Chapter Text
Prince Aeryn Stark, 120 AC, Winterfell
Snowroot roared against the winds. He could hear him from his and Soren’s chambers, as he laid in his bed and waited for dawn to come. The Gods had given him good hearing, though sometimes his hearing was too good. He could hear Soren’s growls from the next bed, and he could hear little Torrhen crying in the nursery, and not a moment later both Jaenara and Jonelle began to cry as well. The small trill of a hatchling was heard, Jaenara’s Emberwing, if Aeryn had to guess. Visenya, also still in the nursery, let out an annoyed growl.
He heard Father from his and Mother’s bedchambers.
“–Love, we’ve got to get up,” he heard Father say. “The babe’s are awake.”
Mother moaned a yawn. “You feed them this time.”
“I’ve no breasts nor the milk they bring.”
“That sounds like an issue for you,” was Mother’s response as she yawned again. “Eight babes you gave me, eight babes I gave you, you will come with me. If one of us must be up, we both will be.”
“Aye,” Father said, he sounded amused to Aeryn, though tired too. Grandmother once said that being king made men more tired. Mother had agreed, but said that was why they had a queen to help carry the burden. He shouldn’t have known about that, but his hearing was good.
Aeryn rarely felt tired. He always went to bed with the sun, and always awoke before it rose again. There was so much for him to listen to at night. The howls of the direwolves, and the roars of the dragons. Sometimes, he heard the caws of ravens and crows, and the boisterous laughs of the mountain clans. They stayed in the Guest Keep during the winter, and sometimes House Cerwyn and Tallhart would come and stay when the snows were kind. Cregan remained with Artos Cerwyn, and Halleck Norrey. Artos’ sister Sansara and Halleck’s sisters Arra and Raya were often with Lyra and sometimes Visenya, though Lyra was far closer to Arra than she was with Sansara. He often ended up with Soren, Alfyn Liddle, and Jon Tallhart, though they were more Soren’s friends than his.
“Sansara says her mama wants her to be Creg’s wife,” Lyra had whispered to him one day. “Says her mama wants her to be friends with me and Enya, even though she doesn’t like being around Morghonys, Onyxfrost, and Silvertooth.”
“Why does she then?”
“Because she’s four and stupid.”
“Soren’s four, he’s not stupid.”
“No, but he’s nice, and that’s even more stupid.”
He sat up and carefully slid off his bed, not wanting to wake Soren up. Though Soren slept really good, his hearing wasn’t as good as his sight but he knew better than to wake him up. Soren hated waking up in the morning, both Mother and Father had trouble getting him out of bed every day.
The ground was hard, even with the fur pelt covering most of it. He stood on his toes and slowly walked to the only window in the room. It was covered in frost and ice, completely concealing the world outside. The wind pounded on the window, wanting to be let in, but Aeryn knew it would take a lot more for it to break.
“Magic protects this keep,” he could almost hear his grandmother say. Though, she more than likely would say that it was Stark blood that was protecting Winterfell. He didn’t know why, but he trusted his grandmother. She knew a lot of odd things, and she was one of the smartest people he knew.
Stories told about Bran the Builder claimed he had built Winterfell, and dug into frozen grounds to house the long dead Stark kings. The crypts were always silent to Aeryn, lit by glass candles that never dimmed and he liked being down there. No one bothered him when he wanted to be alone, and he had Ironclaw to keep him company when he wanted someone there. Snowroot, to both of their dismay, was too big to go down into the crypt.
He pushed his feet into his boots and began to walk out of his and Soren’s room. He carefully left the room, his boots making as little noise as possible and his ears focused on every sound around him. He could hear his mother and father in the nursery, and his brothers and sisters steady breathing. Though he knew Torrhen was awake, he had been crying for their mother. She always fed him herself, as she had for him and his siblings. She never wanted a wet nurse for them, even for him and Lyra, despite them being twins.
“More than once I had to feed you both at the same time,” Mother said once, with both newly born Jaenara and Jonelle at her breasts. “Lyra would wake and want to be fed, and her crying would wake you up, or you would wake her up.”
Jaenara and Jonelle were growing in their milk teeth, that was when their mother often stopped feeding them. He knew it was because they would often bite her, and she had jokingly said once that Soren’s milk teeth had been the sharpest.
He could still hear the wind from the corridor. Would it slice his skin open, like Grandmother always claimed it would if he went outside at night?
