Kapitel 17: A Memory of The Past
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Rhaenys Targaryen
Sitting beside her husband, taking in the festive atmosphere of the Winterfell feast that had already been underway for an hour. The room was filled with the harmonious clinking of wine glasses, the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked bread, and the boisterous laughter of guests from all corners of the land. The beer and wine were flowing abundantly, and cups were being refilled without pause. Some of the guests were showing off their dance moves, twirling and swaying to the music played by the minstrels, while others were engaged in lively conversation, discussing everything from politics to the weather. However, amidst all the merriment, some couples were sneaking out of the hall, looking for a quiet corner to steal a moment of intimacy away from prying eyes.
Rhaenys's eyes followed her daughter's every move with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Her daughter was engaged in a lively conversation with Daemon's boy and Princess Rhaenyra. From the looks of it, they seemed to be discussing something of great importance, but Rhaenys couldn't quite make out what it was. As she observed them, she noticed that her daughter was eagerly showing off her prized possession, a gleaming dagger that she had recently acquired. It was clear that she was treating it like a new toy, and the boy seemed equally fascinated by it.
Rhaenys mentally frowned at the sight of it; she had no problem with Laena being good with daggers; Rhaenys always viewed herself as a woman who would allow her children whatever they wanted to a degree, but Daemon's boy had been the one to encourage her daughter and that only strengthened their bond.
As Rhaenys stood there, watching her daughter play with Daemon's boy, she couldn't help but think about the future. With every passing day, her little girl was growing up so quickly, and before she knew it, she would be dreaming about love and marriage. Rhaenys could already see it in her daughter's eyes - the way she looked at Daemon's boy with such admiration and longing. In six or seven years, her daughter would be old enough to start dreaming about marrying him and having his children. Lost in thought, Rhaenys's attention was suddenly drawn to her uncle, who was talking with the Lords of Winterfell, including Lord Stark.
As Rhaenys stood there, observing the lords of The North as they gazed upon her uncle, the crown prince, a wave of bitterness washed over her, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. Despite the fact that the North was considered a backwater kingdom in comparison to the rest, Rhaenys was taken aback by how the lords were conducting themselves. It was clear to her that they were not the savages she had envisioned them to be. As she watched them conversing with her uncle, it became increasingly apparent to Rhaenys what their true intentions were, and it irritated her to no end. Even a blind man could see right through the facade that the lords and ladies were putting up, especially Lord Bolton, who was introducing his daughter to Prince Baelon with a sly smirk on his face.
Rhaenys, with a slight twitch of her nose, managed to suppress a snort from escaping her mouth. Her uncle, though known as someone who would go to any lengths to acquire what belonged to others, still held onto a shred of his family's honor and dignity. He would never stoop so low as to accept a bride from a lesser house, especially one with such a notorious and cruel reputation as House Bolton. Rhaenys could almost hear the sound of her uncle's silver tongue as he weaved his way through the intricacies of Northern politics, skillfully manipulating the lords to gain their favor and trust.
Rhaenys took a delicate sip of the ruby red wine placed before her on the ornate table. Despite the initial sweet taste of the wine, she couldn't help but feel as if the liquid had turned bitter and tart as if she had just bitten into a juicy lemon. She absentmindedly glanced over at her daughter, who was sitting across from her, her gorgeous face beaming with a wide, toothy smile as she chatted animatedly with Daemon's son.
Rhaenys, with her piercing purple eyes, stood at the edge of the bustling feast, watching intently as Daemon's boy leaned in and whispered something in her daughter Laena's ear. The noise of the festivities was so loud that Rhaenys couldn't make out what was said, but she could see the mischievous twinkle in the boy's eye and the way Laena's cheeks turned pink with suppressed laughter. And then, suddenly, Laena let out a peal of joyous laughter.
As Rhaenys sat at the feast, surrounded by the boisterous sounds of laughter and merriment, she couldn't help but feel a deep sense of unease washing over her. Her hands fidgeted restlessly as they clutched the goblet of wine before her, its cool surface doing little to soothe the turmoil in her mind.
