DISCLAIMER: Recognizable characters, plots, and settings are property of GRRM. I, unfortunately for my crescive student load debts, make no profit off of this. All I get in return is sleep deprivation and anxiety over whether readers will like it enough to review/hate it enough to flame ;).

Updated Timeline

275 AC: Cersei hears Maggy's prophecy (in which there is no valonqar)

276 AC: Samwell Tarly born

279 AC (Year -2): Rhaenys Targaryen is born. Elia takes a long time to recover from delivering Rhaenys.

281 AC (Year 0): Elia pregnant with Aegon. Maester Pycelle tells Rhaegar that if this second child doesn't die during labour and/or kill his wife, the next one will. Harrenhal tourney (and thus the QOLAB passover) is thus even more shocking because it happens when Elia Martell is pregnant. Aegon Targaryen is born. Lyanna 'abducted', Brandon Stark and Rickard Stark die per canon, Robert's Rebellion starts, including Ned's marriage to Cat. Willas Tyrell is 2 years old, Loras Tyrell and Theon Greyjoy are 1 year old, Renly Baratheon is 4 years old.

282 AC (Year 1): Robb Stark and Margaery Tyrell born. Viserys and a pregnant Rhaelle sent to Dragonstone for protection, but when Baratheons seize it, they run away via ship. Stannis chases them, but due to a storm, cannot find them. They are considered lost at sea and dead.

283 AC (Year 2): Jon Targaryen born and Robert's Rebellion ends. Lyanna Stark crowned the "Second Queen". End of war reparations (infamously known as 'Rhaegar's Reparations') announced. This includes the beheadings of Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, and Balon Greyjoy; Stannis and Renly getting traitor brands on their arm and hand, respectively; Lannisters paying reparations to the crown; and Tyrells being denied the betrothal of Margaery to Aegon at the time (though Rhaegar tells the Tyrells she is still one of the females to be considered in the future). Ned returns to the North sans fake-bastard. Gendry Waters born.

284 AC (Year 3): Stannis marries Cersei Lannister. Elia dies leaving behind three-year-old Aegon and five-year-old Rhaenys. Rickon Targaryen conceived. Sansa Stark born to Catelyn Stark. After stint in Maidenvault to ensure she wasn't pregnant with an Aryrn heir, Lysa betrothed to Jaime Lannister.

285 AC (Year 4): Shireen Baratheon (born to Cersei Baratheon). Rickon Targaryen born (Lyanna dies while giving birth to him). Shireen branded on her cheek. Arya and Bran – twins – born to Catelyn. Gendry's mother killed.

286-291 AC: Cersei miscarries twice.

292 AC (Year 11): Tommen Baratheon born and dies (leaving Cersei near-comatose). Aegon shoots an arrow into Rickon's back. Rhae arranges for Rickon (six turning seven) to get lessons with Sam (instead of with Aegon and Jon), and for Arthur Dayne to teach him.

294 AC (Year 13): Rhaenys poisoned. Rhaegar agrees to betroth Rhaenys to Robb, but refuses to let Rickon ward there. They try to run away, but are stopped by the Kingsguard. Rhaegar propositions Rhaenys in front of Darry, she declines. She is sent to Dorne.

295 AC (Year 14): Rickon and Sam save a boy by the dock, gaining support of the Brotherhood. Rickon starts his clinic. Wren witnesses Jon and Aegon brand Rickon with a 'bastard's brand' on his leg.

298 AC (Year 17):Shireen and Rickon (age 12, turning 13) befriend each other during Jon's nameday tourney. Shireen promises to write to Rickon. When he doesn't get a letter, he recruits Tyrion to fix Flea Bottom's sewage.

STORY SO FAR

(To reacquaint everyone with prior events and where the characters are currently!)

Chapters 1, 2a, 2b, 2c: Please see the beginning of chapter 2d for the summaries of these, no purpose in reposting ;)

Chapter 2d summary: More Rhae and Rickon bonding. Flashback to the night of Rhae's exile, revealing that Rhae has a plan for vengeance. We see memories Shireen has of her mother. She recounts to Rickon (who's she's with in the tunnels) how when Tommen was born, he nearly killed their mother. So, she prayed for Tomment to die in exchange for her mother's health, Tyrion caught her and they had a fight. Shireen reveals to Rickon that her mother has had periods of lucidity, though she doesn't tell him (or anyone) about the time her mother rambled about bits of Shireen's 'destiny,' which involved 'burning alive.' Shireen and Rickon agree to write to each other (Rickon under Sam's name), and Rickon gives her an adorable peck on the cheek. When Rickon doesn't get her letter, after getting approval from the Small Council, he recruits Tyrion to fix the sewage system of Flea Bottom. During Tyrion's POV, we see Tyrion's memories of Cersei and how their relationship improved before Tommon's birth and Cersei's coma. We also see Tyrion's friendship with Renly grow as he spends more time in Storm's End. Stannis swaps Maester Jurne for Maester Cressen after the former suggests they kill Cersei so he can remarry and have a male heir. We see Tyrion's interactions with Rickon in King's Landing, and how he learns of Rickon's treatment and scopes out the public's (very positive) perception of Rickon. After the sewage systems are fixed, they use some of the spare lumber to make a stage in Flea Bottom. Sam gives a package (actually from Rickon) to Tyrion to give Shireen.

Members of the small council: Lord Commander Hightower, Garlan Tyrell (married to Desmera Redwyne) as Master of Ships, Pycelle, Kevin Lannister (Master of Coin), Varys (Master of Whispers), Alliser Thorn (Master of Laws), Jon Connington (Hand of the King, level-headed, cold but courteous relationship with Rickon, Rhae told Rickon that Connington disliked her)

A/N: I updated the last chapter about 2-3 days after I posted it. Mostly minor stuff and extra emotional tidbits re: Cersei and Renly and Stannis from Tyrion and Shireen's POV, but two plot-important things (not vital IMO to getting the story as a whole, but are ways to help figure out the future motives of characters):

(1) Rickon's POV on Pycelle during the small council meeting

(2) I recommend re-reading the interactions between Tyrion and Rickon in Tyrion's POV, especially the one where I added in Gendry.

A/N 2: As always, responses to reviewers and preview of upcoming chapters at the bottom. If you catch any mistakes, please make note of them and let me know if a review/PM!

Unfortunately, because of formatting issues on ffn, I can't use strikethrough. So, the bolded and underlined words are 'crossed/scratched out' in the letters written between characters. If someone knows how to use strikethrough on the fanfiction doc manager, please let me know!

.x-X-x.|*|.x-X-x.

x

"What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms… or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love.

That is our great glory,

and our great tragedy."

~Aemon Targaryen, A Game of Thrones

x

.x-X-x.|*|.x-X-x.

.x.

Wolves Aflame

Chapter 3: castles without children

(Blots & Brothers & Betrothals & Betrayals)

Part 1

.x.

They learn to read between the lines

298 AC

"Dear Lord Samwell,

I cannot apologize enough for the delay in my letter. I am so utterly, sincerely sorry. By the time I reached Storm's End after my departure from the capital, it was late nightfall. I planned to ask my father to allow our correspondence the very next morning. But my plans were foiled even before my arrival at our gates, as my grandfather had already requested my father's presence at Casterly Rock. Father had only been waiting to depart Storm's End until Uncle Renly and I returned from Prince Jon's nameday tourney. I didn't even know my father was departing until I was woken at dawn to say my goodbyes! Father was supposed to return to Storm's End within a moon turn, but then my Uncle Tyrion was called to the capital to, would you believe it, redo the cistern system in Flea Bottom. (The foul smell was appreciable from even the Red Keep, so I imagine the smallfolk are immensely grateful to the leaders of the project. I, personally, am so proud of them for going out of their way to help the people who really need it.) Apparently, father and Uncle Jaime needed Uncle Tyrion to finish sorting affairs in the Westerlands, and so had to await Uncle Tyrion's return (delayed further because Uncle Tyrion detoured by Storm's End to see me before journeying back west to Casterly Rock) before my Father could finally return to Storm's End. It's a very convoluted tale, but it is the reason for such a long delay in this first letter to you. I promise you I sent you my letter at the soonest moment I possibly could have, literally minutes after I received my father's approval.

Speaking of my Uncle Tyrion, I cannot begin to convey my thanks to you for keeping him entertained and cared for in the capital. I promise you his safe return means more to me than any piece of jewelry; thank you dearly for looking out for him. Oh, but please don't mistake me to be ungrateful, because the necklace is the loveliest gift I have received in a long time. The delicate metalwork is so fine and I find new details to indulge in every time I stare at it. But, please, please, please, do not feel as though you need to encourage my responses with gifts; just continuing my friendship with you means more to me than you can know. Also, I must say, presenting the necklace within a nest of books was a very thoughtful gesture.

Having a constant reminder of our friendship makes me smile; I shall keep the necklace with me always.

Apologetic and eagerly awaiting your response,

Lady Shireen Baratheon

Daughter of Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End"

.x.

"Dear Lady Shireen,

I'm so glad that you still want to correspond. I was sca nervous when I didn't hear from you for so long… I feared I had upset you with the k my actions prior to your departure.

I saw how deeply you cared for your family during your too-short stay here. You talked of them all so fondly, and Tyrion really was a likeable man with a wit you clearly inherited. Even if he and I did not get along, I would never have let any harm come to him, knowing it would have hurt you.

Now that we are writing, I find myself first embarrassed by the horrid state of my print, and second, at a bit of a loss as to what topics to write to you about. Everything feels important but not important enough. How was your trip back home? Are you enjoying being back in the Stormlands? How was your day? Have you read anything noteworthy? I imagine the books I sent you weren't too engaging (they were more to ward away curious eyes). Those tales about sea queens and Stormland tales you were talking about while you were here, on the other hand, sounded much more interesting. Could you tell me more of them?

Keli misses you.

Your friend,

Lord Samwell Tarly

Maester in Training and Son of Lord Randyll Tarly"

.x.