“Slice the skin if not covered,” she had said. “Slice the throat while at it.”
“Blood and…,” he heard his father say, growling as his large fingers grabbed the back of his night shirt. Aeryn yelped as he was pulled off his feet, his entire body turning as his eyes met his fathers.
“Why are you not in bed, Aeryn Stark?” His father spoke in the Old Tongue, the words banged in his ears like forging hammer to steel.
“I wanted to go to the crypt,” he admitted after a moment of silence. He knew lying would only get him in more trouble, and his father always knew when he lied.
“The crypt?” His father said in the common tongue.
“Aye, I wanted to see Grandfather.”
Father’s grip on his shirt loosened, but he didn’t let go of Aeryn as he sighed. His grey eyes loomed, looking at him as though he were unsure of what he was looking at.
“You know better than to go outside without proper protection,” Father soon replied as he lowered Aeryn to the ground. “The wind is worse at night, go and dress yourself and meet me at the stairwell.”
Aeryn knew better than to question his father when he spoke, especially when he spoke about something he wanted to hear. He ran, letting his boots stomp against the hard floors.
“Make sure your knees are wrapped!” Father called after him. “They will thank you when you are old!”
He pushed open the heavy door to his and Soren’s chambers, and nearly tripped over his own feet as he entered. His boots were hastily kicked off as he caught himself and gripped the table in the center of the room. Drawings by both him and Soren lay on the table, and books their mother told them to read. One of the books was open, and a messy drawing of a direwolf holding a dead rabbit in its jaws was on one of the pages. He only knew what it was because Soren had shown him his drawing, saying he dreamt of Nightclaw finding a rabbit in the Wolfswood.
“Rabbit blood tastes sweet,” Soren had added. “Nightclaw, he was happy to eat the rabbit.”
He wondered, as he dove for his trunk full of thick small clothes, if Soren was having another dream about his wolf. He pried open his trunk and pulled out two thick pieces of woolen wraps, which he quickly wound around his knees before he pulled on a pair of trousers he found on the floor and tucking in his night shirt. He grabbed a jerkin lined with fur from his wardrobe and pulled it on, buttoning each button in place before he put on his thickest cloak. He frowned as he looked down at his hands, wondering if he would need his gloves. Would he need his fur hat too? Shaking his head, he grabbed his fur hat, which hung on one of the chairs at the table and shoved it onto his head. The ear flaps had strings at the end to keep the hat in his head, but Aeryn didn’t tie them together before putting on a pair of gloves, shoved his boots back on and walked out of the chambers.
Father was at the top of the stairs when Aeryn joined him, dressed similarly to him. His father looked more like a giant now, with all of his outdoor clothes on. Or an Umber, he believed as he thought of one of his father’s men. He had a lot of men, according to Cregan, and that’s why he was called king or so his brother claimed.
His father said nothing, only nodding his head as he got down to Aeryn’s level and took the strings of his hat in his gloved hands. He tied the hat, and a low, closed growl came from his mouth.
“The wind will take your hat if you don’t tie it first,” Father claimed before standing up and offering his hand. Aeryn took it and they walked down the steps toward the doors to the Great Keep.
Father opened the door and the wind hit Aeryn’s face, harshly smacking his skin before he pressed himself against his father’s leg. Father chuckled and removed his hand from his, before lifting him up and against his chest.
“I don’t need to be carried like a babe,” Aeryn protested as he buried his face into his father’s shoulder. “I’m six!”
“Still a babe to me,” Father replied, the grin on his face in his words as they began to move. “Winter is unforgiving and the wind especially so.”
Snowroot roared again from the distance, Aeryn knew his friend was in the Godswood, he was too big for the castle, and Mother had rules against the dragons sleeping on the roofs. The wind pushed and pushed them, but Father did not bend once. His back remained straight and continued to speak even with the screams of the wind nearly deafening Aeryn.
“—Winter takes all who are not strong enough to fight it,” Father said, slipping into the Old Tongue. “It is why the men in the South have not fought us in years; they know the snow will blind them, and the ice will kill them.”
“And the wind?”
“The wind warns.”
They were at the entrance to the crypt. Father opened the door and they descended down the stairs. He was not set down until they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Aeryn watched as his father grabbed an unlit lantern hanging on the stone wall. He watched as his father carefully took a thin stick from his pocket and held it over the glass candle closest to them. The green flame fluttered and lit the stick, and his father quickly placed it into the open slot on the lantern. A small but bright green flame grew and Father waved the remaining fire on the stick until it went out before stuffing the stick back into his pocket.
