Chapter 5: Veils of Winter
"Where fire meets ice, the heart's true battle lies—not in the clash of swords, but in the quiet spaces between, where love and duty wage their silent war."
Rhaenyra
The next morning, Rhaenyra searched for Rickon, her footsteps echoing softly through the corridors of the Red Keep. Her mind was occupied with the pressing task of selecting her ladies-in-waiting—a duty that required careful thought. These women would accompany her to the North, and as the future Lady of Winterfell, it was essential that they were of noble birth and high standing. But despite the importance of this task, her thoughts frequently drifted to Rickon, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern over his absence.
The hall of the Red Keep was bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the high arched windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the lingering aroma of the breakfast feast that had been served earlier. Servants bustled quietly in the background, their footsteps barely audible on the polished marble as they cleared away the remnants of the meal. The hall was a place of power and grandeur, with towering columns adorned with banners bearing the sigils of the great houses of Westeros.
Ser Harwin Strong followed closely behind her as she rounded a corner, his presence as constant as ever in the absence of her sworn shield. "Perhaps Lady Della Arryn from the Vale," she mused aloud, considering her mother's niece. "And Lady Missynda Tully, Lord Grover Tully's granddaughter, given the close ties between House Stark and the Riverlands… A lady from the northern houses but I should ask Rickon who he thinks would be best." The idea of including Laena Velaryon, her cousin, also crossed her mind.
However, Rhaenyra was torn about whether to invite another lady from the northern houses. Just as she was contemplating this, she came upon Queen Alicent Hightower, who was accompanied by her three young children and two wet nurses. The sight of them stopped Rhaenyra in her tracks.
Aegon, who was only four years old, clung to his mother's skirts, his large violet eyes wide with apprehension as he caught sight of Rhaenyra. Helaena, now over two years old, shyly hid behind the wet nurse's gown, peeking out with a curious but cautious expression. Little Aemond, just a year old, was nestled in the arms of the other wet nurse, his tiny hand gripping a lock of his ivory blond hair.
Rhaenyra's gaze lingered on the children, all of whom bore the unmistakable Targaryen features—pale hair and violet eyes, a reminder of the bloodline they shared. But the sight of Alicent with her brood stirred something unpleasant within her, memories of the past resurfacing with a bitter edge. She had never truly liked the queen, not since the day her father had forced her to share lessons with her, treating Alicent—a noble-born lady—as if she were an equal to the princess.
Rheanyra stopped and stood near one of the windows, her gaze momentarily drifting to the courtyard below, where Rickon Stark was likely preparing for his tour of the city. Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar rustle of silk skirts, and she turned to see Queen Alicent Hightower gliding towards her, her expression carefully composed. The queen's green gown, embroidered with intricate patterns of golden thread, seemed to shimmer as she moved, the fabric hugging her slender form with regal precision.
"Princess," Alicent greeted her, her voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent of something sharper. The queen's eyes flicked over Rhaenyra's form, lingering on the absence of Rickon. The corners of her lips twitched into a semblance of a smile, though it held little warmth. "It seems you're alone this morning, a day after your announcement at the dinner feast that you're to be wed. Where might your betrothed be?"
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the subtle sneer in Alicent's tone. The princess forced a smile, one that was more a baring of teeth than an expression of genuine pleasure. "Rickon is touring the city with the commander of the Royal Guard," she replied evenly, her voice steady. "He takes his duty to understand the lives of the smallfolk and his future role at my side seriously."
As they spoke, Rhaenyra noticed the children peeking out from behind their mother. Aegon, his narrow face framed by unruly golden curls, stared at Rhaenyra with wide eyes, his small hands clutching Alicent's skirts as if they were a lifeline. Helaena, her chubish features partially obscured by the wet nurse's protective embrace, looked at Rhaenyra with a mixture of curiosity and fear, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of the nurse's gown.
Alicent's smile twisted into something mocking as she glanced down at her children, then back at Rhaenyra. "My children seem... intimidated. Strangers can be terrifying for small children," she said, her voice light and airy, but the barb hidden within was unmistakable. "I do hope your northern wolf isn't as fearsome as you."
Rhaenyra's smile remained fixed, though her temper flared at the queen's words. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she held herself in check, her posture remaining regal and composed. "Rickon has many qualities, Your Grace," she replied coolly, her tone cutting like a finely honed blade. "He is as gentle as the situation demands, even with strangers... or children. He would never harm anyone without cause."
Alicent's gaze hardened, the subtle tension between them growing more palpable with each passing moment. The queen's fingers tightened slightly on Aegon's shoulder, the motion almost imperceptible but telling. "Of course," she murmured, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "A mother must always think of her children's safety and well-being, after all."
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed the queen's insinuation landing like a slap across her face. The resentment she had harbored for years, the memories of how Otto Hightower had maneuvered his daughter into the king's bed, of how her father had remarried so soon after her mother's death, all came rushing back, feeding the fire that burned within her.
