Chapter 4: Where the Old Gods Listen
"In the shadows of ancient trees, where old gods listen, love is not just a bond but a promise—one that bridges past burdens with the hope of a shared future."
Rhaenyra watched as the council members rose, their chairs scraping against the stone floor, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. Her father, King Viserys, shifted in his ornate seat at the head of the table, his jeweled rings catching the light as he absently stroked his beard.
The golden crown atop Viserys's head glinted in the fading light streaming through the high windows, a stark reminder of the weight he bore. His eyes, bloodshot from too much wine and too little sleep, narrowed as they focused on Rickon. The Northman's tall, broad- shouldered frame seemed to dominate the room, despite his reserved stance. His presence was commanding in its quiet strength, his silver eyes sharp and perceptive as they surveyed the room.
Rhaenyra's gaze drifted to Rickon, standing tall and resolute beside her. His face was a mask of calm, but she could see the storm brewing in his eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she recognized the telltale sign of his internal struggle. Her heart quickened, sensing that something significant was about to unfold. There was a tension in the air, a sense of something unspoken hovering just below the surface.
As if on cue, Rickon stepped forward, his movements fluid yet restrained, like a wolf preparing to pounce. "Your Grace," he began, his northern accent more pronounced in the formal setting, "I request a private word with you and the princess."
Viserys paused, his hand freezing mid-stroke on his beard. He studied Rickon with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. The king's brow furrowed as he considered the request, his eyes flicking to Rhaenyra before returning to Rickon. "Very well," he said, his voice carrying the weariness of his years. He gestured for the remaining council members to leave, their departing footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.
Rhaenyra moved to stand beside her father, her silk gown whispering against the stone floor. She reached out to touch Rickon's arm, a gesture of comfort and solidarity, but he flinched away, his body tensing like a drawn bowstring. The rejection, however slight, sent a jolt through her, a reminder of the distance that still lay between them despite their growing bond.
"What troubles you, Lord Stark?" Viserys asked, leaning forward in his chair. His voice held a note of impatience, but also a curiosity that he could not conceal.
Rickon squared his shoulders, his hand unconsciously moving to rest on the pommel of Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark. The weapon, with its wolf's head hilt and gleaming Valyrian steel, was as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. "Your Grace, Princess," he began, his voice low and steady, "I feel compelled to disclose a personal matter before we proceed further with our betrothal."
Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat. Her pulse quickened as she watched Rickon's face tighten, lines of worry etching themselves around his eyes and mouth. She could feel the
weight of his words before they even left his lips, a sense of something irrevocable about to be revealed.
"On my fifteenth nameday," Rickon continued, his words measured and deliberate, "my uncle took me to a pleasure house. Nine moons later, a child was born. A girl. I've since brought her to Winterfell, where I'm raising her as my daughter."
The silence that followed was deafening. Rhaenyra felt as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet. Her mind raced, images of a dark-haired child with Rickon's silver eyes flashing before her. She glanced at her father, watching as his expression morphed from surprise to understanding.
Viserys leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He studied Rickon with a calculating gaze, his fingers drumming against the armrest. "A bastard, you say?" he mused, his tone contemplative. "Many lords have natural children, Lord Stark. It's hardly cause for such... gravity."
Rickon's jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as he gripped Ice's hilt. "With respect, Your Grace, I'm raising her as my daughter, not as a bastard."
Rhaenyra felt a surge of emotions—surprise, confusion, and something that felt dangerously close to admiration. She found herself speaking before she could fully process her thoughts. "It's a predicament," she said, her voice steadier than she felt, "but surely not an insurmountable one."
Viserys's eyes lit up, a spark of interest kindling in their depths. "In the North, women often take command, do they not?" he asked, leaning forward again. "What if we were to legitimize your daughter, Lord Stark? We could do so now, if you wish."
Rhaenyra's heart lurched. She saw the implications immediately—a legitimized daughter could threaten her future children's claim to Winterfell. She turned to Rickon, her violet eyes searching his face, silently pleading for... what? Reassurance? A decision?
Rickon stood as still as a statue, but Rhaenyra could see the internal struggle playing out in his eyes. His gaze met hers, and in that moment, she saw a depth of sorrow that made her want to reach out to him, to offer comfort. But she remained rooted to the spot, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
"Your Grace," Rickon said at last, his voice rough with emotion, "I made my decision before I came to the south with the proposal to your daughter. I have no wish to elevate my daughter's status, nor to hinder our betrothal. I simply wanted you to hear this from me, rather than through whispers and rumors."
Viserys nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Rickon. "A wise decision, Lord Stark," he said, his tone thoughtful. "And an honorable one." He turned to Rhaenyra, his expression softening. "Lord Stark, I believe the princess and I need to speak further on this matter. Would you give us a moment?"