"Dear Lord Samwell,

Surprised perhaps, but not upset, not even close.

Again, thank you. My family means everything to me, and I would do anything to ensure their wellbeing.

I admit with a teasing smile that I sometimes resort to squinting and rotating the parchment of your letter to make out your words, but I'm certain your letters will improve with every correspondence.

The trip back home was rather long, but bearable with the unending entertainment provided by Ser Bronn nettling Uncle Renly for his loss against Ser Loras in the jousting tournament. I fear Uncle Renly might actually have called for Ser Bronn's head, had Ser Farring not been there to mediate and halt my Uncle's more volatile responses. Honestly, the entire time we were visiting the capital, Ser Bronn was either guarding me or goading Uncle Renly.

The Stormlands are as fiercely beautiful as the bards sing them to be. I hope one day you can see them.

My day was rather dull. There aren't any other children of age with me to play alongside here, so I admit to feeling a bit lonely and bored. Unfortunately, there are no tunnels to explore nor cats to chase. I broke my fast with Uncle Renly this morning, attended lessons given by my Septa and Maester, ate my midday meal with my father, and then walked by the shores alongside Ser Farring. I also spent some time by my mother's bedside, reading aloud to her. Unfortunately, it wasn't one of the tomes in the package you kindly sent. I read the ones you gave that I hadn't yet encountered, and like you said, was not overly engaged by the plots nor word work of the authors. Then again, I suppose not every tale can be as controversial (and thus inherently engaging) as The Testimony of Mushroom or Maester Lorchem's Lies Behind Legends.

I would love to tell you every one of the tales I know and have created of the creatures within the waves around Storm's End. My mother and I, we used to go on these long walks on the shores, where we would tell each other stories. Perhaps I'll give you one with every letter. I'll start with the very first, I suppose. Have you heard the tale of Elenei and Durran?

Durran Godsgrief was the first Storm King, and founder of my ancestral house, House Durrandon. During the Age of Heroes, he earns the love of Elenei, who is the daughter of both the god of seas and the god of wind. Her parents forbade their love, so when Durran and Elenei sought to wed, her parents devised a massive storm that tore apart the castle and killed all the wedding guests. Durran and his wife only survived because of her magic. Seeing the blood of his family and friends on what was supposed to be a joyous occasion, Durran declared war on the gods. Battle after battle raged. Elenei continued to use her magic to protect the duo against her parents' malevolent storms, while Durran continued trying to build a castle that would withstand her parents' fury. Each time he built a castle, it was destroyed. But he persisted, and he succeeded upon his seventh attempt (which - depending on who you believe - was assisted either by the children of the forest, or by a young Bran the Builder.) Since it was built as a shield and barrier against the storm gods' wrath, the castle was dubbed Storm's End.

Hopefully this tale wet your appetite for the rest.

Tell me, how goes your training? You mentioned you were going to approach your mentor to see if he would formally accept you, how did it go? How are the pies and other sweets in Flea Bottom?

Your Friend,

Lady Shireen Baratheon

Daughter of Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End"

.x.

They correspond back and forth, never going more than a week without news from the other. Weeks pass, then months, then a year. And each time a raven leaves, its sender eagerly awaits a reply. Rickon's print even improves, much to Sam's pleasure.

He is old now, but he was young once.

299 AC

From the communications tower in Storm's End, Colthor Cressen stands before an unkindness of ravens. He holds one closed letter aside from the rest, and reminisces. Sixty-one years prior, he was born the fourth son of a poor farmer. With limited prospects, and a sharp mind, he joined the Citadel at the age of ten and two. Consequence was not a word he entertained at the time; neither was choice, truly.

Choice was not a privilege known to fourth sons.

'And really,' Cressen ponders, 'does any child truly have the foresight to consider consequence the naïve age of ten and two?'

His years training at the Citadel were peaceful yet remarkable. The region remained uninvolved in wars - an impressive feat, when one considered its neighbours were the 'upward designing' Reach and Riverlands. Both of those had been notorious in their involvement in multiple wars in history, as well as infamous for the battles at their borders by opposing forces. The Citadel, however, remained blissfully untouched by history's wars due to its neutral status (since the time of King Baelor), and the veritable barricading of its physical borders during wartime. And so, because of the lack of battles, the Citadel housed some of the oldest original works of architecture in Westeros (in addition to the Guild of Maesters and the largest library).

It was during Cressen's exploration of one such preserved building that he fell in love with a fiery, redheaded washer woman. It was a love that ended up ripping his heart in two; for he had been a registered Maester for the Citadel for three years before he met her. His profession prevented anything from growing of their mutual affection; despite the depth of his feelings, his vows prevented him from marrying her. Instead, he later heard from others than she married a local tavern owner, and then died in the birthing bed.

Cressen blames his own ill-fated star-crossed romance for his decision to support Shireen's continued correspondence with the unremitting Samwell Tarly.

"For a Maester in Training, the lad sure has more time than I did, to be writing to you so frequently," Cressen teases.

"He's quite adept at managing his time, I imagine." Shireen shrugs pleasantly, skinny hands lightly fingering a leather pouch that sits over her sternum, hidden by the velvet of her dress. The plain necklace had become a regular part of her daily wardrobe about a year ago. The pouch at the bottom of the cord held a token of her mother, he remembers her saying to Renly once.

"Or perhaps," he uses a wrinkled finger to nudge her chin up. "You are someone worth writing to so frequently?" Cressen's expression softens. "You have a brilliant mind. It will never be a surprise that it wins the attention of others, child."

Shireen stiffens. "I approach my fourteenth nameday… surely you no longer consider me a mere child?"

The Maester sighs, knowing she discerned his hidden meaning. She always was a perceptive little girl. How could she not be, with all her training under Lord Tywin? "Yes, you are no longer a child, my Lady. And it is because of that, Shireen, that I must implore you. He is a Lord's son, true. But you told me just a moon ago that he has no plans to forgo his mastery exams." He places an old hand upon her slim shoulder. "Shireen, a Maester cannot take a wife."

Shireen's smile is brittle. "I know we could never marry, Maester Cressen. I just… it's… I don't have very many people around my age to talk to." Her voice quiets, and blue eyes turn downwards. "It's nice to correspond by letter. That way, I don't have to play at pleasant conversation while they pretend to not be horrified by my face."

Cressens flinches at her quiet, pained words. Then, he gently hands her the Tarly boy's latest letter. "I understand. Go on then, read your friend's letter and write your response."

The logical part of Cressen knows that he should report the high frequency of their correspondence to Lord Stannis, despite the strong likelihood that his liege lord will rescind his approval for the pair's correspondence. Yet, the emotional part of Cressen wins. Shireen is the kindest but loneliest girl he has ever known. How can he deprive the little lady of the only friend she has ever had?

For a moment, he fears his silence will pave a path for her to run on when her father finally announces a betrothal. However, the moment of doubt is fleeting, and he shakes his head in disbelief at the mere thought of his ever-responsible Lady Shireen ruining her father's name in such a way. Shireen was unfailingly loyal to her family and House reputation.

'Shireen knows her duty,' Cressen reassures himself. 'Shireen Baratheon is no Lyanna Stark.'

"I know you've so many letters to see over." Shireen's voice interrupts Cressen's thoughts. He's surprised she had not already disappeared to giddily read her always-anticipated letter. "If you train me in how to receive and send them, I might lighten your load just a little?"

Cressen mouth curls up, shaking his head warmly towards the gracious girl. "Do not fret over my workload, my Lady."

"Maester Cressen, I insist. You do so much for us, let me do this one thing for you."

Later, he will blame his fondness of the girl for his blindness. But really, could you blame him? He never knew Cersei as a child. Cersei, who hid her calculation behind her beauty…

Cersei, whose daughter now hides her plots within her kindness.

.x.

299 AC

"Dear Shireen,

I know you probably haven't had the chance to respond to the letter I sent just two days ago, but I figured this would be a welcome surprise.

Sorry it took so long.

It was worth the read (and the trial of obtaining a copy). Guess you were write about everyone having a story. Happy fourteenth name day.

Yours Truly,

Sam"

.x.

"Dear Sam,

I am in complete and utter disbelief. I cannot believe you transcribed the entirety of 'The Testi 'Mushroom Varieties for Healing' for me. Thank you SO much. Also, my extended thanks for waiting to do so until your writing was legible. To think it only took a year of letters?

That was only me jesting, I promise. Sincerely, Sam, thank you. I'm trembling with excitement to read it.

And - to respond to your question in the other letter - I've been teaching them how to read for a few years now. I just don't think it fair, you know? Why should station or circumstance of birth mean you can or cannot read? I think they really enjoy the lessons, and I genuinely like teaching such eager learners.

This time, I've decided to tell you the tale of Shaggy and Sōvētēs, a lesser known Stormlands legend. Before the Age of Heroes, the Stormlands were surrounded by multiple inhabited islands. The lands were settled by humans, and the waters around them were filled with different species, including asrais. In the body of water north of the northmost island, there was once an asrai princess, named Sōvētēs. (Quick quiz: do you remember what this means in High Valyrian?) Sōvētēs was beautiful, but strongly felt her worth lied more in her skill with spears than the delicate structure of her face. Her skill was renowned, honed from years of training; she practiced throwing and twisting her spears every day with her royal father, who wanted her capable self-defence Though inherently a man who abhorred war, her father - the asrain emperor - was adamant in her training due to the longstanding war between the asrais and the humans of a northern island. Sōvētēs's peace-seeking royal father wished to betroth her to the already twice-widowed human king of the island. The human king, however, took joy in cruelty. He excitedly told the princess that he would steal all her weapons once she wed him, lock her in his castle, and never let her return to the sea. Sōvētēs was torn. She loathed the idea of marrying the king, but, feared that ongoing war between their species was costing too many lives. And so, she sacrificed her freedom and wed the king. She sold her freedom for a crown, for the chance to protect her family and her people. The king did everything he said he would, and worse. She even discovered that the king killed his previous wives for entertainment, and feared she would be next. She made multiple attempts to leave, but was foiled and punished by the king every time she tried to escape.