"And their future, I'm sure," Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with a biting edge. "How about sending Aegon to be a ward at Winterfell when he reaches seven? It would be good for him to know another life beyond the Red Keep. After all, he wouldn't live here all his life."
Alicent's composure cracked, her eyes widening in shock before narrowing in anger. "You mean to send him away as you become queen?" she yelled, her voice high and sharp, the words echoing through the hall. Aegon, startled by his mother's outburst, disappeared further behind her skirts, his small frame trembling with fear.
Rhaenyra didn't flinch, her gaze steady as she watched the queen's reaction. "He won't be my heir," she said, her voice calm and measured, though the tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. "And he will marry eventually. Perhaps to an heiress who could benefit from the connection to the Royal family. Maybe even to a heiress from the north."
The queen's face flushed with anger, her lips pressed into a thin line as she struggled to regain control. Around them, courtiers began to gather, drawn by the raised voices and the brewing confrontation. Their whispers filled the hall, a low murmur of speculation and curiosity that only added to the charged atmosphere.
Alicent's voice, when she spoke again, was low and trembling with barely suppressed fury. "You would send my son away from me, to that frozen wasteland, just to secure your own position?" Her words were laced with venom, each one a dagger aimed directly at Rhaenyra's heart.
Rhaenyra met the queen's gaze without blinking, her voice steady as she responded. "I would ensure he is well-prepared for the life he is to lead, Your Grace. The North is no wasteland; it is a land of strength and resilience. Aegon could learn much there, and he would return stronger for it. Would you not want your son to be strong?"
The queen's hand clenched into a fist at her side, the tension between them now a palpable force that filled the hall. The courtiers around them exchanged glances, sensing the gravity of the moment, the power struggle that was playing out before their eyes.
For a moment, it seemed as though Alicent might lash out, her fury barely contained. But then, with a visible effort, she forced herself to calm, her breathing deepening as she regained control. "You may play your games, Princess," she said, her voice cold as ice, "but do not think I will allow you to dictate my children's futures. Aegon will remain here, where he belongs, and where he will be safe."
Rhaenyra's smile was a cold, sharp thing, like the edge of a Valyrian steel blade. "We shall see, Your Grace," she replied, her tone a quiet challenge. "We shall see."
The tension between them hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as the courtiers watched with bated breath. It was a battle of wills, a clash of queens, and though no swords were drawn, the wounds inflicted were deep and lasting. As Alicent turned away, gathering her children close to her, Rhaenyra remained standing, her gaze fixed on the queen's retreating form, a spark of triumph flickering in her eyes.
The whispers of the courtiers grew louder as the queen and her children left the hall, the air thick with speculation and intrigue. Rhaenyra knew that this was just the beginning of the conflict between them, a conflict that would shape the future of the realm in ways neither of them could yet imagine. But for now, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile, knowing that she had stood her ground and planted the first seed of doubt in Alicent's mind.
Even amidst the mounting conflict over the Stepstones, a tension simmered not just in the great hall but within her as well. The war had been won, but the question of what to do next weighed heavily on the small council. Rhaenyra, with her mind always turning toward the future, had voiced her belief that a stronghold should be built there, to safeguard against future threats. It was a strategic move, one she was certain Rickon would have supported had he not been so distant.
Yet, her father, King Viserys, and his council were reluctant to act, their pride wounded by the fact that Daemon and Lord Corlys had waged this war without their consent. They feared that establishing a fortress would seem like an endorsement of their unsanctioned actions, a tacit approval of the rebellious nature of the campaign. The council, filled with older men more concerned with preserving their dignity than with the practicalities of defense, dismissed her suggestions with patronizing smiles and thinly veiled condescension.
Rhaenyra's frustration grew with each passing day. She could see the dangers ahead, the threats lurking just beyond the horizon, but her voice was drowned out by the cautious murmurs of men more concerned with appearances than with the realities of their realm. She longed to discuss her ideas with Rickon, to seek his counsel and find solace in his perspective. But each time she turned to him at those endless dinners, his attention was elsewhere—distant, distracted, and entirely out of reach.
It was as though the very stones of the Red Keep conspired to separate them, leaving her to wrestle alone with the knowledge that the realm was on a precipice, teetering between security and chaos. And all the while, the council debated and deferred, refusing to make the hard decisions, while Rickon remained an absent place at her side.
"What did you do today?" Rhaenyra's voice was light, almost too light, as she tried to mask the deeper currents of emotion that swirled within her. The soft glow of the candles flickered against the stone walls of the great hall, casting long shadows that seemed to dance and shift with every breath she took.
Rickon paused, his hand hovering over his plate for a moment before he looked up at her. His gaze was brief, his eyes dark and inscrutable, before they flicked back down to the food before him. "I trained with the City Watch," he said, his tone even, as if that simple statement could explain the hours he had spent away from her. "They're disciplined, but they lack the unity of Northern warriors."