Together, they walked to Grandfather’s tomb. They passed a series of open and closed tombs, without stone statues to stand by them.
“Why don’t all the tombs have statues?” He asked, his fingers trailing the plaques on the stones, written in both old runes and common. He could hear claws tapping on the ground, it sounded close, but far away. Was one of the direwolves in the crypts?
“Only Kings of Winter are given statues,” his father answered. “To protect and defend their resting place and ours.”
“Why?”
Father was silent, his face shadowed against the green light of the dragonglass candle. Aeryn wondered if his father knew what he was asking, and if he didn’t, why did he never ask his own father? Or grandmother, or even Shyra? Oh, he supposed asking Shyra would be more trouble than anything else, she was scary most days, and the rest…she might as well be the corpse queen. She and her Night’s King were terrible enough that Brandon the Breaker and Joramun of the Horn had to band together and kill them both. Or, that was Cregan’s version of the tale, he liked hearing stories of the kings of old, both below and beyond the Wall.
“Blood and bone,” his father said as they stopped in front of Grandfather’s tomb. His statue was large, and his face looked tired, much like Father’s did. The direwolf at his feet reminded Aeryn of Soren’s direwolf. The sword in his hands was larger than Aeryn, and he knew better than to touch the blade; real steel was used to make the swords, just like any other sword. Father had said once the sword had been the one Grandfather used when he didn’t need Ice.
“His brothers Ellard and Rickard are here,” Father revealed. “With his father, and his father and so on. Ellard’s the only one with a statue, and their father Edric. I knew only my father, with his father and two of his three brothers dead by the end of the last winter. I had a cousin, Alys, but she too did not live to see spring, her blessing went unheard.”
“Why?” He had heard of blessing ceremonies that had ended with a babe not being blessed, but he didn't understand why. Why did the Gods not bless every babe? Why not his father’s cousin?
“Some claim it was because her mother had been a Manderly,” his father answered, a growl matching the frown on his face. “If that were as simple, then several children in the North, you and your brothers and sisters too, would have gone without a blessing.”
“Why?”
“Not everyone follows the Old Gods of the Forest, Aeryn.” His father looked down, the green candle light making his grey eyes seem strange. “When your mother came north, she had not prayed to the Old Gods once, and I still to this day do not know if she does at all. The ladies your mother brought with her, Artos’ mother, and Alarra and Osric’s too, they do not pray in front of our heart trees.”
“They pray to their statues,” Aeryn commented, and his father nodded. He knew little of the south, of how their summers were different and their gods too.
“As did Lady Manderly, and her kin in White Harbor.”
He looked at his grandfather’s statue and questioned, “did he look like his statue?”
“The man who carved his face knew him well,” his father answered, though it didn’t feel like an answer to Aeryn.
“He looks tired.”
“He had our kingdom to protect, it is a heavy burden to bear.”
“Did he fight a bear?”
Father’s lips split, turning up and revealing his fangs. A low chuckle came out of his mouth, and his hand suddenly came forward and rubbed at his hat. He didn’t know why his father was laughing, he really did want to know if his grandfather fought a bear and he supposed the direwolf did too as he heard it howling from behind him.
His father’s laughter stopped, and he no longer was smiling. His hand remained on top of Aeryn’s head, and the other moved past him, with his pointer finger out. Aeryn moved his head out of his father’s grasp and turned around, only to find a grey and black furred direwolf standing on all four paws. Nightclaw.
“Go back into the castle!” Father growled, sounding just like he did whenever he was scolding him or one of his brothers or sisters. Nightclaw whimpered, lowering his head as he moved backwards until Aeryn only saw his shadow. Father sighed. “The blessings the Gods give are few, and sometimes too many.” His father looked down, his smile returning though it wasn’t the same smile he just had. “There are times I am glad your brother only has his wolf, the Gods would be testing your mother and I otherwise.”
“Why?”
Father looked back at the statue of his father and replied, “your grandfather once told me of the Warg King. He lived during the time after the Long Night, and could skinchange into wolves. He was more wolf than man, some might say, with his blessing more visible. He became one with his wolf, and ruled from Sea Dragon Point until the Starks of old killed him.”
“Why did they kill him?”
