Chapter 6: A Gathering of Wolves

"In the stillness of the dark, whispered words shaped destinies."

The great hall of the Red Keep buzzed with the warm glow of candlelight and the low murmur of conversation as the evening meal progressed. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, surrounded by Rickon's Northern kin, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of the complexities that lay between her and her betrothed.

The night was still young, yet the weight of unspoken words and looming decisions hung heavy in the air. As she gazed around at the faces of Bernard Stark, Cley Cerwyn, and Maege Mormont, Rhaenyra couldn't help but feel a mix of gratitude for their support and apprehension for the conversations that were sure to come. The absence of Rickon was palpable, a void that seemed to grow with each passing moment.

Bernard's expression softened, the hard lines of his face easing into something almost gentle—a rare sight for the stoic Stark lord. "Rickon is a man of great honor," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "But he's also someone who feels deeply. It's likely he's struggling to reconcile his emotions with what he believes is the right thing to do."

Maege nodded thoughtfully, her gaze sharp but understanding. "Rickon's always been torn between his duty and his heart. It's no easy thing, especially for a man like him."

Cley, sensing the heaviness of the moment, leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a small, wry smile. "Rickon might be stubborn, but he's a fool if he doesn't realize what he has right in front of him," he said, a hint of teasing in his voice. "If you ask me, he's probably moping because he's afraid he'll lose you—or worse, that you'll think less of him for not being able to do right by his daughter."

Rhaenyra couldn't help but return a small, sad smile, appreciating Cley's attempt to lighten the mood, though it did little to ease the knot of worry in her chest. The tension in the room was palpable, the flickering torchlight casting uncertain shadows that seemed to mirror the doubts swirling in her mind.

Bernard, the voice of reason, reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand over hers. His touch was firm, grounding her in the moment. "Give him time, Princess. Rickon needs to sort through his thoughts, but he'll come around. Don't lose hope."

Maege, her tone warmer now, nodded in agreement. "You've shown him more understanding and patience than most would. That'll mean more to him than you know."

Cley raised his goblet, a mischievous grin breaking through the somber mood. "And if he doesn't come to his senses soon, we'll just have to knock some sense into him, Northern style."

The lighthearted comment brought a genuine laugh from Rhaenyra, breaking through the tension that had been building all evening. Though the worry still lingered, she found comfort in the support of Rickon's kin, knowing that they, too, wanted what was best for him.

The tension in the room had begun to ease, the Northerners' laughter filling the great hall with a warmth that had been missing all evening. Cley Cerwyn was in the middle of recounting a particularly humorous tale from their journey, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he exaggerated the details for the amusement of the group. Even Bernard Stark, seemed so stern and composed, had a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he listened to Cley's antics.

Maege Mormont, ever the pragmatist, shook her head with a wry grin. "If you spent half as much time training as you do talking, Cley, you might actually stand a chance against a me."

Cley feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Oh, Maege, you wound me! I thought you of all people would appreciate the art of storytelling. Besides, I only tell these tales because I know they bring joy to our good Princess here."

Rhaenyra, caught up in the light-hearted banter, couldn't help but smile, feeling the weight in her chest lift just a little. "Well, I must admit, Lord Cerwyn, your stories do provide a much-needed distraction."

Before anyone could respond, a deep voice cut through the room like a knife through butter. "You're finally here, and I thought you lost on your way."

The laughter died instantly, replaced by a charged silence as all eyes turned toward the doorway. Rhaenyra's heart leaped into her throat as she looked up to see Rickon standing there, his tall figure framed by the dim light of the corridor behind him. His presence filled the room, commanding attention even before he took a step inside. He looked weary, as though the weight of the world had been resting on his broad shoulders, but there was a new resolve in his eyes, a determination that hadn't been there before.

Cley was the first to break the silence, a grin splitting his face as he raised his goblet in mock salute. "Well, well, if it isn't our lost wolf! We were just wondering if you'd found yourself a new pack to run with down here in the South."