Rhaenyra nodded, though her fingers traced the edge of her goblet with restless energy, the cool metal grounding her as she struggled to find the right words. The room around them was filled with the low murmur of conversation, but all she could hear was the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat, pulsing in her ears. "And tomorrow?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Rickon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. But then he spoke, his tone betraying none of the turmoil she felt churning beneath the surface. "I'll be riding out to inspect the fortifications along the Blackwater," he replied, his voice calm, steady—too steady, as if he were trying to keep something at bay.
She watched him closely, the candlelight playing off the strong lines of his face, casting shadows across the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the firm set of his mouth. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers, but the distance between them felt like a chasm that she couldn't cross. The memory of his kiss lingered in the back of her mind, a ghost of a touch that haunted her every thought.
Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat as she hesitated, the words she wanted to say trapped by the fear of rejection. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak, even if it was only a fraction of what she truly wanted to say. "Be careful," she murmured, her voice soft, almost pleading.
Rickon's gaze lifted to hers again, and this time, he held it for just a heartbeat longer. There was something in his eyes, something that flickered and then faded, like a distant star obscured by the clouds. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips, a fleeting expression that did little to ease the weight pressing down on her chest. "Always," he replied, his voice carrying a quiet, unspoken promise.
But it wasn't enough. The tension between them crackled like the distant rumble of thunder before a storm, a charged silence that hung heavy in the air. Rhaenyra's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her goblet, the cool metal offering little comfort as she lifted it to her lips. She could feel his eyes on her, feel the heat of his gaze as it lingered on her for just a moment longer than necessary.
The space between them felt suffocating, the unspoken words, the unfulfilled desires, all pressing down on her like a weight she couldn't escape. She wanted to pull him close and demand to know what was keeping him away from her. But she was paralyzed by the fear that if she did, he would pull away even further, retreating behind the walls he had built around himself.
The thought of him out there, alone on the Blackwater, inspecting fortifications while she remained behind in the suffocating confines of the Red Keep, filled her with a sense of dread. The world outside was dangerous, filled with threats both known and unknown, and the thought of him facing them without her by his side made her heart ache with a longing she could barely contain.
But all she could do was offer him that small, sad smile, a fragile mask for the storm of emotions raging within her. "You don't have to go alone, Rickon, we can go together" she whispered, her voice trembling ever so slightly as she struggled to keep the desperation from seeping through. "You don't have to face everything on your own."
Rickon's expression softened, just a fraction, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something—regret, longing, perhaps even fear—in his eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by the same calm, unreadable mask he had worn since that kiss. "I know," he said, his voice low, almost soothing. "I have a battle of mine to fight, your presence will only distract me."
Rhaenyra's heart clenched at his words, the understanding between them deepening the chasm rather than bridging it. She could see the struggle in him, the conflict between duty and desire, but she knew that for now, he was not ready to let her in, not completely.
And so, she nodded, forcing herself to accept the distance he was placing between them, even as every fiber of her being ached to close it. "Win that battle and come back to me," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, filled with a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show.
Rickon's hand tightened slightly around his goblet, the only outward sign of the emotion he was holding back. "You have my word," he repeated, the word heavy with meaning, a promise that hung between them like a fragile thread.
The meal continued, the sounds of the great hall rising and falling around them, but for Rhaenyra, the world had narrowed to just the two of them, locked in a silent battle of wills, both too stubborn to make the first move, and too afraid of what might happen if they did.
And so they sat, side by side yet worlds apart, each lost in their own thoughts, each yearning for the other, but held back by the walls they had built, the fears they couldn't quite shake, and the memories of a kiss that had changed everything, yet nothing at all.
As the night wore on, and she retired to her chambers, she couldn't shake the feeling that something precious was slipping away, something she didn't know how to hold onto.
Rickon
Rickon Stark spent the week after their kiss in a state of constant turmoil, torn between the intense attraction he felt for Rhaenyra Targaryen and the strict code of honor ingrained in him since childhood. The kiss lingered on his lips, a memory both tender and fierce, a pull that had him longing to be near her again. But every time he felt that longing swell in his chest, he was reminded of the responsibilities that weighed heavily on his shoulders, especially the future of his daughter, Sara, whose legitimacy and safety were at the forefront of his mind and now out of reach forever.
Each morning, Rickon rose before dawn, the cold light of early morning filtering through the heavy drapes of his chamber in the Red Keep. The chill in the air matched the steeliness he tried to forge within himself, a barrier against the warm memories that threatened to overtake his resolve. As he dressed, fastening the buckles of his leather armor with deliberate care, he would glance at the mirror, catching sight of his own reflection—eyes shadowed by sleepless nights, jaw clenched with the weight of unspoken words. He had to remain strong, not just for himself, but for Rhaenyra, for Sara, for the North, for the future.
On the first day, he patrolled the docks, letting the salty tang of the sea air fill his lungs and clear his mind. The docks were alive with the hustle and bustle of the city's lifeblood—the steady flow of goods and silver, the creak of wooden crates being hauled off ships by rough hands, the sharp commands of foremen cutting through the morning mist. Rickon moved through the throngs of dockworkers and merchants, his eyes scanning the activity with a soldier's precision. He noted the way the dockworkers' muscles strained under the weight of their burdens, the sweat that glistened on their brows despite the cool breeze coming off the water. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the distant cry of gulls above created a symphony of sound that should have been soothing. Yet, beneath it all, his thoughts strayed back to Rhaenyra—how her silver hair had glowed in the firelight in the woods, how her violet eyes had looked at him with warmth and acceptance, how collected and self-assured she being in the small council.
