Baelon Targaryen (195 A.C. Seventh Moon)
Summerhall – Garden's
Baelon sat beside his brothers as he played with them. At two years old, he could walk, speak somewhat, and observe, but there was not much else he could really do. He just hoped his warning had helped, perhaps to prevent the Blackfyre Rebellion, or at least give the Targaryens more time to prepare.
His father, at least, had done so. Maekar, from what he had noticed, had begun to prepare the Summerhall domain for war. For the past three moons, he had done so ever since his warning. He had hired more retainers and knights to patrol the lands, and the lands of Summerhall were developing more quickly because of it.
Still, for three moons they had heard nothing. Or perhaps, it would be to his surprise, his actions had caused the disappearance of the rebellion altogether.
As his mother sat there patiently with her ladies-in-waiting, speaking of things he did not care about, mostly rumors around the kingdom, sometimes they spoke of something interesting, like who had won a tourney or events at court.
As he played with a dragon toy, he pretended to replay the Field of Fire, knocking over toys with the dragon and calling out a child's version of "dracarys."
His father walked into the garden, his expression not a happy one. "My ladies, I wish to speak with her in private. I promise I shall not keep her long."
Baelon smiled. It was still an odd thing, seeing the famously prickly Maekar being patient. Even if his father had a wrathful streak, then again, so had he. Wrathfulness was something within the Targaryen bloodline. He had clearly gone full bloodlust during the Battle of the Bastards, killing Bolton men left and right with Ghost at his side. Later, he had beaten the Bolton bastard to a bloody pulp, brains smashed into the sand.
Wrath, on occasion, kept one alive, yet without control, one would become like Daenerys, breaking ranks and getting herself, Drogon, and Viserion killed, and almost himself as well, like the Mad King, Maegor, and even Tywin. Tywin Lannister was too ruthless and wrathful; he inspired no true loyalty, only fear. Fear is one thing, but it does not last. If you do not maintain it, it will crumble, and after you are gone, the fear is gone as well.
"As you wish, my prince," Lady Casna Selmy noted, and rose. She gave his father a quick bow and left, as did the rest of the ladies.
His father sat down beside his mother and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.
"Ugh, not in front of me," Daeron muttered, and he chuckled.
"What is it, Maekar?" his mother asked, placing her hand against his father's cheek.
His father seemed to relax, and he remembered who had done that for him during his moments of wrath, someone with blue eyes and copper-red hair.
His father breathed in deeply. "It will be war, Dayna."
Baelon's heart fluttered at those words. Well, the war had started earlier than it did before. If his memory served, it normally started in 196 A.C. It was now 195 A.C., and perhaps because of that, the Blackfyres had less time to prepare.
"Truly?" his mother asked.
"I have received word from my father. I am to rally the forces of Summerhall and the other minor lords, and march to King's Landing to reinforce the army gathering there," his father replied, taking hold of his mother's hands.
"What about us?" she asked, looking at him and his brothers.
"After the forces of Summerhall are rallied, we travel together to King's Landing. Summerhall is not meant for a siege."
"Okay, I shall prepare for our departure." She then looked at him. "He dreamed it true, then?"
"Our boy did, a dreamer indeed."
Baelon felt odd at those words. He was not a dreamer. He knew the histories, so he knew certain things, but he was not one like Daeron was. Someone he would keep an eye on; some words he said might actually be useful.
"Take some time today. On the morrow, the news will spread around the castle," his father added as he rose. "Have a good day, boys."
All three of them reacted the same. "Bye, Da."
His mother came down to them after their father had left. She sat down on the blanket with them. "Boys, come give mother a hug."
Both he and Aerion wobbled over, both understanding the concept of a hug by now. Daeron took a little longer to be drawn away from his toy.
"I love you all very much," she muttered when they were all at her side, kissing their foreheads one by one.
Brandon Stark (195 A.C.)
Winterfell – The Lord's Solar
He sat in the solar, looking at the two ravens, one with the broken seal of the black dragon and the other with the red dragon. Damn the crown, he thought, and damn Aegon the Unworthy with his willful ways.
He should not be making this decision. Rickon should have, or a son of his, but Rickon did not have any, dying in Dorne while fighting alongside Edric and Jonnel. Edric refused to inherit his brother's position, asking to be disinherited and taking his wife and children with him to Essos.
