Rickon Stark (101 A.C. Elevnth Moon)
Winterfell
He couldn't have felt happier; his father was returning to Winterfell, along with his cousins and aunt. His father had written that two dragons, the Black Dread and Vhagar, were coming with them. To a six-year-old, this was the most exciting news imaginable. He waited outside with his family in the courtyard. On his right, his mother held little Bennard, his brother, in her arms, who was just shy of his second nameday. The rest of Winterfell's people surrounded the courtyard.
"Our lord and the royal party are arriving," Yolen, a Winterfell guard he'd known all his life, announced as twenty household guards of House Stark game riding in leading the way, followed by his father, who bore the same long face and grey eyes, though his beard appeared longer.
Twenty Targaryen Household guards in the red and black of their house came next. Then came the two Kingsguards, both in pure white, except for the heraldry of their respective houses. One was a Westerling, as he remembered from his studies; that must be Ser Harrold Westerling. The other had a crab on his badge, which he couldn't recall. The royal carriage followed them, with another ten Targaryen household guards trailing behind. He watched it all in awe, but his eyes were still eagerly waiting for the dragons, which had yet to be seen.
His father dismounted and opened the carriage door. Following tradition, he knelt with the rest of his family, as his mother and grandmother had mercilessly drilled into him. Princess Lyanna walked outside the carriage carrying a little babe. "Princess Lyanna Stark Targaryen and Princess Visenya Targaryen," his father announced loudly. But where was his older cousin?
"Rise, please, all you off. Thank you for that, brother. Please, introduce me to your family," his aunt said, her voice soft but with a sense of authority, as his father had described. She had a kind, long face with dark brown raven hair that shone in the sunlight. Her eyes held a hint of sadness, most likely from the loss of his uncle. Referring to Baelon Targaryen as his uncle still felt strange. He was a prince of the realm and ride of the second largest dragon of the realm. Yet he was also part of their family since he was married to his aunt.
"Husband, welcome to Winterfell," his mother said, kissing his father. "Daughter!" his grandmother exclaimed happily, embracing her daughter and nearly crushing the little babe between them. "Mother, be careful; you might crush your only granddaughter," Lyanna said, tears in her eyes. "She's a beauty, with your hair and nose; the rest takes after her father," his grandmother said, looking down at the baby with the same love she reserved for him and his brother.
"Well, my husband was a handsome man," his aunt remarked, a mixture of sadness and happiness in her words. "I'm sorry for my goodson's death, my love," his grandmother said, stroking Lyanna's cheek. "Well, Lyanna, if Mother can leave you alone for a minute, I'm sure the rest wants to meet you," his father said, shaking his head.
"Of course, brother," Lyanna said with a chuckle. "Goodsister, Lysa Lock," his mother said, kissing Lyanna on the cheek. "This is Bennard, my youngest," his mother added, holding Bennard in her arms. "He looks like you, Lysa, with the reddish-brown hair, but it seems he has his father's eyes, don't you?" Lyanna said, smiling and gently tickling Bennard's stomach, making his brother giggle happily. "And this one here is Rickon, my eldest and heir," his father said proudly, placing his hand on his shoulder, causing him to stand a little taller.
"Princess, it's an honor to meet you," Rickon said, bowing. "None of that, nephew; I'm your aunt. Call me Aunt or Lyanna," she said, ruffling his hair and smiling warmly. "You look like my father, but I see your mother and father in you," she added as she knelt to look at him with a smile. "Thank you, Aunt," he replied, blushing and looking down at the ground.
"Where is my grandson?" his grandmother asked, her smile growing wider. "He should be here any minute." Then, the loudest roars he had ever heard echoed across the courtyard. Everyone in the courtyard, except those from the Targaryen party, knelt in shock and awe as two giant shadows and a shadow flew overhead.
"By the old gods, daughter, please don't tell me my grandson is on one of those things," his grandmother said, her eyes fixed on the two massive dragons. Balerion appeared as black as coal, with golden eyes, and because of his size, he was confident the giant dragon couldn't fit inside Winterfell's courtyard, which was quite spacious. The other dragon was bronze with blue and green scales, perhaps slightly smaller but still a behemoth. He wasn't sure which dragon it was, either Vermithor or Vhagar, as they both were described as being that large and having a bronze look. Since Vermithor was the king's dragon, this one must be Vhagar, which had once been his uncle's dragon and Queen Visenya's. The smallest of the three was pale blue with silver markings, and he didn't know the name of that dragon.
"Well, then, I won't," Lyanna replied with a laugh. "Come, we shall meet our prince," his mother said, visibly gulping as she looked at the dragons. He could feel his mix of dread and excitement bubbling up inside him.