Her salvation came in the form of her old friend, a sea lion named Shaggy. He was called Shaggy due to his riotous mane. (I can hear you rolling your eyes from leagues away. Yes, Sam, I know sea lions don't have manes, but this is a story. ) Sōvētēs met the sea lion as a child. Years prior, while training on her own, a young Sōvētēs heard a pained yelp nearby. She found the sea lion trapped amongst tangled seaweed, and she took many painstaking days to help him escape his cage. She knew she would be in trouble when she returned home, but could not abandon him. Once she finally untwisted the last chain around Shaggy, he promised that one day he would return the favour.

Three nights after Sōvētēs gave birth to her son, the king made his first attempt on Sōvētēs's life. However, what the cruel king didn't know, was that Shaggy had already thrown a spear through the open window of the birthing tower the night prior. (Again, story; don't you know that if you keep rolling your eyes, one day they'll get stuck behind your head?). And so, Sōvētēs used her spear to defeat the vile king, and ended an intergenerational war. She reigned as regent until her son came of age, and then, seeking the comfort of home and trusting her son, she returned to the sea where she taught other female asrais the art of the spear. This is why asrais, both female and male, are known to wield weapons. Some say that the seaweed that still washes upon the shores of Storm's End are remnants of the cage from which a young Sōvētēs freed Shaggy.

I know the tale is a stretch in many ways, but I've always held a peculiar fondness for it. Perhaps, because, rather than Shaggy rescuing Sōvētēs, he equipped her to save herself.

I kind of liked that.

There is a sadder version of the tale. In that tale, Shaggy's spear pierces Sōvētēs in the heart, intentionally, to spare her from the King's cruelty. In that version, the shells of Storm's End are actually the fragments of her shattered heart. I don't like that version at all.

Ser Farring is once more demanding my presence at lessons. I hope to hear from you soon. I'm so sorry that your trainer has once again declined to officially name you as his student. I know you've been asking him for a year, and this time must have especially hurt since the prospect seemed so hopeful the last time you asked. I'm sorry I cannot be there to help you through this. And I know you often like wandering through mazes with Keli when you're sad, but I feel like trying the pies from Flea Bottom might make you feel better too? Please give them a try, I cannot bear the thought of you suffering alone.

With Care,

Shireen"

Rickon's print did grow neater,

but their anonymity grew sloppy.

(remember the word consequence?)

300 AC

"Dear Shireen,

I know I only just sent you a letter the other day, but I have exciting news that could not wait. The youngest prince is to foster in the North, with the Second Queen's family. The Hand approved the prince's request readily once Lord Stark agreed. It means I he'll be less restricted in his communications than before, which means he can still stay in contact with y his friends – like me – during his time away. He told me he would send y me a letter once he settled there, and that he wanted y me to respond by sending letters to him directly to Winterfell afterwards. I He says he plans on learning how to send his own ravens from Winterfell's maester, so he can send them unrestricted, like how you and I do with each other now.

Perhaps there is a relief in being leagues away from the other roy responsibilities in the capital, and I he is looking forward to meeting his cousins, uncle, and aunt. However, I think his primary reason for fostering there is ensuring that they receive his sister well when she arrives in two years to be wed.

He misses her dearly, more and more every moment they stay apart.

Always yours,

Sam"

"Half my father, and half Brandon. Rickon will be his name."

.x.

When Prince Rickon removes his helmet, Ned freezes.

The boy is Brandon come again.

300 AC

Eddard Stark does not have fond memories of the South. Instead, he has a chaotic, uneven patchwork of painful flashbacks, all too often triggered by daily tasks. When he watches old Rodrik Cassel adjust Robb's grip on a blade, Ned remembers Jon Arryn teaching him the same maneuvers. Then, like one thread pulling another, Ned remembers the dignified way that Jon approached a wooden block, the dreadful whoosh of a sword slicing Jon's neck, the way his mentor's blood continued to gush from the severed stub until it sputtered out. When Ned's boots slosh into the mud around the godswood pools, he remembers heavy mired down boots as he maneuvered through an undulating sea of metal bodies smelling of iron and salt, remembers the silent pause of battle before Lewyn's blade felled Robert, and the thud of his best friend collapsing into river bank sludge. Sometimes, when a serving girl or visiting noble has pin-straight black hair, Ned guiltily remembers the trembling voice of a violet-eyed Ashara Dayne whispering, "perhaps we'll find each other in another life."

Worse than the firsthand recollections from the rebellion are the 'memories' of what Ned never saw. Those the ones that feed his nightmares, tender meat to the mouth of a ravenous beast. Behind his eyes, sometimes, brazen Brandon storms through the gates of the Red Keep and challenges Rhaegar to 'come out and die'. Other times, he smells the putrid stench of his father's boiling body as it roasts in its own armour. And when eight-year-old Arya clings to Ned's stomach, sobbing because of a cruel name by Sansa, hissing into his tunic of how she wishes she never had a sister... Ned sees Lyanna's final moments in a bed of blood, alone, believing herself a pariah among her remaining family.

("I cannot stand the sight of you.")

His last words to Lyanna haunt him to this day. Both shame at those words, and of how he left his sister in that palace of ruthless schemers. Ned despises how his own actions (and inactions) fed the peoples' dislike of her. 'They called her the Duty-Dodger Queen,' Ned knows, 'whose own family refused to attend her coronation, and whose own family saw her as a selfish mummer.' Though none ever dared speak ill of Lyanna in his presence, Ned knew of the whispers echoing in the halls of even Northern Houses. He could have banned those whispers entirely, brought any perpetrators to face his justice…

But anytime the thought of censorship came it was beaten down by the image of a passionate Robert loudly declaring that he would save the love his life, by the memory of an annoyed-but-amused Rickard Stark reprimanding a mischievous-but-charming Brandon, by the recollection of the warm feeling in his chest when Jon Arryn resolutely called his banners instead of ceding his wards to the Mad King's malicious grasp, by the knowledge that Lyanna could have spared thousands of lives had she informed him of her true intention with Rhaegar, instead of letting them all go to war for a lie.

("A letter, Lya...just a few words...")

Even now, the purposeless loss of life burns him, but his heart aches despite his bitterness. Regardless of her actions, he will forever hate himself for how he left things with his sister, for not having the strength to forgive her while she still breathed. The shame, hate, and regret - all of those unforgiving emotions amplified when he read her final letter to him fifteen years ago. At the time, her message never disclosed the rapidly declining state of her health. Thinking he had the luxury of time, he wasted two days mulling over his reply. He remembers sealing wax on the letter, his quill inking 'L' and 'y' onto the parchment's fold before a knock interrupted. Maester Luwin entered his solar pale-faced… with a letter from the capital announcing his sister's death.

He locks his never-sent letter in a cabinet within Winterfell's solar.

Ned contemplates how to make amends for years before offering Prince Jon the opportunity to foster at Winterfell. The offer resulted in a strange and brief correspondence. Jon's initial response seemed eager to journey North, but his follow up letter emphatically (and concisely) stated that the prince did not wish to leave his home, and that he would be very busy in the future with his training, which would leave little time for continued correspondence. Ned suspected Jon declined the offer and further communication so ardently because of how Ned treated the boy's mother.

After being declined Lyanna's son, the capital sates Northern relations with a promise of Elia Martell's daughter, much to Catelyn's simultaneous abhorrence and glee.

"A princess, Ned. A girl who is royal through both her paternal and maternal lines. I should be so happy; there could be no finer match for Robb… an impeccable pedigree for our grandchildren, directly hailing from four of the Great Houses... and yet…"

Ned's hand closes on his wife's, and she continues voicing her unease with an unsteady whisper. "Her father killed mine, Ned. How can I ever look past that? When she walks through our gates, how do I even bring myself to manage anything close to a smile for someone whose family butchered my own?"

Ned gently pulls Cat close to his chest, and lets her tears wet his nighttime tunic. "You need never forgive the King for his actions, Cat." He places his hands on her cheeks, wiping the salty shine with his thumbs while guiding her gaze up to his. "But, we cannot blame the child for her father's actions."

And so, tie between North and South made, Ned redirects his time and efforts locally. He spends solar hours handling the political nuances of the North (which ends up involving procurement of a different ward), settling disputes between Northern houses, as well as strategizing with his bannermen to strengthen stores for the next Winter. He does not think much more on his sister's Southern children. And since Jon so fervidly declined, Ned did not extend a warding offer to Lyanna's youngest.

Another regret to add to his growing list.

.x.

"Dear Lord Stark,

Despite my Southern upbringing, I understand that Northern lords appreciate direct requests in lieu of the long-winded speeches and pretty flattery that saturate capital discourse. So if you'll indulge my directness, I will be blunt.

My sister, she means the world to me. Princess Rhaenys raised me, protected me, and is kinder and more gracious than conveyable by even the most generous songs the bards sing of her. I have heard nothing concerning about the character of Lord Robb, but it would soothe my anxieties as a brother greatly to befriend the man who will soon serve as my sister's protector.

And I admit, I also have a personal desire to get to know my cousins, and see the birthplace of the woman who bore me.

For these reasons, I ask you consider fostering me as a ward of Winterfell. If you respond with your agreement by letter, I shall see to the King's approval.

Sincerely,

Prince Rickon"

.x.

Ned wastes no time penning his reply, though he does delay sending his response until declaring his intention to Cat. His wife's easy support is a welcome surprise.

"Oh Ned," Catelyn's warm eyes crinkle slightly at the edges as she smiles. "He wants to ensure the wellbeing of his sister; there is no lady in the realm who would begrudge him that, not when so many dream of the same consideration from their own fathers and brothers."

A memory of Lyanna and Robert clamours behind Ned's eyes. Ned had cared, hadn't he? Had ensured Lyanna would be with someone who loved her? ("Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature.") Ned pushes away the wailing cries of Robert's bastard daughter in the Eyrie, of Lyanna's cries to wait ("…an entire lifetime trapped and unhappy with that drunken, unfaithful–")

"Moreover, the prince is of age with Bran," Cat continues, pulling Ned from the past. "Seven knows, perhaps Bran's dour mood will improve with the arrival of a new companion, with someone to distract him from Arya's absence."