But even as he tried to focus on the sights before him, her presence loomed in his mind, making his resolve to keep his distance all the more difficult. He could still see her face when she had learned about Sara—no judgment, only kindness and surprise, Thinking of Sara's future as the girl's future mattered as much to her as her own. It was a grace that deepened his respect for her, but it also made him question his decision to pull away. Could he truly distance himself from someone who had shown such understanding, such a willingness to embrace the future they could have together?
The second day found him in the markets, where the vibrant chaos of King's Landing unfolded before him in a riot of colors and sounds. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden light over the bustling stalls. The scent of spices—cinnamon, cloves, and saffron—mingled with the earthy aroma of freshly baked bread, wafting through the air and making his stomach twist with hunger. The market was a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and the occasional cry of a child. Vendors hawked their wares, their voices rising above the crowd, competing for the attention of passersby. Rickon moved through the crowded lanes, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his presence both commanding and unnoticed in the throng of people.
He passed by a stall where a merchant, his face weathered by years of sun and salt, was haggling over the price of a bolt of silk. The vibrant hues of the fabric—deep purples, rich reds, and shimmering golds—caught Rickon's eye, reminding him of the Targaryen colors. The sight stirred something within him, a longing he quickly pushed aside. He had to focus on the future he was trying to secure—not just for himself, but for Sara and his future children, for the North, and perhaps, for Rhaenyra as well. Every exchange of silver, every conversation with a merchant, reminded him of the responsibilities that now seemed heavier than ever. The thought of not being able to legitimize Sara gnawed at him, a dream that now felt distant and unattainable.
By the third day, he threw himself into training with the City Watch, seeking the solace of physical exertion. The training grounds were a stark contrast to the lively markets—a place of discipline and order, where the clash of steel on steel filled the air. The sun bore down on them, relentless and unforgiving, as Rickon moved through the drills with practiced ease. Ice, His sword cut through the air with a precision that spoke of years of training, each swing a release of the tension coiled tight in his chest. The clang of metal rang in his ears, a harsh but welcome sound that drowned out the turmoil within him. But even as he fought, his thoughts would drift back to Rhaenyra.
When he joined the royal guards for training on the fourth day, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, the heat mingling with the scent of sweat and metal. The guardsmen moved with a grace that spoke of years of experience, their swords glinting in the sunlight as they clashed in mock battle. Rickon's muscles burned with exertion, his breaths coming in short, sharp bursts as he pushed himself harder, faster. The physical strain was a temporary reprieve, a way to keep his mind from wandering. But when the training ended and the quiet of the evening settled in, the memory of Rhaenyra's touch returned, unbidden, along with the guilt of letting the opportunity to secure Sara's future slip through his fingers. it was a circle he couldn't break.
The only time he allowed himself near her was at dinner. The great hall of the Red Keep buzzed with conversation, the clatter of goblets and plates a familiar backdrop to his inner turmoil. The room was filled with the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and freshly baked bread, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow over the gathered lords and ladies. Rickon sat at Rhaenyra's right, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, yet distant in his thoughts. He could sense her eyes on him, the weight of her gaze like a physical touch, but he kept his own focus on his plate, resisting the urge to reach out, to let himself be drawn back into the connection they had shared.
Despite every thought, Rickon couldn't help but feel grateful—grateful for Rhaenyra's acceptance, for her understanding, for the possibility that still lingered in the air between them.
As the days passed, Rickon became more consumed by the conflict within him, torn between duty and desire, between the future he had always envisioned and the one that now seemed just out of reach. The weight of his decision pressed down on him like a storm cloud, dark and unrelenting, its presence a constant shadow over his every move.
And so, each night, he lay awake in his chamber, the soft glow of the moon casting a pale light across the stone walls, the memory of Rhaenyra's kiss a bittersweet ache that haunted him in the quiet hours before dawn. He knew he couldn't keep avoiding her forever, knew that they would have to confront the tension between them eventually. But for now, all he could do was hold on, wrestling his emotions into submission, and hope that when the time came, he would have the strength to do what was right—not just for himself, but for everyone who depended on him.
Rhaenyra
The great hall of the Red Keep was alive with the sounds of revelry—the clatter of goblets against wooden tables, the murmur of conversations mixing with the occasional burst of laughter, and the distant notes of a lute being plucked by a musician near the hearth. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and burning candles, but Rhaenyra could hardly focus on any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her gaze fixed on the man seated just a few feet away.
Rickon Stark sat at her right, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he spoke with Lord Loynel Strong. His voice was low, his words measured, but Rhaenyra could see the tension in the way he held himself, the way his fingers tapped absently against the goblet in his hand. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked towards her every now and then, only to quickly look away, as if he were afraid of what he might find in her gaze.