They all walked out of the courtyard, and as the three dragons landed, the ground trembled beneath them. A boy of his age, or maybe a bit older, with curling silver-golden hair, Valyrian cheekbones, and a build reminiscent of his grandfather, stepped off the ropes of Balerion. His eyes were Stark grey, but a hint of purple could be seen when the light hit them; it seemed like a mix of both Stark and Targaryen in him.
They all stood there watching in wonder, his cousin petting the two giant dragons as if they were hounds. 'The third dragon, however, he left alone. The dragons could devour his cousin in a single bite, and it wouldn't even be a substantial meal but a mere snack,' he wondered as he shook his head.
Approaching, he knelt along with everyone else as their Prince spoke. "Please, rise, all of you. We are kin, and there's no need to kneel for family," his cousin said with a strong, authoritative voice an unusual trait for someone his age. He hoped he could emulate that authority when he grew older.
"Grandmother, Aunt, it's a pleasure to meet you," Aemon said with a bright smile. His grandmother walked over to his cousin, and they embraced. "I thought you were just a dragon, but your eyes are all your mother's. You're like my Rickard," his grandmother said with teary eyes.
"Thank you, grandmother. It's good to know I have the Starks in me as well," his cousin replied.
"Aunt, I've always wanted to travel to the lands of the mountain clans. I've heard many good things. King's Landing could use some of that Northern humor my mother always brings," his cousin said with a chuckle.
"The North has long awaited its Northern Prince to come home. You are a welcome addition to us all, nephew," his mother said, and his cousin kissed her on the cheek.
"Who is this little one?" Aemon asked, looking at his brother. "This little one is Bennard Stark." Upon hearing the name, he noticed a small frown briefly across his cousin's face. "He has a lot of Lock in him, I see, but also his father," his cousin said with a smile.
"Well, he's a Stark nephew, just like you," his mother said with a smile. Then he locked eyes with his cousin, those familiar Stark grey eyes that held a weariness one wouldn't expect in a boy his age.
"You must be Rickon. I'm Aemon. I hope we'll have many adventures. If you'd like, I'll even take you dragon riding, cousin," his cousin said, extending his hand. He couldn't contain his excitement. He embraced his cousin, knowing that this was a definite yes.
"That's a yes, I take it," his cousin chuckled, and his words were met with laughter from the rest of the family.
Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C. Eleventh Moon)
Winterfell - crypts
'It was strange meeting the Stark and arriving back at Winterfell. It did feel like a second homecoming, and he did receive a far better reception. The last time he came with royalty, all his banners acted like ungrateful cunts, and Sansa was a cold and manipulative woman who had, done nothing to keep control of the lords. Or to understand the strategic importance of the arrival of Daenerys's armies. Not Sansa understood those matters, as the battle of bastards clearly showed him that.
He remembered what she said after the war council was done. "So you have met the enemy, drawn up your battle plans." She had said in a tone he had already did not like. He had said, " Aye, for what they're worth." Because he didn't know Ramsey, he formulated a battle plan based on the forces he had. So there was a chance for them to win. Then, knowing Ramsey as a new Warden, he couldn't play defensive-minded. He had shown the North his metal by crushing his force into the dirt. But then his dear cousin or sister back started talking again.
"You and your trusted advisors have known him for the space of a single conversation, and you plan how to defeat a man you don't know." Well, that was good. Most commanders never meet opposing commanders, and some have never fought a battle. You move the board and try to make the winning move based on what you learned growing up or from past experiences. Sansa then talked about how she knew him. "I lived with him. I know the way his mind works. I know how he likes to hurt people. Did it ever once occur to you that I might have some insight?" She questioned him, and he remembered sitting there and thinking, 'Why didn't you tell me that during the war meeting?'
But he asked what he should do differently and how to return their little brother, and then she answered with something that shocked him the most. "We never get him back. Rickon is Ned Stark's trueborn son. It is a greater treat that you are a bastard or me a girl. Which means he won't live long." He yelled then. H came here to bring his little brother back. "We can't give up on our brother." "Please listen to me. He wants you to make a mistake." He just stared at her.
Was she stupid? He remembered thinking: Every battle commander wants their adversary to make a mistake, so he said. "Of course he does. What should I do differently?" He asked so they could make a different plan. But Sansa only said. "I don't know anything about battles, just don't do what he wants you to do." "Aye, that's good advice." He told the women, who gave him nothing but complaints and bad news. It all came down that night. He felt unhappy. He felt like a failure, he fought for her, but she only complained, and Rickon, poor Rickon, that chance was also gone. So when he shows his little brother run across that battlefield, a primal urge to save him, he doesn't care about his own anymore. He just wants his little brother saved.
