing to some unspoken vulnerability. The words carried a weight that went beyond mere duty, a subtle acknowledgment that. Despite the traditions and expectations that guided him, there was more to his presence than simple obedience. As if he realizes that he is proposing to a person and not to a royal womb.
Rickon's gaze held hers, steady and unflinching, as if to say that while he may not have come here of his own ambition, he was not without purpose. The strength of the North was in his blood, in his very being, and it was that strength that had brought him here—whatever the outcome might be.
"You don't wish to be here, do you?" Rhaenyra observed, leaning back in her seat, her eyes narrowing as she studied him more closely. The realization that they were alike in this discomfort settled over her. There was no accusation in her voice, just a quiet curiosity, a genuine desire to understand the man before her—this Stark, so calm and unyielding. "So tell me, Rickon Stark," she continued, her tone softening, almost coaxing, "why should I consider you as a husband when it's clear you'd rather be anywhere else? Anywhere but here?"
Rickon's grey eyes met hers, and for a brief, electric moment, something passed between them—an unspoken acknowledgment of a shared truth. She could see it in his eyes, that flicker of recognition that mirrored her own feelings. The sense that neither of them truly wanted to be part of this farce, this political dance that felt as stifling as the heavy air of the hall.
He hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Rhaenyra to sense the internal conflict he was wrestling with. She knew that feeling all too well—the pull of duty against the desire to simply walk away from it all. When Rickon spoke, his voice was steady, calm, but there was an undercurrent of something more—a quiet intensity that resonated with her own unspoken thoughts.
"Because the princess," he began, his words deliberate, as if he was weighing each one carefully, "wishes to be present today."
His words hung in the air between them, laden with meaning. Rickon wasn't here out of ambition or desire, just as she wasn't. But in that moment, he was telling her that he understood—understood that she, too, would rather be anywhere but here, enduring this endless parade of suitors. And yet, like him, she stayed, because there was something within her that recognized the necessity of it.
Rhaenyra felt a stir of something deep inside her, a connection she hadn't expected. Rickon wasn't offering flattery or false promises; he was offering the truth, plain and simple. They were both here, fully present, not because they wanted to be, but because they had to be. And in that shared understanding, she saw a strength in him, a resilience that she hadn't found in the others.
"I never said I was unwilling to be your husband," Rickon murmured, his voice softening as he took a measured step closer. The space between them narrowed, and Rhaenyra could almost feel the warmth radiating from him—a warmth that was solid and grounding, like the very earth he spoke of. His presence was steady, unwavering, a reminder of the harsh, resilient land that had shaped him. "But being paraded in the South, so far from the land that made me who I am… I am of the North, Princess. It's in my blood, my bones. The cold winds, the vast forests, the unforgiving mountains—they are as much a part of me as this hall is of it's lord. The land calls to me, just as the fire in your blood calls to you."
His words were raw, stripped of any pretense, and in that honesty, there was a quiet power that cut through the pretenses of courtly games. Rickon wasn't trying to charm her with grandiose promises or poetic flattery; he wasn't spinning tales of adventure or conquest like the others who had sought her favor. He was simply offering her the truth of who he was—a man molded by the unforgiving beauty of the North, by the strength of his people, and the weight of his lineage. There was no artifice here, just a directness that Rhaenyra found both disarming and refreshing.
Rhaenyra felt the air between them crackle with unspoken possibilities, the fire in her blood stirring in response to his quiet strength. It was as if, at that moment, she could see beyond the walls of Storm's End, past the narrow confines of the South, and glimpse the vast, cold expanse of the North—a land that was as fierce and unyielding as the man who stood before her. There was something here, something she had not found in any of the others. It wasn't love, not yet, but it was the beginning of something—a spark that, if nurtured, could grow into a flame that would burn brightly, defying the cold winds of the North and the harsh realities of the South.
She allowed herself a genuine smile, unguarded and warm, a rare softness in the sharp-edged persona she so often presented to the world. "Perhaps, Rickon Stark, you and I are not so different after all," she mused, her voice carrying a newfound respect. "We both carry the weight of our homes with us, no matter where we go. The North is in your blood as much as fire is in mine, and perhaps that is what we both need—someone who understands the weight of legacy and the burden of duty."
Rickon inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her words with a quiet grace that only deepened her interest. "Perhaps we do," he agreed, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder before a storm. There was a subtle strength in his tone, a recognition that they were bound by more than just duty, by more than just the expectations of others. There was an understanding, a shared burden, that linked them in a way that was deeper than words could convey.