“He spent too much time in his wolf,” Father admitted, his face becoming serious. “He was more beast than man, and had to be treated as such. His sons suffered the same fate, but his daughters endured far worse.”
What was worse than death? Aeryn didn’t know. He listened when his father began to tell more stories about Grandfather, but he couldn’t help but wonder about the Warg King. Who was he? Why was he only known as that, and what happened to his children? Was he the reason all skinchangers who could go into the minds of wolves were called wargs? Uncle Bennard, in his last letter to Father, had claimed one of the Crannogmen near Moat Cailin could skinchange into owls, and that was how the letter arrived at Winterfell, even with how cold the outside was. Which King of Winter had killed the Warg King? Was he here in the crypt, with his statue and direwolf standing at his tomb?
He yawned and his father stopped talking, and a smile crossed his face. “Back to the keep, neither of us will be sleeping in the crypt tonight.”
Aeryn only nodded and began following his father as they walked towards the stairs leading out of the crypt. He made no objection when his father picked him up and carried him the rest of the way back to the Great Keep. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes, was Nightclaw following after them, but the direwolf didn’t look like him, at least his eyes didn’t. Where the red part of eyes normally were, there was nothing but white in his eyes.
Prince Cregan Stark, late 121 AC, Winterfell
He scraped his blade against the wooden toy in his hands, and hoped he was careful enough he wouldn’t lose concentration and cut himself. He and his siblings had their fair share of wooden toys, often made by their father, and even a few ones from their grandfather that now remained on the highest shelf in the nursery. Cregan had wanted to make ones of his own, different ones compared to the wolves, bears, and other animals that had been made over the years. He thought he had a good hand on the wolf he was carving, though he didn’t know how he was going to put dragon wings on it.
Holding back a growl, he tore his eyes away from the toy and looked at Frostfang, who sat patiently with Emberwing flapping her orange-yellow membraned wings in what Cregan assumed was impatience. It was hard for him to understand what his little sister’s drake was feeling, he had a better understanding on Sȳndorax, who had been with him for as long as he could remember.
“Sagon gīda, Emberwing,” he said to the light grey dragon, who let out a small shriek but thankfully stopped flapping her wings. For now, he knew. Much like her future rider, Emberwing was a restless little lizard, at least they were according to Father. He had heard him say that to Mother once, when she had called Jonelle’s direwolf, Valla, a loud, overgrown dog. He wasn’t supposed to have heard that, he imagined, but his hearing was good, though not as good as his sight seemed to be most days. He had recently discovered, on a hunt for rabbits with his father, Aeryn, and Soren that he was as good a tracker as Father was. He had seen the first rabbit just moments before Father, and claimed it as his first kill after determining it would be his to kill.
“I heard it first!” Aeryn had snarled when Father held the rabbit up by its ears, its hind legs violently kicking in the air.
“I called out first,” Cregan had argued back, his eyes going from his father and the rabbit to the first of his younger brothers. They each had their direwolves at their sides, Frostfang stood still with his own eyes flinting back and forth between the other wolves. Ironclaw was slowly growling, his teeth flickering out of his muzzle. Nightclaw stared at the rabbit, his red eyes focused but the rest of his body rigid-looking. Father’s Frostclaw merely glared at them all, as if he were deciding on how he would scold the younger direwolves. At least, that is how Cregan thought it all looked like, before wondering why so many of their wolves' names ended in ‘claw’. Was their father simply terrible at names?
Looking away, he stared at the window from across his bedchambers. Frost no longer hid the outside world from him, though his sight was good enough he had little issue with seeing out of it. Spring was here, which meant letters poured in over the past moon or so. From his father’s bannermen, accounting for what remained of their stores, what remained of their people, and of the babes who survived the winter. Father and Mother together had sent letters of their own, giving words Cregen knew not, as he was not allowed to read any of the scrolls brought in and sent away.
He frowned as he heard the footsteps racing to his door, airy and nearly silent. Lyra, he knew at once as she knocked on his door four times before opening it. Emberwing immediately jumped off Frostfang’s back and flew out of the chamber as Lyra stuck her head in.
“Mama wants to see you, Creg!” She announced, a strand of her wild hair falling over her face.
Their mother had been preparing for her eventual stay in the birthing chamber connected to the nursery. She was a few moons away from birth, or so she and the wise women claimed. Cregan secretly hoped this would be the last babe she and his father had, he hated seeing his mother so tired after all of her births, even if he loved all of his brothers and sisters.