Jonnel took the mantle of heir as their father wanted, yet he was just as wild as Edric. Never marrying, even if his father commanded it, saying he would after the damn Skagosi rebellion. When Jonnel was away, fighting in the damn Skagosi rebellion, their father died in his bed of old age. Even before Jonnel could inherit the title of Lord of Winterfell, word was sent of the victory over the Skagosi, yet Jonnel died in the final battle, even fighting after the man lost an eye in the first battle. Even before that, Barthogan, the damn fool, drank too much and fell from the stairs.
So here he sat, a fifth son as Lord of Winterfell, in his solar contemplating what to do, even as his own wife was in labor to bear their fourth child.
The contractions had started in the morning, and even now, during midday, they still went on. He knew that after this, no more children. Four were enough, even if the coming babe was a girl. His eldest was now eleven and betrothed, and his younger brother followed him everywhere he went. His line was secure, and if something happened, he could always ask Edric if he wished for his sons to inherit Winterfell.
He wished Edric were here. Perhaps he would tell him what to do. Edric Stark, Commander of the Winter Wolves, the Wolf of the East, at least that was what the tales sung from the east said. Edric himself rarely wrote to him, even if he had sent his daughters to Winterfell and asked him to find them good husbands.
His close friend had yet to take a wife, and taking his eldest, Arrana, his niece, to wife was something he saw as a good thing. Osric's own uncle had once married Arrana's mother, yet her husband died during a wildling raid, after which she married Edric and was still at his side even now.
He walked to the door. "Send for Osric," he asked of Maldon, the old graybeard, the captain of the guard for forty years.
He sat back down, poured two cups of ale, and looked out the window. Seeing his own son training with Osric's eldest, he had been happy when the man had come for a visit and asked for his own son to be fostered here.
A few moments later, Osric arrived. Like many Umbers, Osric was a large man and built like a warrior. Brandon himself had inherited his father's bulky build, like Edric had. Edric, though, had inherited their mother's bashfulness, whereas he, as many said, had his father's patience. Although he always thought it was more because he had always had to wait. He was the fifth son. He needed to wait for his turn, be it as lord or having the attention of his father. Only after Edric's refusal to inherit and Barthogan's early death did he and Jonnel become important. Where Jonnel had expressed it by acting out and being wild, he had learned patience.
"Osric, welcome."
"Brandon," Osric said as he enveloped him in a hug. "Still waiting, I see. Alys still not done birthing your pup?"
Brandon gave a small laugh. "No, she is still at it. The little one is stubborn."
"Osric, I have asked you here about this, and I want your opinion on the matter." He pushed the two letters toward his friend.
Osric noticed the two seals. "Those damn dragons."
"Indeed, yet Daeron has been good to us, acknowledging our loss during the Dornish war, a Stark heir dying. Better than his father did, or his damn pious uncle," Brandon noted.
The rumors that he had heard from his father of that time had prepared the North for invasion, as there were rumors that Baelor wished to spread his faith through the realm. His father even sent delegations to the Ironborn, as both were in common cause in that, both following religions different from those of the south. Yet it seemed the old gods were merciful, and Baelor died, fasting himself to death, one of the few good things Aegon the Unworthy caused by siring a bastard on his cousin.
"Sure, reduced taxes on imports and exports for ten years were welcome, especially the exemption of taxes on timber to Dorne now that we trade more easily with Dorne," Osric accepted. "Yet I lost my grandfather and another uncle. You lost your brother, and many more Northmen lost their lives in that war, although half were greybeards wanting to go out in glory."
"I know. Edric found war in that time and knew he did not want the responsibility of the lordship of Winterfell and the North. Now he is still cleaving his way across Essos. Still, read the messages," he asked.
Osric first read the Blackfyre one. "Fuck me. Daemon thinks he can claim the damn crown now? He has an elder brother who has four damn sons, who have sons. Then there is the fact Aegon the Fourth never disinherited Daeron, nor is the lad a bastard." Osric frowned for a moment. "Didn't they fucking have a trial by combat to prove Queen Naerys's innocence of adultery?"
"Indeed they did. The Dragonknight won that fight to prove it," he muttered.
"Daeron is the King, even if he has pissed many a Lord Paramount off by allowing Dorne to keep their princely title." It had been one of the things his father had been angry with when he heard it. Yet it brought Dorne peacefully, so perhaps giving them a princess and granting them privileges was worth it. Daeron had granted them those tax cuts because of that decision.