Rickon's lips quirked into a small, tired smile as he entered the room, his eyes briefly meeting Rhaenyra's before flicking to his Northern kin. "If I had, I wouldn't have been half as entertained," he replied, his tone carrying the same subtle warmth that had been present in his voice before everything had become so complicated.

Maege, not one to let an opportunity pass, arched an eyebrow as she leaned back in her chair. "You must have been running all day, then. Did the commander show you every nook and cranny of this place, or were you just avoiding us because you were afraid of the stories Cley's been spreading?"

Rickon chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, as he took a seat beside Rhaenyra. The closeness of his presence sent a shiver down her spine, though she tried to keep her expression neutral. "Let's just say I've had enough of wandering through stone halls for one day. Besides, I figured I'd let you all get comfortable before I made my grand entrance."

Bernard, ever the protector of propriety, leaned forward slightly, his tone more serious. "We were concerned, Rickon. It's not like you to disappear for so long."

Rickon's gaze softened as he looked at the older man, the respect he held for Bernard clear in his eyes. "I appreciate the concern, Uncle. But I had some things to work through. Things I needed to work out for myself."

Cley, never one to let the mood darken too much, grinned again, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Well, whatever you were doing, it seems to have worked. You look like a man who's finally made up his mind about something. Did the Princess here finally charm you into staying, or was it just her pretty face?"

Rickon glanced at Rhaenyra, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. There was something in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond they shared, even if it was still fragile and new. "The Princess has a way of making difficult decisions easier to bear," he said, his voice steady but filled with meaning.

Maege smirked, her sharp eyes flicking between the two of them. "Careful, Rickon. Next thing we know, you'll be flying off on that dragons of hers, and we'll have to chase after you just to keep you grounded."

Rickon's smile widened slightly, a rare expression of genuine amusement. "I think I'll leave the dragon riding to those better suited for it, Maege. I'm like that my feet are attached to solid ground."

Rhaenyra, finally finding her voice, joined in the banter, her earlier frustration melting away in the warmth of their camaraderie. "Don't worry, Maege. I'll make sure he doesn't stray too far. The Kingswood was enough of an adventure for now."

The group laughed, the sound filling the hall with a sense of ease and comfort that had been missing before Rickon's arrival. Though the weight of their shared burdens still lingered, for now, they found solace in each other's company, in the small moments of levity that made the challenges ahead feel just a little less daunting.

As the conversation continued, Rickon's hand brushed against Rhaenyra under the table, a silent acknowledgment of the understanding that had grown between them.

As the lively conversation ebbed and flowed around them, Rhaenyra leaned in closer to Rickon, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with an urgency that belied her calm exterior. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across her face, highlighting the tension that still lingered in the depths of her eyes.

"Have you finally come to terms with our future?" she asked, her words soft but weighted with the countless unspoken fears and hopes that had been building between them.

Rickon turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. The room around them seemed to blur, the laughter and banter fading into the background as if the world itself had narrowed to this single moment. He nodded once, a slow, deliberate motion. "Yes," he answered, the single syllable carrying the weight of a decision that had been forged in the crucible of doubt and longing.

Rhaenyra's hand, warm and steady, found its way to his arm, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his tunic. "Why now?" she asked, her voice holding a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show. Her thumb traced idle circles on his arm, grounding herself in the contact as she searched his face for the truth.

The din of the hall grew louder as if the universe conspired to give them this moment of privacy amidst the crowd. Rickon's expression softened, the hard lines of his face easing as he spoke, his voice low and earnest. "I stood in the shadows," he began, his eyes dark with the memory, "watching you interact with my kin, and I realized what you meant when you said you would love her as your daughter. And suddenly… the burden I've carried for so long became lighter, easier to bear."

Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat, her breath catching as she absorbed his words. Her hand tightened on his arm, a silent promise in the gesture. "I will love her more than you can imagine," she vowed, her voice barely audible over the noise around them. "I'll provide for her, protect her, give her the best life possible in her situation. She'll never want for anything, and she'll always know she's cherished."