Finally, unable to bear the silence between them any longer, she leaned slightly toward him, her voice barely a whisper as she called his name. "Rickon."
He looked up from his conversation, his gaze locking onto hers. For a moment, the noise of the hall faded into the background, and it was just the two of them, separated by mere inches but feeling as though they were worlds apart. His expression was careful, guarded, as if he were bracing himself for something.
"Yes, Princess?" he responded, his voice steady, though she could detect the underlying tension, the same tension that had kept them at odds for days.
Rhaenyra hesitated, the words she truly wanted to say lingered just out of reach— *Stay with me. Be here with me, face these fears together.* She longed to reach out, to take his hand and close the growing distance between them, but something held her back. The weight of duty, of expectations, bore down on her, making it difficult to voice her deepest feelings.
Rhaenyra's heart twisted in her chest. She could sense the deliberate distance he was trying to maintain, the barriers he was putting up between them, and it hurt more than she wanted to admit. She had always admired his sense of duty, his unwavering commitment to doing what was right, but now it felt like an impenetrable wall between them, keeping her at arm's length.
"Rickon," she began again, her voice trembling slightly as she struggled to keep it steady. She wanted to tell him how much she missed him, how much she wanted him, how she long to go back to the moments in the forest, but the words felt too vulnerable, too raw. Instead, she shifted in her seat, her fingers tightening around the goblet in her hand. "What is it that you're afraid of?"
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, longing, she wasn't sure. But it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the calm, composed mask he had worn for so long.
"I'm not afraid," he said quietly, though she could hear the uncertainty in his voice. "It's just… there are things I need to process, to sort out in my mind. Futures I need to let go of before I can move forward."
Rhaenyra frowned, her heart sinking at his words. "Futures? Is it our future you're considering, Rickon? Why can't you share your thoughts with me? We're supposed to be partners in this, aren't we?"
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table between them. She watched as he ran a hand through his dark hair, the strands catching the light of the nearby torches. "There's so much to think about, Rhaenyra," he said finally, his voice low and strained. "Our future, your future, Sara's future… the future of the North. It was a dream to legitimize Sara, and now I realize I will never be able to do it. Letting go of that future is harder than I expected."
She felt a sharp pang of hurt at his words, the implication that his feelings for her might jeopardize everything. "Do you think being with me is a mistake? That I'm endangering your child's happiness?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the pain clear in her tone.
Rickon's head snapped up, his eyes wide with alarm. "No, that's not what I meant," he said quickly, his voice full of regret. "It's not you, Rhaenyra. It's me… it's everything that comes with who I am, and what I have to protect. I care about you, more than I can express, but I need time to be sure that this is the right path."
She reached out then, her hand brushing against his on the table, her touch light but determined. "Rickon, if you truly want to, we can annul our betrothal and legitimize Sara, but be certain that it's what you want... I know you're trying to protect everyone, but sometimes… sometimes you have to take a risk, even if it means hurting someone. It's part of ruling, making the hard decisions. You need to decide which future you value more—our future, changing things for countless women, or ensuring Sara's happiness. I've already told you I would love her as my own, and that means providing for her future. What is worth fighting for? which future is it be?"
He stared at her, his expression torn between the desire to pull her close and the fear of what that might mean. The tension in the air between them was almost tangible, a charged current filled with all the things they were too afraid to say out loud.
Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world rested on them. "I want to change the future for everyone, but I realize I may have to let go of the respectable future I dreamed for her," he murmured, his voice softening. "I want to believe that I made the right choice. Because I chose our future."
Her fingers tightened around his, her grip a silent plea for him to see that they could do this. That they could change life for the better for the population but it must be together. "You don't have to protect me from your thoughts," she said firmly, her eyes locking onto his. "I'm not asking you to give up your duty or your honor. I'm just asking you to let me in, be there, and work the difficulties together, Rickon. But you have to trust me."
His gaze softened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might finally let down the walls he had built around himself. But then, as if sensing the eyes of the hall upon them, he gently pulled his hand away, the warmth of her touch fading as he withdrew into himself once more.
"I'll try," he said, his voice barely audible, tinged with a sadness that mirrored her own.
As the night wore on, and the hall began to empty, Rhaenyra felt a deep sense of loss settle over her. When she finally retired to her chambers, She stood by the window, staring out at the darkened city, and wondered how much longer they could keep this up.
The stars above glittered cold and distant, offering no comfort, only a cruel reminder of what could have been. As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Rhaenyra knew that for now, all she could do was wait, and hope that when the time came, Rickon would find the strength to be whole with the choice of choosing them, of choosing her.
The dawn broke with a pale light, casting long shadows across the Red Keep. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of sea salt and the distant clamor of King's Landing as it began to stir to life. In the great hall, Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the top of the steps, her heart thudding with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. Today marked the eighth day of Rickon's estrangement, and with the arrival of his Northern party, the reality of their situation weighed heavily on her.