Considering Bran still refuses to offer more than begrudging one-word responses to his parents despite it being over a week since his twin's departure, Ned very much hopes so.

.x.

300 AC

The prince arrives in Winterfell on a dreary day. Thick grey clouds and a progressively worsening drizzle leave a frazzled (but eternally prepared) Catelyn swiftly instructing the placement of large drapes over the courtyard areas where the Starks and household members will await the guests' arrival. The dark cloths become heavy with water quickly, but there is no time to arrange a more definitive solution.

The distant rumble of horses grows louder, until a party of ten spills into Winterfell's courtyard.

Ned expects the mermen decorating the newly arrived group. Prince Rickon initially docked in the North via ship at White Harbor, from where a letter by (a rather besotted) Lord Manderly gave Winterfell (Catelyn) a week to finish any last minute preparations for the prince's welcome feast. Given Lord Manderly's ambition and his letter, Ned expects the mermen saturating the prince's retinue. What Ned does not expect is the lack of southern knights.

The heavy trotting halts, and the only visitor without a merman emblem on their chest easily swings off the center horse. The armoured form approaches the line of Starks with a straight back and gliding pace. A metal helmet covers the lad's face from the rain, but his regal bearing divulges the boy's identity.

Ned kneels, followed immediately by the rest in the courtyard.

"Your Grace," he intones, "Welcome to Winterfell."

"Lord Stark. Please rise," responds a much deeper voice than Ned anticipated. "I'll not have my family kneeling in mud for me."

The Lord of Winterfell stands, followed by the rest of the courtyard. His mouth opens to invite the boy inside, but the words hook into the flesh of his throat when his gaze meets the un-helmeted face of his nephew. Ned appreciates Cat's gasp, for it confirms the implausible image before him.

His nephew… this boy…

'He cannot be a Targaryen, not when he is Brandon Stark reborn.'

At four and ten, Lyanna's son not only mirrors Ned's long dead brother, but Rickon's easy smile and amicable manner are so exact in their replication, that Ned almost misses the boy's next words.

"Might we take refuge inside the castle before the weather worsens? The drapes are helpful, but I imagine introductions by a hearth's warmth will be better appreciated by my cousins than having to bear the rain for ceremony's sake."

"Of course, Your Grace." Ned wants to say more, but ghosts consume his mind. Thankfully Robb – after directing confused looks towards in his stilted parents – graciously offers to lead the prince and his Manderly escort into the Great Hall.

Fireside glow makes Rickon looks even more like Brandon. Brown hair and grey eyes, a broad build that Brandon inherited from their Umber grandfather, and an amicable grin. Ned blinks away a memory of Brandon teaching Benjen how to set a spark with steel and flint, and starts introductions. "This is Lady Catelyn Stark, my wife, and originally a daughter of House Tully."

Rickon nods, bowing at the waist. He gives a friendly grin as he rises. "Lady Stark, you are as beautiful as fabled."

Catelyn pauses from her stupor to curtsy in return. "You're too kind, Your Grace." His wife smiles, but Ned sees the pain of the past beating behind her eyes.

"This is Robb, my eldest."

Robb, seventeen, nods solemnly. "Your Grace."

"My sister's betrothed." Rickon's easy grin stays, though his gaze sharpens. "I'm keen to size you up, cousin."

Robb's mouth curves upwards, his eyes brighten at the challenge. "I've heard you're skilled in combat… for your age."

Rickon smirks, finally giving a nod back. "On the 'morrow, then, when the weather's turned." He shrugs, voice playful. "I'll even give you the first swing, to account for the sloth-ness of your aging joints."

Robb barks out a laugh, and even Bran's mouth quirks upwards.

Ned introduces Sansa next, who quickly performs a perfect curtsy that has Cat beaming in pride. "Your Grace," Sansa smiles kindly. "Welcome to Winterfell. We are eager to host a prince of such noble heritage and remarkable skill."

Rickon bows in the manner he did for Catelyn, the way Ned remembered was typical of Southern knights. "Well met, Lady Sansa. Your elegance and graciousness are a boon to your household." The practiced words leave the lad easily, though Ned gleans a slight discomfort. The boy seemed more at ease trading jibes with Robb than Southern niceties with Sansa. 'Odd,' thinks Ned, 'given his upbringing.'

"And our youngest, Bran."

"Since I've no need to threaten you," Rickon drawls, "I imagine we'll get along smashingly well."

Bran smirks as they meet arms. "Even better if you best Robb tomorrow, and then show me how to do the same."

"Oi!" Robb reaches behind a mortified Sansa to cuff Bran behind the head. "Show some respect to your elders, heathen."

"Bran! Robb!" Catelyn promptly chastises, shooting quelling looks at her sons. "At least attempt to maintain your courtesies." His wife lets out a little exasperated huff. "With Arya gone, I'd thought the impropriety in this house would be as well."

Bran's light mood sours instantly.

Ned sighs. "Our youngest daughter, Bran's older twin, is currently away fostering."

"Don't make it seem so benign, father," Bran scowls, fists clenched at his sides. "When you and mother sent her away to punish us both."

"Bran, that's enough." Ned sternly reprimands, fed up with Bran's sullen attitude and rude snark, both persisting despite Arya's departure two moons ago.

Lyanna's son tilts his head, seeming to re-evaluate Bran. "My sister was sent away from me too." Rickon's focus noticeably diverts, before he shakes himself back to attention. "I understand." Returned from what seemed to be an unpleasant trance, the smile that the prince offers Bran is a slight curve of the mouth. It's small, yet Ned suspects it is the most genuine expression the boy allows all evening.

At Cat's pointed look, Ned continues. "And this is Lord Theon Greyjoy, youngest brother of Lord Rodrik of the Iron Islands. Theon is in his second year of fostering at Winterfell."

The tall, dark-haired ironborn steps forward cautiously. "Your Grace." His bow is abrupt, a bit jerky, and hesitant. In a way, Ned understands. Rickon's father called for the death of Theon's own. Ned previously talked with Theon as he did with Cat, but Theon still seems to struggle reconciling that Rickon is not to blame for Rhaegar's actions. 'Or perhaps,' Ned thinks, more closely observing the older boy's guarded approach, 'he worries Rickon is as mercurial as Rhaegar was.'

("Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin...")

"Lord Theon," Rickon says smoothly. "I'm glad to make the acquaintance of another ward of Winterfell. It's reassuring to know another has survived the infamous climate," the prince lightly jests.

Theon's caution persists, despite the prince's attempt at connection. Rickon sighs, takes a small step back, and then calmly speaks loud enough to be heard by all present in the Great Hall. "I'll be blunt; I hear its appreciated north of the neck. The King's so-called 'reparations' gauged the realm of many good men." The prince's gaze flickers between Theon and Cat, before grey eyes meet grey. "And the war incited by the senseless actions of him and his second wife, more-so." Rickon's meets eyes with some household members lining the periphery of the room, like Jory and Hullen, before returning to Theon and Cat. "Some platitude or an apology from me does nothing to fill the aching void their absences have left you with, but I offer one anyways." He steps closer to Theon, once more. "I am truly sorry for your losses."

The prince then offers an arm to Theon, who meets it easier than expected. A poignant silence breathes for a moment, before the boy turns back to Cat. "And please, Lady Stark," his voice turns playful once more, as if deeming the mood too severe. "I've been playing at courtesies all my life in court. I was given a Northern name, and call me conceited, but I prefer it to frilly titles - especially when coming from family and friends." He finishes with a kind glow in his eyes.

Pride stirs in Ned's chest at the boy's genuine goodness. 'Oh, Lya… you would have been so proud.'

.x.

Ned embarks on a quick walk around the courtyard, hoping brisk air will re-energize him to power through the remaining paperwork left piled on his desk. Feeling the cool kiss of the wind on his skin, Ned appreciates the reprieve from the ominous leaning tower of tasks (as well as the reprieve from the whispers of unread words rasping behind a cabinet door). Ned displaces the thoughts of unfinished work and the forever unsent letter by determining the whereabouts of his children and wards. He tries to recall Rickon and Bran's plans from the morning meal, something about riding before sparring with the others.

"You're only delaying your defeat," goads Robb, as he points a fork in the direction of the departing duo.

Bran turns back towards the table, brow raised, and responds by-

"Prince is more Stark then Targaryen. Entirely Stark, I'd say!"

The stray comment pulls Ned from the morning to the present. The Lord of Winterfell turns his attention towards the source at the other end of the stable. 'A young stable hand, perhaps?' Interest piqued, Ned keeps to the shadows.

He overhears another – older – voice snort. "Lord Stark the most reserved man I ever seen. The prince made a scene and grinned as big as the Greatjon during his first appearance 'ere, definitely not entirely Stark."

A boisterous laugh identifies the third participant easily. 'Hullen,' Ned thinks fondly, before his chest tightens at the master-of-horse's words. "Now, now, Norbon. Don't you stand there all grouchy and tell me Lord Brandon wouldn'ta acted the exact same as the prince."

"Aye," Nostalgia warms Norbon's gruff words. "Too easy to see a feisty and sweet-talking young Lord Brandon where the dragon prince stands." Ned strains to catch the older man's next words. "Can't imagine how painful the next few years are going to be for Lord Stark though, with the ghost of his dead brother walking through his halls."

.x.

Norbon's words ring true. Initially, all Ned sees when he looks at Rickon is Brandon. But it's not just his appearance that pulls at Ned's chest. Rodrik Cassel claims Rickon fights like Brandon, Catelyn claims the boy carries Brandon's charisma, and Ned himself recognizes the wolf blood that once rushed through his siblings' veins. Slowly, Ned starts separating the two, and over time, he notes the differences between his older brother and Lyanna's son.

.x.