Rickon's gaze softened even further, his own hand finding hers beneath the table, his touch warm and reassuring. "I know," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "And that's why it's easier for me now. I've always struggled to balance my duty with my heart, but seeing you, hearing you… I know I've made the right choice."

His words, simple yet profound, resonated deep within Rhaenyra. She felt a surge of warmth spread through her chest, easing the tension that had coiled there for so long. The flicker of candlelight seemed to soften around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of intimacy even amidst the crowded hall.

Rickon's thumb brushed over the back of her hand, the simple motion speaking volumes—of trust, of acceptance, of a future that was beginning to take shape. It was a quiet gesture, but it held the promise of something more, something that went beyond the political alliances and the burdens of their titles.

Rhaenyra's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, though she blinked them back, determined to remain strong. The weight of the world seemed to lift slightly from her shoulders, and in that moment, she allowed herself to believe that they could truly navigate the complexities of their lives together.

The noise of the hall surged again, a burst of laughter from Cley Cerwyn drawing their attention briefly. But even as they rejoined the conversation of the larger group, the connection between them remained strong, a silent understanding that words alone couldn't convey.

Rhaenyra glanced at Rickon, catching the slight curve of his lips as he engaged with his kin, the earlier tension in his posture now replaced with a quiet ease. She marveled at how the simple act of speaking their truths had begun to heal the wounds they both carried.

And though the challenges ahead were many, in that moment, Rhaenyra felt a renewed sense of hope, buoyed by the knowledge that Rickon was truly with her, not just as her betrothed, but as a partner who understood the depth of her commitment to his daughter—and to him.

The night continued, the great hall alive with the warmth of camaraderie and the soft glow of torchlight. But for Rhaenyra and Rickon, the world had shifted, just slightly, in the direction of the future.

Rickon

Rickon stood in the shadows of the great hall, his tall frame partially obscured by one of the massive stone pillars that lined the room. The flickering light from the hearth cast a warm, golden glow over the gathering, illuminating the long table where Rhaenyra sat surrounded by his kin. The hall, usually silent and austere, seemed to have softened under the gentle glow of the firelight, the ancient banners Targaryen swaying gently above the gathering. The mingling scents of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the air, a comforting contrast to the tension that had been gnawing at Rickon more than a week.

From his vantage point, Rickon could see the expressions of those seated around the table—his kin, his closest allies, the people he had known and trusted his entire life. And there, at the center of it all, was Rhaenyra, her violet eyes bright with interest as she listened to Cley Cerwyn recount a particularly humorous tale from their journey. The laughter that erupted from the group was genuine, filling the hall with a warmth that seemed to chase away the usual coldness of Winterfell's stone walls.

Cley's green eyes sparkled with mischief as he exaggerated the details of the story, his voice rising and falling with dramatic flair. "And so, there we were, surrounded by four deers more stubborn than the old gods themselves! Not one of them would budge, not even when Maege threatened to roast them alive!" His words were met with another round of laughter, Maege Mormont rolling her eyes good-naturedly from her seat beside Rhaenyra.

Rickon watched as Rhaenyra leaned in, her own laughter light and melodic, a sound that tugged at something deep within him. She was at ease here, among his people—her people now, too, as soon as the wedding took place. The sight of her so effortlessly engaging with his kin, laughing with them, sharing in their stories and their joy, stirred a mix of emotions within him.

He felt the familiar weight of his responsibilities settle on his shoulders—the duty he owed to his family, to the North, to his people who looked to him for leadership. But there was something else now, something that had been growing steadily stronger since the day he had first met Rhaenyra. It was a connection that he could not ignore. And as he watched her now, a realization began to take root in his heart.

Rhaenyra was not just a political alliance, not just the woman he was betrothed to by duty. She was someone who could truly understand him, someone who saw beyond the cold exterior of the Stark name and recognized the man beneath.

Rickon's thoughts drifted to Sara, his daughter, the child he had raised with all the love and care he could muster, despite the circumstances of her birth. He had always feared that she would be a source of contention, a complication in any marriage he might forge. But as he watched Rhaenyra now, saw the kindness in her eyes, the warmth in her smile, he felt a glimmer of hope.

