105 AC
Winterfell
Third Person POV
The crisp morning air of Winterfell carried the scent of pine and hearth smoke, a stark contrast to the humid, perfumed breezes of King's Landing. A raven, sleek and swift, landed precisely on the perch in the Great Hall's rookery, bearing a scroll sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The messenger quickly carried it to the high table, where King Artor Stark sat breaking his fast.
Artor Stark, a man of quiet strength, inherited much of his father's pragmatism but possessed a more open, less overtly grim demeanor. He recognized the seal at once. A message from King Viserys. Unrolling the parchment, his eyes quickly scanned the elegant script. As he read, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a slight frown of contemplation. The request was unprecedented.
Finishing the letter, Artor rose and made his way through the bustling castle, his steps leading him directly to his father, Theon Stark's, solar. The former king, now clad in simpler, comfortable leathers, sat by a roaring fire, carving a intricate wolf's head from a piece of weirwood. His eyes, still sharp and keen, met his son's as Artor entered.
"Father," Artor began, extending the scroll. "A raven from King's Landing. From King Viserys."
Theon took the letter, his fingers calloused from years of gripping steel and then shaping wood. He read it slowly, his gaze lingering on the flowery prose. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips, a grim amusement. He put the letter down on his knee and looked up at his son.
"This may be a message from the King, Artor," Theon rumbled, his voice still carrying the ancient chill of the North, "but the mind behind it is most certainly Otto Hightower."
Theon Stark then says, "Our spies in the South have indeed been busy. We know that Viserys declared Rhaenyra his heir, stripping Daemon of the title after his wife's death and Daemon's… ill-timed jest."
"Aye," Artor affirmed.
Then Theon continued picking up his carving knife. "And we know that Otto, ever the leech, will now try to marry his daughter to the King. To place his own blood on the Queen's seat."
"But why would the King marry the daughter of a second son, Father?" Artor asked, confused. "Viserys is a King."
Theon scoffed softly. "Because Otto is a leech, Artor, greedy for power above all else. And Viserys... Viserys is a weak king. He is often kind-hearted, yes, and he tries to find peaceful solutions for every problem. He dislikes violence. Look at the Stepstones. If it had been northern ships attacked by this 'Crabfeeder,' we would have turned that chain of islands upside down, and every pirate on it would be dead or drowning in the sea. But he… he still has not responded with force."
Artor nodded slowly, the truth of his father's words undeniable. The difference in their approaches to governance and conflict was stark.
"So now," Theon continued, his voice calm, "Otto sees an opportunity. He will send Rhaenyra here to Winterhold, to the North, under the guise of an education. This clears the path for him to place his own daughter, Alicent, as the next queen beside Viserys, a queen who will undoubtedly give the King a male heir."
Artor nodded again, the cunning of the Hand becoming clearer.
"But what Otto doesn't fully grasp," Theon said, his eyes distant, "is Viserys's love for Aemma. That grief, that sentimentality, will likely lead him to keep Rhaenyra as heir until his death, even if he has male heirs with Alicent. He declared her, and he will likely stick to his word, for all his weakness in other matters."
"Then what do we do now, Father?" Artor asked, the crucial question hanging in the air. "Should we accept her? Or deny the request?"
Theon put down his carving, his gaze direct and unwavering. "We accept her. For the peace. For the future of our two kingdoms." He leaned forward, his voice firm. "When she comes here, Artor, her safety is paramount. She is the Dragon King's only child, and any harm to her while under our roof would shatter the fragile peace we have won."
He paused, a warning in his eyes. "But, heed this well. Do not tell her any secrets of the Asgard. No details of our most secure defenses, no breathing technique that is for Asgardians alone. Give her the education a queen should have: the duties of governance, sound war strategies, and the basic concepts every Asgardian knows of the world beyond the narrow confines of their Red Keep. Make her amicable to the North so that future relationships with the Iron Throne remain peaceful, a pathway for cooperation rather than conflict."
Theon's expression hardened. "And remember my warning, Artor. Never get into southern politics. We do what we always do. We care for our own, we build our own strength, and we do not meddle in their squabbles and their grasping for power. Tell the same to all your sons, and make it a message passed down to every generation. Our freedom was bought with blood; we will not lose it by getting tangled in their serpentine games."
Artor absorbed his father's wisdom, his mind already formulating the response. "I understand, Father. I will send a message stating that we accept Princess Rhaenyra into Winterhold College."
Theon nods and says, "She can bring one or two trusted companions, perhaps a lady-in-waiting and a hand maiden, but make it clear that no soldiers will be allowed within the College grounds. And also will make it abundantly clear that no harm will befall the Princess as long as she is in the North. This is a Stark oath, and a Stark never breaks an oath."
Artor nodded. He understood. The North would endure, strong and true to its word, in a world that was ever changing.