"Hopefully you don't need to best him before you get to wed his sister," Theon jokingly nudges a sweaty and defeated Robb. "Or you'll be stuck a maid forever." Theon's smirk persists, until Robb half-heartedly shoves the ironborn into the next spar.

"Let's see you at it then," Robb huffs out, still trying to catch his breath.

After the prince bests both Robb then Theon, Rodrik Cassel loudly and enthusiastically exclaims that Rickon fights "just like Lord Brandon did!" The prince's victory over the older boys surprises Ned, who witnessed the spars from his favoured spot on the balcony. Despite their defeat, the two older boys also impress Ned by responding to their loss with a lack of hubris and eagerness to improve, rather than petulance or smarted pride.

"I expected skill when he told me he trained under The Sword of the Morning," The beguiled master-at-arms reports to Ned. "But even my expectations were blasted with every spar! Wild as a winter storm, that one, my Lord. He is as fierce as Brandon was, even moreso, I suspect."

Ned disagreed with Rodrik's assessment. Not the skill part, because possessed Rickon's skill beyond question. Ned disagreed with his master-at-arm's assertion that Rickon fought just like Brandon. There were noticeable differences. Rickon was vicious, yes. But there was a control to Rickon that Brandon never had ("Rhaegar! Come out and die!") The prince had a patience and calculation that reminded Ned… well, that reminded Ned of his father ("comport yourself with dignity in the Eyrie, Ned. Try to stay out of fights...But if you have to fight, win.") Rickon was also cunning… almost like a…

'Like a snake,' Ned realizes.

Rickon calmly lulled his prey into a false sense of victory, let his overconfident opponent leave an opening, then efficiently and aggressively struck them down. Ned wonders who Rickon inherited that shrewd patience from, as neither Lyanna nor the King were known for it.

{Silly Lord, the boy's parent strings him along just like yours did.

Only his puppeteer is slowly maneuvering her marionette into a seat of welded swords.}

"How'd you get so damned good, anyways?"

"Language, Theon." Sansa chastises, almost absentmindedly as she reaches for the desert tray.

Theon waves a hand quickly towards her in apology, but his pitch-coloured eyes stay honed on the prince, and the ironborn's plate remains untouched. "Well? We thought you'd be a pampered, plump thing."

Rickon's applecake stops half way on its journey to his mouth. "Didn't really have a choice in the matter." His gaze narrows on the pastry. "Plump things get devoured in the south."

"Good thing you're so active, then." Bran playfully bumps Rickon in the shoulder, from his spot next to him on the dining table. "With all the applecakes and butter and honey you devour, you definitely would be plump otherwise." Bran's smile turns devious as he stage whispers, "maybe give some advice on control to Sansa. If she keeps gulping down those lemoncakes at the rate she's going, I overheard our oh-so-very-revered Septa tell our mother that Sansa would be the plump one."

Sansa's mortified squeal of indignation, Catelyn's sharp reprimand, and the boys' laughter all successfully steer the conversation towards favoured pastries.

.x.

More than just Ned's wife and senior household vocalize Rickon's likeness to Brandon, charm and all. During the Dustin and Ryswell's joint visit to re-evaluate their tariff plan, Lady Barbary's initial pallor at Rickon's appearance (and Ned's recollection of Brandon's… extra-curricular… pursuits) leave Ned worried over an impending implosion. Yet, Rickon operates with an easy political savvy, navigates her displaced ire easily, and somehow gains her (and her husband's) approval by the end of their five-day visit. The Dustin-Ryswell contingent even extend him a genuine invitation to Barrowtown and the Rills before their departure.

The Dustins and Ryswells are the first of many visitors over the coming moons. With the prince at Winterfell, it is much easier for Ned to request his vassals make the long trip to visit and sort through outstanding affairs. It's an unexpected, but greatly appreciated, benefit of the lad's presence. While deals by raven are doable, having his bannermen come in person greatly expedites the handling of ongoing issues.

Another benefit (expected, but indisputable) from fostering the prince is the close friendship between Bran and Rickon. Bran's persistent despondence after Arya's departure showed no sign of abating until Rickon's arrival. The boys get along famously, and whereas before Winterfell residents claimed Arya and Bran were never seen apart, it is now Rickon and Bran who are always together. The boys spar together, race horses against each other, eat their meals side by side, do homework for their lessons together, and even care for their swords in the Godswood together. Ned had accidentally come across them once, the duo busy conversing while caring for their blades.

"They found out I was giving her swordplay lessons in the godswood. My mother was furious. And Septa Mordane – may she rot in her Seven Hells – convinced Mother that Arya needed a 'steady' hand. Said she needed fostering with a 'proper' Southern house, or some such nonsense, to 'fix' her 'masculine' pursuits."

Rickon growls. "That's a shit reason to send your sister away from you, and not fair at all."

Ned overhears the abrupt splash of a rock being tossed into one of the hot springs. "Mother wanted to send her to Aunt Lysa, who's married to Lord Jaime Lannister. For a moment, I thought it was brilliant. I could go with her, squire under Ser Jaime, and learn from the youngest man to be knighted into the Kingsguard. I could even still find a way to give Arya lessons when no one was looking, I was sure. But father refused right away. He still strongly dislikes the Lannisters because of Lord Tywin. Father and mother fought for hours over it in his solar. I eavesdropped, and heard mother nearly convince father to send her to the Tyrells. I know the culture of the Reach, and knew she would have been miserable amongst their perfumes and delicate dances."

Ned hears another rock splash into the water.

"So I interrupted. Said that the Northmen would revolt if Robb married a Southern princess, Sansa married a Southern lord, and Arya warded South as well. I suggested to send her to a Northern House."

"Mother lit up. Recommended a house with a son to betroth her to."

Bran pauses, voice pained.

"I couldn't let them do that to her. It was one thing to send her off as a ward, another to sell her like cattle to some bannerman. My mind raced with a way to save her, and all I could think of... I told them to send her to Bear Island."

Another splash, harsher this time.

"The next morning, they told Arya at breakfast. Told her she would be warding with House Mormont until Robb was married. And when she refused to go, and looked to me to help her, I held my tongue. I was afraid that if she pressed too hard they would send her to the Reach instead. And then my mother…"

Bran hisses. "My mother told Arya it had been my idea to send her there, and she looked so betrayed… and I tried to tell her that it had been to save her from worse. That it would offer her a bit of freedom before father married her off... but all she did was shake her head, and gods, I heard her sobbing later that night in her room, and was too ashamed to defend myself. I just sat outside her door, listening as she cried."

Splash. Splash. Splash.

"Father found me the next morning. He told me, as if it would someone help, that her fostering at Bear Island would give her a few years to be free, but ultimately, he hoped to wed her to some less traditional bannerman… like to House Umber, maybe. Or even to Domeric Bolton, since he seemed to get on well enough with her we were children. Said he'd make sure she was wed to someone who made her happy.

I told him, no husband would ever make her happy. Either way, it would be selling her to a marriage she didn't want. But he refused to listen, he just kept saying how marrying was her duty for our house."

This time a rock clunks against mud, missing the water.

"At dinner that night, Arya didn't come. Father told some longwinded story. Told us how hard it was for him to leave his siblings, but like him, we needed to learn how to be apart and 'stand on our own.' I got really mad when he said that," Bran's voice lowers. "I was so mad that I… that I told him… that maybe if he hadn't left her, his sister wouldn't have run to King Rhaegar for protection."

Bran pauses.

"It was a cruel thing to say, I know. But when he said he was going to send Arya away, I hated him. I hated even more how Robb and Sansa just nodded along, paid some lip service to missing Arya but were back to normal within a day of her leaving. I hated how everyone acted like I should just be okay with them taking my best friend away. She's my twin, my other half, we've always been together."

Bran doesn't seem to be continuing. Ned hears Rickon ask, "do you still write to her?"

Bran's response is quiet, disheartened. "For the first few weeks, we wrote each other. But, her letters got shorter and shorter. I guess it stung, that she was out seeing the world and having all the adventures we said we'd have together." Bran clears his throat. "We were always the second best, you know? Robb and Sansa, paragons of Lord and Lady, versus Arya the contrary and Bran the spare. Arya was never the perfect court-bound noblewoman like Sansa, and, even if my parents will never admit it, I'm the spare in case anything ever happens to Robb before he has a son." Bran sighs, voice almost wistful. "Arya and I… We were going to be knights together, legends likes the ones from the Age of Heroes...brother and sister battling enemies, meeting all the Dothraki tribes, sailing the Summer Sea, climbing the Bone Mountains, even exploring west of Westeros..."

For a few moments, all Ned hears is the soft hum of dry cloths slowly cleaning blades. It's a familiar and peaceful lull, broken once more by Rickon. "I think it's important for girls to learn how to protect themselves. Sisters, especially." Despite the casual tone, the prince's next words chill Ned. "I don't think fools realize the inferno they set when they harm a man's sister."

A pause.

"Fools catch fire easily."

.x.

Rickon and Bran grow as close as brothers, arguably closer than even the twins were. Theon and Robb both befriend the prince as well. And (thankfully), the prince side-steps Theon's more… Brandon-like… influences. Theon, who thinks himself clever in sneaking out to Wintertown brothels. Ned thinks back to the last time he caught them.

"Come on then, this is my last night before I'm shipped back to the Islands for a month to sit through Maron wedding that bore of a Westerland's girl. A night at Wintertown is the sendaway present I demand of you lot."

"Theon," Robb groans. "You're asking I go to a brothel in front of the overprotective brother of my betrothed. Are you trying to get me gelded?"

"Well, you're not married yet…" Rickon innocently supplies.

Ned's eldest son snorts. "Right, like I'm falling for that again. Pretty sure I'm still wearing the bruises from when you mistakenly," Robb emphasizes, "thought I was flirting with Lady Wylla."

Ned senses Rickon's smug grin and sense of accomplishment, despite not being able to see the boys' faces. From the liege lord's position on the terrace above the boys (where he paused his late night walk to eavesdrop on their shenanigans), the most he sees is the quartet's elongated shadows. 'And, really,' Ned thinks amusedly, 'if they're going to be sneaking around, it would do them well to learn to lower their voices.' Ned will impart that lesson once he intercepts their departure. Until then, he's quite enjoying their banter.