Could she truly accept Sara as her own? Could she love his daughter, not just tolerate her presence, but embrace her as part of their family, their future together? Rickon had always been a man who trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him that Rhaenyra was different, that she might just be the person who could make their family whole.

The realization settled over him like a heavy cloak, but instead of weighing him down, it brought a sense of clarity, a resolve that had been building within him for a week. This was it—this was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment he needed to make a choice, not just for himself, but for his daughter, for his family, and for the future of the Stark-Targaryen alliance.

Rickon took a deep breath, the cool air of the hall filling his lungs as he stepped out of the shadows. The sound of his boots against the stone floor was almost lost in the warmth and laughter of the gathering, but it was enough to draw Rhaenyra's attention. She looked up, her eyes meeting his, and in that instant, Rickon felt the last of his doubts fall away.

He crossed the hall in a few long strides, his gaze never leaving hers. When he reached the table, the conversation around them quieted, the others sensing the shift in the air, the gravity of the moment.

After the lively dinner, Rickon found himself in Clay's chambers. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The warmth from the flames was a welcome relief from the chill that had settled over as night fell, but it did little to ease the tension Rickon Stark felt as he stood by the window, staring out at the snow-covered courtyard below. The weight of the evening's events bore down on him, the quiet resolve he had felt during dinner now giving way to the familiar gnawing of doubt.

Behind him, Cley Cerwyn was humming a tune, his mood light and carefree as he poured two cups of wine from a flagon on the table. "I have to say, Rickon," Cley began, his voice carrying the playful tone that was so characteristic of him, "if you keep up these brooding stares, you'll start turning into a shadow yourself. Though, I suppose it adds to the whole "Heir of Winterfell' mystique."

Rickon turned from the window, offering his friend a faint smile as he accepted the cup of wine Cley handed him. "Is that what you think, Cley? That I'm just adding to the mystique?"

Cley grinned, leaning back against the table as he took a sip of his wine. "Well, if the boot fits. But in all seriousness, Rickon, you've got a lot on your shoulders. A little brooding now and then is to be expected." His green eyes twinkled with mischief as he added, "Though if you start wearing all black and skulking around the shadows, I might have to stage an intervention or a departure for the Night's watch."

Rickon managed a soft chuckle at that, but the humor faded quickly, replaced by the heavy thoughts that had been plaguing him all evening. He took a long drink from his cup, the wine warming him as it slid down his throat, but it did little to ease the knot in his chest.

Cley's grin faded slightly as he noticed the change in Rickon's demeanor. Setting his cup down on the table, he took a step closer, his playful tone giving way to one of genuine concern. "Alright, enough teasing. What's really going on, Rickon? I can see that something's eating at you."

Rickon hesitated for a moment, the words he needed to say sticking in his throat. He had always prided himself as a man of his word and can separate between emotions and duty, but Rhaenyra came along and mixed everything up.

Rickon stared into his cup, the deep red liquid swirling as he gathered his thoughts. "It's about Rhaenyra," he began, glancing up to meet Cley's eyes, "and Sara."

Cley's expression softened, understanding dawning in his eyes. He set his cup down, crossing his arms as he leaned forward slightly. "You're worried about how all of this—your betrothal to Rhaenyra, the merging of our families—will affect Sara," he stated, more than asked.

Rickon nodded, the tension in his shoulders palpable. "Tonight, during dinner, I watched Rhaenyra interact with you all. She was… she was incredible. She fit in as if she'd been born among us, not outside the North. But as much as that eased some of my worries, it brought up others."

Cley listened intently, his brow furrowing slightly as Rickon continued.

"Sara's still young, only four years old " Rickon said, his voice growing more strained. "She's all I have left after Gilliane left, and I've tried to raise her the best I can. But Rhaenyra… she's not just any woman. She's the heir to the Iron Throne. What if she can't love Sara as her own as she says? What if Sara can't accept her?"

