Chapter Text
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, 112 AC
No snow fell but the winds blew around her, yet Rhaenyra remained sure foot. The Court of Winter watched, and beyond them, she knew their Old Gods did too. Rickon had mentioned his gods always watched, from their rooted spots in heart trees. There were an abundance of weirwood trees north of the Seven Kingdoms, so unlike her home. There was a godswood in King's Landing, one she once loved to sit under and read with her mother, but it paled in comparison to the godswood of Winterfell.
Her maiden cloak remained around her back, covering her fur-lined, white dress. Red embroidery ran along the skirt, the red-leaves of the weirwood stitched in place. There were no jewels on the dress, nor on her body. Queen Lysa had laughed when asked if there were any Northern jewelry pieces Rhaenyra could wear for the ceremony.
"The closest you'll find, lass, only remains on our heads," was all the Locke woman had said. "We've no need for pretty stones. Stones have much better purpose then necklaces and gowns. Best hope for no snow on your day."
The night was dark, and clear of stars. Clear of snow, a good sign of a good marriage, little Arwyn Rivers, the youngest of her new handmaidens, had said. She, unlike Elinda Massey, Sarra Beesbury, and Mya Royce, still followed the Old Gods of the Forest, despite her being from the Riverlands. Blood of the First Men ran through her, a reason each of her handmaidens were chosen, regardless if they followed the religion of the North. Each girl was recommended to her by their relatives.
Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin since the days of Jaehaerys the Concillator, said his granddaughter would be ideal for her. Claimed her swift with a needle as a bee was to pollination.
Her uncle's wife, Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone, though distant in her marriage to Prince Daemon, was quite kind to her. She said Mya was a free spirit, and would flourish in the Northern lands.
"Try not to lose her on horseback," Lady Rhea had said, a mischievous look in her brown eyes. "She'll outrun the wind if given the chance."
Elinda had been her handmaiden for some moons now, not as long as Alicent had been, but long enough that Rhaenyra knew she would remain at her side. Loyal, Elinda was, unlike Alicent.
Ten-nameday-old Arwyn was a late addition to her household, Rhaenyra had been in the skies on Syrax when the Blackwood bastard girl joined them. A cousin to the current Lord of Raventree Hall, the girl was wild, yet clever. When Rhaenyra joined her household and guard, she had agreed to keep the girl with them.
"She's a bastard, Princess," Ser Criston Cole, her sworn sword for the journey, had said with a disapproving look on his face. "Bastards are a sin in the eyes of the gods."
"Aye, yours," countered the young Rivers girl. "My house has no need for your Seven and its words, we've got our heart tree and that's all we need."
"You're not a Blackwood," Lady Sarra commented.
"No, but my Mama is, and that's all that matters."
Upon arriving in Winterfell, Rhaenyra was introduced to the girls who would be added on as handmaidens after her marriage to Prince Rickon. Lady Margaret Karstark of Karhold, Gilliane Glover of Deepwood Motte, Marna Flint of the mountain Flints, and Jeyne Cray of the Crannog.
Ser Criston walked with her to the weirwood, giving her away in place of her father. He claimed his grief over her mother as a reason for not being here himself. Rhaenyra knew better. No sooner had her mother burned on her pyre, did her father marry Rhaenyra's closest friend, Alicent Hightower. Never mind that her father now had his heir in Baelon, who had lived at the cost of their mother.
She saw Queen Lysa, dressed in the grey and white of House Stark. Hints of her house's purple remained with the threading. Her black hair went down her back, with her iron circlet, etched in old runes, held in place around her head. Her brown eyes were near pitch-black, yet bright as the moon. At her side was eleven-nameday-old Prince Bennard, dressed in his house's colors and an excited grin on his face. His black hair curled at the ends, and his brown eyes were as bright as his mother's.
Under the weirwood, stood her betrothed and his father. Both wore the North well, with classic Stark looks and something else Rhaenyra could not place. King Benjen was the third of his name, and a descendant of King Torrhen I Stark, who had been the only king to keep his crown when the Conqueror and his sister-wives came.
She understood it not, Grand Maester Mellos claimed the wolves and their winter kingdom had used magic to dispel the dragons and cause death to the armies that Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys had built when they came upon Moat Cailin.
“A cursed ruin,” Mellos said. “A choke hold upon all who try to enter without cause. Their vile mudmen are no help, as their swamp-filled lands are right before the Moat. A good portion of Aegon’s foot soldiers perished in the marshes. Good, Andal men, reduced to–”
“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” she heard King Benjen call out.
It was Ser Criston who answered. “Rhaenyra, of the House Targaryen, comes here to be wed. A woman trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”
“Rickon, of House Stark, heir to Winterfell and the Winter Throne. Who gives her?”
She felt Rickon’s eyes on her, and for a moment, she let her eyes fall on him. Steel colored orbs met her violet eyes. His face was long, and his hair the color of tree bark.
“Criston, of House Cole, her sworn protector.”
“Princess Rhaenyra,” she heard King Benjen say. “Do you take this man?”
