It was odd, thinking how close he had come to marrying Catelyn Tully.
He still thought of her as a Tully, though she had been Lady Stark for nearly twenty years now. They had almost been friends, he and Cat, all those years ago. The eldest of Hoster Tully's daughters had been a kind, smart girl when Aelor was a carefree, laughing boy. She and her father had spent half a moon at King's Landing when she was one and ten, and the eldest of the Tully girls and the middle of the Targaryen brothers had gotten along splendidly. They were still on good terms at the Tourney of Harrenhal just before the world had gone to hell, though there had never been a romantic interest in one another. Still, Aelor had offered to take her hand in marriage if her father would support the Crown in Robert's Rebellion, and part of Aelor wondered if their match wouldn't have been a good one.
He was glad the late Lord Hoster had rebuffed him, of course, and he was certain Catelyn felt the same. Rumor had it that she and Lord Eddard had a love straight from a story, and Aelor shuddered to think where he would be without his Alysanne. He loved his wife, though he had never been good at showing it. She had kept him sane when he needed her—both at Lannisport and the years since—and she had given him seven healthy, perfect children. With a pang of pain Aelor thought of his daughter, his beautiful, sweet Rhaella, and he ruffled Renlor's hair after they both dismounted, just to assure himself his eldest was still there. Aelor had lived through loss before—his retinue, his best friend, his brother, his mother and his first love—but none of it compared to what he had felt when he'd learned he'd never hold his little girl again.
But it wouldn't do to be an emotional, volatile idiot in this moment and Aelor drove the pain from his mind, though the Seven knew he'd never be rid of it no matter how many years they blessed or cursed him with. As it was, a party awaited them in the courtyard of Winterfell, and the girl who had been his childhood friend was among them. Putting the pain from his face, Aelor strode forward to meet them.
He hadn't seen Catelyn Tully since Harrenhal. She remained in the North, not venturing south of the Neck as Northerners were wont to do, and Aelor had remained in the south, much too busy to travel hundreds of miles from King's Landing to see old friends. Besides, Eddard Stark wasn't a supporter of Aelor. While the Lord Paramount respected Aelor's treatment of Jaehaerys and of Robb when the heir to the North fostered in King's Landing, he was a stubbornly honorable man, and Aelor was a stubbornly ruthless one. Since Lannisport the two had had little to do with one another, and if Lord Stark had been outside Lannisport those years ago Aelor supposed there would have been even more hell to pay than that which he had already suffered.
As it was, Catelyn hadn't changed as much as Aelor knew he himself had. Her high cheekbones, long red hair and bright blue Tully eyes were the same as they had been a lifetime ago, though the face around them was that of a woman instead of a girl. Gone were the dresses of Tully blue, replaced with the greys and the furs of the North. That red hair wasn't in an ornate hairstyle as he remembered it, but instead a simple, practical braid. It was clear to Aelor upon seeing her that Catelyn was a Tully no longer, but the Lady Stark instead.
Aelor was immensely glad to see no sign of Lyanna Stark; he didn't want that headache on top of the others. The other Starks, though, had turned out in force. Cat's two daughters, whom Aelor had met briefly at Duskendale, stood to one side, the older having grown in the months since into a near image of the Catelyn he remembered. To Lady Stark's other side was her sons, the older of which bowed, prompting the other Starks and those surrounding them to do the same. Aelor couldn't help but notice the four direwolves watching the commotion with disturbingly intelligent eyes.
The youngster—Bran, Aelor recalled his name to be—was the acting Lord of Winterfell, his father and older brother commanding the Northerners at the Wall, and Aelor knew to come to a halt in front of him. "Prince Aelor," the young boy said, voice remarkably calm considering the nervous quiver in his hands. "Welcome to Winterfell. The North is at your service."
Aelor nodded his head with a small smile towards the second Stark son. "Well said, young Bran. You have grown." The father in Aelor was amused to see the flash of joy that crossed the young wolf's face at both being remembered and being complemented. Aelor turned to the Ladies Sansa and Arya, inclining his head to the both of them. "As have you, my Ladies." Aelor cocked his head at the youngest, who had not traveled south with the others. "You must be Rickon." The child only stared at him, prompting Aelor to chuckle as he looked up to the mother of them all.
He smiled a genuine smile. "Cat. Or should I call you Lady Stark?"
Catelyn Tully returned it. "Aelor. Or shall I call you Prince?"
The Dragon of Duskendale laughed aloud for the first time in days. "It has been years, my lady. I must compliment you on your children. They all seem to be fine Northerners, and Robb is a boy to be proud of." He gestured to both of his sides, his sons having fallen into step beside him. "These are two of my own, my eldest Renlor and my fourth Baelon."
Catelyn nodded in greeting to them both. "They are fine looking boys. The King informed us of your recent loss. I am so very sorry."