Cley took a deep breath, considering his words carefully. He knew how much Sara meant to Rickon, how fiercely protective he was of her. And he also knew that this was one of the few things that could truly unsettle the usually stoic Stark.

"Rickon," Cley began, his voice gentle but firm, "I saw the way Rhaenyra looked at you tonight, the way she listened to our stories and joined in with her own. She wasn't just being polite—she was genuinely interested, genuinely engaged. That's not something you can fake, especially not with Northerners. If she can win us over, I'm sure she can win Sara over too."

Rickon's eyes searched Cley's face, looking for any hint of doubt. But all he saw was confidence and reassurance.

"You've heard how she cares for her own family, her father," Cley continued. "She's protective, loyal, and she values family above all else. I have no doubt that she'll extend that same care to Sara. And as for Sara… she's your daughter, Rickon. She's strong, and she's smart, a loving girl. She'll see that Rhaenyra is someone worth trusting, someone who can be a mother to her in ways that no one else could be."

Rickon's grip on his cup tightened, his knuckles turning white. "But what if she feels like she's being replaced when the children will follow? What if she resents Rhaenyra for it?"

Cley shook his head. "Sara won't feel replaced, Rickon. She'll have you, and she'll have Rhaenyra. That's not replacing—it's adding to her family, giving her more love, more protection. With Rhaenyra as her stepmother, Sara will be more than just the daughter of Rickon Stark; she'll be the loved stepdaughter of the future queen. That's a future where she'll be protected and cherished, not just by you but by the entire realm."

Rickon felt a lump form in his throat, the weight of Cley's words settling heavily on his heart. He had been so focused on the potential negatives, on the fears that had been gnawing at him since the betrothal was first discussed, that he hadn't allowed himself to fully consider the positives. Rhaenyra had already shown that she could embrace the North, that she could find common ground with his people. Maybe, she could do be the mother Sara always craved, the mother she lost, the mother how promised to be there but run away.

Cley's hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. "Rickon, you're a good father. You'll always be there for Sara, and now Rhaenyra will be there too. she's offering to be part of your family, to help build something strong and lasting. And I think, deep down, you know that."

Rickon nodded slowly, the knot of anxiety in his chest beginning to unravel. "I just want what's best for her," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"And you're making true of that," Cley replied, his tone firm. "By bringing Rhaenyra into your life, into Sara's life, you're giving her the best chance at a future filled with love and security. Don't let fear stop you from seeing that."

Rickon looked up at Cley, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Thank you, Cley," he said, his voice steadier now. "You always had a way with words."

Cley grinned, the playful spark returning to his eyes. "Of course I do. It's why you keep me around, isn't it?"

Rickon chuckled, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. "That, and because you're a entertaining drinking buddy."

Cley raised his cup in a mock salute. "To the future, then. For you, for Rhaenyra, and for Sara."

Rickon clinked his cup against Cley's, the sound echoing softly in the warm chamber. "To the future," he echoed.

As they drank, Rickon felt the last of his doubts begin to fade.

Rickon stood in the solitude of his chambers, the soft glow of the fire casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The events of the evening had left him restless, and as he gazed into the flames, his thoughts inevitably drifted to his daughter, Sara Snow. She was only four years old, but already she had become the anchor to which his heart was tethered.

He remembered the day he first saw her if it were yesterday. The North had been gripped by a fierce winter, the kind that seeped into your bones and reminded you that life in the North was not for the faint of heart. She had come, wrapped in a bundle. She cried when her mother left echoing through the stone halls of Winterfell. From the moment he had first held her, wrapped in ragged cloth to ward off the cold, Rickon knew that his life had changed forever. He was no longer just the son of House Stark; he was a father, with all the responsibilities and fears that came with it.

Sara had her mother's red hair, but her eyes—those were unmistakably his. Silver and sharp, just like his own. There were times when she looked at him with those eyes, filled with a curiosity and intelligence far beyond her years, and it was as though she could see right through him. Rickon often wondered what she would make of the world when she was old enough to understand its complexities. Would she be proud of the decisions he made? Or would she resent him for the choices that had shaped their lives?

