Chapter 3: The Stark Choice
"True power isn't in conquering fire, but in mastering its balance—letting its warmth guide without being consumed by its flames."
As the weight of the moment settled over Rhaenyra, she became acutely aware of the many eyes upon her—dozens of lords who had come to propose, to pledge their loyalty, and to vie for her hand in marriage. They had all been hopeful, perhaps even confident, that they might win her favor. Now, each of them had witnessed her unmistakable choice of Rickon Stark, their hopes quietly dashed.
Rhaenyra took a deep breath, straightening her posture as she swept her gaze across the room. She saw disappointment etched on some faces, frustration on others, and bitterness barely concealed in a few. But Rhaenyra was a princess, and she understood the delicate art of maintaining dignity in even the most challenging circumstances. Though her choice was made, she knew it was crucial to acknowledge the efforts and pride of the lords who sought her favor.
Clearing her throat gently, Rhaenyra adopted an air of regal composure, her voice carrying across the room with the quiet authority that had always come naturally to her. "My lords," she began, her tone warm and gracious, "I wish to thank you all for your company and the honor you have bestowed upon me by seeking my hand."
As she spoke, she met each lord's eyes, letting them see the sincerity in her expression. "Your presence here has been deeply valued, and I will remember our time together fondly," she continued, her words carefully chosen to soothe the sting of rejection. "Each of you has shown great courage and loyalty, qualities that I hold in the highest regard."
She could see a few of the lords visibly relax, their pride somewhat mollified by her words. The tension in the room began to ease, the air of disappointment slowly giving way to a grudging respect for the way she was handling the situation.
Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly, a small gesture of acknowledgment. "The realm is blessed to have such noble and honorable men to call upon in times of need," she said, her voice steady and sincere. "While the decision of my future has now taken a clearer shape, I hope that we can continue to work together for the good of the realm, as allies and as friends."
She paused, allowing her words to settle over the room, offering them a way to leave with their dignity intact. She knew that even in rejection, these men could still play vital roles in the stability and strength of the kingdom. Her father had taught her the importance of alliances, and she understood that in this moment, preserving their pride was as crucial as any political maneuver.
"I trust that you will carry the same honor and strength back to your lands, and that the friendships we have forged here will endure," she finished, offering a small, gracious smile. "Thank you, my lords, for your time and your dedication."
There was a moment of silence as the lords absorbed her words. Some of them nodded, their expressions softening with the acknowledgment that, while they had not won her hand, they still had her respect. Others, though still disappointed, seemed to take solace in the grace with which she had handled the situation.
One by one, they began to bow, murmuring their farewells with a mix of respect and resignation. Rhaenyra watched them go, her gaze lingering on each one, ensuring that no one felt dismissed or overlooked.
As the last of the lords took their leave, Rhaenyra let out a quiet breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She had navigated a delicate moment with poise and tact, and she knew that this would be remembered as much as her choice of husband. She had shown them that she was not just a princess, but a future queen who could handle the complexities of power with both strength and compassion.
"Ser Criston," Rhaenyra called, her voice cutting through the murmurs that filled the hall. Almost immediately, the knight was by her side, as he had been countless times before. His presence, once so reassuring and captivating, now felt different—diminished in some way that she hadn't anticipated. As he stood there, his green eyes searching hers for direction, she couldn't help but notice how they paled in comparison to the silver gaze she had come to know in the last few hours. Rickon's eyes had held a depth, a quiet strength that Criston's, for all their intensity, suddenly seemed to lack.
She glanced at Criston, taking in the familiar lines of his face, the way his armor fit him snugly, accentuating his build. Yet, as she looked, she realized how her perception had shifted. He was shorter than Rickon, less broad even with the armor that usually made him seem imposing. His once magnetic presence now felt almost ordinary, and Rhaenyra couldn't help but think back to that morning when she had considered Criston—and even her uncle—the most attractive men in the realm.
But now… now everything had changed.
"I'm trusting you to ensure that Lord Stark's party arrives in King's Landing safe and sound," she said, her tone firm, yet laced with an unspoken expectation that Criston would do as she commanded without question.
Criston's brow furrowed slightly, a hint of concern flashing in his eyes. "Are you sure it's the right play, Princess?" he asked, his voice low but edged with the cautious respect he always afforded her. "Shouldn't you wait for the safer travel? There's no need to rush."
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation sparking within her. Was he questioning her decisions now, of all times? "Are you questioning my decisions, Ser Criston?" she demanded, her voice cool and sharp, a clear reminder of her authority.
"No, Princess," Criston replied quickly, the tension in his voice betraying the struggle within him. "I merely worry that you're rushing into marriage because of a pretty face."
For a moment, Rhaenyra simply stared at him, her mind whirling with the implications of his words. Criston had always been loyal, always cared for her in his own way, but now she realized that he didn't understand. Not really. Rickon wasn't just a pretty face. He was so much more—an equal, a partner who saw her for who she truly was, and who was ready to stand by her in a way that Criston, for all his loyalty, never could.
"Don't fear, Cole," she said, her voice softening as a genuine smile tugged at her lips. "It's not just his pretty face." She allowed herself a small, quiet laugh, one that spoke of the certainty she felt deep within her. She wasn't rushing into anything; she was making a choice—a choice based on something real, something substantial.
And in that moment, Rhaenyra felt a wave of clarity wash over her. Criston had always been there for her, had always been someone she could trust, but he wasn't the one she needed now. He wasn't the one who could help her shape the future she envisioned, who could stand beside her as she faced the challenges of the realm. That person was Rickon, and in his silver eyes, she had seen a future she hadn't dared to dream of until now.
Turning away from Criston, Rhaenyra felt a sense of finality settles over her. There was no turning back from this path she had chosen, and she didn't want to. "Prepare Syrax," she ordered, her voice firm and resolute. "We're flying soon."
Rickon didn't keep her waiting long. As Rhaenyra stood on the stony floor, the stone cold beneath her feet, Syrax's warm, massive form at her side, she felt the anticipation building in her chest. The dragon's scales shimmered in the dim light, and Rhaenyra kept one hand gently resting on Syrax's side, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Syrax was calm, attuned to her rider's emotions, and Rhaenyra found comfort in that unspoken bond.
When she caught sight of Rickon walking toward her, her breath hitched slightly. She hadn't realized just how tall he was when she had seen him earlier, seated on the Baratheon throne. But now, as he approached, she noticed his true height, how he towered over her yet did so without imposing himself. His presence was commanding, yes, but there was a subtlety to it—a respect for her space, for her authority. It was a quality she appreciated more than she could put into words.