He nodded, and set his blade down but not the carving. He wanted to show his mother what he was working on, she always liked it when he or any of the others brought her something they had done. The number of crafts she had hidden in the secret pockets of her skirts were quite a lot, or so Mother claimed once with a large smile. He ran his thumb over the edge of the wolf’s neck as he picked up the thin wings he had carved out earlier.
“Come, Frostfang,” he said to his direwolf as he jumped off his seat and began walking to the door. He felt his direwolf beside him, his paws padding along the floor and his claws clicking.
Lyra followed after him as he left his chambers. She was quick to swipe at the wings in his right hand and asked, “where’s the rest of the dragon?”
“It’s going to be a dragon wolf,” he answered, holding up the wolf carving in his other hand as his sister raised the wings in her hand and began to swish it back and forth in the air.
“Next time you should do a dragon with a wolf’s head,” Lyra commented as she lifted one foot, stood on the tips of her toes before launching herself further into the corridor and landing a good distance away on her other foot.
“Don’t you have lessons, Lya?”
His sister nodded. “Kira’s got me learning herbs and plants.”
“Why aren’t you with her then?” Cregan asked.
“I want to go fly Morghonys,” Lyra replied. “Kira said no, and when I asked Mama, she also said no. Do you think Papa will say yes?”
“I don’t know,” Cregan admitted.
“I think he will say yes,” Lyra said as she walked away. Cregan shook his head, knowing their father wouldn’t agree. Not if their mother had already said no. Mother and Father always agreed on everything, even if it didn’t make any sense.
He walked into the nursery, for once none of the babes were in there. He listened carefully for sounds, his mother was certainly in the birthing chamber, her breathing steady and she was…his brows furrowed as he concentrated on his mother. Her fingers brushed along something, parchment? Was she reading?
He walked to the door his mother was behind and knocked.
“Māzigon isse, Cregan.” He heard his mother say, her High Valyrian sounding more like a song than words. He entered the birthing chamber, his mother lay on top of the feather bed, a strange looking chair sat in the corner of the room, next to the window. The room smelt of winter roses and herbs. His mother wore a light blue and silvery dress, half-moons with falcons embroidered into the neckline. His mother’s mothers house colors and sigil, he knew. His mother always liked to wear her mother’s colors when she was going to have a babe, she had once said it kept her mother with her.
He walked up to the featherbed, kicked off his boots as he placed the wolf into his mouth and climbed up so he was sitting next to his mother. She smiled, taking the wolf out of his mouth after putting the parchment in her hands down at her side.
“Iksā tolī uēpa syt bona,” she told him, her violet eyes shining.
“Iksan verdagon bisa syt se rūs,” he replied before switching to the Old Tongue. “I don’t know how I will put the wings on.” He held the wings up and his mother carefully took it, her smile widening as she turned her head and kissed his temple.
“You are a good brother,” Mother said, her accent pronounced. “How are you so good?”
Cregan shrugged his shoulders as he leaned against his mother. “I don’t know, Mother.”
Mother sighed as he felt her hand slip into his hair. “Why must you and Aeryn call me Mother? I miss you boys calling me Mama.”
“We’re not little boys, that’s why,” he admitted, his eyes darting to his mother, who shook her head as her fingers gently combed through his hair. He leaned into his mother’s touch as she laughed. Her eyes were warm, and light.
“Boys of eight and seven are not grown men,” she said. “You’ve lived through your first winter, my darling boy, yet you have not truly lived yet. You have many summers to see, and many winters to know.”
“When can we go flying?”
“Once your new brother or sister is here.”
He pouted his lips, and grumbled out, “that’s a long time.”
“Yes, this one is content with waiting,” Mother said, her free hand now rubbing her large belly. “I believe this will be your last brother or sister, Cregan.”
“You said that with Torrhen.”
“I did.” His mother sighed. “Did your sister mention flying to you?”
He nodded. “She said she asked Kira, who said no, and you also said no,” he admitted. “She thinks Father will say yes.”
Mother laughed again. “Always on adventures, my sweet Lyra is,” she said as she kissed his head again. “She’ll be the death of your father and I when she grows up.”
“Why?”