"Well then, Your Grace," Theon's shadow jokingly swings an arm over Rickon's shadow. "Royal, rich, almost ten and six, but still a maid. Surely I can count you in?"

Ned – despite himself, despite the past year – expects Lyanna's son to give the 'Brandon' answer.

"My lord, it's so gracious of you to offer your company," Rickon mocks. "But I'll have to decline, despite your flattery."

Before Theon can counter, the prince continues in a soft - almost wistful - tone. "I have a girl in the south who has ruined any other for me."

Ned's eyes widen, he leans in closer to the edge of the terrace. But, despite Robb and Theon's rather invasive prodding, Rickon never discloses the name. Ned notes Bran refrains from joining the pestering, and suspects his youngest already knows the mystery girl's identity. Bran – as he has become so adept at doing – redirects the conversation. "Speaking of girls whose vengeance we don't wish to invoke... Theon, do you really think Wynafryd Manderly will calmly accept you visiting brothels?"

"So? Let Wynnie get all huffy. She's always on me for something, what do I care?"

"You blushing like a maid makes me think you might."

That mere mention of Manderly's eldest suffices to make Theon loudly assert Wintertown's brothels are "shit anyways," impresses Ned. He mentally notes to write of the development to Lord Rodrik. If the Lord of the Iron Islands approves, Ned will arrange another mermen visit when Theon returns from the wedding of Janei Lannister to Maron Greyjoy. On the receiving end, Manderly's ambition would eagerly snatch Theon as a husband for his eldest daughter (and heir). Although Theon is the third son of a deceased liege lord, Theon knew his way around ships and navies (including the Iron Fleet), was a close friend of the future Lord of Winterfell, friend of the future Lady of the Reach (if Catelyn had her way), brother of the current Lord of the Iron Islands, and now friend of a prince.

Yes, Lord Manderly could certainly do worse for a son-by-law.

.x.

Rickon does odd things; things Brandon never did. For example, Maester Luwin sings praises about Rickon's eager attentiveness in lessons, and even reports that Rickon seeks out extra lessons, such as High Valyrian.

"I'm told your progress in lessons is laudable, Rickon."

"Thanks Uncle Ned." Red dusts Rickon's cheeks. "I have quite a bit to go, though."

Ned raises a brow. "Until what?"

Rickon's cheeks flush deeper, amusing Ned as the boy is so rarely thrown off kilter. "Well, my friend Sh-Sam, Samwell Tarly, he's my maester too. Well, he's a maester in training, but he was my maester. Rhae introduced us. My sister really wanted me to pay attention in lessons. And they both would want me to keep focusing on lessons here."

"Speaking of lessons," Bran intercedes. "We're running late."

Another non-Brandon oddity is Rickon's involvement in affairs traditionally delegated to household staff members. This includes learning the basics of smithing.

"Lad's got a solid base of knowledge, from even before he met me. Smart as a whip; he won't ever be duped by no greedy tradesman. Knows how to tell a good blade, that one does." Mikken tilts his head. "He even had some odd questions about some of the rarer stuff, like Valyrian steel war hammers and dragonglass arrowheads," Mikken shrugs. "Must just be the curiosities of burgeoning knights these days, I suppose."

Rickon's atypical involvement in chores and menial tasks also includes beleaguering the kitchen staff to teach him how to make meals.

"The prince be asking me to teach him how to make foraged goods edible the other day, would you believe?" The head cook shakes the ladle in her hand, brown eyes wide. "I ain't let anyone in Winterfell starve in decades, and I sure won't be letting them starve as long as I be standing, you have my word on that, Lord Stark! But, well, he be a prince, so I told him some of the basics, o'course."

Ned even witnessed firsthand when Rickon requested to be taught raven-sending, back two years ago, less than a week into the boy's fostering at Winterfell.

"Maester Luwin, won't you join us for supper?"

"Lord Stark, you're too kind. But I only came to relay the message of Lord Karstark's estimated arrival tomorrow evening. I have some more work I still need to finish in my study."

"Very well then," Lord Stark nods towards one of the older serving ladies. "Nola, would you please bring Maester Luwin a plate to his study. Include some extra lemoncakes, if you wouldn't mind." Luwin might be the only one in the castle who appreciates the tart sweet more than his daughter.

The serving woman smiles, nodding. "Of course, mi'Lord."

Luwin smiles in farewell, but before he can take two steps from the dining table, Rickon's voice stops the older man. "Maester Luwin?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

The boy lightly chastises the man's "overly formal" address, before smiling in a way not dissimilar to Arya, back when she used to weave reasons to be excused from sewing.

"I frequently write to my friends in Kings Landing, as well as one of my trader friends whenever he ports at the Citadel or the Stormlands. I saw to my own letters when I lived at the Red Keep. Would you kindly teach me how to do the same with the ravens from here?" A pause. "After all, you've so many letters to oversee, and you have so many other duties that you do for us. You do your tasks so infallibly well, but if you train me in how to receive and send letters, I might lighten your load just a little?"

"Kiss-ass," Theon lightly sing-songs.

"Language!" Sansa yelps (and Robb simultaneously pantomimes from beside her, mockingly). Bran does a poor job hiding his snicker behind his spoon, while Lady Catelyn exasperatedly pinches the bridge of her nose.

Ned shoots Theon and Robb reproving looks, before turning to his nephew. "Rickon, I doubt it's a skill that will ever bear much usefulness to you in the future. You'll always have a maester nearby."

"Better to know something than not to know it." Rickon shrugs, before the prince's pleading gaze and an acceding nod from Ned earns a smile of acceptance from Maester Luwin.

Rickon grins brightly, while Ned roughly pushes down the thought of how he never used to refuse Lya either…

.x.

If there is one way that Rickon is unquestionably Lyanna's child, it is the boy's wolf blood.

Lyanna had a touch of it, Brandon more than a touch, while Rickon has it in bursts. Rather than brothels or elopement, Rickon races, climbs, and goes on hunts for wildlings and deserters. And – of course – Bran accompanies him. Ned witnessed their plotting once before.

"And what of thieves?" Bran inquires with lazy amusement, casually leaning against a stable pillar. "Pickpockets?"

Rickon smirks, fingering the sword at his waist. "Don't worry, cousin. You've the protection of my steel and my skill."

Bran snorts as he pushes himself off the wooden post. "And I'm supposed to be reassured by a fifteen-year-old playing knight?"

Rickon shoves one of two packed bags towards his cousin. "Actually, two fifteen-year-olds playing at knight."

Bran laughs, swings his pack and then himself onto his stead. "Well, best get going then, before anyone catches us leaving."

Ned steps further into the stables. As amusing as the duo's plotting was, the last thing Ned needs is another episode like the time the pair wandered off to White Harbor. The Lord of Winterfell keeps his expression stern even as a shocked Bran nearly topples from his horse, and a paling Rickon quickly steps away from his own. "And where," Ned intones gruffly, "Would that be?"

In some ways, the episode from the stables is an echo of the past: Jon Arryn chastising a hungover Robert for his reckless plans, then chastising Ned for indulging Robert's whims. The parallel is an aching sort of reminder, the kind that leaves Cat with a cooling space beside her on the bed, as Ned wanders about the terrace and balconies under a dark sky, battling the emotions from the past that often threaten to drown him.

Another, increasingly frequent, motivator for Ned's late night walks and afternoon visits to the godswood is the control Rickon seems to have over his wolf blood. Rather than the crutch it became for Ned's siblings, Rickon weaponizes it. Like during the prince's first beheading. Rickon decapitates his first deserter three months after arriving at Winterfell. Two months later, Bran does the same (Ned suspects Cat still hasn't forgiven him for it.)

Ned approaches the pair in the godswood, asking Bran to depart so he might speak to Rickon alone.

The Lord of Winterfell sits beside his nephew, unsheathes Ice, and joins Rickon in caring for their respective blades. Time passes, and unlike Lyanna or Brandon, there is no mounting tension in the boy's shoulders, nor a premature break of silence with a huff and impatient sputtering of, 'well, out with it then, Ned!'

"You killed your first man today." Ned begins. His calloused hands still care for Ice, letting the cloth clean the blade in a repetitive, familiar motion. The lord's gaze flickers intermittently to his nephew's profile.

Rickon pauses his own blade maintenance, before nodding his head and continuing to stroke the cloth against the tempered steel along his leg. "It was duty." He says, resolute. "That man abandoned his responsibilities. He broke the law. I didn't… I didn't do anything wrong."

"Rickon." Ned slowly reaches out to his nephew's shoulder, turning him so their grey eyes meet. Ned notes that though Rickon places the blade on the side, he still maintains a loose grip on the handle. The act makes Ned frown. 'Are you so scared of me, nephew, that you cannot be without your weapon ready in my presence? I am family, yet you keep the blade within reach.'

Ned sighs. "There is duty, and then there is desire. I can tell the difference lad. You wanted to end the man. And I want to know why?"

Rickon's brows furrow. "And I've already said. He broke the law. He was a deserter." The prince's hands fist. "He had a Southern accent." Rickon's eyes leave Ned's, and return jerkily to his blade. "He was probably a rapist or worse." Rickon's eyes glaze over, and he murmurs under his breath. "Actually, there isn't much worse than a rapist."

"You're right, but your motivation was more than that, Rickon." Ned urges the boy's gaze back to his own.

Rickon frowns, takes a few moments to consider his response. "I'd... never killed a man before."

Ned nods, encouraging his nephew to continue.

"I used to hear knights teasing their squires in King's Landing in the training yards. They'd jeer about how their squires would freeze at the site of their enemy's bare neck. I wanted…" Rickon's gaze hardens. "I needed to test myself, to make sure that I never would."

Ned frowns. "I'm surprised Ser Arthur would say something like that to you."