Rickon's eyes met hers as he stopped a few paces away, his gaze briefly flicking to Syrax with a mixture of awe and something close to reverence. "Princess," he said, his voice low and steady, "I can see you are ready to mount. I, myself, have never been near a dragon, and I find myself in awe and terrified of the magical creature."
Rhaenyra allowed a small, understanding smile to play at the corners of her lips. She could sense the tension in him, the natural apprehension that anyone would feel standing so close to a dragon for the first time. And yet, despite the fear she knew he must be feeling, Rickon's composure didn't waver. He faced Syrax with a quiet resolve, as if he had already made peace with the danger of what they were about to do.
"There's nothing quite like it," she replied softly, her voice carrying a soothing cadence meant to ease his nerves. "The first time you mount a dragon, it's… overwhelming. The power, the sheer size of them, the danger and the trust you put in them—it's unlike anything else. But once you're in the air, once you feel the wind rushing past you, all the fear melts away. You become part of something greater, something elemental."
She stepped closer to Syrax, her hand still resting on the dragon's scales, drawing strength from the connection they shared. "Syrax will sense your fear, but she'll also sense your respect. She's gentle, for all her size, and she'll respond to the calm you offer her."
Rickon nodded, his gaze unwavering as he took in her words. "I'll trust you, Princess," he said, and there was something in his ton that made Rhaenyra's heart soften. He was placing himself in her hands, trusting her to guide him through something that most men would never even dream of attempting.
"Come closer," she said, extending her hand to him. "Give me your hand. Let Syrax get used to your presence."
Rickon hesitated only briefly before stepping forward, his hand reaching out to meet hers. The instant their fingers touched, Rhaenyra felt a spark, a connection that sent a shiver down her spine. It was a sensation that was both surprising and familiar, grounding them in a moment of shared understanding. She didn't pull away, and neither did he. Instead, they stood there for a heartbeat, hands intertwined, as Syrax's warm breath enveloped them.
"Dragons are creatures of heat," Rhaenyra said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Her words carried a quiet warning, a reminder of the world she inhabited—a realm of fire and fury, where passion and temper burned as fiercely as the blood in her veins. "That might be a difficult match for someone from the North. Their blood runs hot, their tempers are quick, and their passion is intense. I could be a poor choice for you."
Rickon's gaze softened, his expression one of quiet understanding. He didn't pull away; instead, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure her that he wasn't afraid of the fire within her. "It's about finding balance," he said, his voice calm and measured, carrying a wisdom that went beyond his years. "Dragons need the cold to keep from burning too quickly, just as winter needs summer to survive. I believe we'll be a strong match."
Rhaenyra felt her heart swell at his words, the tension in her chest easing as she allowed herself to believe in the path they were about to take. "I think we'll make a good pair," she murmured, her voice filled with newfound confidence drawn from the quiet strength she saw in Rickon. "Together, we'll find that balance."
Rickon's lips curved into a small, almost playful smile, the expression softening the intensity of the moment. "We should fly, then," he said, a hint of challenge in his tone, as if daring her to take that next step with him. "Are you ready?"
The question hung between them, a challenge not only to her readiness to fly but to her willingness to embrace the future they were about to create together. It was a challenge she found herself eager to accept.
Rhaenyra's heart raced, the thrill of the moment sending a rush of adrenaline through her veins. She was ready—not just to fly, but to face whatever lay ahead, to step into the unknown with Rickon by her side. "I'm ready," she replied, her voice steady and sure, the conviction in her words echoing the determination she felt deep within.
Without another word, she turned to Syrax, her hand slipping from Rickon's as she moved to mount the dragon. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, the silent support he offered with every step she took. Once she settled into the familiar seat atop Syrax, she extended her hand to Rickon, inviting him to join her.
He took it without hesitation, pulling himself up behind her with a grace that spoke of his readiness to embrace this new experience. The warmth of his body pressed against her back, a steady presence that anchored her in the moment.
Rhaenyra could feel the rhythm of his breath, the calm strength that emanated from him, and it gave her a sense of peace she hadn't expected. The fire within her still burned brightly, but it was tempered by the cool, steady resolve of the man who now sat behind her, ready to face whatever came next.
"Hold on," she called to him, the words meant as much for him as for herself. She felt his arms tighten around her waist, his grip firm but reassuring, sending a thrill of anticipation through her.
Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the horizon, the vast expanse of sky stretching out before them. Her heart pounded with anticipation with his arms around her, and she felt the familiar rush of power as she prepared to command her dragon. The words came naturally after years, a part of her as much as her own breath. In a voice filled with resolve, she called out to Syrax in High Valyrian, "Sōvēs, Syrax. Lykīr, se mērī King's Landing!" (Fly, Syrax. Swiftly, to King's Landing!)
At her command, Syrax let out a deep, resonant growl, her powerful wings unfurling as she prepared to take flight. Behind them seemed to fall away as the dragon coiled her muscles, launching them into the air with a mighty leap. The wind roared in their ears as they ascended, the world below shrinking to a distant blur as they soared higher and higher into the vast sky.
Rhaenyra felt Rickon's grip tighten once more, his hold on her firm yet reassuring. It wasn't just the thrill of the flight that sent her heart racing—it was the knowledge that they were writing their future together, forging their destinies and that Rickon was willing to face the unknown by her side.
The golden sun dipped low on the horizon as Syrax's wings beat heavily against the air, her once-graceful movements now labored under the weight of two riders. Rhaenyra could feel the dragon's exhaustion through the scales beneath her, each wingbeat a testament to Syrax's endurance. As twilight painted the sky in hues of purple and orange, a small clearing emerged from the dense canopy of the King's Wood.
Syrax landed with a bone-jarring thud, her sides heaving like bellows as she gulped in air. Her usually brilliant golden scales were dulled with fatigue, the sheen of sweat visible even in the fading light.
Rickon dismounted first, his movements fluid despite the long journey. His eyes, sharp as steel, scanned the clearing, taking in every shadow and rustling leaf. The silence between them hung thick as morning fog, laden with unspoken worries and the weight of their impromptu overnight stay.
Without a word, Rickon unsheathed Ice. The Valyrian steel gleamed with an otherworldly light, seeming to draw the very essence of twilight into its blade. With controlled power, he began to chop wood, each swing of the massive sword splitting logs with surgical precision. The rhythmic thunk of blade meeting wood echoed through the clearing, a counterpoint to the softening birdsong of evening.