Rickon inclined his head in acknowledgment and moved toward the door. His departure left a silence in the room that was almost oppressive. Rhaenyra's mind still reeled from the revelation, and as she cast one last glance at Rickon, she noticed the way his posture remained stiff and unyielding, like a warrior on the battlefield. At that moment, she realized that the man she had agreed to marry was far more complex than she had imagined, capable of both great love and great sacrifice. And despite the complications his revelation brought, she found herself more intrigued than ever by the enigma that was Rickon Stark.
As Rickon exited, the door closing behind him with a soft thud, the room seemed to grow colder, the weight of their conversation settling heavily on Rhaenyra's shoulders. She turned to her father, searching his face for some sign of reassurance, but found only the same contemplative expression he always wore when deep in thought.
Viserys's gaze met hers, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes— an acknowledgment of the difficult position she now found herself in. But beneath that understanding, there was also a hint of something else, something that Rhaenyra could not quite place. Was it concern? Or perhaps a reminder of the duty that bound her?
"My daughter," Viserys began, his voice softer now, "this is a delicate matter. Rickon Stark is an honorable man, and his candor today only reaffirms that. But you must consider carefully what this means for your future, for the future of our house."
Rhaenyra nodded, though her thoughts were still a whirl of confusion and conflicting emotions. "I understand, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But... I also see the strength in him. He is not a man to take his responsibilities lightly."
Viserys's expression softened, and he reached out to take her hand in his, his grip firm yet gentle. "That is true," he agreed, "but the question remains—are you prepared for the complexities this will bring? A legitimized daughter could complicate the line of succession in the North. And yet, if left as a natural child, her existence could still pose a challenge, especially if others seek to use her as a pawn."
Rhaenyra's heart ached at the thought, her mind flashing back to the intensity in Rickon's eyes as he spoke of his daughter. She knew, without a doubt, that he would protect his child with all the fierce loyalty that the Starks were known for. And she also knew that by accepting this man into her life, she would have to navigate those complexities alongside him.
"I don't see this as a weakness, Father," Rhaenyra said, her voice growing stronger. "Rickon's love for his daughter—his determination to raise her as his own despite the challenges—that is the kind of strength we need. He doesn't see her as a burden, but as his responsibility. That speaks to his character."
Viserys watched her closely, his expression inscrutable. "You've thought about this a great deal, haven't you?" he asked, his tone almost teasing, though his eyes were serious.
Rhaenyra nodded. "Yes. I have. And while I know it won't be easy, I believe it's a challenge worth facing. Rickon is a man of honor, and I believe he will stand by me as a partner, not just as a husband."
Viserys's gaze softened further, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Very well, then," he said, his voice laced with affection. "If this is your choice, Rhaenyra, then I will support you. But remember, the path ahead will not be simple. You must be prepared for the challenges that will come with it."
"I will be, Father," Rhaenyra replied, her resolve firm. She knew, deep in her heart, that this was the right decision. Whatever the future held, she and Rickon would face it together.
As the silence settled between them, Rhaenyra felt a sense of calm wash over her, a quiet certainty that had eluded her since the beginning of this conversation. She would navigate these complexities, and she would do so with the man she had chosen—a man who, despite his stoic exterior, had a depth of emotion and loyalty that mirrored her own.
She glanced back at the door, imagining Rickon waiting on the other side. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, a sense of anticipation mingling with the challenges that lay ahead. This was not just a marriage of duty; it was a union of two people who understood the weight of their responsibilities, and who were willing to shoulder them together.
The great council chamber, once oppressive and cold, now felt a little less daunting. Rhaenyra straightened her shoulders, a new determination settling within her.
Rhaenyra wandered into the godswood, her steps light yet purposeful, her heart thrumming with anticipation and uncertainty. The leaves of the weirwood tree rustled gently in the breeze, their deep red hue glowing like embers against the backdrop of the fading afternoon light. The air was cool, carrying the scent of earth and pine, and as she approached the ancient tree, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. The weirwood stood tall and imposing, its bark white as bone, and its carved face seemed to watch her with a knowing gaze, its deep red eyes filled with an ancient, solemn wisdom.
She had come here seeking solace, a moment of quiet in which to gather her thoughts. But as she neared the base of the tree, she realized she was not alone. Rickon Stark stood on the other side of the weirwood, his back to her as he studied the tree's gnarled roots. His broad shoulders were tense, and his silver eyes were distant, lost in thought. The sight of him, so still and silent, sent a flutter through her chest.
For a moment, she hesitated, unsure whether to intrude. But something compelled her to step closer, to bridge the distance between them. The rustling of leaves underfoot announced her
presence, and Rickon turned, his expression softening as he recognized her.
"Princess," he greeted her, his voice low and resonant, a sound that seemed to meld with the gentle murmur of the godswood. There was a hint of surprise in his tone, as if he hadn't expected to find her here.