The heavy doors to the hall groaned open, admitting a gust of cold air that seemed out of place in the warm southern climate. The Northmen entered, led by Ser Criston Cole, who flanked them with his ever-watchful eyes. Behind him, the Northern party moved with a quiet, purposeful grace, their presence starkly different from the courtiers who usually filled these halls.
Rhaenyra pondered why it had taken them a full seven days to reach King's Landing, especially since Rickon had once mentioned his preference for swift travel. Perhaps what he considered "fast" had meant a grueling pace that now allowed his party to slow down and recover. Yet something about the delay unsettled her. The Northern party, from their hardened expressions to their purposeful strides, appeared to be people accustomed to a brisk pace. And she knew Ser Criston Cole to favor riding hard and fast. The discrepancy gnawed at her, leaving her with an uneasy feeling she couldn't quite shake.
First among them was sure Bernard Stark, Rickon's uncle, a man who carried the unmistakable bearing of the Starks of Winterfell. His deep dark hair, unruly and thick, framed a face that seemed hewn from the same ancient stone that made up the walls of Winterfell. His piercing gray eyes, as cold and unforgiving as the North itself, swept the hall, taking in every detail with a calm yet penetrating gaze. The heavy direwolf fur cloak draped over his shoulders.
Rhaenyra's breath hitched slightly as their eyes met, the weight of his gaze nearly tangible. He nodded to her, a gesture of respect that carried the weight of his house's ancient honor. Before jumping off the back of the horse. His presence was commanding, and yet, there was a quiet melancholy in his eyes, he seemed younger than she envisioned, no older than ten and twenty.
Beside him was a man she presume is Cley Cerwyn, the heir to House Cerwyn. He was younger, no more than eight and ten. His features still bore the signs of youth but were tempered by the responsibilities that came with his station, as the closest alliance of the Stark and Rickon best friends. His chestnut brown hair, thick and tousled, gave him a rugged appearance, as though he had just returned from a long ride through the wilds. His striking green eyes, the color of deep pine forests, were sharp and alert, missing nothing as he observed the room. The heavy cloak of dark brown wool he wore, added to his formidable presence. The silver bear brooch that fastened it glinted in the morning light, a proud symbol of his betrothed house.
Rhaenyra noticed the way his gaze flicked to her briefly, the quiet intensity in his eyes suggesting a mind always at work, always calculating. His bearing spoke of a young man fully aware of the legacy he would one day inherit, and the battle axe strapped to his back—a finely crafted weapon with a double-bladed steelhead—seemed an extension of his will, both a symbol of his house's martial prowess.
Behind them stood the only women in the party, Meage Mormont, a woman who could only be described as a force of nature. Her sharp jawline and prominent cheekbones gave her a fierce appearance, while her steady, piercing eyes—dark brown and unyielding—seemed to take in everything at once. The rough, wind-burned skin of her face spoke of a life lived in the harsh conditions of Bear Island, her strong, sturdy build a testament to years of warrior training.
She wore practical clothing suited for the cold—a mix of furs and heavy woolen garments in dark, earthy tones that mirrored the rugged landscape of her home. The simplicity of her attire was deceptive; there was a raw, elemental beauty in the way she carried herself, a strength that seemed to radiate from within. Around her neck hung a silver necklace, a delicate bear-shaped pendant that caught Rhaenyra's eye. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and Rhaenyra wondered at the story behind it—an unexpected touch of gentleness in this warrior woman, a gift from her betrothed, no doubt.
As the Northern party approached, Rhaenyra felt a surge of emotion—pride, anxiety. These were the people Rickon had grown up with, the men and women who had shaped him into the man he was today. She could see in them the qualities that Rickon carried—strength, honor, a deep-seated loyalty that ran as cold and unyielding as the winter winds of the North.
Rhaenyra stood at the top of the steps, her gaze sweeping over the Northern party. The great hall of the Red Keep echoed with the sounds of the early morning—servants bustling about, the clatter of armor as guards took their positions, and the distant murmur of the city waking beyond the walls. The dawn had broken, casting a pale light through the narrow windows, and the air carried the faint scent of sea salt, mingling with the crispness of the morning.
As they entered, a gust of hot air followed them, a reminder of the weather outside. The Northern lords moved with a quiet, purposeful grace, their presence a stark contrast to the usual courtiers who filled these halls with their fawning and intrigue. Ser Criston Cole, ever her shadow, flanked them, his armor gleaming in the dim light, his eyes scanning the room with a watchful intensity.
Bernard Stark, a man of few words but immense presence, was the first to speak. His voice, a low rumble like distant thunder, reverberated through the hall. "Princess Rhaenyra," he said, bowing slightly, his broad shoulders making the motion seem almost awkward. His tone was respectful but off in the setting. "It is an honor to be in your presence."
Rhaenyra inclined her head in response, her voice steady even as her emotions churned beneath the surface. "The honor is mine, Lord Stark. Welcome to King's Landing."