The more she tried to push her worries aside, the more they seemed to gnaw at her like a persistent itch that refused to be scratched. She knew she should be enjoying herself, relishing in the company of her fellow nobles and the sumptuous feast laid out before her. But instead, all she could think of was her uncle gaining the attention of everyone; he was the crown prince, after all. Not me, She thought bitterly.
Her grip on the goblet tightened, her knuckles turning white as she imagined the satisfying sound of glass shattering against the stone floor. A small part of her even wanted it to happen so that she could have an excuse to slip away from the festivities and retreat to the safety of her chambers.
Rhaenys felt a creeping sense of annoyance that she tried valiantly to suppress, but it lingered like a pervasive fog. Her sweet daughter, the apple of her eye, seemed to be entirely enamored with Daemon's boy, talking about him incessantly and displaying no interest in spending time with girls her age that weren't Rhaenyra. To make matters worse, Laena appeared to have no desire to spend time with her own brother, Laenor. It was as if Laena didn't even know who Laenor was, and this realization caused a deep frown to form on Rhaenys' otherwise serene face. She couldn't help but wonder why her daughter was so fixated on a boy who seemed to be taking up all of her attention and why she didn't seem to care about her own family.
As Rhaenys stood amidst the lords and ladies of the North, she couldn't help but feel a sense of discomfort as she watched them fawn over her uncle, referring to him with the prestigious title of 'Crown' prince, a title that she believed he did not deserve of. It was almost as if they were blind to his flaws and shortcomings, which irked her to no end.
To add to her annoyance, she observed how Daemon's boy conversed with her daughter. As she looked around, Rhaenys couldn't help but feel like an outsider in this foreign land, where customs and traditions were vastly different from her own and where people seemed to prize pomp and grandeur over integrity and honor.
Rhaenys knew people well; she knew she could easily tell what kind of a person someone was just from the way they spoke.
Daemon was someone that, despite his flaws and worst tendencies, at least was foolish enough to make his intentions clear; Daemon didn't know how to be subtle; even a peasant who had never touched a book could tell what Daemon was thinking at any point in time. He was like a dog who barked anytime something didn't go how he wanted.
Rhaenys couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease as she observed him, for she knew all too well that those who possessed both intelligence and charisma could be the most dangerous of all. The young man's words were measured and precise, revealing nothing of his true intentions, and with each passing moment, Rhaenys found herself becoming more and more wary of him. In the Game of Thrones, it was often those who could keep their cards close to their chest that emerged victorious in the end.
She usually wouldn't care, he was only four name days, after all, but she had always been wary of Daemon and his ways, and now that his son was on the cusp of inheriting the second-largest dragon, she couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. Rhaenys was certain that Daemon was already teaching his boy how to fight and think like him, molding him into a miniature version of himself.
Hearing people praise her uncle and seeing Daemon's boy have all of her daughter's attention, leaving Lady Rhaenys feeling left out and overlooked. She tried to push these thoughts aside, but they continued to gnaw at her until she suddenly felt a gentle touch on her arm. Looking up, she saw that it was Corlys, his kind eyes filled with concern.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her husband's subtle motion to release her grip on the goblet. Looking over at him, she quickly realized how tightly she had been holding it. With a sense of embarrassment, Rhaenys glanced down at the goblet in her hand and noticed that her grip had caused the delicate crystal to deform slightly. A small stream of deep red wine had also spilled over the goblet's rim, staining the pristine white tablecloth. Feeling a rush of frustration and humiliation, Rhaenys tried to compose herself but couldn't shake the feeling that she had made a fool of herself in front of their esteemed guests.
Corlys leaned in and whispered softly to Rhaenys, "How about you engage in conversation with Lady Lyanna and Princess Gael? It might be helpful to express your thoughts instead of keeping them bottled up and making it obvious that you're unhappy." He subtly gestured toward the two women with his eyes. Rhaenys felt a pang of irritation rising within her, wanting to defend herself and insist that she was not as transparent as her husband claimed. She knew she was not like Daemon, not a brute. Still, she also knew that engaging in their conversation might be a wise decision, one that could potentially lead to a resolution of the tension and discontentment that had been brewing within her. With a deep breath, she swallowed her pride and made her way toward Lady Lyanna and Princess Gael.