One memory in particular gnawed at him, refusing to fade into the background as others did. It was from the day his last betrothed had fled, leaving behind only a hastily scrawled note that said she had found love elsewhere. Rickon had been devastated, not because of the broken promise or a broken heart, but because of the impact it had on Sara. She had been too young to fully understand, but she had known enough to sense his misery of not being able to provide her the mother she known all her time in Winterfell.

That night, he had found her sitting by the hearth, clutching the small wooden horse he had carved for her when she was just a babe. She had looked up at him with those piercing eyes, and asked in her small, trembling voice, "Papa, why did she left?" The question had hit him like a blow, and he had struggled to find an answer that wouldn't shatter the innocent trust she placed in him.

"She found love elsewhere, little one," he had finally said, his voice thick with sorrow. "But I promise you, Sara, I will always be here for you. I will never leave."

She had nodded solemnly, accepting his words with the simple faith of a child. But Rickon had seen the sadness in her eyes, the uncertainty that no amount of reassurance could fully erase. He had knelt beside her, pulling her into his arms, and hugging her tightly into his chest.

Since that day, Rickon had been fiercely protective of Sara, determined to shield her from the harsh realities of the world for as long as he could. But now, with his betrothal to Rhaenyra, those realities were becoming impossible to ignore. He knew that marrying the heir to the Iron Throne would bring changes, not just for him, but for Sara as well. He had seen how Rhaenyra had interacted with his kin, how she had embraced the Northerns with a warmth that was rare for a Targaryen.

He feared that Sara would feel out of place in the life he was building with Rhaenyra, that she would sense the tension and the unspoken doubts, and that it would drive a wedge between them. He feared that Rhaenyra, despite her best intentions, might not be able to fully accept Sara as her own, that she would always be a reminder of a past that was never meant to be part of the future.

But amidst these fears, there were hopes too. Hopes that Rhaenyra, with her strength and compassion, would see in Sara what he saw—a bright, spirited child who deserved all the love and protection the world could offer. He hoped that Rhaenyra would come to love Sara, not as a stepmother, but as a mother in every way that mattered. And he hoped that, in time, Sara would come to see Rhaenyra not as a replacement, but as an addition to the family that had always been just the two of them.

Rickon knew that these were not things that could be rushed. Trust and love were built over time, through shared moments and small gestures, through the quiet understanding that came from living side by side. He was willing to give it that time, to let the bond between Rhaenyra and Sara grow naturally, without forcing it.

Sara was his daughter, and that would never change. But he was beginning to realize that there was room in his heart for more than just her—there was room for Rhaenyra too, and for the life they could build together, as a family. And that, more than anything, gave him hope for the future .

The next morning, the castle was still cloaked in the soft, muted light of dawn as Rickon made his way through the quiet corridors of the Red Keep. The cold stone beneath his boots felt almost grounding, a sharp contrast to the storm of emotions he had been battling over the past few days. The thoughts of Sara, her future, and how she might accept Rhaenyra had weighed on him like a millstone, but now, with his mind clearer, he knew he needed to speak with her.

As he approached Rhaenyra's chambers, the flicker of torchlight illuminated Ser Criston Cole standing watch outside her door. Rickon nodded in acknowledgment, but something in Cole's posture, the way he straightened and the slight tightening of his jaw, put Rickon on edge. There was an air about him, a certain guardedness that felt off.

"Ser Criston," Rickon greeted, his voice calm but laced with a subtle edge as his eyes locked onto the knight. There was a deliberate stillness to Rickon, the kind that spoke of a man accustomed to the harsh winds and quiet strength of the North. His gaze was steady, assessing, as he scrutinized every inch of the Kingsguard's stance.

"Lord Stark," Criston replied, his tone as measured as his posture, the crispness of his words betraying none of the thoughts that might be hidden behind his hardened exterior. For a moment, silence stretched between them, a silence that felt heavy, where the air thickened with unspoken words and tension.