She stepped forward, away from the knight and towards the prince. She held her hand out as she replied, “I take this man.”
Prince Rickon took her hand in his own, and together they got down on their knees before the heart tree. Rhaenyra felt its blood-colored eyes on her as she closed her own. She had never prayed before a heart tree before, though she hardly ever prayed at all anymore. Not after what had happened to her mother.
Yet, she remained kneeling to the symbol of the Old Gods of the Forest. She prayed for what she didn’t know. A good marriage? Healthy children? Not to be butchered on the childbirth bed on the orders of her heir-obbsessed husband?
Time did not resume until she felt a pull and together with Rickon, they both rose. She didn’t open her eyes until she felt his calloused hand against her cheek. He was mad for not wearing gloves, Rhaenyra thought, as she looked at the man she was to spend the rest of her life with.
He was calm as a winter storm, a different sort of handsome she had not seen down south. Only the left side of his mouth twitched into a smile as his other hand went to the ribbon tying her maidencloak around her. He untied the cloak, removed his hand from her face and held the red and black cloak carrying the three-headed dragon sigil. He kept his eyes on her as he held the cloak out and it was removed and replaced with a cloak of grey and white in its place. She could see the traces of the snarling direwolf on it, the embroidery detailed so brilliantly, it appeared as though it had fur of its own and not thread.
He wrapped the marriage cloak around her and tied it in place. He tilted his head, and appeared to wait for her. She knew, and brought her face closer to his and they kissed. It was a simple kiss, one built from two strangers coming together. If this was the only kind of kiss she would ever receive from Rickon, perhaps that would not be so bad. At least he would never lie in his care for her, unlike the so-called love between her mother and father.
The kiss broke, and suddenly Rhaenyra was swept off her feet. Startled, she wrapped her arms around Rickon, who gave her another, more genuine smile as he carried her off from the heart tree. She studied him, taking in his features without so much as blinking.
There was a splatter of freckles dancing across his cheeks, laugh lines appeared around his nose, which wasn’t the worst looking one she had ever seen. It fit his face, she thought as her fingers grazed the edge of his neck. His hair felt thick, and much like his younger brother, curled at the ends.
“Do we wish to attend the feast?” she heard him whisper.
“We?” she instead asked.
“Aye,” he said, a breath of a laugh etching his thick, northern voice. “Do we go to the feast, or shall we run?”
“And where would we run off to?” Rhaenyra challenged, a smirk dancing on her lips.
“You think we can make it past the Wall on your dragon?” was all Rickon said, his eyes flickering with light.
Despite herself, she laughed. “Syrax, beyond the Wall? Would that not terrify the men of the Night’s Watch?”
“Aye, and the folk beyond it, too,” Rickon countered. “I’ve been atop the Wall once, it’s so beautiful, seeing across the lands as snow falls. You can see the stars, despite all the snow dancing around them. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be among them.”
She looked up, not a single snowflake or star in the sky. All she saw was the leaves not bothered by the cold. She felt the wind, and wondered if Syrax could feel it too. She knew she was close, somewhere within the wolfswood, and yet all she heard were the howls of wolves.
“I was young when I first rode Syrax,” Rhaenyra revealed as she felt the firelights from nearby torches. They were close to the castle now. “I had ridden on Caraxes with my uncle before, as Father no longer had Balerion and Mother had no desire to become a dragonrider. With Syrax, it was different. It…it felt as though I were a cloud, unbothered by any wind and storm. I was so high, I no longer saw the ground below, nor the top of the Red Keep. I had thought of flying off to Dragonstone, or even to the Driftmark and scaring my kin. Laenor had Seasmoke, and would have gladly flown with me, but we would have left poor Laena. She hadn’t had Vhagar as her mount yet.”
“Reminds me of all the horse rides I had to sneak off on,” Rickon commented. “Ben’s always been underfoot, always so sure of himself that I would never know. Frostclaw always follows, he often has to keep Ben’s direwolf in place, otherwise he’d have an easier time following after me.”
“And where is Frostclaw now?” she asked, the direwolf had made himself scarce since she arrived on Syrax.
“In the wolfswood,” Rickon answered confidently. “He prefers the woods at night, his eyesight’s quite good for hunting.”
“And you would know that how…?”
Rickon gave her a genuine, toothy grin. “You Targaryen’s have your dragonic magic, us Stark’s have wolven magic.” It was then she noticed his canine teeth were rather pointed. Had they always been like that? Why had she only just noticed them?
She watched as his smile slowly disappeared. “Your Rivers girl, she is a Blackwood, aye?”
Rhaenyra nodded. “Yes,” she confirmed.
“Ravens, her house has on their herald,” Rickon commented, his eyes lowering. “She does not speak to them, does she?”
“Who? Her house?”
“No, ravens. She does not speak to them?”
“Are you asking if she receives letters through them?”
Rickon shook his head, sighing though his lips slowly raised into a smile. An uneasy smile, Rhaenyra noticed. “Ravens know things, more than we would like,” he deflected. “House Blackwood, when they were bannermen under the old Kings of Winter, they spoke with ravens.”