Aelor nodded, though he said nothing more about it. "I see my nephew the King is not among your number, yet he was not among his men camped outside your walls either."
"King Aegon is currently with Lord Dustin a few miles farther south. Lord William is in charge of the remaining Northern men, and my husband has given them orders to travel south with the King and bolster his numbers." She gestured to the fresh snow around them. "A rider was sent out to alert him to your arrival, though I wonder if he'll believe you traveled through the blizzards of the last few days."
Aelor couldn't quite blame him. The snows had increased steadily since they'd departed the Wall, growing more and more savage as the days seemed to grow colder and colder. "They were quite the experience, Lady Stark. But where are my manners; I suppose we should continue conversation inside Winterfell's walls instead of leaving you and your family—and my men—standing out in the cold."
Catelyn's response, which Aelor hoped was an agreement because he was freezing his sword off, was cut short by the sound of hooves. Aelor turned to see his nephew, bundled in furs and his black Targaryen cloak, riding into the courtyard, flanked by Ser Barristan and Ser Balon Swann, a northerner close behind. The white of the Kingsguard armor nearly matched the new fallen snow, while Aegon's brilliant black and crimson stood out stubbornly, though mired by the dabs of grey fur.
Aelor fought down the surge of anger at the sight of the nephew who had kept the death of his daughter from him, sinking down to a knee with the others. Aegon dismounted swiftly and bid them rise, and when Aelor did he saw just how much his nephew was dreading the confrontation in his violet eyes.
As it was the King of the Iron Throne kept his composure, smiling and reaching forward to clasp Aelor's forearm. "Uncle, it is good to see you." He did the same to Renlor and Baelon. "I shall have my squire show your men where to bivouac." Aegon waved his hand and young Dickon Tarly, second born son of Randyll Tarly, rushed forward to the mercenaries and killers waiting patiently around the meeting of nobility. "I trust Lord Bran has greeted you properly; House Stark has been the essence of courtesy."
Aelor gave a forced smile, playing along with Aegon's forced cheer for the benefit of those in the courtyard. Colmar and my wife have taught him disturbingly well. "Aye, Your Grace, they have, though I was just suggesting to Lady Stark and Lord Bran if they mind our moving this meeting out of the cold. My old bones disagree with the cold, and you and I have much to discuss concerning the army."
Aegon nodded. He didn't have much choice. "Of course, with Lord Bran's permission?"
Once received, the party as a whole began to move towards the warmth radiating from Winterfell's keep. Aegon kept the smile upon his face, though Aelor saw the way his hands were clenched in either apprehension or anger; likely both.
For just one disconcerting moment, Aelor recognized the mannerism as one of his own.
"With Lord Bran's Permission. A nice touch; you've become quite the diplomat."
The King sat in the spacious chambers he had been granted, glaring over the recently-used dishes on the table at Aelor. The two men had said nothing to one another over the very simple, very Northern meal of venison and bread. Barristan stood at the doorway, present but out of the way. How many of these same arguments has Barristan the Bold seen between Targaryens? The Seven know why he still serves us. Aegon grunted. "Say your piece, uncle. It is much too cold and I am much too weary to play diplomatic games with you."
Aelor grunted. "I see Alysanne hasn't entirely eradicated your bluntness. I suppose there's too much of me in you for it to ever fully disappear." Aegon wisely said nothing despite the flash in his eyes, and Aelor granted his earlier request. "You were riding south to war without me."
Aegon leaned back, and his words came out clipped and rehearsed. "There will be a war in the North. You were the most capable commander—"
"You forget Randyll Tarly."
Aegon's jaw clenched at the interruption but he kept his tone civil enough through gritted teeth. "He is not a Targaryen."
"And his daughter wasn't burned to death by his brother, yet apparently he deserves to wage war with Viserys instead of me."
The King didn't respond to that statement, instead trying to turn the tables of their argument quickly. "I ordered you to take command at the Wall."
Aelor stared into his nephew's eyes, weary of the jealous hostility he had dealt with for years. "I did take command at the Wall. I then passed that command on to Jaehaerys—who is a Targaryen, before you complain—and chased you south."
"There is going to be a war in the North soon, one that might hold the entire world as we know it in its balance."
Aelor cocked a brow. "Then why aren't you there, Your Grace? If the war in the north might decide the fate of the world and the war in the south only seven of its kingdoms, it seems to me that you are marching the wrong direction." Aelor waved off his nephew's response before it truly began. "No, no, I already know the answer. You think there is more glory to be won in the south. You'd prefer to march to war against your uncle Viserys rather than wait for some unwashed barbarians to mount a futile attack on a Wall. When will you heed my words of wisdom on war, boy; it is all blood and mud and shit and terror. It is not a tourney. There is no glory, no matter what the stories and songs of the unexperienced tell you."