Rhaenyra watched, mesmerized by the play of muscles beneath Rickon's tunic, the grace and strength in each movement. She had seen knights train in the yard, had watched them sweat and strain in their armor, but there was something different about this—about him. He was not performing, not showing off his skills for an audience. He was simply doing what needed to be done, with a quiet efficiency that both impressed and unsettled her.
As the last log split, he sheathed Ice with a whisper of steel on leather, then turned towards the deepening shadows of the forest. Rhaenyra could see the tension in his posture, the way his shoulders were set, as if bracing himself for the challenges ahead. It made her stomach twist with an unfamiliar anxiety.
Panic fluttered in Rhaenyra's chest like a caged bird. "Wait!" she called out, her voice higher than she intended. The word burst from her lips before she could stop it, betraying the fear she felt gnawing at the edges of her resolve. "What now? What are you going to do? How can I help?"
Rickon paused, his back a rigid line of tension. When he turned, his eyes held a storm of emotions – frustration, worry, and something deeper that made Rhaenyra's heart skip a beat. There was a weight in his gaze, something unspoken but palpable, and it made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way she had never experienced before.
"Can you help?" he asked, his voice low and rough as bark. "Do you know how to hunt, Princess? To fight? Do you have any skill that could actually make a difference out here, beyond the pampered walls of the Red Keep?"
Each question was a dart, precise and stinging. The words were sharp, but not cruel. They were the stark truth, and it stung. Rhaenyra wasn't like the warrior queens of old, like Visenya with Dark Sister or Rhaenys on Meraxes. She was a princess, raised in the comforts of the Red Keep, far from the harsh realities of survival. She had been taught to rule, to command, but here, in the wilderness, those lessons felt distant, almost irrelevant.
Rhaenyra felt heat rise to her cheeks, but she lifted her chin defiantly. "No," she admitted, the word tasting of ashes and wounded pride. "But I wield a dragon." She gestured to Syrax, trying to summon confidence from the mere presence of the magnificent beast.
Rickon's gaze didn't waver. "Yes," he acknowledged, "a dragon that must eat after hours of flight. How much does she need?"
The question hung in the air, heavy as a storm cloud. Rhaenyra swallowed hard. "Around four or five sheep," she whispered, the enormity of their predicament crashing down upon her. The realization of their predicament settled like a lead weight in her stomach. Syrax couldn't hunt here, not without turning the entire forest into a blazing inferno, and she was too tired from carrying them both for hours. Like her rider, her dragon was still growing, an adolescent not yet in full strength. They were both utterly dependent on Rickon, who was not much older than her but far more experienced and mature.
Rickon nodded, his jaw set with grim determination. Without another word, he melted into the shadows of the forest, leaving Rhaenyra alone with her thoughts and an exhausted dragon.
She stared at the pile of neatly chopped wood, a testament to Rickon's efficiency. The easy path would be to have Syrax light it, but something within her rebelled against that simplicity. With trembling hands, she gathered stones and began the arduous process of striking sparks.
It was harder than she imagined. Each spark that flew out seemed to die before it touched the kindling, and her frustration grew with every failed attempt. Syrax watched her, letting out soft, encouraging rumbles as she worked. The dragon's presence was a comfort, but it was also a reminder of the responsibility she bore. Syrax depended on her, just as she depended on Rickon. And that thought made her hands shake even more.
The air around her seemed to grow colder with each passing moment, the encroaching night wrapping itself around her like a shroud. The sounds of the forest, once distant and almost soothing, now felt oppressive, as if the trees themselves were watching her struggle, judging her for her inability to perform a simple task. But she refused to give up. She couldn't.
It felt like hours passed before finally, miraculously, a small spark caught. The fire started to grow, slowly at first, but she fed it carefully, nursing it to life. By the time Rickon returned, carrying his haul, the fire was crackling steadily, casting a warm glow over the clearing.
Rhaenyra knelt by the fire, adding more logs as the flames grew stronger. The warmth spread through her, but it wasn't just the heat of the fire that made her feel different. There was something in Rickon's eyes when he looked at her, something unspoken but powerful. He hadn't praised her, hadn't even acknowledged her role in starting the fire, but the fact that she was here, by the fire she had made, meant more than a thousand words.
Rickon approached the fire with measured steps, his eyes flickering over her work. He said nothing, merely nodded once before setting down the three deer draped over his shoulders. The weight of his unspoken approval settled in her chest, a warm, unfamiliar sensation that filled her with a strange sense of accomplishment.
He crouched down beside her, his movements fluid and precise as he began to skin the deer. The silence between them was heavy, laden with the weight of the day's events and the uncertainty of the night ahead. Rhaenyra watched him work, the steady rhythm of his hands calming her racing thoughts.
"Rickon," she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. He paused, glancing up at her with those piercing grey eyes that seemed to see right through her. "I want to learn," she continued, her heart pounding in her chest. "Teach me how to survive out here. Teach me to be more than just a princess."
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching her face as if trying to discern the truth of her words. "Survival isn't something you can learn overnight," he replied, his tone gentle but firm. "It's not just about knowing how to hunt or start a fire. It's about understanding the land, the seasons, the creatures that live in it. It's about knowing when to fight and when to run."
"I know," Rhaenyra said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "But I need to start somewhere. I can't always rely on Syrax or on you. I need to be able to stand on my own."
Rickon's eyes softened slightly, a flicker of something almost like admiration passing through them. "Very well," he said, his voice low and resolute. "But understand this: it won't be easy. The North is unforgiving, and it will test you in ways you've never been tested before. But if you're willing to learn, I'll teach you."
Rhaenyra felt a surge of determination. "I am," she said, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. "I won't give up."
Rickon nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching in the barest hint of a smile. "Then let's start," he said, handing her a knife. "Skin this rabbit. It's not glamorous work, but it's necessary."
She took the knife, her hands shaking slightly as she began the task. Rickon watched her carefully, offering quiet guidance as she worked. His presence was reassuring, and though the task was unpleasant, she found herself oddly grateful for the opportunity to learn, to prove herself.
When the rabbits were skinned and cooked, and Syrax had fallen asleep, Rickon handed her a flask of Northern wine. "It's not as good as Dornish," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in the barest hint of a smile, "but it's better than the watery swill you serve in the South."
