Rickon Stark (101 A.C. Ninth 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 three dragons, the Black Dread, Grey Ghost, 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 rode 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, Princess Visenya Targaryen, and Princess Arya Targaryen," his father announced clearly and proudly.
But where was the older cousin he had heard about?
"Rise, please, all of you," Lyanna said gently. Her voice was soft but carried a calm authority, just as his father had once described it. "Thank you for that, brother. Please introduce me to your family."
She had a kind, noble face framed by long raven-dark hair that shimmered in the sunlight. Her eyes, deep and dark, held a flicker of sorrow, grief that must have followed the death of her husband. Referring to Baelon Targaryen as his uncle still felt strange. A prince of the realm, rider of the second largest dragon, and yet he was also simply her husband, part of their family.
"Husband, welcome to Winterfell," his mother said, stepping forward to kiss his father on the cheek.
"Daughter!" his grandmother exclaimed with uncharacteristic joy as she wrapped Lyanna in a warm embrace.
"Mother, it's good to see you again," Lyanna whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes as she stepped aside and gestured behind her. "Here are your granddaughters."
Two young girls emerged, hand in hand. One was about Rickon's height, with thick black hair and striking purple eyes. She looked like a smaller version of their aunt.
"Come here, little ones. Come meet your grandmother," the old lady said as she knelt, opening her arms. The girls didn't hesitate. They ran into her embrace.
"You look even more like your mother now at this age," she told the taller girl warmly. "You were so small the last time I saw you, and your purple eyes… they remind me even more of your father now."
The girl beamed. "Papa said the same thing." She paused before she asked. "You saw me before?"
His grandmother smiled. "Indeed, as did your grandfather. You were but a babe then. Barley walking." At that, his grandmother kissed the girl's forehead before turning to the littlest one. "And you're a beauty. You look just like your mother did at your age."
"Well, my husband was a handsome man," Lyanna said with a bittersweet smile.
"I'm so sorry for my good-son's passing, my love," his grandmother said gently, reaching for Lyanna's hand.
"Well," his father interjected, "if Mother can stop clinging to you for just a minute, I think the rest of us would like a chance to say hello."
"Of course, brother," Lyanna chuckled, brushing a tear from her cheek.
"Goodsister," his mother said warmly, kissing Lyanna on the cheek. "This is Bennard, my youngest."
She held up the chubby boy in her arms.
"He looks like you, Lysa," Lyanna said with a smile. "That reddish-brown hair, but his eyes, those are definitely his father's." She tickled Bennard's belly, earning a giggle.
"And this one," his father said proudly, placing a firm hand on Rickon's shoulder, "is Rickon, my eldest. My heir."
Rickon straightened instinctively. "Princess, it's an honor to meet you all."
"None of that, nephew," Lyanna said with a laugh, ruffling his hair. "I'm your aunt. Call me Lyanna or Aunt, not Princess."
He nodded, a little shy now. "Yes, Aunt."
"You look so much like my father," she said warmly. "But there's your mother in you, too, and you have your father's eyes."
Rickon blushed and looked at his boots.
Suddenly, he heard a giggle. He looked up just in time to see the two girls standing before him, grinning.
"He doesn't look like Rhaenyra at all," said the littlest one with a mischievous smile.
"Arya!" the older girl groaned, nudging her gently. "That's not how you start a conversation." She looked back at Rickon with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about her. We've been stuck in the carriage all day. She gets a little silly when she gets bored."
"Hey! You said you were bored, too!" Arya shot back with mock outrage.
"Girls," Lyanna interrupted, shaking her head, "introduce yourselves before you confuse your cousin anymore."
The taller one stepped forward, offered a slight curtsy, and said, "I'm Visenya. This troublemaker is my little sister, Arya."
"I'm not little!" Arya said immediately, sticking her tongue out at her sister, then turning to Rickon. "Nice to meet you. You look a lot like our brother, yet with boring hair."
Rickon blinked. "Thanks?"
Visenya smirked. "You'll get used to her."
He couldn't help but laugh. "I think I already like you both."
"You better," Arya said matter-of-factly, "we came a long way just to meet you."
"Where is my nephew?" his mother asked asked, interrupting the conversation.
"He should be here any minute." His aunt stated. 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 smaller one flew overhead.
"By the old gods, sister, please don't tell me you let your son is on one of those things," his mother said, her eyes fixed on the two massive dragons and the smaller one. Balerion appeared as black as coal, with golden eyes, and because of his size, Rickon was confident the giant dragon couldn't fit inside Winterfell's courtyard, which was quite spacious. The other larger dragon was bronze with blue and green scales, yet still smaller than the black dread. 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 grey with silver markings, and he didn't know the name of that dragon.
"Well, then, I won't," Lyanna replied with a laugh, Rickon involuntarily laughed too. As he received a sided glace from his mother, of don't you think of getting on to one of those things.
"Come, we shall meet our prince," his mother said, visibly gulping as she looked at the dragons. Rickon felt like a mix of dread and excitement was bubbling inside him.
They all walked out of the courtyard into the fields in front of Winterfell, which had been freshly cut as the last harvest before winter had just been hauled in.
As the three dragons landed, the ground trembled beneath them. Then 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, it is a pleasure to see you again, and aunt, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," Aemon said with a bright smile. His grandmother walked over to his cousin, and they embraced. " Last time, you were still a boy. Now, you've grown so much, and you start to look like my Rickard," his grandmother said with teary eyes.
"Thank you, grandmother. I missed you, sorry for grandfather," his cousin replied. "Me too my boy, me too." His grandmother noted before they parted.