The Lords weren't happy that the princess was giving her undivided attention to the new arrival, the heir of the north, the attractive Lord Stark. One of the Tyrells—Lord Luthor, a man of considerable girth and little subtlety—had decided to take it upon himself to test Rickon's patience.
"Lord Stark, they say Northerners are more wolf than man," Luthor drawled, fill with unrestrained anger "Tell me, is it true you bed your women in the snow? Or do you prefer the warmth of your hounds?" A ripple of laughter followed his words, though it was tinged with nervousness, as many of the lords knew better than to insult a Stark so openly.
"Lord Tyrell," Rickon began, his voice low and frigid, each word carrying the biting chill of the North, "where I come from, men do not need to boast about warmth. We find it where it truly matters—in loyalty, in honor, in strength. But I can see why that might be foreign to you. After all, in the South, warmth is fleeting, as fragile as the loyalty of those who surround you."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the sharpness of Rickon's words hanging in the air like a bitter wind. Lord Luthor's face drained of color, his bravado faltering under the weight of Rickon's unyielding gaze. The lords around them, once emboldened by their drinks, now watched in tense silence, aware of the chill that had settled over the hall.
Rickon's eyes never left Luthor's, his hand placed calmly on the hilt of his greatsword, as if daring the Tyrell lord to take another step. The cold wrath in his gaze was unmistakable—this was not a man to be trifled with, young as he was, not one to suffer fools lightly. Luthor, realizing the folly of his insult, swallowed hard and took a shaky step back, retreating into the safety of the crowd.
As Lord Luthor slinked away, another lord, his voice barely above a whisper, remarked, "The North remembers, Luthor. And it seems Lord Stark doesn't forget. You insulted him and the whole north if I was you I wouldn't show my face for the next twenty years."
They were two opposites, where her anger fumed and erupted like dragon fire, his was ice—cold, tempered, and deliberate. It was the kind of fury that didn't burn out quickly but lingered, seeping into the bones, a slow death that left nothing untouched, freezing his enemies to deaths from fear.
The contrast between them, so stark and undeniable, was not a weakness but a strange, compelling strength. She had thought that only fire could match her fire, that only a fierce, unyielding spirit could stand beside hers. But Rickon's cold, methodical presence offered something entirely different. It was a balance, a counterpoint to the intensity that had always driven her.
And then, as if summoned by some deep, ancient instinct, the prophecy came to mind unbidden, the words echoing in her thoughts like a distant whisper: From my blood shall come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.
Her heart quickened at the memory of those words, a chill running down her spine. The prophecy had always been a distant, almost mythical notion, something tied to her bloodline but not yet fully understood. Yet here, standing before her, was the embodiment of that very balance—ice and fire, two forces that were meant to clash, but that could also complement each other in ways she had never considered.
Rhaenyra's eyes met Rickon's, and in that moment, she saw him with new clarity. He was not just a lord of the North, not just a potential suitor. He was something more, something deeper. The slow, deliberate strength of the North combined with the fierce passion of the Targaryen bloodline. Together, they could create something powerful, something that might fulfill the very prophecy that had haunted her thoughts for so long.
She felt the weight of destiny press down on her, the knowledge that this moment was more significant than she had realized. Rickon was not here by chance. He had been guided to her, just as she had been guided to him. And though they were different, their differences might be what made them stronger—what made them capable of facing the future together, of fulfilling the ancient prophecy that bound their fates.
Rhaenyra allowed herself a slow, deep breath, the fire within her still burning, but now tempered by the coolness of his gaze. "I see it now," she said quietly, more to herself than to him, but her words carried across the space between them. "You're not what I expected, Rickon Stark. You're… something more. A union between us can change the world."
Rickon's eyes met hers, a glint of something unreadable in their depths as he leaned slightly closer, his voice calm but laced with a quiet intensity. "Are you ready to agree to the union between us? Without hearing the conditions?" His lips curved into a small, almost teasing smile, as if daring her to respond.
Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, the question catching her slightly off guard. There was a challenge in his words, but also a hint of respect, a recognition of her authority and the role she was destined to play. "You have conditions to marry me?" she asked, her tone laced with curiosity and a touch of incredulity. "Shouldn't that be discussed with my father?"
Rickon's smile didn't waver, but there was a seriousness in his eyes now, a resolve that made her pulse quicken. "You should know the basis of it before we involve your father. After all, if you are to rule one day, it's only fitting that you are present at the negotiation of your own marriage contract."
Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat at the gravity of his words. He wasn't just proposing a union based on titles or alliances; he was offering her a partnership, a marriage in which her voice would be heard and respected. It was a stark contrast to the countless suitors who had treated her as a prize to be won, a tool to be used in their political games. Rickon, it seemed, understood her in a way they never had.
"Go on," she said, her voice steady, but inside, she felt a flutter of something she hadn't expected—anticipation, perhaps, or hope.
Rickon's gaze held hers with an intensity that made Rhaenyra's heart quicken. There was a gravity in his words, a sense of purpose that went beyond mere ambition. "First," he began, his voice steady but rich with emotion, "our first child will sit the Iron Throne after you, and the second will be the Lord of the North, no matter if it's a boy or a girl. You have the power to change the rules, to set a new precedent. You will be the first queen to rule in her own right, and with you, we can begin a new tradition—a tradition where the firstborn, regardless of gender, is recognized for their strength and potential."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between them. Rhaenyra could feel the fire within her stir, not just from the implications of what he was suggesting, but from the respect and belief he placed in her. Rickon wasn't just asking her to bear his children; he was asking her to forge a new path, to break the chains of tradition and reshape the future. His faith in her was palpable, as if he could see the ruler she was destined to become, a ruler who could change the very fabric of their world.
"You have the power, Rhaenyra," he continued, his voice softening with something akin to reverence. "To break the cycle, to ensure that our daughters are given the same opportunities as our sons. Girls can be strong, wise rulers, just as boys can be. You know this, and with me, you don't have to fight that battle alone. You'll have the north be your side."
Rhaenyra took a deep breath, letting Rickon's words sink in. The weight of his proposal, the significance of what he was asking, was not lost on her. It was a vision of a future that was different from anything she had ever imagined—bold, challenging, but undeniably compelling. Yet, even as she felt a flicker of excitement, she knew she needed to tread carefully.
She met his gaze, holding it with a steady resolve. "You ask a great deal, Rickon," she said, her voice calm but measured. "To change the course of tradition, to reshape the very foundations of our world… It's not something to be undertaken lightly."
Her words hung in the air between them, a quiet acknowledgment of the enormity of what they were discussing. Rhaenyra felt the familiar pull of duty, the responsibility she had always carried as a Targaryen and a future ruler. But now, Rickon was asking her to consider something even greater—a legacy that would reach beyond her, beyond their generation, to the very heart of what it meant to lead.
"I understand what you're asking," she continued, her tone careful, thoughtful. "And I see the wisdom in it. A future where our children are judged by their merits, where their worth is not determined by whether they are born a son or daughter… It is a future worth fighting for."
She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle, her mind racing through the implications of what she was about to agree to. "But this is not just about changing the rules," she added, her voice firm. "It's about challenging everything we've been taught to believe, everything the realm expects from us. And that… that will not be easy."
Rhaenyra's gaze softened slightly as she considered him, her heart steady even as her thoughts swirled. "I will stand with you, Rickon," she said, her voice carrying a quiet strength. "But I need you to understand that this path we're choosing… it will come with great challenges. We will be defying centuries of tradition, and the realm may not be so quick to embrace the changes we propose."
"What next?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with anticipation. There was a part of her that wanted to understand how he envisioned their future together, how they would navigate the complexities of their union.
Rickon's gaze met hers, and she could see the quiet determination in his eyes, mixed with something else—something deeper, more personal. "We will need to divide our time between King's Landing and Winterfell," he began, his tone thoughtful, but there was a hint of something wry in his expression. "There's only so much heat I can take."
For a moment, Rhaenyra didn't catch his meaning, but then she saw the glimmer of amusement in his eyes and realized he wasn't just talking about the weather. He was referring to the political intrigue, the constant scheming that surrounded the Iron Throne—the viper's den that was King's Landing. The realization almost made her laugh out loud, but she caught herself, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips instead.
"Winterfell is better?" she asked, her tone tinged with a hopeful curiosity. The idea of escaping the endless machinations of the capital, even for a little while, was more appealing than she cared to admit.
Rickon's expression softened, and she could see the longing in his eyes, the way the very thought of Winterfell seemed to bring him a sense of peace. "Much better," he said, and the quiet yearning in his voice was unmistakable.
Rhaenyra felt a warmth spread through her at his words, a deep, comforting warmth that contrasted with the coldness she had often associated with the North. Winterfell, in his eyes, wasn't just a place—it was home. A sanctuary from the relentless demands of court, a place where the weight of the crown didn't press so heavily. She could see that for Rickon, Winterfell was more than stone walls and cold winds—it was where he belonged, where he felt most alive.