Silence followed them, right until they reached the keep. Rhaenyra kept her hold on Rickon, as they entered the Great Hall. Rows of wooden tables lined the room, with plates of bronze already set for the feast. Her eyes found the winter roses surrounding the candles made of dragonglass. She frowned, glass candles could only be found at the Citadel.
“Obsidian,” she heard Rickon say as she was lowered to the ground. Finding her feet, Rhaenyra looked at her husband.
“There’s said to be a deposit of it in Dragonstone,” Rickon said as he looked at the glass candle. “There are deposits found in the mountains near the Flint Fingers, on Skagos, and within the cliffs of Sea Dragon Point. When the Long Night reigned and the others stalked about, children of the forest crafted weapons and tools of volcanic glass. They first used it to try and combat the First Men, but bronze shattered dragonglass. Yet, bronze could not kill the others, but dragonglass did.”
“And the purpose for glass candles?” Rhaenyra asked.
“Constant light,” Rickon joked, grinning with his wolfish canines sticking out. “The wise women light them when dark times fall. They claim to see things in the firelight.” He leaned towards one candle and blew on it, its fire remained ablaze. “When night fails to fall, all light becomes the sun until dawn comes.”
“You fear the Long Night will come again?”
“It never left,” Rickon said, his grey eyes flickering towards her, suddenly appearing blue against the glass candle’s firelight. “It will rise as the sun does, and only dawn can come to drive it away again. Never fear it, for that fear will eventually seep in like ice in your blood.”
The doors behind them swung open and Rhaenyra jumped as the sounds of arriving lords and ladies filled the hall. Rickon was pulled away and lifted off the ground by a big, burly boy around their age with long, mud brown hair, with a thick beard to match and laughing eyes.
“The fearsome wolf prince’s finally a man taken!” came the loud, boisterous voice of the large young man. “Caught a dragon princess, he has!”
“Put me down, Hoarfrost!” ordered Rickon, though he was laughing as the strikingly small giant put him down. Rickon landed his fist against Hoarfrost’s shoulder, who laughed in response before winding his arm back and forth as though he had been hurt.
“Don’t let the Umber carry you off, Stark!” came the voice of Gilliane Glover, one of Rhaenyra’s new handmaidens. She caught her eye and gave a bow of her head in greeting. “Last thing any of us need is the princess’s dragon roasting you alive, now.”
Lord Hoarfrost’s blue eyes met hers, and if he showed any fear, it melted with the snow in his beard. “Let me ‘ave a good few drinks in me before letting that dragon of yours have at me, Princess Rhaenyra.” The grin on his face would be quite charming, if not for the deep scar on the right corner of his lip.
“Only a few,” Rhaenyra tested out. “The last thing I would want is a drunken dragon on my hands.”
The Umber burst out into a round of laughter. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile when Rickon caught her eye, grinning.
Rickon took her hand and led her to the grand table, where the king and queen now sat, with two seats between them.
“I am surprised you chose to attend the feast,” came Queen Lysa as Rhaenyra took a seat next to her and Rickon next to his father.
“The night is long, Mother,” Rickon said. “Plenty of time before dawn comes.”
“Aye, but it will only last longer if an Umber decides to sing.”
“Hoarfrost’s got a good voice.”
“I meant his sister Berena.”
“At least we will be entertained regardless,” Rickon responded. “Gilliane will no doubt keep her busy.”
“Best hope that doesn’t end in a betrothal,” Lysa sighed. “A Glover and a Umber, Gods help Glover’s vassals.”
“The Forrester’s can survive it.”
“At the expense of the Whitehill’s.”
“Well,” Rickon said, shrugging as he smirked in Rhaenyra’s direction. “Knowing the Whitehill’s, then they no doubt deserve it.”
“Don’t let either of them hear you, son,” King Benjen interjected, his grey eyes on everyone but his son. “Ears can hear as good as a raven can see.”
“The others can take the ravens,” Queen Lysa muttered as servants came with platters of food and jugs filled with ale. “We’ve a few cases of Dornish reds defrosting in the kitchens, Rhaenyra, if you aren’t one for Northern mead.”
A mug was filled and placed in front of Rhaenyra by a serving girl as a plate of thick meat and a kind of stew was set down for her. Rhaenyra took the mug, and despite a flicker of hesitation, let a few sips slip past her throat.
Shockingly, it tasted sweet, with hints of honey. She took another drink, before putting her cup down.
“We thought of serving autumn beer with the meal,” Lysa commented as she took a drink of her own. “Or a cider, but mulled mead never hurts to serve, especially at a northern wedding. Sweet to the point, far from the piss that’s brewed in the warmer days.”
“It’s nice,” Rhaenyra said as she looked at Rickon, a smile forming on her face. He took her hand, warmth spreading through her despite his cold hands.
Tonight, tonight could be as long as the Long Night, she would endure it as long as Dawn came, and perhaps Rickon was her dawn.