"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. Nineth Moon)
Winterfell – Crypts.
Later during the day.
'It was strange meeting the Starks 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 bannermen 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 that 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 council?'
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. He 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 life anymore. He just wanted 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. Expect Arya, who had returned and had slowly changed into a less cold person, and understanding her mistakes, as had he,' He thought back as he looked at the stone that bore his grandfather's name. It was the same as his old one.
But a different man. This Rickard had 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.
"I know mother said much the same. Grandfather enjoyed the fact I had his eyes." He replied with a sad chuckle. "You do, father spoke of it proudly, and quote that boy is wolf as well as dragon. When he comes North, he will be like a fish in water, and I can't deny he was wrong in his words. You seem to take this place and North if you have already seen it." Benjen noted.
Aemon tensed at that. "Yes, it feels like home. The books and the tales of mother, they painted a vivid picture of the North and Winterfell, and the North will be my true home for most of myself."
"Yes, it will be your home. Father was quite proud of the rebuilding of Seadragon Point and building a navy." Benjen noted fondly.
"It will be quite the change. It's been a long time since our western shores truly held a strong naval presence, ever since Brandon the burner. The Mormonts and Dustins have some ships, but mostly are for trade and transport. With the building of the navy, it will give protection against future reavers." Benjen added it had been something they discussed before on their way here, and his uncle had then been impressed with his knowledge and his ideas.
"It will cause quite a change, and it will be a beacon of strength for house Stark and Targaryen. It will be something not seen for some time." He stated, and Benjen gave an interested look.
"I know. I have seen the sketches and ideas you sent to us. Part of your plans have been built. Others, I wonder how you plan on building those things. Yet you are still youn Aemogn. You will learn not all things can be done."
"Oh, uncle, I know all too well if I could, my father would still be alive." He noted with a sigh.
He heard a sigh from Benjen as he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ïndeed, nephew, now come, let's have you prepare for the feast. My mother and wife certainly have prepared."
Flashback.
Harrenhal, a few moments after that damn dream.
He had gone to Balerion the moment he awoke from that damned dream.
Seeing Harren the Black, the desecration of the weirwoods, their sacred groves cut down to make way for a tyrant's abomination, and sap of the trees mixed into the mortar. Had left him reeling. It was a mockery, a deliberate insult to the Pact and the faith of first men and children.
"Aemon," Balerion said through their bond, his voice like distant thunder, "what troubles you? You seem distressed."
"Dreams," Aemon muttered bitterly. "Fucking dreams. I saw what stood here before all… this. A forest of weirwoods, like the one on the Isle of Faces. And the Ironborn cut it all down to build the pride of Harren the Black. It's ironic, I'm speaking to the very dragon who burned that pride to ash."
Balerion exhaled a plume of smoke, his molten eyes fixed on Aemon with ancient understanding.
"Indeed," the Black Dread rumbled. "I felt the rage of something old the first time I came to this place. This castle was built on bones and blood of sacred woods and slaughtered men. Near its end, even Valyria felt like this, dark, heavy with the purpose it once had. Not the realm of greatness the elders once spoke of, when dragonlords fought for purpose rather than power. But time corrodes all intentions. Even the noble ones. Power is always dangerous. It corrupts best and pushes forward the worse."
It was one of the many wonders Aemon had discovered through his bond with Balerion, the lore of Valyria, its glories, its craft, and the shadows that had devoured it in the end. Knowledge he would soon need. The knowledge he would use.
"A sad truth," Aemon said softly. "I wonder what this place looked like at the beginning… before conquest brought fire and Ironborn tore the heart from the land. What house held these lands then, I wonder?"
He gazed toward the broken ruins of Harrenhal.
"But why was I sent that dream?" he murmured. "At the end, just before I woke, voices whispered the names of false, wicked gods. The Drowned God. The Storm God. Even the Seven… they hissed their names at me."
"The Old Gods, our gods, are true forces of life in this world. At least, from what I now understand of their deeper meaning, as for what I know and you told me." Balerion mused. "The Great Other created these false gods to weaken our gods' hold on the mortal plane so that the message of the ancient powers and the threat of the Great Other could be eroded. The Seven, for example, see the First Men and their tales as nothing more than fables, and sadly, even their own descendants have fallen under that spell. I think the gods want you to revive them. To bring the True Gods forward again. To cast aside these wicked ones, the ones spread by the Great Other."
"If so," Aemon said, "I will need far more power than I have now to rebuild that ancient strength. Perhaps even organize it. As much as I love the silent nature of the gods and each person's own path to their worship… we'll need people. Guardians for the weirwoods, like the green men that live on the Isle of Faces. Shepherds to tend the trees and to spread their tale, what they are, and what they do to the land."
He looked toward the horizon.
"As much as I hate this castle, God's Eye and the lands around Harrenhal are bountiful. Every castle in the North holds weirwoods or at least a hearttree, and those lands are fertile, though the cold limits how much we can harvest. But our forests still hold weirwoods, and they're stronger and more plentiful than the ones in the south. The Kingswood, for all its abundance, is grand… but it pales in comparison to the Wolfswood, or even the woods beyond the Wall."
Aemon smiled faintly, his voice lifting with a spark of enthusiasm.
"Even King's Landing has a young Hearttree, and its effect on the nature of the garden that surrounds it is already noticeable."
"Well then, Aemon," Balerion rumbled. "You know what must be done. Restore the old power and set aside the new. Sometimes, fire is the only way to clear a forest so that new sprouts may rise."
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