The grand feast was in full swing at Winterfell, with Lady Lyanna and Princess Gael seated gracefully beside each other, surrounded by a group of ladies hailing from various parts of The North. As the merrymaking continued, Rhaenys, adorned in her finest gown, rose from her seat with purpose and headed toward their table. However, to her dismay, she realized that no one was paying attention to her, and all eyes were fixed on her Uncle, who was deeply engaged in conversation with Lord Rickon and a few other Northern lords. Unlike the other lords, who were relishing in the delicious ale and mead, Prince Baelon seemed to be mindful of his wine intake, sipping slowly and gracefully with an air of caution.
Rhaenys's eyes went to Laena; her's eyes sparkled with excitement as she engaged in what appeared to be a heated yet childish discussion with her companions. Rhaenys couldn't hear what they were saying, but she could tell from Laena's animated gestures that she was passionate about the topic at hand. Rhaenys felt a sense of pride swell in her chest as she watched her daughter. As Rhaenys walked up to their table, Gael was the first to notice her arrival.
Rhaenys eyes met with her aunt Gael, who stood up from her seat and greeted her with a warm smile, "Rhaenys, it's good to see you." As she approached, Rhaenys couldn't help but admire her aunt's stunning beauty, evident in every aspect of her appearance, from her long silver hair to her delicate features and the elegance of her gown- a true representation of their House Targaryen's regal prestige. Rhaenys looked up and down, taking in all of her aunt's radiance.
Gael wore a gorgeous blue dress, which flowed elegantly down to her ankles. The dress was accentuated with long open sleeves, which wrapped beautifully around her shoulders, adding a touch of glamour to her appearance. But what truly captured the attention of those around her were the blue roses that were delicately stitched onto the dress, emanating a pleasant fragrance throughout the room and providing a stunning contrast against the deep blue fabric.
The light caught the golden necklace around her neck, which displayed the Targaryen sigil, a symbol of power and strength. The necklace added a touch of regality to her already impressive look, making her the envy of all the ladies present. It was clear that she was not just wearing a dress, but rather she was embodying the essence of elegance and sophistication.
"I'm sure it is, dear Aunt. We haven't seen each other in quite a while. I hope you're finding the North to your liking." Rhaenys spoke with a genuine smile as she settled down with the rest of the ladies; Rhaenys couldn't help but notice their long, warrior-like faces that seemed to reflect the harsh climate of the North. She couldn't help but wonder if any of them had a mace hidden somewhere, ready to use at a moment's notice.
As she sat, the ladies started talking about the Iron Islands; as the women continued to gossip about the Ironborn and their notorious raids, Rhaenys couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for her aunt, Princess Gael Targaryen, who, since she traveled to the North had taken charge of the situation.
From what she had heard, Gael had shown those Ironborns just what it meant to face a true dragon in battle and had succeeded in quelling their violent activities. Despite her aunt's success, however, a small part of Rhaenys couldn't help but wonder why the Iron Islands still stood tall and proud rather than being submerged in the depths of the sea where they truly belonged. Decades of raiding and pillaging had earned the Ironborn a reputation as some of the most ruthless and fearsome warriors in all of Westeros. Yet, somehow they had managed to survive and thrive against all odds, much to Rhaenys' bafflement.
As Lyanna stood among the ladies, one of them spoke up, her voice laced with hope and excitement. "Lyanna, your son is sweet," she said, locking eyes with Lady Lyanna. "I heard from my husband that you would have him fostered in Winterfell for ten years." The woman's smile was wide, and her eyes shone with anticipation.
Rhaenys, who had been standing nearby, had to suppress a laugh. She knew Daemon would never agree to such a thing, even if Lyanna begged him. It was clear to Rhaenys why the lady was so eager for Aenar to be fostered in Winterfell - it didn't take a maester to realize that she probably had a daughter. If Aenar were to spend the next ten years in Winterfell, the lady would have a chance to introduce her daughter to him and perhaps even arrange a betrothal.