Next was Cley Cerwyn, whose striking green eyes met hers with a brief intensity that made her pulse quicken. He stepped forward, his movements smooth and calculated, bowing with a grace that contrasted with his rugged appearance. "Princess," he greeted her, his voice carrying a smoothness that belied an underlying edge, as though he were measuring her with each word. A glint of mischief danced in his eyes. "I trust our Lord has not disappointed you."
Rhaenyra managed a small smile, though her heart was racing. "Not at all, Lord Cerwyn," she replied, sensing the dual meaning behind his words. There was something about him that intrigued her—a sharpness, a wit that seemed to challenge her even in this brief exchange.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Well, Princess, I must say, you didn't waste any time choosing to marry our dear Rickon," he jested, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Can't say I blame you, though. That Stark brood does have a way of turning heads. Must be the good looks, eh?"
Maege Mormont let out a short laugh, her sharp eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, don't give Rickon all the credit, Cley," she teased, her voice tinged with that dry Northern humor. "You're not too bad-looking yourself, for a Cerwyn. Though, I must say, you complained all the way here about finishing to unpack when Rickon told us we were leaving for King's Landing. I can remember your voice adding about him taking off on dragonback and leaving us to the mercy of our horses."
Cley put on a mock-offended expression, his hand over his heart. "Unfair, Maege! I was merely being efficient, thinking ahead. I didn't believe that he would actually leave us behind and soar off on dragonback? I thought he was just trying to show off."
Rhaenyra, now leading them through a dimly lit corridor lined with tapestries depicting Targaryen victories, couldn't help but laugh at their banter, the lightness of the conversation a welcome relief from the tension that had been hanging over them all. "I assure you, Rickon didn't show, It was my idea to fly home," she said, playing along with a smile.
Cley chuckled. "Your idea indeed. Well, Princess, you've chosen well, though I'd say it's a close contest between Rickon's charm and the Cerwyn wit. But I'll let you be the judge of that."
Maege rolled her eyes playfully. "You always have to bring it back to yourself, don't you, Cley? Just remember, not everyone can win over a princess with courage and good looks. Some of us have to rely on our… other talents."
Cley grinned, unbothered. "And what talents they are, Maege. What talents they are."
They reached a set of ornate doors leading to one of the Red Keep's smaller halls, a place where they could speak more privately. The doors swung open, revealing a room bathed in the warm glow of morning light filtering through stained glass windows. The room was sparsely furnished, with a large table in the center and chairs arranged around it, ready for the small council meeting that would follow.
Before Maege could respond, the heavy doors of the hall groaned open again, and Ser Criston Cole entered, his armor still dirty and full of mud from the ride. His dark eyes swept the room, assessing the situation with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to danger. As her sworn shield, he had an air of quiet authority that demanded attention, and the room seemed to still as he approached.
"Princess," Ser Criston said, bowing deeply before her. His voice was calm, but Rhaenyra could sense the underlying tension, the concern he was trying to mask. "I bring troubling news from the road. The Northern party and I encountered an ambush on their way here."
Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat, her eyes flicking to the Northern lords before returning to Ser Criston. "An ambush?" she repeated, her voice sharp with concern. "By whom?"
"Bandits, most likely," Ser Criston replied, his tone grim. "Though it's possible they were hired mercenaries. The attack occurred in the lands of House Errol. They managed to drive the attackers off, but it delayed their arrival significantly."
Bernard Stark's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as the weight of the ambush settled over him. "House Errol should have better control over their lands," he said, his voice a low, simmering growl. "To allow bandits to operate so close to the Bronzegate is inexcusable. They should have sent word to their lord, yet they let those brigands run rampant. The safety of our party was compromised."
Meage Mormont scoffed, cutting through the tension with a sharp wave of her hand. "Hush, you," she chided, her tone half-mocking, half-reassuring. "We're northern, not some timid southron play-things. Let them think what they will, but don't give them the satisfaction of believing the North is easily deterred. The bandits were dealt with swiftly, and that's the end of it."
Cley Cerwyn, who had been listening quietly with that ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes, couldn't resist adding his own commentary. He leaned in slightly, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps they were hoping to test our mettle, see if Northerners are as tough as they say. I dare say they got more than they bargained for," he jested, his tone light, though there was a hint of steel beneath it. "I imagine the bandits will think twice before crossing paths with us again—if they even lived to tell the tale."
Meage shot him a look, her lips curling into a wry smile. "That's if any of them were left standing to ponder their poor life choices," she added, her voice filled with a rugged amusement. "Seems to me they'll be nursing wounds and regrets for some time, if they're lucky."
Bernard's stern expression softened slightly at their words, the tension easing from his shoulders as he allowed himself a brief chuckle. "Aye, perhaps you're right," he conceded, though his tone remained serious. "But it's a matter of principle. If we allow such lapses to go unchecked, it sets a dangerous precedent. House Errol must be made to understand the gravity of their failure."
Rhaenyra listened to their exchange, her eyes shifting between the Northerners as they spoke. The banter among them, even in the face of such a threat, spoke to their resilience and camaraderie—qualities she admired deeply. But she knew Bernard was right; the matter couldn't be dismissed so easily. The safety of their party, and the trust between the North and the crown, was at stake.