Rhaenyra accepted the flask, the strong, earthy aroma of the wine filling her senses. She took
a sip, the liquid burning its way down her throat, warming her from the inside out. It was unlike anything she had tasted before—bold and unyielding, much like the man who offered it to her. "It has character," she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
Rickon's eyes gleamed with amusement. "The Northerners make everything better," he said, his voice tinged with a playful challenge.
Rhaenyra laughed softly, the sound carrying through the stillness of the night. "Including the men?" she asked, her tone teasing, though there was a note of sincerity beneath it.
Rickon's gaze darkened, flickering over her face before he looked away, the dying firelight casting shadows that danced across his features. "You say that now," he replied, his voice husky. "But you haven't seen a true Northern winter or a Northern man in his basic nature. It changes a person, his character."
Rhaenyra leaned forward, resting now on her knees, drawn by the hint of vulnerability in his tone. "Tell me more," she urged. "What's it like, winter in the north? Beyond the stories and songs?"
Rickon was quiet for a long moment, staring into the flames. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. "It's... beautiful. And terrible. The world goes white and silent, and you can feel the very breath of the old gods in the wind. It makes you realize how small you are, how fragile. But it also shows you your own strength, how you can survive on your resilience alone."
His words painted a picture so vivid that Rhaenyra could almost feel the icy wind on her skin. She imagined the vast, snow-covered landscapes, the endless stretches of white under a cold, pale sky. She could see the towering trees, their branches heavy with snow, and hear the eerie silence that Rickon described. It was a world so different from the warmth and comfort of the Red Keep, yet it called to her in a way she didn't fully understand.
"It sounds... incredible," she breathed, her eyes locked on his. "I want to see it. I want to experience it for myself."
Rickon's eyes met hers, a spark of something warm breaking through his usual reserve. "Someday you will," he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. "Someday you'll see it for yourself as my wife."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat, the implications of what he said sinking in. She knew what it meant to be a Northern wife, the expectations, the responsibilities. It was not the life she had been raised for, not the future she had envisioned. But as she looked into Rickon's eyes, she felt a stirring deep within her, a longing for something more than the gilded cage of the Red Keep.
"I'd like that," she whispered, her heart pounding a wild rhythm in her chest.
Rickon reached out, his hand closing over hers, his touch warm and steady. "Then it's settled," he said, his voice filled with a quiet resolve. "When this is over, you'll come with me to the North, and I'll show you everything. The winters, the wild places, the life that's different from anything you've known."
Rhaenyra nodded, a sense of calm settling over her. It was a promise, one that she knew he would keep. The fire crackled between them, the night deepening around them, but she no longer felt afraid. She felt... ready. She was seventeen, years into her marriage age yet she didn't feel ready until that man.
As they sat by the fire, Syrax's gentle snores provided a soothing backdrop, and Rhaenyra thought that this man came to shake the very ground she was standing on, to let her burn to ash and watch her rise anew. Stronger version of herself, a true queen, a true ruler. The firelight danced in her eyes as she looked at Rickon, her heart full of unspoken words and unformed dreams.
The fire crackled softly, its embers glowing like distant stars against the deepening night. The woods around them whispered with the sounds of nocturnal life—rustling leaves, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the steady chorus of crickets. Overhead, the sky was a vast, inky expanse, dotted with the cold, distant light of countless stars. The air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and earth, mingled with the lingering smokiness of the fire.
Rickon had laid out the deer furs close to the fire, their soft, warm texture a stark contrast to the hard ground beneath. As he worked, his movements were fluid and practiced, the result of years spent in the wilds of the North. Rhaenyra watched him from the corner of her eye, noting the quiet efficiency with which he prepared their makeshift bed, the way his hands moved with a certainty that was both calming and reassuring.
When he finished, Rickon looked up at her, his gaze steady and unassuming. "It's not the comforts of the Red Keep, but it'll keep us warm through the night."
Rhaenyra smiled softly, stepping closer to where the furs were spread out. "It's more than enough." She knelt down, running her fingers over the soft fur, feeling the warmth that had already seeped into it from the fire. It was a simple thing, but it reminded her of the vast differences between their worlds—the harsh, rugged survival of the North and the gilded luxury of the South.
Rickon settled onto the furs, leaning back slightly as he gazed into the fire, his expression thoughtful. Rhaenyra joined him, drawing her cloak around her as she lay down, the firelight casting a warm glow over her features. They were close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, a steady, comforting presence beside her.
For a moment, they lay there in silence, listening to the quiet symphony of the night. The fire crackled softly, its light flickering across the trees, casting long shadows that seemed alive. The world outside the circle of firelight felt distant, almost unreal, as if it belonged to another time, another place.
Rickon broke the silence first, his voice low and contemplative. "Nights like this remind me of home. The North is full of nights like these—clear skies, cold air, the smell of the woods all around you. It's… grounding."
Rhaenyra turned her head slightly to look at him, her curiosity piqued by the wistfulness in his tone. "Grounding? How so?"
He smiled faintly, his gaze still fixed on the fire. "In the North, we live close to the land. The woods, the mountains, the rivers—they're as much a part of us as our blood. The old gods are in the trees, in the stones, in the wind that howls through the mountains. When you're out here, under the stars, you feel… connected. Like you're part of something much bigger, something ancient and enduring."
Rhaenyra listened intently, her mind wandering to the stories she'd heard about the North, the tales of the old gods and the weirwoods with their carved faces. It was a world so different from her own, yet there was something about it that resonated with her, something she couldn't quite put into words. "In Valyria, we had something like that too. But it wasn't the land we were connected to—it was the fire."
Rickon turned his gaze to her, intrigued. "The 14 Flames?"
She nodded, her voice softening as she spoke. "Yes. The 14 Flames were the heart of Valyria, the volcanic mountains that shaped our people. We believed that the fire within those mountains was a gift from the gods, a force that could be harnessed for creation and destruction. My ancestors saw themselves as chosen, their blood tied to the flames, to the dragons born from them. We are the chosen one. No one else can ride and bond with dragons"
Rickon shifted slightly, his eyes dark and intense in the firelight. "And the Doom? Was that a punishment from the gods?"
Rhaenyra's gaze dropped to the fire, the flickering flames reflecting the turmoil within her. "Some say it was. Others believe it was the price we paid for wielding such power. The 14 Flames, the source of our strength, became our downfall. The fire that had given us everything turned against us, and consumed our homeland in an instant. Father and Uncle believe it was a punishment."
"You don't?" he asked
she shook her head, "I believe with the others, it was time to pay for wielding such power. they say Valyria could have wiped the world. they had over a hundred grown dragons, many more younglings, and many families fighting for power. one family in power is enough."