"Read Daeron's letter," he asked.
Osric read the letter. "Hmm, better man for sure. Yet will we send men to fight in these dragons' wars?"
"On that, I'm not sure." He did not know. He would not send his young, that was for sure. The North had fought many years in the damn war against the Skagosi.
"Sending no one would not be good, for either side, really. Yet we fought for the rightful claimant before, and we won, making the south fear us once more. And with the long summer we have been having for the past six years, the upcoming winter might be harsh," Brandon speculated aloud.
Osric took a drink of his ale. "Indeed, I would send the old, the greybeards who wish to die in battle. Further, I would ask for volunteers."
"That would work, I was thinking the same. Yet those volunteers can only be men, or the occasional woman, if they have children. The North has bled in that damn Skagosi Rebellion. We need all the men we have," he replied.
"Fine idea, my lord. Yet whom do you wish to lead them?" Osric asked.
"I will go myself. It has been a while since the Starks set foot in the south. Let us see what these Blackfyre bastards are made of. Plus, I will make sure we get something out of it. Perhaps guarantee support for imports if the winter is extremely harsh," Brandon grinned.
"I follow you, my lord, even if I know my father will not be happy with it. He might want to join himself," Osric laughed. "To the North and to King Daeron."
At that moment, a knock came to the door.
"My lord, it is your lady mother," Maldon stated.
Brandon's heart raced then a little, and he knew what that meant. Or likely meant. "Let her enter."
His mother gave a quick word toward Osric before turning to him. "Mother,"
His mother gave him a smile. "Congratulations, my boy. You have a new daughter."
Brandon's eyes widened. "Truly, and Alys?"
"Both are healthy. She wasn't in a hurry, but she is here."
Osric laughed his booming laugh. "Congratulations, Lord Stark."
"Thank you, Osric, if you don't mind." He muttered as he rose. "Don't let me keep you, go and see your new pup," Osric noted, looking toward his mother. "Congratulations, my lady, on another granddaughter."
"Thank you, Lord Osric." Was the last thing he heard before he walked toward Alys's chambers.
He did not linger. Turning, he strode from the solar, his pace quickening as he made his way through the stone halls of Winterfell. The familiar paths felt different now, sharper, more alive. Servants moved aside as he passed, some offering quiet congratulations, others simply bowing their heads.
Outside the chamber, two guards stood watch, and a midwife lingered nearby. They stepped aside the moment they saw him.
"My lord," the midwife said, dipping her head. "They are ready for you."
Brandon gave a brief nod before pushing the door open.
The chamber was warm, the air thick with the scent of herbs and sweat. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting a soft glow across the room. Alys lay upon the bed, pale but smiling, her auburn hair damp against her brow.
In her arms, wrapped in furs, was the child.
He stepped forward slowly now, the urgency fading into something quieter, something heavier.
"Alys," he said softly.
She turned her head toward him, her smile widening, though she looked exhausted. "My lord husband," she teased faintly. "You look as if you have seen a ghost."
"I thought I might," he admitted, his voice low. "You had us waiting long enough."
"She takes after you, then," Alys replied, a hint of laughter in her voice.
He huffed quietly at that, stepping to her side. His gaze fell upon the bundle in her arms.
"A daughter," she said.
"A daughter," he repeated.
"Will you hold her?" Alys asked.
He hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Aye."
Carefully, she passed the child into his arms. He held her with surprising gentleness, as if afraid she might break beneath his touch.
She was small. Smaller than he remembered the others being. Warm, though, and alive, her breath soft and steady.
The girl had her mother's auburn hair and his grey eyes, yet with some hints of blue in them.
Brandon studied her quietly, just looking at his daughter, his fourth born. He looked up at his wife, then back down at the child.
"Sansa," he said at last. "She will be called Sansa Stark."
Alys nodded, her eyes softening. "Sansa," she repeated. "A good name."
He allowed himself a small smile, one few ever saw.
"Our daughter," he said quietly.
The babe shifted slightly in his arms, her small fingers curling against the furs.
Brandon held her a moment longer before gently returning her to Alys. He brushed a hand lightly against his wife's hair.
"Rest," he told her.
"I will," she said. "Stay a while."
"Of course, my love." He muttered as he kissed Alys's brow. Settle beside her on the bed.
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