But Rhaenys also knew that Daemon had high standards when it came to the women his family associated with. He would never agree to marry his son to any girl that he saw as unworthy, especially a lady from a minor house.
"No," Lyanna answered right away, her voice blunt and final, leaving no place for arguments. "Lady Bolton, we won't have my son fostered in the North. I'm from the North, and neither me nor my husband thinks it is necessary to send him to Winterfell. Aenar is of House Targaryen," Lyanna finished with a cold glare; Lady Bolton didn't seem bothered by Lyanna's bluntness and refusal.
"Prince Aenar is still of the North, isn't he? I'm sure your homeland will want to get to know him, to know their Prince, and for Prince Aenar himself to know the Northern ways of living and their traditions." Lady Bolton spoke, a small smile hidden behind her hard-long face.
As Rhaenys sat by, observing the exchange between Lyanna and Lady Bolton, she couldn't help but grin with amusement, wondering what witty retort Lyanna would deliver next. But as Lyanna's lips curved into a sweet smile, Rhaenys noticed that her eyes remained cold and distant, as if harboring a deep-seated resentment towards Lady Bolton.
"I'm from the North, Lady Bolton. My son has me to teach him about the ways of the North, or do you think I would leave my son uneducated?" Lyanna questioned with a cold glare toward Lady Bolton. The other ladies in the room fell silent, sensing the tension that hung in the air. They knew better than to interfere in this heated exchange and instead watched with bated breath as Lady Bolton struggled to come up with a response. Gael, who had been silently observing beside Lyanna, couldn't help but feel relieved that Daemon wasn't present to witness this confrontation. She knew all too well how passionate he was about defending his loved ones and feared that he would have been less than subtle in his disagreement with Lady Bolton's suggestions.
"Of course not,"
Lady Bolton's response to Lyanna's question was dismissive as she waved her hand to indicate that it was a foolish inquiry. However, Rhaenys could sense that there was something more to Lady Bolton's reaction, as her face seemed to contort into a sour expression, almost as if she had just consumed a sour, bitter lemon whole. "I only expect the best education from you, Lady Stark," As Lady Bolton rose from her seat and departed in a hurry, Rhaenys observed her cold, emotionless countenance, which bore an eerie resemblance to the frosty, unyielding snow that blanketed the surrounding landscape outside of Winterfell.
As Rhaenys's gaze shifted from her daughter and Princess Rhaenyra's childish conversation, she caught sight of Daemon's boy, who was glaring furiously at Lady and Lord Bolton. Despite being only four-name days old, the boy's glare was that of a grown man, and it sent shivers down Rhaenys's spine. She couldn't help but wonder what could have possibly caused such a young child to harbor such deep-seated anger. As she continued to observe the young prince, Rhaenys noticed that he had dark hair like a Stark, but his demeanor was much more reminiscent of his father than his mother.
Laena Velayron
"Where are we going, Aenar?"
Laena's inquisitive voice broke the silence as Aenar was leading her through the courtyard of Winterfell, his hands engulfing hers and Rhaenyra's. The loud chatter of the feast that they had been attending just moments ago was now replaced by the sound of their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The moonlight cast shadows on the ground, illuminating their path as they hurriedly moved toward their destination. Laena had a puzzled expression on her face, and she couldn't resist asking Aenar where they were headed. Aenar, however, remained tight-lipped, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. As they walked, Laena noticed they were moving toward the northern part of the castle.
As Prince Aenar and Princess Rhaenyra snuck out of the feast with Lady Laena, their attempt to have a quiet escape was disrupted by the sharp eyes of Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Harrold, the two vigilant kingsguards who had noticed their absence and decided to tail them. As they trailed them from behind, Ser Ryam approached the young Prince, urging him to return to the feast, citing the danger that lurked around every corner.
However, the Prince was steadfast in his determination to show Princess Rhaenyra something special. After a brief exchange of words, Ser Ryam, recognizing the determination in the Prince's eyes, relented and decided to follow them. He kept a watchful eye over the young prince and princess as he had always done, ensuring their safety and well-being.