The fire crackled, sending a spray of sparks into the air as if punctuating her words. Rickon remained silent for a moment, his thoughts turning inward as he considered the parallels between their worlds. "The North teaches humility in a different way. We don't try to control the land; we survive by respecting it. The old gods aren't as fierce as the flames, but they demand reverence all the same. Maybe that's where our strength lies—not in power, but in understanding our place in the world."
Rhaenyra looked at him, seeing not just the heir to Winterfell, but a man shaped by the land, by the quiet, enduring strength of the North. "Perhaps that's what I've been missing—understanding that power isn't just about control, but about balance."
Rickon turned his gaze back to the fire, the light casting shadows across his face, highlighting the strong, determined lines of his jaw. "The land shapes us as much as we shape it. The North is harsh, and unforgiving, but it also teaches you to endure, to find strength in the cold and the silence. It's a different kind of power, one that doesn't come from fire or dragons, but from the heart of the earth itself."
Rhaenyra lay back on the furs, her eyes tracing the patterns in the night sky, the distant stars that seemed to pulse with a cold, distant light. "I've always thought of dragons as the ultimate power, the fire that could conquer anything. But maybe… maybe it's not about conquering. Maybe it's about finding a way to live with that power, to let it guide us without letting it consume us."
Rickon turned to look at her, his expression softening, a hint of something warm and unspoken in his gaze. "That's the difference between those who survive and those who fall. The land, the fire, the gods—they all have their place. But it's up to us to find that balance, to respect the forces that shape our world and ourselves."
Rhaenyra met his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settles deep within her. In the quiet of the night, under the canopy of stars, she felt a sense of peace, a quiet certainty that she hadn't felt in a long time. "finding the balance." she whispered, a hand reaching up to the starry sky only to fall to the fur.
Rickon's gaze met hers, and the world around them seemed to dissolve into the flickering glow of the fire. There was something smoldering in his eyes, an intensity that made Rhaenyra's breath hitch in her throat. He looked at her as though he were caressing her with his gaze, as though he could reach out and touch her without ever lifting a finger. The heat between them was palpable, a magnetic pull that drew her closer to him, even as they remained rooted in place. His eyes lingered on her lips, and she felt a shiver run down her spine, her skin tingling with anticipation. It was as if he was kissing her with his eyes, a silent promise of what could be, leaving her both yearning and breathless.
Breaking the gaze and controlling her breath Rheanura focused on the surrounding around them again. The night deepened around them, the fire burning low, casting a warm, flickering light over their faces. The world outside the circle of firelight felt distant, as if it belonged to another time, another place.
As they settled down on the furs, the fire's warmth seeping into their bones, Rhaenyra felt Rickon's presence beside her, solid and reassuring. The quiet between them wasn't empty—it was filled with the shared understanding that they were not alone in this journey, that they could find peace in each other, even in the most unexpected places.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes, her hand resting on the fur beside her, feeling the soft texture beneath her fingers. The fire crackled softly, its light dancing over her closed eyelids, lulling her into a deep, restful sleep. And as she drifted off, she knew that this night, this moment, had changed something deep inside her. maybe she didn't realize what yet, but she felt it, settle comptably inside her chest.
Rhaenyra awoke to the soft rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds greeting the dawn. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the faint, smoky aroma of the dying campfire. For a moment, she lay still, blinking away the remnants of sleep, allowing the world around her to come into focus.
The warmth beside her was the first thing she noticed. Turning her head, she found herself nestled closer to Rickon than she had been when they'd fallen asleep. At some point during the night, they had drifted together, his strong arm draped protectively over her as if, even in sleep, he was compelled to shield her. The realization sent a thrill through her, a sudden, intense awareness of his proximity flooding her senses like a rush of wildfire.
Careful not to disturb him, Rhaenyra allowed herself a moment to observe Rickon as he slept. His features, softened by the gentle light of dawn, were a study in contrasts. The sharp angles of his jaw, the rugged lines etched by years spent braving the North's harsh elements, were now relaxed, free from the tension that usually marked his expression. She noticed the calluses on his hands, rough and hardened from a life of labor and survival, and how they contrasted with the tenderness in his touch as he unconsciously held her close.
Her gaze lingered on the dark lashes that brushed his cheeks, on the slight furrow in his brow that suggested he was never fully at peace, even in sleep. There was something undeniably compelling about him, a quiet strength that radiated from him even now. It wasn't just his physical presence; it was the way he carried himself, the way he had spoken to her the night before—with a respect and honesty that had cut through her defenses like a knife through snow.
As she watched him, Rhaenyra felt a flicker of something unexpected—a deepening connection, a sense of trust that was as unsettling as it was comforting. She had always been taught that power and control were everything, that vulnerability was a weakness. But here, with Rickon, she found herself questioning those beliefs. There was strength in his vulnerability, a strength that she found herself drawn to in ways she couldn't quite articulate.
Suddenly, Rickon stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet hers. For a brief, breathless moment, they simply stared at each other, the dawn light casting a warm, golden glow over their faces. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, the silence more powerful than anything they could have said.
Rickon's lips curved into a small, sleepy smile as he realized how close they had drifted during the night. His arm remained draped over her, his hand resting lightly on her side, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to break the contact. The tension between them was palpable, a tension laced with warmth and something deeper, something that made her pulse quicken.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep yet carrying a softness that made Rhaenyra's heart flutter.
"Good morning," she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath as it mingled with hers. The closeness was intoxicating, a heady mix of comfort and anticipation that made her heart flutter. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply be in the moment, to savor the quiet intimacy they had found in the heart of the woods, a fleeting refuge from the world's demands.
But then, Rickon stirred, his body shifting beneath her. As he began to move, propping himself up on one arm, the sudden motion sent her head dipping down in surprise, her face brushing against his chest. Her breath caught, the unexpected contact sparking a jolt of awareness through her entire being. The sensation was electric, a heady rush that sent warmth flooding her cheeks and set her pulse racing.
Her hand instinctively pressed against his chest to steady herself, feeling the firm muscles and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. It was a moment suspended in time, where every detail seemed amplified—the rough texture of his tunic, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fabric, the subtle scent of pine and earth that clung to him.