Aegon was as crimson as the three-headed dragon on his doublet. "I am the King. What I decide—"
"Any King who must say 'I am the King' is no true King. You know this; you have been taught so since you were old enough to walk. You were taught many things, though recently I wonder if you truly learned any of it."
Aegon bit his tongue and closed his eyes, clearly angry at being scolded like a child. Aelor normally avoided these sorts of confrontations with his nephew for the sake of the Seven Kingdoms, but the murder of his daughter had wiped nearly all such inhibitions away.
After a long moment of silence, Aegon let out a deep sigh and once again looked at his uncle. "Months ago you told me my decisions were right because I was the one to make them, and now you tell me I am in the wrong. What do you want me to say, uncle? What is it you want to hear from me?"
"Decisions made with your mind are correct. Decisions made with jealousy or other lesser motives are foolish." Aelor's violet eyes bored into Aegon's. "I want to hear why you didn't tell me my daughter was dead." Aelor's voice was cold and sharp, and the King of the Iron Throne flinched as if he had been stabbed.
Aegon looked down and to the side. "I loved her too, you know. In my own way. Not as a woman, but as…Rhaella." The Lord of Duskendale felt a touch of his anger disappear and opened his mouth to answer, but Aegon wasn't done. "I took for granted that we'd be married one day; she would have been one hell of a Queen to the Seven Kingdoms. But instead I made a weak decision, and now she is dead because of it." Aegon returned his gaze to Aelor's, and in them he saw a pain nearing that in Aelor's heart. "How do I live with that, uncle?"
Aelor leaned back, his rage from a moment ago now gone. The two Targaryen's stared at each other for a long while, neither saying a word, before the elder finally broke the silence. "Renfred Rykker. Morgan and Balman Byrch. Elwood Harte. Willis. Alester." He swallowed. "Rhaella." Aegon furled his brow in confusion, and Aelor let out a deep sigh. "Those are just a few of the many people who are dead because of me. I'm not talking of those I've personally killed of course, but those who have died because of my actions or my inactions."
"I…I don't see your point."
Aelor leaned forward, and hesitantly placed a hand on the arm of one who was his son in all but blood. "You and I were both laden with the responsibility of thousands of lives on our shoulders from a young age. We make decisions, some good, some bad, and others pay for our mistakes. That is what it is to be a Targaryen, Aegon. That is what it is to wield power. It isn't glory in battle, it isn't debauchery and sin, it isn't purity and the Seven or riches and wealth. It is to be in charge of thousands of innocent people who can die because of one small mistake we make. We try to prevent it, but we can't. We do our best for the situation we see, but oftentimes we are wrong. I charged across a ford with three thousand men. Over twenty-nine hundred of them died. I didn't. I've pondered that ever since."
Aegon was watching intently, all hints of hostility gone. "Is this supposed to be making me feel better?"
"No, this is to prepare you for what is about to come. The war in the north was rather straight forward; man the Wall and don't let the wildlings or anything else more sinister pass. This war in the south, however, will be nothing like that. You will have decisions, and most of the time you will have no idea which choice to make. That's what your advisors are for. That is what I am for. Men are going to die under your command, Aegon. Maybe Aelor Rykker, maybe Dickon Tarly, maybe even me. You have been trained from birth to be strong enough to handle that. I have faith in you, son, that you will do so."
Aelor removed a hand from the King's arm, taking a long swig from his wine glass partially because he was thirsty from all the talking and partially to give him time to fight back the tears he felt coming at the thought of his young daughter. "Rhaella wasn't your fault, Aegon, it was Viserys' and mine; Viserys' for turning on his family, and mine for bungling your regency enough to drive men to betray you. But I made the decisions I did and I suffered the results, good and bad, and while I would burn a thousand Lannisports to get my daughter back, I wouldn't change any of the things I have done. I cannot second guess myself, and neither can you."
Aegon took a drink from his own glass, the two most powerful men in Westeros letting another silence descend upon them. The scraps of food on their plates from dinner were cold by the time Aegon spoke again. "I am…sorry, uncle. I should never have marched south without at least giving you the entirety of the story. You had a right to know, and I do not know if I can win this war—either of them—without you."
Aelor smiled a shadow of a smile. "You are my King, Aegon. I hope you will lean on my experience as well as that of Barristan and Randyll Tarly and the others, but in the end I will do as you say."
The Dragon of Duskendale hesitated a moment before going on. "I almost killed your father once. I thought he was insane. I still do. But Rhaegar Targaryen knew more than I could have ever fathomed, and one thing he was always certain of was that you, Aegon the Sixth, would be the greatest king Westeros has ever seen. While I didn't always agree with my brother's ideas—I rarely agreed with my brother's ideas—we always agreed on that."
Aelor killed the rest of his wineglass. "We have wars to win, you and I. We'd best do it together."