“She reminds me of myself, when I was a girl.” A mischievous look crossed his mother’s face as she continued to speak. “I rode Syrax for the first time when I was only seven. She hadn’t had a name yet, and I still took her into the skies when we both were far too young to be flying alone. My Uncle Daemon had to chase me on top of his dragon, Caraxes. He had the loudest laugh I had ever heard, and didn’t bother with scolding me,” she smiled, as if she were remembering her tale. “He left the boring parts to my mother and father.”
He smiled. “Sounds like Uncle Bennard.”
“Don’t let either of them hear that, Cregan,” his mother commented, though her smile did not drop.
A knock came from the door, and one of his mother’s ladies called out, “Apologies, Queen Rhaenyra, the lasses and Torrhen wish to see you!”
“Come in, Arwyn,” Mother responded and the door opened. Jaenara and Jonelle, there were times where Cregan couldn’t tell them apart. Both had dark brown hair, and steel grey eyes. He often had to look closer at his twin sisters, Jaenara had a patch of green in her left eye while Jonelle did not. A strange color, he knew, but his mother had once said her grandmother had one green eye.
In Arwyn’s arms was Torrhen, his silver-gold hair wild and his violet eyes wide as he held his arms out. Cregan felt his mother’s hand leave his hair as Torrhen was carefully set on Mother’s other side. Arwyn helped Jaenara and Jonelle up onto the bed, before she nodded her head.
“Ma!” Torrhen babbled loudly, his milk fangs small. His little hand reached out for the wooden wolf, which Mother thankfully passed back to him along with the wings. He watched, as his mother stared at the babes on her featherbed, shot her right hand out to the side, towards the small table next to her. She grabbed a wooden bear and gave it to Torrhen, who immediately bit into it and began gnawing on the toy.
Jaenara climbed into Cregan’s lap and tilted her head back as she smiled at him. He smiled back and wrapped his arms around her.
“Creg, hug!” Jonelle called out, pouting as she began to wobbly crawl towards him as well. He lifted Jaenara, awkwardly putting her on his right side as Jonelle burrowed into his left with a laugh.
“No, Ellie!” Jaenara called out, her arm pushing on Jonelle as she sat down next to her and grabbed at Cregan’s left arm. “My Creg!”
Mother laughed and Cregan wanted to growl at her, but stopped himself before he did. He held onto Jonelle so she didn’t fall and lightly tapped on Jaenara’s head.
“I don’t think I want another sister,” he admitted to his mother. Arwyn let out a loud laugh before clapping her hand to her mouth.
“You will have to tell the Gods that, little Prince,” Arwyn said as she removed her hand from her lips.
Jaenara grabbed his hand on her head and pulled his fingers into her mouth. Cregan was quick to move his hand away, waving away his sister’s spittle. Jaenara laughed and tried to grab his hand again, and he held his hand far from her, his fingers bumping into his mother’s belly.
His mother gave him a softer smile, and Cregan leaned back into her side.
Princess Lyra Stark, 122 AC, Winterfell
The second moon had just begun when Lyra got another sister. She stood on the tips of her toes, staring into Shaena’s cradle. She looked odd to Lyra, far odder than Cregan, Aeryn, and Jaenara. Odder than her, she knew. Her hair was a strange color, compared to her brother’s and sister’s, it looked near grey sometimes, which she hated. Mama said her hair was ash-colored, but she didn’t think that about her hair. With its wild curls and parts of brown, grey, and light blonde, she wasn’t sure what to make of her hair.
Though, she supposed she had no reason to complain about her hair. Not when Shaena’s was white as snow, and her eyes were an even stranger color. She had seen red eyes in some of the direwolves, and Cregan’s dragon had red eyes. They weren’t human, though. Shaena was, yet her skin was paler than a ghost. Well, what she thought a ghost’s skin would be. Did ghosts have skin colors? She knew they didn’t have scales on their cheek, or so Lyra thought as she stared at her newest sister.
“Why do you think she’s got bumps on her head, Sor?” Lyra asked her brother, who was sitting at her feet with his legs crossed and Shaena’s direwolf pup in his arms.
Soren’s shoulders bumped into Lyra’s leg. “Don’t know, Lya,” he answered. “Why don’t you have bumps on your head?”
Growling, she glared down at her brother, who gave her a wide, happy smile. The black-furred pup in his arms pawed at his lips, causing his head to drop as a claw got stuck. She winced as the pup ripped its paw from Soren, who didn’t react to the direwolf scratching his lip.