"Rickon," she replied, her own voice a whisper in the quiet of the grove. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had come to say. "I've made my decision."
His brow furrowed slightly, his eyes searching hers for a moment. The breeze caught a lock of his dark hair, brushing it across his forehead. "And what decision is that, Princess?" he asked, his tone careful as if bracing himself for what might come next.
Rhaenyra shifted her weight, the hem of her gown brushing against the mossy ground. "I've decided to continue with our betrothal," she began, her words measured, deliberate. She watched as his expression remained guarded, his eyes narrowing slightly in anticipation. "But there is one condition."
Rickon's posture stiffened slightly, but he nodded for her to continue. "A condition?" he echoed, his voice a touch wary now, though he tried to mask it with neutrality.
Rhaenyra's fingers played with the delicate fabric of her gown, gathering her thoughts. "Your daughter," she said, choosing her words carefully, "she must come to the wedding. I want her to be there with us."
For a moment, Rickon said nothing, his gaze fixed on her as if he were trying to read her intentions, to understand the full weight of what she was asking. The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken thoughts and unvoiced fears.
"The girl's name is Sara," Rickon finally said, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "Sara Snow." There was a tenderness in his tone that she hadn't heard before, a deep-seated affection that made her heart ache with a strange mix of emotions—jealousy, empathy, and something else she couldn't quite name.
"Sara Snow," Rhaenyra repeated, letting the name settle in her mind. It was a name she knew would carry a legacy of its own, a name that would be whispered in the corridors of Winterfell and beyond. "She's important to you," she added softly, though it was more of a statement than a question.
Rickon's gaze softened, his eyes reflecting the warmth that he felt for the child. "She's my daughter," he said simply, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did. In that moment, Rhaenyra could see how much the girl meant to him, how she was more than just a responsibility—she was a part of him, a piece of his heart.
A deep breath shuddered through Rhaenyra, and she stepped closer to Rickon, close enough that the warmth of his body sent a familiar jolt through her. Their proximity was electric, the air between them charged with an unspoken connection that seemed to spark whenever they
were near. "I've decided that I will love her," she said, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "Maybe it will take minutes, or hours, or days… perhaps even years. But I will love her as if she were my own daughter."
Rickon's expression shifted, the guardedness in his eyes giving way to something deeper, more vulnerable. His hand moved almost of its own accord, reaching out to gently grasp her hand. The moment their skin touched, a burning sensation shot up Rhaenyra's arm, as if her very blood had ignited with the intensity of their connection. "You would do that?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion, as if he could hardly believe her words.
Rhaenyra squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles, and felt that same jolt again, as though the simple act of touching him forged a bond stronger than any words could express. "I will," she promised, her voice firm. "Because she's a part of you, Rickon. And if I'm to marry you, then she must be a part of me too."
For a long moment, Rickon simply looked at her, his gaze intense and searching. He seemed to be weighing her words, testing their truth. Then, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he exhaled slowly, his grip on her hand tightening. The warmth of his skin against hers was almost overwhelming, a constant reminder of the fire that smoldered between them.
"There are not many who would be so understanding," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. "Especially given the circumstances."
Rhaenyra felt a lump form in her throat, but she pushed it down, focusing on the warmth of his hand in hers. "I know what it's like to feel alone, to be controlled by all but your wants, life never yours," she said softly, her voice tinged with a vulnerability she rarely showed. "Sara shouldn't have to bear that burden. And neither should you."
Rickon's eyes softened, and at that moment, Rhaenyra could see the man behind the stoic exterior—the man who cared deeply, who loved fiercely, and who would protect those he loved at any cost. Without another word, he stepped forward, closing the small distance between them, and with a gentleness that belied his strength, he pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was brief, just a soft brush of lips, but the impact was electric. The moment their lips met, a searing heat flared between them, as if every nerve in Rhaenyra's body had caught fire. It was a kiss that carried with it a promise—a promise of understanding, of acceptance, of a future where they would stand side by side, no matter what came their way. When they pulled apart, Rickon's hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin with a tenderness that made her heart ache and her skin burn in the most exhilarating way.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, and Rhaenyra could feel the tremor in his hand as he held hers. "For accepting her… for accepting us." and she knew he meant him and his daughter as a unit, for not separating them.
Rhaenyra smiled, a small, tentative smile that grew as she looked into his eyes. The lingering sensation of his touch sent another ripple of warmth through her. She nodded and leanded at his shoulder.
As the leaves of the weirwood whispered above them, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them standing there, hand in hand, their connection a living, breathing thing that pulsed with heat and life. Rhaenyra leaned more into Rickon's embrace, letting the warmth of his arms surround her, knowing that they would find their way together, no matter how long it took.