Rhaenyra's heart hammered in her chest as she lifted her gaze, her eyes meeting Rickon's. The space between them was almost nonexistent, their faces mere inches apart. She could see the surprise in his eyes, mingled with something deeper, something that mirrored the emotions swirling within her. There was a rawness to the moment, an unspoken recognition of the attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface, now brought to the forefront by their sudden proximity.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. The world outside seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them, caught in a delicate balance between tension and desire. The morning light filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns over their faces, but Rhaenyra was only aware of him—of the way his gaze held hers, of the way his breath seemed to catch as if he, too, was struggling with the intensity of the moment.
Rickon's eyes darkened, the playful warmth that had been there a moment before replaced by something more intense, more consuming. His hand, which had been bracing himself on the ground, shifted slightly, his fingers brushing against her arm in a gesture that was as much a question as it was a caress. There was a hesitation in his movement, a silent inquiry as if he were asking her permission to close the distance between them.
Rhaenyra's breath hitched, the weight of the unspoken invitation hanging heavy in the air. Her mind raced, torn between the urge to lean into the warmth of his touch, to let herself fall into the moment, and the reality of the world they lived in—a world where every action, every decision, carried consequences far beyond their own desires.
She could feel the tension radiating from him, could see the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes flickered with an emotion that mirrored her own. It was as if they were standing on the edge of something vast and unknown, a precipice from which there was no turning back. And in that instant, Rhaenyra realized just how much she wanted to take that step, to see where it would lead.
But then, as if on cue, Syrax let out a low, rumbling growl, the sound reverberating through the clearing like distant thunder. Rhaenyra felt the pang of hunger echo within her, the bond between rider and dragon stirring to life with a sudden, sharp intensity. It was a reminder of the responsibilities that loomed over them, of the connection to the ancient creature that demanded her attention.
Rickon's gaze shifted to the dragon, his expression growing more alert. The transition from the tender moment to the demands of reality was seamless, yet Rhaenyra could sense the shift in him, the way his focus sharpened. Slowly, he withdrew his arm from around her, the spell of the morning broken, but the connection between them still very much alive. "We should get moving," he said, his voice returning to its usual steadiness as he pushed himself up from the furs.
Rhaenyra nodded, though there was a reluctance in her movements, a part of her that didn't want to pull away from the warmth of his body. She watched as Rickon immediately began to break camp, his movements efficient and purposeful. He extinguished the last embers of the fire, rolled up the furs, and scanned the surroundings with a practiced eye, always alert, always prepared. It was clear that this was second nature to him, that he was a man who had long ago learned to live by the demands of the land.
For her, the morning brought a different set of rituals. Rhaenyra took a moment to collect herself, to shake off the remnants of sleep and the lingering emotions from the night before. She glanced at Syrax, who was already watching her with those ancient, knowing eyes. The dragon's hunger was a mirror of her own, a reminder that their bond was as much a part of her as her own flesh and blood, and a night near her dragon made the emotion even more palpable than ever.
As she began to gather their things, she caught Rickon glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
"We need to find food for Syrax," Rhaenyra said, breaking the silence as she strapped her cloak around her shoulders. "She won't be able to fly without it."
Rickon nodded, already scanning the surroundings for signs of game. "I'll hunt. There should be a stream nearby. Fresh water and some game should be easy enough to find."
Rhaenyra watched Rickon as he prepared for the hunt, her heart a swirl of emotions—admiration, curiosity, and a lingering frustration. She had always prided herself on her independence, on her ability to command and lead without needing anyone else. But here, in the heart of the wilderness, she felt acutely aware of her dependence on him. Yet, something had shifted since the night before. The lessons of rulership, once so distant, now seemed like they could be adapted, transformed to fit this new and unfamiliar context.
As Rickon slung his makeshift bow over his shoulder, Rhaenyra's gaze was drawn to the weapon in his hands. It wasn't the finely crafted armament she might have expected from the heir to Winterfell. Instead, it was a simple, rugged bow, clearly fashioned from the twigs and vines gathered from the forest around them. The sight of it struck her deeply, a tangible reminder of the resourcefulness that had kept Rickon alive in this harsh land.
"You made that?" she asked, unable to keep the surprise and admiration from her voice. Her eyes traced the rough contours of the bow, noting the way the wood had been carefully bent, the vines intricately wound to create tension. It was a far cry from the gilded weapons she had seen in the Red Keep's armory, yet it held a different kind of beauty—one born of necessity and skill.
Rickon glanced down at the bow, a flicker of pride in his eyes that he tried to hide behind his usual stoic expression. "Aye," he nodded, his tone modest but firm. "It's not as strong as a proper bow, but it'll do for now."
Rhaenyra stepped closer, her curiosity getting the better of her. She reached out hesitantly, her fingers grazing the rough wood, feeling the life in it, the energy that had gone into its creation. "Could you… could you show me how to make one, when you return?" The words left her mouth before she fully considered them, but she didn't regret asking. There was a fire in her now, a desire to learn, to become more than the sheltered princess she had been raised to be.
Rickon's gaze softened as he looked at her, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "First skinning last night, now bow-making? You're full of surprises, Princess." His voice held warmth and approval, and it sent a thrill through her, a recognition that she was beginning to earn his respect in a way she hadn't anticipated.
His expression grew a touch more serious as he continued, "I won't be gone long. When I return, I'll teach you how to skin the animals we catch. It's not pleasant work, but it's necessary. The fur can be the difference between life and death in winter." His words carried a weight that spoke of experience, of long nights spent battling the elements, surviving on nothing but what the land provided.
Rhaenyra felt a rush of determination at his words. It wasn't the kind of lesson she was used to, but it was one she desperately wanted to learn. "I'd like that," she said, her voice firm with resolve. She wasn't just a princess anymore, not out here. She was someone who needed to adapt, to grow, to learn how to survive alongside him.
Rickon nodded, his approval clear in his eyes. "It won't be easy," he warned, his tone gentle but unyielding. "But I think you're up to the challenge."
As he prepared to leave, Rhaenyra instinctively moved closer to Syrax, placing a hand on the dragon's warm, textured scales. The connection between them flared briefly, a comforting presence that grounded her, reminding her of her own strength, even in this unfamiliar world. She turned back to Rickon, feeling the weight of the day ahead pressing down on her, but with it came a renewed sense of resolve.
"Be careful," she said softly, her voice carrying more emotion than she intended. It was a simple request but layered with unspoken worries and hopes
Rickon met her gaze, his eyes lingering on hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary. His gaze trailed her body, taking in the sight of her messy ivory hair and the ruffled dress that clung to her form, bearing the marks of their time in the wilderness. There was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—admiration, perhaps, or a deeper, more complex emotion that neither of them was ready to name. He gave a slight nod, a promise in that small gesture, before turning to disappear into the woods, his movements confident and purposeful.