“That wasn’t very nice, Black Ice,” Soren said, pressing his nose into the pup’s nose.
“That’s not his name,” Lyra commented.
“It is now,” her brother replied.
“Mama and Papa are supposed to name them.”
“Cregan named Emberwing.”
“Cregan’s stupid.”
“You call everyone stupid.”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do!”
Lyra growled and raised her leg, kicking at her brother’s side and causing him to fall. The direwolf pup ran out of his arms as Soren yelped. He stared at Lyra, his dark eyes a near black color as he lunged at her leg, grabbing her by the ankle and bit down on her skin. She cried out in pain as she attempted to pull herself free from her brother’s grip, but his teeth dug in further as though he weren’t going to be letting go anytime soon. She bumped into the cradle as Shaena let out a loud wail. Her claws came out as she raised her hand and swung down, connecting with the side of Soren’s head as loud footsteps drowned her ears.
She jumped as the door to the nursery swung open, her father’s breathing the first thing she heard from him. When her eyes met his, her face fell at the sight of her father’s. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She didn’t know what to say, and even if she did, nothing would have been said. Not with how Father was looking at her and Soren. Not with how the veins in his face were turning grey, and his grey eyes becoming black.
Father charged, silently grabbing her wrist and the back of Soren’s neck and breaking them apart like they didn’t have their teeth or claws in the other's skin. She winced, wiggling her bleeding ankle, and saw Soren rubbing at his ribs with one hand, and touching the bleeding claw marks on his face with the other. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She shouldn’t have kicked him, nor clawed at his face and for a moment she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
“Do either of you have any words to say?” Father questioned, his grip firm on her wrist. His eyes went back and forth between her and Soren.
She bit her lip and said, “I kicked Soren and he bit me.”
“Why?”
She lowered her head and opened her mouth to speak, but Father interrupted her with, “no, you will look up when you are speaking, Lyra Stark.”
Nodding her head, she looked up and found her father’s stern grey eyes. He had no grey veins on his face, and he looked less angry. He should still be angry, she thought. With Shaena crying behind them, Lyra would have remained angry with her and Soren, if she were where Father stood.
“I got angry when Soren said I call everyone stupid.”
“You do!” Soren cut in, before wincing when Father told him to not interrupt her.
“It is not nice to call anyone names, Lyra, nor is it to kick or claw at another, especially one of your brothers,” Father said before his eyes turned to Soren and continued with, “you have been told several times before not to bite people, Soren Stark. Why do you not listen to your mother and I?”
Soren didn’t look away when he answered, “I don’t know.”
“That is not an answer, Soren,” Lyra heard Mother say. Her eyes moved toward the door, where her mother stood, dressed in a grey and white gown, her long silver-gold hair loose behind her back and her violet eyes tired but still pretty. Mother glided into the room, her footsteps soft against the ground as she walked to Shaena’s cradle and picked up the crying babe. Mother began to rock Shaena, and slowly her crying stopped.
“I don’t know!” Soren repeated. “Nightclaw bites!”
Father looked away, and up at Mother. Lyra watched as they stared at one another, not saying anything. She didn’t like it when they did that, they always had a way of speaking to each other without having to say anything.
“That does not mean you bite, Soren,” Father said as his head turned back toward her and Soren. “Nightclaw is a direwolf, you are not.” His hand loosened on Lyra’s wrist, enough she was able to pull her hand completely from her father’s as she was lifted into the air along with her brother.
“Put me down, I’m not a babe!” Lyra protested, and growled when her father laughed. Why was he laughing? She’s not a babe who needs to be carried, she’s seven, nearly eight namedays!
Prince Baelon Targaryen, 122 AC, King’s Landing
“–a joyous celebration, indeed!” Baelon heard his father say, though there was nothing joyous about today. His nameday was nothing he enjoyed celebrating, he had not asked for the tourney his father had put on. He did not want the lords and ladies staring at him with their fake smiles, nor the tourney knights bowing and offering their congratulations to him before they rode off on their horses to stab at each other with lances.
He would much prefer to be in his chambers reading. Helaena could join him, he knew she was just as miserable being here as he was. She could bring her bugs, and mutter whatever strange thing she had to say, Baelon wouldn’t mind her company. She did not push, nor pull at him to speak, and he was the same with her. She sat close to him, not because her mother had put her there, not this time at least but because she was mumbling about ice spiders from the Winter Kingdom.