Perhaps if the Knight of Vale had attacked earlier, or he had made a plan around them being in and luring Ramsey into a trap. Possibly, Rickon had lived. Not that it mattered. They were all gone now.' He thought back as he looked at the stone that bore his new grandfather's name. It was the same as his old one.
But a different man. It resembled the one he had seen when he played in Winterfell as a child, but now, he was here again, with no statues of his mother, uncles, cousins, or grandfather. Rickard Stark had inherited the Lordship of Edric Stark, his nephew. He never sired children, as Edric died at the young age of six and ten. His uncle and mother's older brother also passed before their time, passing away in infancy. It seems House Stark had much the same premature deaths as House Targaryen. He wondered if the measter of Winterfell could be trusted.
"You look a lot like him, Aemon," his uncle said. "It still felt strange to him. The first time he had seen Benjen as the Lord of Winterfell, it felt like a step back in time to his past life. The only noticeable difference was that Benjen looked taller and more muscular than the Uncle Benjen of the Night's Watch." He thought the two of them had a familiarity with each other.
"It's a regret of mine that I never got to meet him," He replied, his voice tinged with sadness. At the age of forty and three namedays, Rickard Stark died at a relatively young age. "He was excited to meet his grandson, who rode the fiercest dragon in the world, with the blood of both dragon and wolf. But it seems fate is taking the people we love too quickly these days. My father and yours both passed away within around a year of each other. A true loss for the realm." Benjen clasped his shoulder in a comforting gesture.
"Ah, one thing my mother always said to me was, 'When the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," He said, reciting the words his uncle had once told him and now his mother as well in this timeline.
"Very true, nephew. If you ever need help, remember that we are your pack. The wolfs of the North will come howling down," Benjen affirmed.
"Come, nephew, let's leave our ancestors to their rest," Benjen suggested with a chuckle, and he left the crypts of Winterfell.
Rhaenyra Targaryen (101 A.C., seventh moon)
Dragonstone
As our ship drew closer to Dragonstone, She couldn't tear my eyes away from the island fortress ahead. The imposing black castle, perched like a jagged obsidian tooth jutting out of the sea, sent a shiver down my spine. Beside her, my cousin Laena stood silently, her face unreadable. The chilly sea breeze whipped through our hair, but it wasn't just the cold that made me shiver. At just seven years old, the sight of Dragonstone was both thrilling and terrifying.
With Aem's departure to Winterfell, it had been a difficult moment for her. He had always been her friend and protector; she missed him dearly. The North was a far cry from the warmth of Dragonstone, and she often wondered how he was faring since his departure. But now she had Laena by her side, as unfortunately, Alicent had stayed with her father in Kingslanding as he was the Hand of the King to her grandfather. So, Lord Corlys had proposed to let her be one of her ladies in waiting, as Alicent was no longer around. She was two years older than me and betrothed to my uncle. She was to become one of my ladies, as Corlys had proposed to let her be one of her ladies in waiting, and I was glad for her company.
As the ship docked at Dragonstone, she clutched my mother's hand tightly. Her pregnant mother looked visibly tired from the journey, but she had insisted on accompanying her. My father, Lord Corlys, had accepted the offer for Laena to be one of my ladies, and Dragonstone itself felt more like home to me than King's Landing ever had.
The castle's black stones, as dark as a raven's feather, reminded her of the great dragon Balerion, the Black Dread. The dragon had been her favorite uncle's companion, and the image of its massive black scales flashed through her mind. Her father had been named heir to the Iron Throne, and her mother's late pregnancy was taking its toll on the family.
'She couldn't help but hope for another sibling, a son for her father, as she looked at her mother's swollen belly. She knew the importance of having a strong male heir in their lineage,' and the thought of a new addition to the family brought a smile to her young face.
The gangplank was lowered, and she took her first step onto Dragonstone. The air smelled of salt and brine, and the cries of gulls filled her ears. She looked around, eyes wide, taking in the rocky coastline, the crashing waves, and the towering black castle that would be her new home. Dragonstone was unlike any place she had ever seen, and despite the shiver it sent down her spine, she couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement.
As they made their way into the castle, her small hand still clutching her mother's, she knew everything was about to change, as this was to be her home until her father became the king. Dragonstone held secrets and stories and was eager to explore every corner, just like she had done in King's Landing.
She glanced at her cousin Laena, who gave her a comforting smile. Taking a deep breath, she stepped further into the shadowy halls of Dragonstone. This was the start of a new adventure, and she was ready to face it with all the bravery and curiosity a young Targaryen could muster.