Rhaenyra watched him go, her heart a mix of emotions that she struggled to sort through. She was still dependent on his knowledge and skills, but there was also a growing sense of partnership between them, a feeling that they were in this together, each bringing something vital to their survival, and something burned inside her when their eyes met.
As she turned back to the camp, the birds continued their morning songs, a chorus of life awakening around her. The stream Rickon had mentioned began to murmur its distant invitation through the trees. They were surrounded by the untouched beauty of the world, a stark contrast to the intricate, sometimes suffocating life at court. Here, it was simpler, more honest—just the two of them, a dragon, and the wilderness.
Rhaenyra felt a new sense of determination settle over her as she began to prepare for the day ahead. She may not know how to hunt or skin an animal yet, but she will learn. She would prove herself capable of more than just ruling from a throne. And in doing so, she hoped to become the kind of queen—and partner—that both her people and Rickon deserved.
As Rhaenyra and Rickon flew towards King's Landing, the wind rushed past them, the world below a blur of green and blue. Syrax's wings beat powerfully, each stroke a testament to the dragon's strength and endurance. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the land as they neared the capital. Rhaenyra felt the familiar mix of exhilaration and calm that always accompanied flight, the sky a vast and open space where she felt most free.
Rickon held her waist tightly, the warmth of his body pressed against her back a grounding force amidst the endless expanse of sky. There was a sense of quiet anticipation between them, a shared understanding that this flight was more than just a journey—it was a return to the world they had momentarily left behind, a world of politics, power, and the ever-present specter of duty.
As King's Landing came into view, the Dragonpit loomed large on the horizon, its imposing structure a stark reminder of the power that the Targaryens wielded. Syrax descended gracefully, her massive form casting a shadow over the city as she circled the Dragonpit, preparing to land. The air was thick with the scent of salt and sea, the distant cries of gulls mixing with the hum of the city below.
As they neared the Dragonpit, the sky was alive with the movement of other dragons. Great shadows passed over them as larger dragons soared overhead, their powerful wings sending gusts of wind down to the city below. The roar of a dragon echoed through the air, a sound both majestic and terrifying, as another beast came in to land at the far end of the pit.
Syrax landed with a controlled thud, her wings folding gracefully as she settled onto the stone. Around her, other dragons were also making their descents, their scales gleaming in the fading light—reds, blacks, greens, and blues shimmering as they caught the last rays of the sun. The air was thick with the scent of dragon, a heady mix of sulfur, smoke, and something uniquely primal.
Rhaenyra dismounted first, her boots meeting the ground with a soft thud. She looked around, taking in the familiar surroundings of the Dragonpit—a place that had always felt more like home to her than the gilded halls of the Red Keep. Rickon followed, his movements quick and fluid, his gaze sweeping over the ancient stones as if sensing the history embedded in them.
Syrax let out a low, rumbling growl, a sound of contentment as she settled onto the stone. Rhaenyra placed a reassuring hand on the dragon's warm scales, feeling the deep connection that pulsed between them. This place, with its echoes of the past and its promises of the future, was where she felt most at ease, most powerful.
Dragons of all sizes rested within the massive confines of the pit, their presence a potent reminder of the power that House Targaryen still commanded. From hatchlings to the older, the legendary Dreamfyre and Caraxes. the Dragonpit was alive with the shifting, restless energy of these ancient creatures. Their breaths created a soft, rhythmic sound, like the rise and fall of a great heartbeat that echoed through the stone structure.
Rickon's eyes were wide with awe as he took in the sight of so many dragons in one place. "I've heard tales, but this…," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the words to express what he felt.
Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes at the sight of the red worm. her uncle was at home after the self-imposed war at the stepstone against the Triarchy's rule. She turned to Rickon, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's something, isn't it? This is the heart of our power, Rickon. The dragons make us what we are." Her voice carried the weight of generations, the pride of her bloodline clear in every word.
Rickon nodded, still taking in the sight. "It's no wonder the world fears your house," he said, his tone a mix of respect and something else—something that bordered on reverence. "But it's also a responsibility, one that shouldn't be taken lightly."
Rhaenyra met his gaze, appreciating the seriousness in his tone. "It's a burden as much as it is a gift," she admitted. "One that my family has carried for centuries. But it's also a part of who we are." here at King's Landing she couldn't help but think of the prophesy again.
Rickon's expression softened slightly "And now, it's something we'll face together."
They began the walk back towards the Red Keep, leaving Syrax to rest alongside the other dragons. Rickon fell into step beside her, his presence a steadying force as they walked. There was no need for words between them—both knew what awaited them within the walls of the Red Keep.
As the massive gates of the Red Keep loomed before them, Rhaenyra glanced at Rickon, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Welcome to King's Landing," she said softly, the weight of her words carrying both a welcome and a warning.
Rickon returned the smile, his gaze steady. "Let's see what your city has to offer."
With that, they stepped through the gates, leaving the quiet of the forest, of their morning together behind and walking into the heart of the storm.
As Rhaenyra led Rickon through the towering halls of the Red Keep, the cool stone under her feet contrasted sharply with the warmth of his presence just a few steps behind her. She was keenly aware of the space he kept between them, a space that felt more like a chasm within these walls. Out in the wilderness, there was no such distance. They were equals, exchanging knowledge—she was learning to skin a deer with precise cuts, and he fashioned a bow with the kind of skill that bespoke years of practice. But here, the boundaries were drawn, not by nature, but by the expectations and protocols that came with her title.
Inside the castle, Rickon's demeanor shifted, the wild, untamed energy she had come to know replaced with a reserved stillness. It was the first time he acknowledged her as Crown Princess, the first time she saw in his eyes that he understood the weight of her position. They had spoken often of how she could change the world, especially for women, and how effortless it seemed for him to grasp the intricacies of power—like breathing. Yet, it was only now, as they entered the heart of her world, that the enormity of what they were attempting truly struck her.
Rhaenyra's voice, steady and commanding, cut through the quiet air as she ordered a servant to bring new clothes for Rickon. She herself retreated to her chambers, her hands moving with purpose as she shed the dust of travel, replacing it with a gown of crimson and gold. The fabric flowed over her like liquid fire, the open sleeves brushing the air with each step. She braided her hair, simple yet elegant, the kind of style that spoke of both power and restraint.