Even outside of the main hall where the royal party was taking place, the courtyards, balconies, and corridors were teeming with people laughing, singing, and dancing with each other. The sounds of music and laughter filled the air, and the smell of alcohol was strong enough to make some wrinkle their noses in disgust. Rhaenyra and Laena couldn't help but notice the pervasive smell of alcohol. As they walked through the corridors, they wondered how anyone could possibly enjoy consuming such a repugnant substance.
As Ser Ryam's keen senses picked up the pungent scent of alcohol wafting through the air, he couldn't help but notice the conspicuous lack of reaction from the young Prince Aenar, who remained stoic and unfazed. Although Prince Daemon was known to indulge in wine and beer occasionally, Ryam was surprised to see such a young prince seemingly unbothered by the overwhelming stench of alcohol. As he pondered this curious observation, Ryam couldn't help but wonder why Aenar wasn't repulsed by the overwhelming aroma, especially since Daemon often made a point to avoid drinking in front of his son.
As they cautiously trod down the winding staircase, their eyes adjusting to the dimly lit surroundings as they made their way toward the ground floor. With every step, the cold stone steps creaked under the weight of their boots, and the sound echoed through the vast emptiness of the castle. The snowfall outside was heavy, and they could see the thick layer of white powder that covered the windowsills and rooftops. The snowflakes that managed to drift inside through the cracks in the castle walls melted into tiny droplets on their faces, leaving a tingling sensation in their skin. As they descended, they took extra care not to slip on the slippery steps, their movements slow and calculated, their breaths visible in the chilly air.
As the frigid winds howled through the vast expanse of Winterfell, the entire castle was blanketed in a thick layer of pristine, white snow, transforming the once-familiar landscape into a winter wonderland. The snow was everywhere, from the battlements to the courtyards, and even the towers' roofs were not spared. However, with the cunning and foresight of Bran The Builder, the roof of every tower was designed to resemble an arrowhead, angled and pointed, to prevent the accumulation of snow from becoming too heavy and causing the roof to collapse under the weight.
"This way," Aenar promptly said instead of answering Laena's question, his voice carrying a sense of urgency and determination. His boots crunched against the snow as they made their way through the courtyard. The snowflakes fell lightly around them, creating a serene and peaceful atmosphere, but the urgency in Aenar's steps made it clear that there was no time to waste. As they approached the old tower of Winterfell, its presence was imposing and eerie. The wooden door was barely standing, its hinges creaking with the slightest breeze. It was clear that the door had seen better days; it was covered in scratches and cracks, and it looked as if a simple kick could make it fall. But Aenar did not hesitate; he pushed the door open with a firm hand, revealing the dark and musty interior of the tower.
As Aenar took brisk steps up the old staircase, Lady Laena and Princess Rhaenyra followed closely behind, their laughter echoing through the castle halls. The two Kingsguards, clad in their shining armor, struggled to keep up with the sprightly duo as they bounded up the steps two at a time, their youthful energy at odds with the solemnity of their guardians. The dim light of the torches flickered off the polished metal of the armor, casting dancing shadows across the walls as they ascended toward their destination.
The stone steps were worn and uneven, with several large chunks missing in some places, making the climb even more treacherous. Thick spiderwebs clung to the walls and ceilings, and the guards had to use their swords to cut through them as they followed the young royals. As he reached the top of the stairs, his ears perked up at the sound of a faint scurrying noise, causing him to whip around in alarm. Though he couldn't be sure, Aenar could have sworn that he saw the shadow of a cat darting away. The darkness and eerie silence of the abandoned castle made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up, but the group pressed on.
As Rhaenyra and her cousin ascended the round staircase, their footsteps echoed through the dimly lit tower. Rhaenyra couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as they climbed higher and higher, the only light coming from the flickering torches that lined the walls. However, she found comfort in the reassuring grip of her cousin's hand. Despite her fear, Rhaenyra refused to let it show on her face, reminding herself that she was a Princess, born and bred to face any challenge that may come her way. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she caught the sight of Ser Harrold, the brave knight charged with her protection, following closely behind. The knowledge that he was there to keep her safe gave her the strength to continue climbing, step by step until they finally reached the top of the tower.