Red Keep
Third Person POV
A raven arrived swiftly from Winterfell, bearing the Direwolf seal. Inside, Maester Mellos found a message written in a firm, clear hand: a formal acceptance of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen into Winterhold College. It stipulated that she could bring one or two companions but no armed soldiers, and ended with a solemn Stark oath for her safety, a promise that resonated with ancient, unbroken traditions.
Mellos wasted no time, carrying the dispatch directly to King Viserys's chambers. The King, seated at his desk, took the scroll, his brow furrowed in thought as he read. A faint, almost imperceptible nod followed, a sign of decision made.
"Send for Princess Rhaenyra," Viserys commanded a Kingsguard standing by the door.
The guard bowed and departed. Moments later, Rhaenyra entered, her expression a mix of curiosity and deference. She greeted her father, and Viserys, dismissing the guard, gestured for her to sit beside him.
"How do you fare, my dear?" Viserys asked, his voice softer than it often was in council. "With your new position as my heir? And the small council meetings, do you find them instructive?"
Rhaenyra settled beside him. "The position... it is a heavy cloak, Father," she admitted, her gaze distant. "And the meetings… they are often tedious, filled with endless talk of coffers and trade disputes. Though Lord Corlys certainly has a vigor the others lack." She paused. "Sometimes, I feel as though I am merely present, not truly participating."
Viserys nodded, a faint understanding in his eyes. "Yes, the burden is great. And a queen must be prepared for more than just ceremonies and pleasantries. She must understand the very marrow of the realm. Which brings me to a matter I wished to discuss."
He paused, then broached the topic directly. "I have arranged for a new course of study for you, Rhaenyra. A unique opportunity. You will be attending the College of Winterhold in the North, in Asgard."
Rhaenyra's eyes widened, her jaw dropping. "The North? Father, are you serious? Those... those barbarians? After what they did to us? You would send me to their lands?" Her voice rose with a mixture of shock and outrage. "It's absurd! It's dangerous!"
"Peace, child, peace," Viserys urged, reaching out to take her hand. "I understand your apprehension. But listen to me. This is not a punishment, Rhaenyra, but an investment in your future, and in the future of the realm."
He spoke for nearly half an hour, calmly laying out Otto Hightower's persuasive arguments, albeit without revealing their true origin. He painted a picture of advanced learning, of statecraft born of hard-won independence, of the wisdom gleaned from a people who had defied dragons. He spoke of the need for understanding between kingdoms, of forging alliances through knowledge rather than conquest, of a potential path to peace that would one day reunite the realm. He even mentioned the possibility of fostering a friendship with King Artor's grand-daughter, hoping it would soften Rhaenyra's resistance.
Rhaenyra continued to protest, her arguments ranging from the cold climate to the uncouth nature of Northerners, to the inherent danger. But Viserys was persistent, his voice steady, his conviction unwavering. He appealed to her duty, to her future as queen, to the needs of the realm.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Rhaenyra's defiance drained from her. She slumped back, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Very well, Father," she conceded, the words barely a whisper. "If you truly believe this is necessary."
A relieved sigh escaped Viserys. "It is, my dear. Truly. You and Lady Elinda Massey, along with one handmaiden of your choosing, will depart for Winterhold at the start of next year."
"Why not Alicent?" Rhaenyra asked, a hint of pique in her voice.
Viserys shook his head. "Alicent is eighteen years of age now, my dear. They do not take students at that age; the College begins instruction at a younger age. Besides, this is for your unique preparation."
"How many guards will I be taking, Father?" Rhaenyra asked, already envisioning a formidable escort.
Viserys hesitated, then delivered the next condition. "Fifty guards will escort you from King's Landing to the gates of Winterhold. They will ensure your safe passage. But once you arrive, Rhaenyra, no soldiers are permitted within the college grounds itself."
Rhaenyra's eyes snapped open again, a fresh wave of protest rising. "No guards? Father, that's madness! What of my safety? I will be virtually unprotected in a hostile land!"
"They are not hostile, Rhaenyra," Viserys corrected, his voice firm. "They are now an independent kingdom, and they have offered a solemn promise. King Artor Stark himself has sworn an oath that no harm will befall you as long as you are in the North. And a Stark, Rhaenyra, never breaks an oath. They are a strange, proud people, but their word is their bond, as hard and true as the ice in their mountains."
The finality in his tone, coupled with the ancient reputation of Stark honor, seemed to finally quell her fears. Rhaenyra, though still apprehensive, recognized the weight of such a vow. She nodded, accepting her fate.
"As you command, Father," she said, rising from her seat. With a final bow, the Princess, future heir to the Iron Throne, turned and took her leave, her mind already racing with visions of the distant, frozen North and the uncertain future that awaited her there.