She nodded, her expression thoughtful as she addressed them. "You're right, Lord Stark. House Errol will be held accountable for this breach. I will ensure that they understand the seriousness of allowing such threats to go unchecked."
Cley his eyes twinkling with mischief. "To House Errol's awakening, then," he said, his voice carrying a blend of jest and seriousness. "May they learn swiftly the cost of underestimating the North."
Rhaenyra chuckled, but still understood the gravity of the situation. The Northmen were proud, and any threat to their safety, especially so far from home, was a serious matter. She turned to Ser Criston, her expression kind and fierce. "Were there any injuries?"
Ser Criston shook his head. "None of significance, Princess. They are all well-trained, but it could have been much worse. The attackers were well-armed and organized."
Rhaenyra's mind raced as she considered the implications. A breach of security in the lands of House Errol could not be taken lightly, especially with the Northern party now under her protection in King's Landing. She needed to address this, both diplomatically and with the authority expected of her.
"Thank you, Ser Criston," she said, her voice firm. "I will see to it that this matter is investigated thoroughly. House Errol will answer for this lapse."
Ser Criston bowed again, his expression unreadable. "As you command, Princess."
Rhaenyra's gaze softened slightly as she addressed the Northern lords, though her resolve remained firm. "I apologize that your journey was marred by such an incident," she said, her tone carrying both sincerity and determination. "You have my word that your safety will be assured while you are here. You are my guests, and I intend for you to have the protection and comfort you deserve."
Cley Cerwyn caught her eye again, a playful glint in his green eyes as he responded. "Oh, Princess, no need to worry about a few miscreants. A little excitement keeps the blood flowing. Besides, it was a good warm-up for the real challenges ahead," he quipped, his tone light and teasing, though there was an underlying sharpness that hinted at his readiness for anything.
Maege Mormont chimed in with a smirk, her voice dry. "Aye, Princess, nothing like a little skirmish to remind us we're alive. If anything, it was a chance to stretch our legs before we had to endure the slow, agonizing pace of the South." Her words were laced with wry humor, but there was no mistaking the strength behind them.
Bernard Stark, though still serious, couldn't help but crack a small smile at their banter. "We are grateful, Princess," he said, his tone softening. "Your words do bring us comfort, though it seems our party might enjoy a bit of chaos now and then."
Rhaenyra smiled in return, appreciating the Northern lords' resilience and their ability to find humor in even the direst situations. "I see that nothing will easily unsettle the North," she said, her voice warm. "But I will still do everything in my power to ensure you find more peace than chaos during your stay here."
The hours after settling the Northern guests into their rooms blurred into a haze of duties and courtesies. By the time they all gathered for dinner, the absence of Rickon weighed heavily on Rhaenyra's heart, casting a shadow over the meal. The great hall, usually buzzing with lively conversation, felt subdued, the weight of unspoken concerns pressing down on everyone. The flickering light from the torches painted long shadows on the walls, echoing the unease that hung in the air.
Rhaenyra tried to engage in conversation, forcing herself to participate, but her mind kept drifting to Rickon. She could feel the Northerners' eyes on her, their concern palpable even through the silence. The question they all avoided asking— Where is Rickon?—hovered like a specter over the table, refusing to be ignored.
Finally, it was Bernard Stark who broke the silence, his deep voice resonating through the hall, carrying with it the authority and concern of a man accustomed to leading. "Princess," he began, his tone respectful but edged with a worry he couldn't quite conceal. "We haven't seen my nephew today. Do you know where he might be?"
Rhaenyra's hand tightened around the goblet in front of her, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat rising in her chest. She could feel their gazes, waiting, expecting her to have the answers that she herself was searching for. "He went with the commander of the Royal Guard to tour the Red Keep more thoroughly," she explained, her voice steady, though it betrayed a hint of frustration she couldn't quite suppress. "But... I believe he's avoiding my presence at the moment."
The room fell into a tense silence, the Northerners exchanging glances, their concern deepening. Maege Mormont, ever blunt and unflinching, was the first to speak, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Avoiding you? That doesn't sound like the Rickon I know."
Cley Cerwyn leaned forward, his green eyes narrowing as he studied her with a mix of curiosity and concern, his usual humor tempered by the seriousness of the situation. "Actually, it sounds exactly like him," he countered, his tone gentle. "He has a habit of throwing himself into tasks that don't concern him when he's trying to avoid dealing with his feelings. Did something happen between the two of you?"
Rhaenyra's gaze dropped to the table, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns etched into the wood as she searched for the right words. The dim light cast shadows across her face, highlighting the tension etched into her features. "We... My father made it clear that if Rickon and I were to wed, he would never be allowed to legitimize his daughter," she admitted, her voice quiet, heavy with the weight of the revelation. "Since then, he's kept his distance. I don't know how to reach him—it's like he's built a wall between us."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the words lingering in the air between them.