Rickon wasn't one to be easily unsettled by silence; in the North, silence was a companion to the cold, a familiar and often welcome presence. But here, in the heart of the Red Keep, with the southern sun casting long shadows through the corridors, this silence felt different. It was laden with something else—something that made Rickon's gut twist with a growing unease.

Cole's gaze, however, betrayed nothing until it flickered, just briefly, towards the closed door of Rhaenyra's chambers. It was a fleeting movement, but one that Rickon didn't miss. The subtle tension in Cole's stance, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his hand rested just a bit too casually on the hilt of his sword—these were signs, small but significant, that something was amiss.

"She's inside, but you can't go in," Cole stated, his words carrying a weight that was more than just an order. There was an undercurrent to his tone, something that edged toward possession, as though he believed he had the right to dictate who could enter and who could not. The subtle shift in his posture, the way his eyes hardened, only confirmed Rickon's suspicions.

Rickon's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of distrust crossing his face. The man before him was not just a knight fulfilling his duty; there was something more, in the way Criston Cole guarded that door as if he owned a dear possession. The unease in his gut grew, coiling tighter.

"There's no need," Rickon responded, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. The Northern accent, thick and edged with a natural authority, added a certain weight to his words, an unspoken reminder of who he was and where he came from. "I meant to wait here."

His words were simple, but the underlying message was clear. He would not be cowed by a man in armor. He would stand his ground, even here, in this foreign southern court where the rules of power were different, more insidious.

Cole held Rickon's gaze, his dark eyes cold and calculating, his expression as unreadable as the polished steel of his armor. For a moment, it seemed as though the tension between them might snap, like a drawn bowstring pulled too taut. But before either man could make another move, the door to Rhaenyra's chambers opened with a soft creak, the sound delicate yet sharp in the heavy silence.

The movement was subtle, almost graceful, but it sliced through the charged air between them like a blade, the tension dispersing but not entirely dissipating. Rickon's eyes shifted to the door, his expression hardening with a mix of concern and determination.

As the door slowly revealed the figure within, Rhaenyra emerged, her expression calm but her eyes keenly aware of the tension she had just interrupted. She took in the scene before her with a quick, assessing glance, her gaze flickering between Rickon and Ser Criston.

Rickon stepped forward, his posture relaxing slightly but his gaze never leaving Cole. "Princess," he greeted her, his voice softer now, yet still carrying the same unyielding strength.

Rhaenyra offered him a small, reassuring smile, though her eyes briefly flicked back to Cole, who had now stepped aside but remained close, his presence lingering like a shadow. "Lord Stark," she replied, her tone warm but with a hint of weariness that only Rickon seemed to notice. "I wasn't expecting you here ."

Rickon's lips curved into a small, almost sheepish smile. "I needed to talk to you," he admitted, his voice low but earnest. "About Sara… and everything."

She turned to face Rickon, a gentle smile on her lips, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "Shall we walk?" she suggested, gesturing in the direction of Royal gardens that lay just beyond the chambers, probably the view from her chambers. "It's quieter there. We can talk freely." Rickon nodded, feeling a sense of relief at her offer.

They began to walk side by side, the cool morning air brushing against their skin as they stepped out into the gardens. The scent of dew-covered roses and freshly turned earth filled the air, grounding Rickon as he prepared to open up. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound for a moment as they walked in silence, Rhaenyra patiently waiting for him to find his words.

Finally, Rickon spoke, his voice calm and steady, though there was an undercurrent of vulnerability that hinted at the depth of his thoughts. "I've been thinking a lot about our betrothal and about Sara… about whether she'll truly accept you, and if I'm doing right by her. It's something that's been weighing on me for a while, but… I've come to realize that my worries were unfounded." He paused, glancing at Rhaenyra, who was listening intently, her expression warm and understanding. "She will get to know you, and you will get to know her, Rhaenyra. She will be the cherished stepdaughter of the heir to the Iron Throne, and one day, the beloved stepdaughter of the queen. Even without legitimacy, her future will be brighter than anything I could offer her now. I understand that now. My mind is finally at peace."