“–grim, the others used them,” Helaena said, quiet enough only Baelon heard her. They both knew if she spoke any louder, the Queen would not be pleased for she despised whenever Helaena was, well, Helaena when away from her bedchambers. “Trackers, big enough to ride. Alive, dead. Wolf skull, wolf boy.”
“–vōre riñar,” Baelon heard his father say. He looked away from the knights on the field and at his father, who was looking at Uncle Daemon with a strange look on his grotesque face. He had heard one of his stepmother’s ladies say that about his father when she thought no one was listening, and the word had stuck in his mind. He supposed grotesque was a fitting word for his father, whose face was marred with strange blemishes and his hands were missing a few fingers.
“Mirre hen qilōni emā ūndegīon, lēkia,” Uncle Daemon replied, his eyes on Father with a strange look in his eyes. “Izula trēsi se tōma tali, ērni naejot se Sōnar Dēmalion. Laena se nyke kȳvanon va jāre naejot Ropatasōnar naejot ūndegon Rhaenyra.”
Father’s eyes grew. “Iksā?” he questioned and Uncle Daemon nodded, a sharp smirk slicing his face as he said, “Baela se Rhaena jaelagon naejot rhaenagon Rhaenyra se zirȳla riñar.”
“Nyke pendagon lo se sōna ēza keliton isse Jelmor,” Father commented, to which Uncle Daemon darkly chuckled.
Baelon felt a small hand tug at his sleeve, causing him to look away and down at Aemond, his purple eyes wide. “Does it always snow in the North?” he asked, clearly also having listened in on their father and uncle’s discussion.
Baelon shrugged at his five-nameday-old brother. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have never been north.”
Aemond frowned as he tilted his head. “Does Rhae-Rhaenya have a dragon?”
“Rhaenyra,” Baelon corrected his half-brother, though he wasn’t surprised Aemond had misspoken Rhaenyra’s name, he had trouble saying her name too when he was younger. “And she does, Syrax is her name, I think.”
“Does Syrax have dragon eggs?”
“I don’t know.”
“If she does, do you think Rhaeny-ra will give me one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know, Bael?” Aemond’s head straightened, and his eyes remained curious. “You know lots of things.”
“I don’t know everything, Aemond,” he responded. “Didn’t Dreamfyre just lay a clutch of eggs?” Of the dragons belonging to House Targaryen, only Dreamfyre continued to lay eggs. Silverwing did as well, on occasion, but she was at Dragonstone with Vermithor.
Aemond nodded. “The Dragonkeepers say they’re not ready, perhaps Rhaenyra and Syrax have dragon eggs.”
“They might be only for Rhaenyra’s children,” Aegon said, from the other side of Aemond, whose face fell at his brother’s words. Both of his half-brother’s had no dragons, unlike himself and little Daeron, whose dragon Tessarion hatched some moons ago, to his delight. Aegon, more carefree and unbothered by much, seemed content with not having a dragon, while Aemond was an entirely different matter, especially with Daeron’s egg hatching. Helaena also had no dragon of her own, though Baelon had a feeling that would not last long.
“Kepa says we are going to the North,” Baela, Uncle Daemon’s elder daughter, said from her spot below Baelon and his half-brothers and half-sister. She was sitting with her twin sister, Rhaena, and their cousin, Lysandro Velaryon, both of whom had no dragons either despite their parents being dragonriders. Baela, though, had a dragon called Moondancer.
“We can ask for dragon eggs for you, Aemond,” Rhaena said, smiling shyly. “I want one too.”
Aemond turned, his smile bright as he thanked Rhaena. Lysandro, meanwhile, pouted. His sea blue eyes were the most notable part of his kin, because neither his mother, Lady Lysara Rogare, nor his father, Ser Laenor, had blue eyes. His hair was the same silver-gold as his mother, who had come from Lys years ago to marry Ser Laenor. He had heard his uncle joke several times about their marriage, though he didn’t know why. Ser Laenor and Lady Lysara seemed kind to one another, and were kind with others.
The crowds roared, pulling Baelon away from his family and toward the field. A knight had a javelin lance in his throat and his body bent in a strange way. He quickly looked away and covered Helaena’s eyes as her head finally looked up from the…Baelon had to look twice before realizing his half-sister had brought a spider with her to the tourney. A very dead spider, he noticed as it remained perfectly still in Helaena’s lap.