"I did train under him. But no, he never told me that. It was the knights who jeered at their squires." Rickon's frown turns into a bitter smile. "For all his praise, no matter how many times I asked, Ser Arthur never made me his squire."

.x.

Perhaps the least worrying of Bran and Rickon's mischief is their desire to race each other up the walls of Winterfell. At least for Ned. Cat, on the other hand, bemoans new grey hairs and repeated bouts of heart palpitations over a 'soon-to-drop dead' Targaryen prince.

"Bran! Rickon! You get down here this instant. This, very, instant!"

The boys scramble down, nearly toppling over each other in their haste. Once grounded, they approach Cat's looming figure like two doomed men broaching the gallows. Each tries to set pace behind the other, much to the amusement of those milling nearby, including the chortling pair of Robb and Theon.

Cat thoroughly reams out Bran, before she moves her ire on to their nephew. "And what would I do, hmm? When the South asks for their prince back, and I send them a body broken from falling off that godsforsaken tower?"

"Don't worry, Aunt Catelyn." Rickon smiles, the severe curve unlike a maneuvering Arya this time. Instead, the stilted smile is like the one Benjen wore while announcing his plans to join the Night's Watch. "The King would sooner applaud you for my corpse than punish you for it."

.x.

Cat voices her concerns regarding Rickon's prior treatment multiple times, starting the very first night of his arrival.

"Ned… when Lord Manderly mentioned he was sending a party to accompany the prince, I never imagined it was because the prince had not a single member of his own… Not even a single gold cloak!" Her frown deepens, and her voice lowers in worry. "Oh Ned, he does not even have a member of the Kingsguard by his side."

Cat is not the only one to voice these concerns.

His other children, Theon, Rodrik and Jory Cassel, Hullen, Mikken, Maester Luwin, and multiple other household staff share Cat's observations and report troubling throwaway comments made by Rickon. Even visiting Northern constituents approach Ned with their concerns, from Barbary Ryswell to the Greatjon.

"I'm surprised you were able to drag yourself away from the action in the sparring yard, Lord Umber." Ned teases.

"Well, I figured I'd join you up here. Get a better view of these green boys playing at war." Greatjon smirks, coming up beside his liege lord. "That nephew of yours had a good go at Osric two days ago. Did you see?"

"It was a thrilling spar." Ned nods. "Your youngest son handled himself well, longer than most do their first time against the prince."

"Aye, he did." Greatjon puffs a bit in pride. "Osric hasn't been beaten by any except Smalljon in a good while. It was good for him to learn that more than just his brother will beat him if his training slacks. But, gods, when the prince laid Osric in the dirt, my boy was near-smitten!" Greatjon lets out a loud chortle, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "In fact, he declared Rickon to be his new best mate."

Ned smiles. "Bran may contest that."

Lord Umber waves his hand in a dismissive manner. "Aye, they'll all make nice once they've got a few tankards in them." He nods his thick neck towards the yard. "Smalljon's getting on well with the Greyjoy too, surprisingly."

Ned lets out an amused chuckle, rolling his eyes at his friend's ongoing belief that all disputes could be settled by ale. In the yard below, Smalljon and Robb circle each other.

"Good thing, too, for Smalljon to see your Robb again." Greatjon heaves out a loud sigh. "Boy's been giving me grief over his betrothal to Karstark's daughter. Driving me absolutely mad, that one is."

Ned glances at Bran, who stands between a jesting Osric Umber and Rickon, who both cheer on Smalljon and Robb, respectively. Bran, whose observant eyes hone onto every stance and swing between the fighters. Bran, who even a year after Arya's departure (and being denied squiring in the South), still maintains antagonistic undertones with both parents. "Trust me when I say I can relate to having belligerent sons."

Greatjon's brow raises. "Robb against his betrothal to the Targaryen girl?"

Ned shakes his head. "Not in the least, surprisingly. I think initially the true implication of the engagement never sank in, and once Rickon arrived, the prince did nothing but sing his sister praises." Below, Smalljon take another swing at Robb.

Greatjon's entire countenance dims. "I overheard him say something, you know, about his sister…"

Ned steps away from the railing and fully turns to face Lord Umber. Seeing that he has Ned's undivided attention, Greatjon continues. "Osric made some offhand comment about the prince being lucky his father arranged instruction from the Sword of the Morning. Didn't think I'd ever see such a dark sneer on such an easy-going lad, but the prince hissed out 'King Rhaegar' the way Robert used to say 'Targaryen.' The prince growled out that Rhaegar would sooner have seen him 'at the end of a sword' then being taught how to use one. Lad even told Osric that the only reason he had any training at all is because his sister arranged it." Greatjon pauses. "Ned, he arrived in Winterfell without a single gold cloak… not even a Kingsguard."

Ned isn't sure what to say.

Greatjon continues. "I heard about it, you know, before we even arrived. Whispers from the others about the prince's treatment at the capital... by his own father." The Umber shakes his head in disgust. "I thought Karstark was just being dramatic, but now I don't think so. You know, when I first heard the prince was coming up here, I had the same reservations the rest of us did. But he's a good lad. More Stark than Targaryen, whatever his name. And he's more one of us then one of them, just look at that direwolf trailing at his feet." Greatjon's gaze hardens, he meets Ned's gaze squarely. "There's a reason he's so skilled, Ned. Remember how we got good? War. Battle. Survival. We had no choice but to be skilled, to protect ourselves… what does it say about where he grew up, that the boy treats each spar like it might be his last."

Lord Umber pauses.

"Ned, you can't possibly mean to send Rickon back to that shithole after his fostering is done?"

.x.

Rickon carries his father's name, but none doubt the prince's Stark blood once a direwolf claims him.

A simultaneously awe-inspiring and heart-wrenching discovery occurs during a hunt in the woods. The group (consisting of his male children, wards, Jory and a few other household members) witnesses the first sighting of direwolves South of the Wall in over a hundred years - "a miracle!" according to Jory. And yet, before them lies the carmine corpse of a magnificent beast. A dead direwolf in a pool of blood, having bled out alone in the woods from the delivery of her pups. The gory site reminds Ned too much of his deceased sister to do anything but nod despondently when his children approach him with pleading eyes.

"There's six."

"Seven!" Yells Rickon, gently lifting another direwolf, a pup white as snow, from beneath the circular root of a nearby tree.

"One for every Stark child and Stark ward."

"This is why Maester Luwin is always harping on you to better your numbers, Robb." Bran shakes his head. "One for each of us, and then an extra," he corrects. "What are we to do with the extra?"

Theon examines the pup cradled in Rickon's arms. "It's a runt," the Greyjoy shrugs. "Don't much expect it to last past the week."

Contrary to Theon's initial assessment, the runt lives past the first week, and then a second, and then a moon's turn. But it runs into the wilderness three moons later.

Bran shrugs, awkwardly patting the thin shoulder of a shiny-eyed Sansa. "Guess Rickon's name for him was apt?"

"Don't be cruel, Bran," hisses Robb.

Sansa's words cut off Bran's retort.

"But why would he leave? Surely he'll die on his own. Oh, he was so lonely too." Sansa descends into another round of tears, much to the discomfort of Bran. Robb hands her his tablecloth, her own decidedly used.

"Perhaps he just needs some time away…" Rickon traces his spoon along the rim of his bowl. "Some time to grow into his own self, before returning to his family." Ned almost mistakes Rickon's words for reassuring until, "or perhaps he just felt more secure away from his siblings? Sometimes it's safer away from relatives."

.x.

Brandon's grin was a smile; Rickon's grin is a mask. Ned never gets a detailed story of Rickon's treatment by Rhaegar, just hints from stray sentences. However, Ned does hear a story of how his brothers-by-birth treat him, courtesy of a dose of milk of the poppy. Maester Luwin administers some to the prince in order to set his ankle, after a sparring injury.

"Maester Luwin noticed a burn on your leg… who did it?"

"Aegon and Jon." Rickon frowns dazedly, laughs darkly. "No one believed me... thought it coincidence that it happened after I beat 'em in training." He laughs bitterly. "The princes are cruel, and the King is cruel and mad... He'd sacrifice us all to the gods... if it meant figuring out his riddles and prophecies... I think he wants Aegon to kill me too, you know? Like how…" his eyes daze further, his speech slows, his words slur; Ned suspects the milk of poppy's effect is growing. "Rhae, for so long… she was all I had…protected me from them... when she saw my leg... she helped me... tried to help me escape... he hurt her… the bruise, I saw it… red eyes and her face blue…he hurt her… sent her away to hurt me… wished I... were the dead one, he said… can't crow...ow...nuh... 'rpse... One day… promised… keeps… her prom-… 'ne...day...puh..lan…jus'... don' wan... na...hur'...Shir...n..."

The next morning, Rickon sits upright on the healing chamber's bed. Eyes focused on stretching his ankle, Rickon asks,"Did I... when I was confused, did I say anything… odd?"

"You said your sister's name," Ned says.

"Any other names?" Rickon hedges, eyes focused on his foot.

"Your brothers and your father as well. You said other things, as well, but most of it was incoherent."

For a moment, it is quiet. Then Rickon stands up, turning his body to face Ned fully, though Rickon's eyes stay directed towards the space behind Ned's shoulder. "Don't worry, Uncle Ned. You already waged a false war for the Second Queen. I'd rather not have a thousand dead northmen on my conscious. I know you have no choice but to send me back when the King calls for it." His gaze meets Ned's, and he plasters on a wide grin. Ned sees it tremble at the corners. "I've to meet Bran at the stables; I promised him another race once I was cleared by Maester Luwin."

Ned's nephew doesn't call Lyanna mother, never calls Rhaegar father, and never calls the princes his brothers.

("There's a reason he's so skilled, Ned. Remember how we got good?")

Greatjon's words twist Ned's gut for months after the hefty lord departs. With a heavy heart, the Lord of Winterfell collects the concerns of the others with an inability to act on them. Because, like his nephew so astutely worded it, Ned has no choice. Rhaegar will call Rickon back to the capital after the princess weds Robb, and Ned cannot refuse.