Rhaenyra slowed her pace, her eyes softening as she took in Rickon's words. The depth of his concern for Sara was clear, and it touched her deeply. The corners of her lips lifted into a gentle smile, one that reflected both her relief and her appreciation for his honesty. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Rickon," she said, her voice tender. "I know how much you've been carrying this burden, and it means the world to me that you trust me with something so important. I would never want to disrupt the bond you have with Sara, and I hope that in time, she will come to see me as someone who only wants the best for her. Your peace of mind is everything to me, and I'm glad you've found it."

Rickon let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a weight lifting from his chest as he finally voiced his concerns. The tightness in his shoulders began to ease, replaced by a sense of calm he hadn't felt in days.

As they continued walking, the path led them into a more secluded part of the garden, where the tall hedges rose high, offering a protective barrier from the rest of the world. The air was thick with the scent of earth and flowers, the morning dew still clinging to the leaves. The earlier tension between them had dissolved, leaving behind a comfortable silence that hung in the air like the gentle mist of dawn.

Rhaenyra slowed her pace, her gaze drifting to a cluster of lilac-colored bellflowers that lined the edge of the path. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the delicate petals, and brought them closer to her face. The soft, sweet fragrance enveloped her, filling her senses with a calming warmth. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply, as if drawing strength from the simple beauty of the flowers.

Rickon watched her, his gaze softening as he took in the sight. There was something almost ethereal about the way the early light played off her ivory skin, casting a gentle glow around her. In that quiet moment, as she stood there with the flowers in hand, he felt a wave of tenderness wash over him. It was a rare moment of peace, and he found himself captivated by her—by the contrast between her fierce spirit and this delicate, fleeting moment of serenity.

But then, Rhaenyra opened her eyes, and the calmness was replaced by something else entirely. She turned to him, her expression no longer gentle but resolute, her eyes alight with a determination that stirred something deep within him.

"Rickon," she began, her voice steady, though there was a hint of something unspoken beneath it. The way she held his gaze, unwavering, made it clear that whatever she was about to say was important. "There's something I've been thinking about—something I need to ask you."

Rickon's brow furrowed slightly, curiosity piqued. "What is it?" he asked, his tone soft, yet his senses heightened, prepared for whatever was to come.

Rhaenyra took a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. "I want to start training with you."

For a moment, Rickon was taken aback. He blinked, processing her words. "Training? Do you mean… combat training? Not only survival skills?"

She nodded, her expression serious, yet there was a spark of excitement in her eyes. "Yes. The world we live in is dangerous, and I need to be able to protect myself and those I care about. I trust you to teach me."

Rickon studied her face, searching for any sign of doubt, but there was none. Her resolve was clear, her request genuine. He felt a surge of admiration for her—for the fire in her eyes, the strength in her voice. It was a strength that matched his own, a fire that burned just as brightly.

"Why the sudden decision?" he asked, his voice gentle, though there was an underlying current of concern. "We talked about teaching you survival skills but never combat training"

Rhaenyra hesitated, her gaze flickering to the flowers in her hand before returning to his. "It's not so sudden," she admitted, her voice softening. "I've been thinking about it for a while. The events of late… they've made me realize that I can't always rely on others to protect me. I need to be able to protect myself, to stand on my own, especially when the stakes are high. And I want to be able to stand beside you, Rickon, not just as your betrothed, but as your equal in every way."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Rickon felt a swell of emotion, a deep respect for the woman before him. She wasn't just asking for training; she was asking for partnership, for the chance to be his equal in every sense of the word.

He nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "If that's what you want, I'd be honored to train you," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "We can start with a crossbow—something that requires precision and control. It's a good start. And when you're ready, we can move on to swords… or whatever else you wish."

Rhaenyra's smile grew, her eyes bright with anticipation and a newfound sense of purpose. "Thank you, Rickon."

They continued their walk, the atmosphere between them now charged with a sense of shared serenity, as they spoke of the training to come. The garden around them seemed to respond to their presence, the flowers blooming more brightly as the first light of day bathed the path in a warm, golden glow. And in that moment, they walked side by side.