With their hearts racing and their breaths coming in ragged gasps, Rhaenyra and Laena followed Aenar up the winding round staircase of the old tower. Their legs ached with every step, and they were both grateful when they finally reached the top. Aenar stopped in front of an old wooden door and turned to face them, a triumphant smile on his face. "It's here," he said, his voice ringing with excitement.
With a firm grip on the metal handle, he exerted gentle pressure and felt the door begin to give way. The hinges groaned in protest as if resentful of the intrusion into this long-forgotten chamber.
As the door swung open, Aenar couldn't help but notice the thick layer of dust that had settled on every surface and the spider webs that seemed to stretch out in every direction. Undeterred, he stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space. The spider webs were everywhere, thick and sticky, and Aenar could feel them brushing against his face as he moved deeper into the room.
Suddenly, something stirred in the shadows, and Aenar heard a faint rustling sound. He turned to see a cat perched on a platform high above him, its eyes glowing in the dim light. Aenar watched as the cat jumped down from its perch, landed gracefully on the platform below, and scampered away into the darkness. Despite the tower's age, it was still the tallest in Winterfell, a testament to the skill and craftsmanship of the builders who had constructed it so many centuries ago.
Aenar pointed at a big opening in the wall; a part of the wall of the tower had fallen down a long time ago, and no one had bothered to fix it. The opening left showed a marvelous view that stretched out before them like a never-ending canvas of blue and white. Rhaenyra and Laena gasped in awe, their eyes wide with wonder as they took in the stunning sight. Ryam and Harrold smiled in amusement at the young prince and princess' reactions, but both were awed by the beautiful scenery in front of all of them. The wind whipped through their hair as they stood there, transfixed by the beauty.
As Laena peered through the opening in the wall, her breath caught in my throat as The Main Castle of Winterfell came into view. The flickering torches, strategically placed around the castle walls, illuminated the surrounding area and added to the majestic aura that surrounded the castle. The snowflakes that fell gently from the sky only added to the enchanting view, causing the castle to appear as if it was straight out of a fairytale. The moon, high up in the sky, cast a soft blue glow over the entire area, giving everything a mystical and otherworldly appearance.
As Laena gazed out at the breathtaking view that lay before her, she couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder wash over her. Laena looked at the view and then back at Aenar; she wondered how he knew about it; she could tell from his eyes that this wasn't the first time he had been in this place, from the way he had led them. The way he had led them here with such ease and confidence made it clear that Aenar had known of this location beforehand, but the question lingered in Laena's mind: how had he known of this place?
Laena cautiously took each step as she carefully walked up to Aenar, their eyes locked on the snowflakes gracefully falling outside of the tower. As she approached him, she couldn't help but notice the tears streaming down his face, red eyes, and puffy cheeks. His lips quivered as he tried to hold back a quiet sob. With a hushed tone, Laena asked, "How did you know it was here, Aenar?" Her heart ached as she watched her friend struggle with his emotions, wondering what could have caused such deep pain.
Aenar stood there with a heavy heart. His eyes fixated on the breathtaking view before them. He spoke in a soft, hushed tone, "I told you it was beautiful...Arya!" His voice was filled with sadness as he tried to hold back a sob that threatened to escape his lips. Tears streamed down his face, and his eyes burned from the overwhelming emotions that had taken over him.
Laena's heart sank when she saw Aenar crying, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. She had never seen him so vulnerable before, and she couldn't help but wonder what had happened between them. Without thinking twice, Laena walked towards Aenar and hugged him tightly, hoping to offer him comfort and solace. It was a gesture her mother had always taught her: a warm embrace can work wonders in times of distress. To her relief, Aenar hugged her back tightly, his sobs subsiding gradually. As they stood there, lost in their own thoughts, they were soon joined by Rhaenyra, who offered them a smile of encouragement. The three stood there silently, finding comfort in each other's presence.