Coryls Valeyreon (101 A.C.)
Drifmark – Hight Tide – Hall of Nine.
The hall of nine was his; all his achievements came into one. Yet it also reminded him of what he had and had to reclaim. As he looked to his side and sat in front of the hearth, his wife, Rhaenys, a woman of striking beauty and grace, watched him, and a frown edge her face before her voice' broke the silence of his thoughts.
"Husband, what weighs on your mind?" Rhaenys inquired gently, her eyes searching his troubled expression.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, his fingers absently running through his dark, ebony hair. "It's the matter of succession, Rhaenys," he replied, his gaze distant. "It appears that we and our children have been wronged in the eyes of the realm yet again, as before with your father's death. But there's still hope for change. Our daughter is betrothed to the most powerful dragonlord. Both Viserys and Daemon lack sons to inherit the throne. And the princess remains unmarried. Our son and daughter could still rise to greatness."
Rhaenys, ever the voice of reason in their marriage, regarded her husband with a thoughtful look. "Corlys, the path you tread is fraught with peril," she cautioned, her tone measured. "Ambition, if unchecked, can lead to disappointment and ruin. We must be cautious and not put too much hope in uncertain alliances and betrothals. Our children's happiness should be at the forefront of our concerns."
He nodded, acknowledging his wife's wisdom. "You are right, my love. Our children are our greatest treasure, and their well-being should always come first. But I can't help but see the opportunities before us. The rise of a second son of House Hightower as Hand of the King is a sign of changing times. And our daughter's betrothal to the rider of Balerion, the Black Dread, is a chance for her to wield influence."
As he spoke, he couldn't help but think of Ser Otto Hightower, the second son who had achieved the esteemed position of Hand of the King. It was a clear indication of a shifting paradigm within the realm.
"The lords have chosen Viserys, and the realm will hold to that precedent," Rhaenys said, her voice filled with love and understanding. She reached out, taking his hand in her own. "I implore you to make peace with it, my husband. Our daughter will be the lady of a great fortress, and our son will be the future lord of Driftmark. Perhaps that should be enough."
He squeezed his wife's hand and nodded, wondering if he could do it. 'But not yet, right after the Great Council. Perhaps his family was enough, and as long as their children were happy and safe, maybe that truly mattered. The future held uncertainty, but they would face it together with love and unity.'
Otto Hightower (101 A.C.)
Kingslanding - Tower of The Hand
'In the wake of the Great Council, the realm had settled into relative peace. He, a second son of House Hightower, had emerged as the Hand of the King, a position unprecedented in the history of his house. It was a testament to his influence and the trust the old king had placed in him.
However, he knew that his rise to power was only one step in a carefully calculated plan. The key to maintaining control and influence in King's Landing was to have a line to the king himself. Initially, he had hoped to use his daughter, grooming her for a future marriage to the grandsons. Such a union would have solidified his family's position within the royal court. But those plans had been abruptly halted when the late queen had betrothed the king's grandsons to another lady of the realm. Daemon had been sent to the Vale to marry Lady Rhae Royce, and the rider of Balerion had been betrothed to the sea snake's offspring since their birth, disrupting his carefully laid schemes.
His daughter, Alicent, was now one of the king's closest companions. She had been placed at the old king's side as a trusted confidante, and this had borne its fruits.' His thought went to her as she entered her father's chambers in the Tower of the Hand. 'He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in her accomplishments. But she was still young, perhaps in the years to come. She could seduce one of the Prince's. As rumors had already started about the troubled relationship between Prince Daemon and his wife,' He wondered how she was blooming into a true beauty as he looked at his daughter.
"Ah, daughter, how is his grace?" he inquired, his tone measured and composed.
Alicent's expression softened as she spoke of the king. "He is getting weaker, father," she replied, concern lacing her words. "He often confuses me with his past daughters. But he enjoys it when I read to him from the histories."
Her slight smile did not go unnoticed by her father. Alicent possessed a captivating beauty, and her charm was a weapon that would become even more potent when she reached womanhood. He recognized the value of his daughter's allure in the intricate dance of court politics.
"Very well, my dear," He said, gently caressing her cheek. "Tell me immediately if his condition changes, for better or worse. You have done exceptionally well in your role. Perhaps in the future, you will strive even higher."
Alicent nodded, her eyes meeting her father's with a hint of determination. She knew the importance of her position and was willing to play her part in advancing the Hightower family's ambitions. The Tower of the Hand was a place of power and intrigue, and he was determined to ensure that his family's legacy endured in the annals of Westerosi history.
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