A letter will come, and Ned will lose yet another person he loves to the King.

"You have a wildness in you, child. 'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it.

Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch...

302 AC

Dear Sam,

Do you remember what I told you last? Of the rumours that Uncle Renly was to be sent away? How I said those rumors could go rot? Well, there might just be one piece of good in the awfulness of my father demanding Uncle Renly finish his squiring in the Reach. Well, I mean, of course it's good for Uncle Renly to finish his training, especially since he only came back prematurely from his time with the Tyrells and stayed so long training under our master-at-arms because he wanted to help care for me after my mother's… health concerns. Sorry, I'm rambling. But, what I meant to say, is that Uncle Renly is taking a ship from Storm's End to the Citadel, before making his way south to High Garden. AND HE IS LETTING ME COME WITH HIM TO THE CITADEL! Imagine, all the books! The greatest library in all of Westeros, some of the oldest buildings on the entire land, and, again, the LIBRARY. The Library at the Red Keep with you was wondrous R, but oh, just imagine all the tales on the shelves of the Citadel's Library! I'm not allowed to accompany Uncle Renly to the Reach, but I'll at least get to spend some time in the Citadel before having to sail home.

Before we venture to the Citadel, we're going to spend time in the Westerlands with my grandfather. I heard Father tell Uncle Renly how something dramatic occurred at the wedding in Winterfell. Apparently it had to do with Aunt Lysa? I won't know anymore until I'm there, where I can sift out the truth from grandfather. But if you hear from your Northern contacts regarding the truth of the matter, and it is safe news to travel, I would not mind being informed. Either way, I think I'll still reach Casterly Rock a day or so before Uncle Jaime arrives, since we're departing tomorrow.

And to answer your riddle, I must say, I am disheartened you think it would take me more than a moment to come to the answer. Something that is not alive, but grows and breathes air; something that is not alive, but dies in the cage of water – it must surely be fire!

This time, I'll challenge you with a riddle instead of a story.

A master of horses orders four new horses, and gets four other animals instead. The four animals are each in a cage, and are:

~the doe, that always tells the truth;

~the dragon, that always lies;

~the wolf, that always repeats the last given answer (if he is the first one, he randomly says "yes" or "no");

~and the snake, that is so slow that he always truthfully answers the previous question (if he is the first one, he also randomly says "yes" or "no").

The master wants to trade the animals for the horses he needs, but the cages are black walled and he has no way to see through them without the animals escaping. The master calls on his local prince – who he knows to be wise and kind – to figure out which animal sits in which cage. One by one, he asks them "are you the dragon?" After hearing the four answers, the prince only knows in which cage the snake sits.

Then the prince asks them in the same order "are you the snake?" After hearing the four answers, the prince also knows in which cage the dragon sits.

Lastly, he asks the first animal "are you the wolf?" The answer is "yes", and now the prince knows exactly which animal sits in which cage.

Which animal was in which cage?

(Who is in the first cage, the last cage, the cage that answered yes on the first question, and who is in the remaining cage?)

Have fun,

Shireen

...It brought them both to an early grave."

302 AC

Two weeks after the end of Winterfell's wedding celebrations, and about a moon's turn after the Lannister contingent's premature departure from said festivities, Rickon receives an unexpected letter.

'It's too soon.'

Rickon hadn't finished writing his reply to her last letter, it being only a day after Rickon received a letter from Shireen detailing her arrival at Casterly Rock. His heart thuds in his ears when he opens the uncharacteristically uneven folds. He recognizes the change in her handwriting immediately, how the curves seem abnormally rushed and smeared. Dread pools in his gut before he even reads the response.

Dark tear stains spot the spaces between her words, his stomach curdles as he reads.

.

"Dear Sam,

I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

I never meant for it to happen.

Uncle Jaime knows…"

.

End of Chapter 3 Part 1

You've taken time to read over 10k words this chapter, so if you want more of this fic, PLEASE take ten seconds to leave a review!

I'm not too happy with this chapter. I plan on redoing it once I finish the fic (I just really wanted to get Rickon up North, so I could get to the drama with the wedding, and the drama AFTER the wedding). I feel like I'm still doing a lot of narrative summary. Any suggestions to improve this chapter are greatly welcomed! Did you like the letters? Was Ned's POV with the flashbacks confusing? How do you feel about Ned's feelings regarding Lyanna?

Questions for the peanut gallery

question 1: Also, do people like me putting the " ### AC" to indicate the year? I went back and did it throughout the fic to see if it would help make the story's timeline more clear, but I'm not sure if doing so just added confusion. Would appreciate some feedback on whether I should continue listing the year, or if you guys think it takes away from the story.

question 2: would you guys rather have a happy ending, or a more realistic bittersweet ending?

question 3: any suggestions for how to revamp my summary? or should I just keep it, as it is?

Answer to riddle (and its origin) can be found here: puzzlefry puzzles /animals-in-cage-riddle/ (please see my AO3 version of story for link if ffn doesn't show the link)

Side note: for any other writers, FYI. FFN doc manager does this thing where (based on the time of day I think?) does/does not let you horizontal lines wherever you want. I spent over an hour reformatting EVERY SINGLE ONE of these chapters (because the horizontal line breaks were missing) with extra periods (that made me cry because they like ruined the aesthetic of the fic). Then, I came back to edit this chapter, only to realize that the horizontal line function had been miraculously fixed, and then had to spend another 30 minutes reformatting EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER. Urgh.

Translations

Sōvētēs - Fly

Keli - cat

Preview

(flashes of upcoming chapters)

...

I think the realm is quite through with Stark girls stealing married men!

…

Her grandfather's eyes harden... If you dare conceive a bastard, I will bleed it from your womb. Do you understand me?

...

"Love is forgiveness, that's what you said, right?" ...Her back hits the bedsheets. His legs straddle hers..."You'd forgive me anything, wouldn't you, my love?"

…

So when Jon Connington approaches Rhaegar, claiming that Ned Stark has agreed to take on Rickon as a ward in the North, and drones on about how it would ease Rhaenys's transition, soothe Northern tensions that still rang high, etcetera, all Rhaegar hears is that Rickon will finally be gone.

So he agrees without hesitation.

If he paid more attention to his Hand's concern instead of his prophecies and his ghosts, perhaps the King would have registered the part where Jon suspected that Rickon was becoming more beloved than Aegon even amongst the nobles.

…

Jaime wonders if his foolish wife realizes she whispers another man's name in her sleep.

…

There was something about her interaction with Rickon that had humanized this fabled girl. Had allowed Robb to see a tender, vulnerable part of her. And had spurred a longing to have her warm affection directed towards himself. And, by the Old Gods and New, she was the most beautiful woman Robb had ever seen.

…

"Lord Sam and I taught you your histories well, Rickon. Surely you remember Orys and Argella?

Rickon freezes. "This is different, Rhae." He whispers. "Shireen is…..

….I know a part of you already belongs to her. But remember her loyalties, Rickon." Remember yours.

…

~ If Lord Tywin was searching for an excuse to be rid of you, you've surely served him that.

~ Robb recoils. "I'd never hurt you." / Rhaenys smiles bitterly. "I wonder if the King made pretty promises like yours to my mother when they were betrothed too."

~ First, Rhaeny learns how to weaponize Elia face. Second, Rhaenys learns how to weaponize Rhaella's body… "Are you drunk?" / "Not so much that I don't know what I want."/ "And what is it that you want, my Lord?" She eyes him warily. "A kiss. Just one. From the beautiful girl who'll be mine forever."

~His face is shocked, in disbelief and betrayal, even anger. Rhaenys feels her heart race viciously as she understands the repercussions of her stupidity. He is all she has to protect herself and her brother from the current King, and she has just jeopardized it all… Her gut twists… fearing what he will demand as payment for his protection…

… Don't be naive... Do you think Princess's are spared from their husband's anger?

~Bran appears hesitant to broach his topic… "Lady Shireen is already at the Reach…. she would be an appropriate bride to consider." … If this is truly something you want Bran, then I will write to Stannis.

...

Ser Brynden scowls. "This could end in war, Bran!"

"It was always going to come to war, uncle. I just put our families on the right side of it."

Brynden sighs deeply, and for once the lines on his face appear deep, and the fabled Blackfish looks his age. "There is no such thing as the right side of war, Brandon."

Bran pauses before responding. "There is a side that bleeds less. And this time, it will be ours."

...

~ Catelyn sighs wearily. "And here I never thought I'd be grateful for Arya's willful nature." The Lady of Winterfell lets out a tired, almost derisive laugh. "But here I stand corrected, thanking the Gods for it…

~ Tell me, does it give you some sort of sick thrill to warm the bed of the family responsible for destroying yours?

~ I know a threat when I see one, Lord Varys. What it is that you want…

~ "Is lying so easy for you now, sweet niece?"

~ "Lady Baratheon, where is your crown?" A sinister voice drawls from behind her. Shireen's blood chills.

~ "The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that." ~ Jeor Mormont

Responses to reviewers

BIG thank you to all five reviewers - you are the reason this chapter is out!

Lighteningscar - really, really good point about the past vs present action. This chapter was a lot more past focused, but hopefully Ned's bit brought some more forward action. The true action will start with the wedding next chapter though! I have definitely been debating a re-write of this fic where I do it all in chronological order, but I might just finish this one first before I invest time in a rewrite! thanks so much for your detailed review!

Cknapik10 - welcome to ffn! hopefully you enjoyed this chapter! Have you tried AO3 as well? Lots of great Robb x Rhae as well as Shireen x Rickon fics on there. thanks for your review!

JeSuis - thanks so much! Honestly, broke my heart to write the Cersei and Tyrion bonding knowing what was going to happen. There's some hints of what Tywin has got in the works, but it'll be a while before it comes to light ;)

Green - literally broke my heart to write as well, hopefully you enjoyed this chapter as well! thanks for your review!

samerthegreat191 - all I can say is, keep reading ;) thanks for your review!

Please review :)