That night after returning to his parents, Aenar lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts. As he drifted off to sleep, he was transported to a time long ago, a time when the world was a much happier place. He dreamed of a time when the sun shone brighter, the birds sang sweeter, and everyone around him wore a smile on their face. It was a time when he, too, was happy when he believed that nothing could go wrong and that life was full of infinite possibilities. The dream was bittersweet, for it made him long for a time that was long gone.
Tomorrow
As the first rays of the morning sun illuminated the vast expanse of the main courtyard of Winterfell, a sense of anticipation and excitement hung in the air as a large gathering of over twenty soldiers from House Targaryen, including the royal family members Prince Baelon, Prince Daemon, Prince Viserys, and Prince Aenar Targaryen, prepared to embark on a thrilling hunt through the dense Wolfswood. Amidst the flurry of preparations, the stalwart lords of Winterfell, including Lord Benjen, Lord Rickon, and Lord Bennard Stark, along with their three children, were also eager to participate in this exhilarating hunt. Not only that, but numerous other prominent members of the most influential houses in The North had also joined the hunt, eager to showcase their hunting skills and perhaps even impress their peers with their prowess.
In the early hours of a frosty winter morning, a diligent squire was seen bustling about, preparing a majestic pony for the esteemed Prince Aenar. With unwavering focus, he meticulously polished the saddle to a shine, ensuring every crevice was spick and span and every strap was firmly in place.
Meanwhile, a group of dedicated servants were bent over, scrubbing and brushing the prince's boots, determined to get them spotless and gleaming. As the squire finished his task and stepped back to admire his handiwork, Prince Aenar emerged from his chamber, fully dressed and ready to set out on his hunt. He donned his freshly cleaned boots and made his way through the snow, carefully treading through the one-foot-deep powder until he arrived at his waiting pony. His father was already atop his own dark horse, waiting patiently for his son to join him.
Aenar wasn't surprised to see that the aging monarch had chosen to sit this one out, for he knew that the king's enthusiasm for such physical activities had waned with the passage of time. With a practiced ease, Aenar approached his own mount, a sturdy pony he had trained himself, and prepared to mount it. He placed his left foot in the stirrup, testing its strength before pushing himself upwards with a burst of energy. His hand reached for the saddle pommel, which he grabbed tightly as he swung his right leg over the horse's back. With a sense of pride and accomplishment, Aenar settled himself into the saddle and looked out at the sprawling countryside, eager for what the day's hunt would bring.
Aenar spurred his pony forward, eager to be by his father's side as they waited for the massive double gates of Winterfell to open. The chill of the northern air bit at his cheeks as he rode, his eyes fixed on the towering gate ahead. As they drew closer, a soldier's voice rang out, shouting for the gates to be opened. Aenar could see the guards in the tower above, their hands gripping the massive wheel that would set the gates in motion, creaking and groaning as they began to turn. The gates themselves were a sight to behold, fashioned from ironwood and metal, as they slowly began to part, revealing the path ahead.
As the gate creaked open, a cascade of snowflakes tumbled down from its rusted bars, creating a sparkling mist that illuminated the view ahead. The piercing sound of metal grinding against metal echoed through the land, announcing the beginning of the hunt. The horns of the hunting party blared in unison, their haunting melody sending shivers down the spines of all who heard it.
With a deep resonance in his voice, Lord Benjen spoke, "Prince Baelon, come with me. I will show you how we hunt in these lands." The prince nodded eagerly, intrigued by the prospect of learning the ways of the North. The other lords let out a collective 'Aye' in agreement, their gruff voices punctuating the stillness of the air.
"Stay close," Prince Daemon told his son, his voice authoritative yet gentle, as they rode out of the castle's gate, following the grand procession of the Royal Party. The air was crisp and chilly, and Aenar rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up as he rode his trusty pony alongside his father.
As they made their way down the winding path leading out of the castle, Aenar couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation building up within him. But he also felt something else, something that had become all too familiar to him lately. A prickling sensation at the back of his head, a tingling feeling that he knew all too well. Opening his eyes, Aenar scanned his surroundings, trying to locate the source of the strange feeling. Aenar knew his friend was nearby and wasn't alone.
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