She found herself drawn to that idea, to the possibility of finding solace in a place so far removed from the suffocating politics of King's Landing. "I've only heard stories of Winterfell," she admitted, her voice softening as she allowed herself to imagine it. "Of its strength, its enduring spirit. But I think… I think I would like to see it for myself, to understand why it calls to you so strongly."
Rickon's hand found hers, his touch gentle but firm. "You will," he promised, his voice carrying a quiet certainty. "And when you do, you'll understand. Winterfell is more than just a fortress—it's a place where you can breathe, where the world feels… simpler. There's a kind of peace there that I've never found anywhere else."
Rhaenyra felt her heart swell at the thought of it—a place where she could escape, even for a little while, from the relentless pressure that had defined her life. The idea of sharing that place with Rickon, of finding refuge together, was more appealing than she had anticipated.
"And what of King's Landing?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of curiosity and concern. "Do you think you can endure its heat, its dangers, for the sake of our future?"
Rickon's answer was short, a simple "Yes," but the way he said it spoke volumes. It was a word that carried weight, filled with an unspoken promise, and in that moment, Rhaenyra could feel the depth of his commitment. It wasn't just a yes to her question, but a yes to everything that lay ahead—the challenges, the uncertainties, and the bond they were beginning to form.
"Who is with you here?" she asked, trying to steady herself as the gravity of the situation settled over her.
"Cley Cerwyn, the son and heir to House Cerwyn, his betrothed Meage Mormont, and my uncle Bennard," he replied, his tone casual but respectful, as if he understood the importance of each name he mentioned.
Rhaenyra nodded, absorbing the information, but her mind was already spinning in another direction, caught on a question she hadn't dared to ask before. "Have you ever flown on a dragon?" she asked, of course he hadn't. only a Targaryen do and even then not all of them. But her curiosity was getting the better of her. "And do you want to?"
Rickon's response was unexpected, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. "Is that a yes to my proposal?" he countered, his voice filled with a gentle teasing that made her heart skip a beat.
Rhaenyra found herself smiling despite herself, her hand itching to reach up as if to ruffle his hair. When had he gotten so close that she could feel his presence, breathe in his scent—a subtle mix of earth and the cold of the north? She could almost feel the warmth radiating from his large frame, and it unsettled her in the most unexpected way.
"I think we need to continue that conversation in the presence of my father and his many consultants," she said, her voice softening, betraying the undercurrent of excitement she felt. "Hence, the idea of flying on a dragon." There was a playful challenge in her tone, an invitation she wasn't entirely sure he would accept, but part of her hoped he would.
A deep, rich chuckle burst from Rickon, the sound resonating in the quiet space between them. It was a laugh full of warmth, with a hint of surprise, as if he hadn't expected her to suggest such a thing. "I'll go tell my party to pack their things—assuming they've finished unpacking," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
As he spoke, Rickon bent forward, taking her hand in his, his silver eyes never left her. The moment his lips touched her skin, it was as if the world around her shifted. The simple gesture was electrifying, sending a jolt of warmth racing up her arm, spreading through her body. His lips were softer than she had imagined, and the gentle pressure left a lingering sensation that was both thrilling and unsettling.
Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat, and for a brief, dizzying moment, she couldn't move, couldn't think. She had been kissed on the hand countless times before—by lords, knights, and princes—but none of them had ever made her feel like this. None of them had ever made her skin burn, or her heart race with the possibility of what could be.
Rickon straightened his eyes still on hers. The intensity didn't leave any doubt in her mind that he had felt it too—the spark, the connection that neither of them had anticipated. "Half an hour," he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, as if speaking any louder might break the spell that had settled over them. "I'll meet you then."
Rhaenyra nodded, unable to find her voice, her mind still reeling from the unexpected surge of emotion. As Rickon turned to leave, she couldn't help but watch him, her gaze following the strong, confident lines of his back, the easy grace with which he moved.
When he disappeared from view, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her heart still pounding in her chest. The thought of him, of his touch, lingered in her mind, stirring something deep within her—something that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.
Rhaenyra turned away, her hand still tingling where his lips had touched. She had been prepared for an alliance, a marriage of duty and necessity, but now… now it felt like something more. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in the way he spoke to her. This was a man who could match her strength, who could stand beside her not just as a husband, but as a partner, an equal.
And that thought, more than anything, filled her with a quiet, burning hope for the future they could build together.
As she prepared to meet him again, Rhaenyra couldn't help but smile—a small, secret smile that spoke of the possibilities ahead. Maybe she could hope for a good marriage like her parents.