An hour later, they stood side by side before the great doors of the council chamber. Rickon had changed as well, his new attire plain yet finely made, with no sigil or emblem to mark his lineage. Yet, Ice, his ancestral sword, remained at his hip, a silent reminder of who he was and where he came from.
As the doors creaked open, the buzz of conversation halted. The usual members of the council were present—Lord Lyonel Strong, the Hand of the King; Grand Maester Mellos; Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Laws; Ser Tyland Lannister, the Master of Coin; and Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Master of Ships. The addition of her uncle, Daemon Targaryen, seated with a casual indifference that belied the intensity of his gaze, was unexpected.
"Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen of Dragonstone," the knight announced with a reverent bow. As the council's eyes shifted from her to the man at her side, Rhaenyra took a breath, holding the moment in suspension.
"And Lord Rickon Stark of Winterfell," she added, her voice firm.
The council murmured, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Viserys, her father, looked more puzzled than anything else, his gaze flicking between his daughter and the man who now stood beside her. He had expected months more of suitor's meetings, endless introductions, and negotiations. Yet here was Rhaenyra, returning with a decision made.
Lord Strong nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. Grand Maester Mellos and Lord Beesbury followed suit, their approval cautious but present. Ser Tyland, however, scowled, the rejection of his marriage proposal still fresh, while Lord Corlys, who had hoped to wed her to his son, remained stoic, masking whatever thoughts churned beneath the surface.
It was Daemon who broke the silence with a smirk, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Rickon. "And where did you find a Stark, dear niece?" His tone was laced with amusement, but there was an edge to it, like a blade waiting to be drawn. "I thought they preferred their frozen wasteland to the comforts of the south."
Rickon met Daemon's gaze with a calm that contrasted the tension in the room. "We never had a reason to venture south before," he replied evenly. "We aren't fond of the heat—it has a way of suffocating a man."
Rhaenyra glanced at Rickon, a fondness creeping into her expression. Despite his dislike for the politics of the south, the man stood firm, unwavering, his presence a silent rebellion against everything he detested. He was here to change something, to forge a bond that, though fragile now, grew stronger with every passing hour. But her father's concern weighed heavily in the air, a tension she could feel in the tightening of his brow.
"You still have months left on your tour," Viserys said, his voice carrying the weariness of a man who had seen too much disappointment. "Returning early doesn't reflect well on our family."
Rhaenyra stood her ground, lifting her chin slightly. "The tour was to find a husband, and I saw no reason to continue once I found my intended." She gestured subtly towards Rickon. "Lord Rickon Stark seeks your approval. We have left the North to govern itself for too long, and it is time we honor their longstanding loyalty by strengthening our ties with them."
Lord Strong cleared his throat, drawing the room's attention. "The princess speaks truth. The North has governed itself with admirable loyalty. The Starks have always been known for their honesty, their honor—traits that are honor even to their base born children." He shot a glance at Rickon, who tensed, his hand tightening on the hilt of Ice, a reflex more than a threat.
Corlys Velaryon, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward. "I had hoped to offer my son as a match, considering the blood of Old Valyria runs strong in both our houses. Such an alliance would have bolstered your claim. But a Stark... is not an unworthy match."
The tension in the room ebbed slightly, but Ser Tyland's discontent simmered just beneath the surface. His objections, however, were weak, easily dismissed by the others. Even the Grand Maester, usually eager to align the crown with the Faith, seemed relieved that a Targaryen would not marry within their own family this time.
Rickon spoke then, his voice steady and unyielding. "With all respect, I am willing to undergo the ceremonies of any religion to marry Princess Rhaenyra. But I insist on both a Valyrian ceremony and a weirwood ceremony. If another is required, so be it."
There was no room for argument in his tone, and even the Grand Maester, who had been prepared to protest, relented under Rickon's unwavering gaze.
Talk turned to the details of the marriage contract, the logistics of the ceremonies, and the impending arrival of Rickon's family. The king, eager to make this union a grand spectacle, suggested various locations for the wedding, but Rhaenyra quickly settled on Harrenhal. The ancient castle was large enough to host an army, with a weirwood grove for the northern rites and a massive sept for the Faith's ceremonies. It was also the home of the Hand of the King, Lord Strong—a fact that did not escape anyone in the room.
As plans were finalized, Daemon leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous amusement. He couldn't resist needling her, his voice dripping with disdain as he spoke of his own wife, Lady Rhea Royce, with all the carelessness of a man discussing property. "My wife is more a sheep than a woman, I'd say. Better suited to bleating in the Vale than warming a man's bed."
Rhaenyra's jaw tightened, but before she could speak, Rickon's hand clenched around Ice, the leather of his glove creaking under the strain. His eyes burned with a quiet fury, but Rhaenyra placed a hand on his arm, a silent request for restraint.
"Dear Uncle," she said, her voice cold as the northern winds, "I think you've forgotten your place."
Daemon's eyes darkened, his amusement fading into something far more dangerous. "And what place would that be, niece?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "As a husband, you should be with your wife, fulfilling your duties. Some might say a woman of value could make even a dragon like you bend the knee. Perhaps your place is beside her, ensuring she carries your heir."
The room stilled, tension coiling like a snake ready to strike. Daemon's smile returned, sharper than before. "I'd rather fuck sheep," he snarled in High Valyrian.
Rhaenyra's smile was as sweet as poisoned honey as she replied in high Valyrian. "Then fuck all the sheep you want, Uncle, but fuck her first."
Viserys choked on his wine, and the council members looked confused and unwilling to engage in the family's affairs. Only Rickon remained focused, his expression unreadable as he watched the exchange.
Viserys, desperate to defuse the situation, quickly intervened. "I believe the princess is merely concerned about your prolonged absence from the Vale, Daemon. Your duties there are as important as your presence here."
Daemon and Viserys exchanged hushed words in High Valyrian, their voices low enough that even Rhaenyra couldn't catch all of it. When they finally turned back to the room, Viserys announced that Daemon would return to the Vale, though he would retain an unofficial position as the King's personal advisor—a role that would remain inactive until Daemon returned to court for an extended period.
As Viserys clasped Daemon's hand in a show of brotherly support, Rickon's hand brushed Rhaenyra's hand. It was a small gesture, but it carried the weight of It was a small gesture, but it carried the weight of reassurance, a silent promise that he was with her in this, no matter how dangerous the path ahead might be. The warmth of his touch lingered, a stark contrast to the cold formality of the council chamber, grounding her in the midst of the political storm.