Chapitre 3: Chapter 2
As the first rays of dawn stretched across the horizon, casting a golden sheen over Riverrun's ancient stones, Orys Baratheon found himself seeking a moment of quiet reflection. The castle's bustle was beginning to stir with the promise of a new day, but Orys was drawn to the riverbank, a serene escape from the labyrinth of his thoughts. The tranquil flow of the water seemed to mirror the calm he sought within himself.
Brandon Stark was already there, his gaze fixed on the shimmering river as he skipped stones with practiced ease. The boy's demeanor was calm, a stark contrast to the tension Orys felt. As Orys approached, Brandon looked up, a welcoming smile spreading across his face. "Morning, Orys," he greeted, his voice carrying the warmth of a true Stark. "Care to join me?"
Orys nodded, choosing a flat stone and sending it skimming across the water with a satisfying plunk. The two boys stood in contemplative silence, the rhythmic plop of stones against the river providing a soothing backdrop. Orys could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing upon him. He needed answers, and now seemed the perfect time to seek them.
After a moment, Orys cleared his throat, breaking the silence with a note of gravity. "Brandon, there's something I need to ask you."
Brandon's smile faded, replaced by a serious expression. He turned fully to face Orys, his eyes reflecting the weight of his own thoughts. "Go ahead," he said.
"It's about last night," Orys began, his voice steady but filled with underlying emotion. "The way you and your family spoke, it felt as if you knew something about me—something about my past. Were you... someone else in another life?"
The seriousness in Brandon's eyes deepened. He nodded slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. "Yes, Orys. I was Neville Longbottom in another life. And you—you were Harry Potter."
Orys felt a surge of profound relief and joy. The truth he had long suspected was now confirmed. "I knew it," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "I could feel it deep within me. And your parents—they were Sirius Black and Amelia Bones, weren't they?"
Brandon's nod was firm and resolute. "That's right. When you were reborn, they remembered their past lives as well. Death visited them, just as it did with us, and explained that you would return as Orys Baratheon."
A torrent of emotions surged through Orys—elation, relief, and a renewed sense of purpose. "Are there others like us?" he asked, his voice tinged with hope and curiosity.
Brandon's smile returned, though it was tinged with a knowing sadness. "Yes, there are. In the North, we have Ser Rodrik Cassel, who was Remus Lupin, and Jeor Mormont, who was Mad-Eye Moody. They remember their previous lives too."
The revelation filled Orys with awe. "So many familiar faces... It feels as though I'm not alone in this strange, new world."
Brandon's eyes were full of reassurance. "You are never alone, Orys. We are all here, bound by our shared histories and destinies. The North will be a place where you can learn and grow, and we will be there to guide and support you through every step of your journey."
A profound sense of gratitude enveloped Orys. "Thank you, Brandon. This means more to me than I can express."
Brandon placed a reassuring hand on Orys's shoulder, his voice steady and comforting. "We are family, Orys. We always have been, and we always will be. Whatever challenges lie ahead, we face them together."
As they stood by the river, the connection between them deepened by shared memories and intertwined fates, Orys felt a renewed determination. The path to Winterfell and the ancient wisdom of the North lay before him, and with his newfound allies and kin, he was ready to embrace the trials and triumphs that awaited him. The river's gentle murmur seemed to echo his resolve, and as he turned to leave, he carried with him a sense of calm and purpose, ready to face the adventures that lay ahead in the storied halls of Winterfell.
—-
In a secluded chamber within the formidable walls of Riverrun, the air was heavy with the weight of consequential decisions. The flicker of torchlight danced across the ancient stone, casting elongated shadows that swayed in rhythm with the earnest discourse. Around a vast wooden table, the patriarchs of the great houses—Rickard Stark, Steffon Baratheon, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully—were gathered, their expressions reflecting the gravity of the moment.
Rickard Stark, with a demeanor that belied his years, leaned back in his chair, his smile a blend of mischief and charm. "Very well, gentlemen," he began, his tone light but edged with the seriousness of their task. "Let's dispense with the pleasantries. We have fostering and betrothals to finalize. The sooner we conclude this business, the sooner we can turn our attention to the festivities."
Steffon Baratheon, appreciating Rickard's casual approach amidst the weighty matters, offered a chuckle. "Indeed, Rickard. Let us start with the fostering arrangements. My son, Orys, has shown a keen interest in the ways of the North. It would serve us all well for him to spend his formative years at Winterfell."
Jon Arryn, ever the sage advisor, nodded his agreement. "That seems prudent. Orys at Winterfell will cement our bonds. Robert, too, would benefit from a stint in the Vale. His education there will instill the discipline and learning we can offer."
Hoster Tully, pragmatic as ever, added his voice. "This arrangement will indeed strengthen our ties. My daughter Catelyn is already betrothed to Brandon, and we can arrange for Lyanna Stark to be pledged to Orys Baratheon. Such alliances will ensure our mutual support and unity."
Jon Arryn's gaze turned to his granddaughter, a note of pride in his voice. "And let us not overlook young Robert. He could be betrothed to Lysa Tully. These marriages will further solidify our alliance and usher prosperity to our lands."
Rickard Stark's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he raised his goblet. "A sound decision, Jon. These betrothals will weave our houses together with shared purpose and resolve. Our children's futures are assured, and our alliance will stand as a beacon of strength in the realm."
Steffon, feeling a swell of accomplishment, allowed himself a rare, contented smile. "Then it is settled. Orys will be sent to Winterfell, Robert to the Vale. Our alliance will be sealed with these unions. Together, our houses will be a stronger force."
The lords raised their goblets, a unified toast sealing their commitment. "To the future of our houses," Jon Arryn declared, his voice resonating with firm resolve.
"To the strength of our bond," Hoster Tully echoed, his gaze unwavering.
"To the enduring friendship between our families," Steffon added, his tone rich with solemnity.
"And to the adventures that lie ahead," Rickard concluded with a grin, his goblet raised high in anticipation.
With the agreements set and their destinies entwined, the four lords felt a profound sense of unity and purpose. The alliance between the Starks, Baratheons, Arryns, and Tullys was not merely a matter of politics but a forge upon which the future of Westeros would be shaped. As they departed the chamber, a shared understanding of the trials and triumphs that lay ahead bound them, their newly forged bonds ready to withstand whatever storms the future might bring.
—
In a cozy sitting room at Riverrun, the afternoon sun cast a golden hue through the windows, bathing the room in a tranquil glow. Lyarra Stark, cradling her newborn daughter Lyanna, reclined comfortably in an armchair. Across from her, Cassana Baratheon, resplendent in her understated elegance, settled into her own seat. The room was a rare sanctuary of calm amidst the frenzy of the tourney preparations.
Lyarra, her gaze tender and reflective, looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms. "Lyanna has been a true blessing," she said softly, her voice imbued with a mixture of affection and pride. "Even now, she has a fire within her."
Cassana's eyes followed the movement of Lyarra's gentle rocking, a mother's admiration clear in her gaze. "She is indeed beautiful, Lyarra. I have no doubt she will grow into a formidable woman, much like her mother."
Lyarra lifted her gaze, meeting Cassana's eyes with a knowing smile that spoke of shared experiences. "Thank you, Cassana. And your boys—Orys, Robert, and little Stannis—each carries their own promise. Orys, in particular, seems destined for something great."
Cassana's expression softened with a blend of maternal pride and thoughtful concern. "Yes, Orys has always been different. His maturity, his kindness, his wisdom—there's something almost otherworldly about him. Robert, with his spirited nature, is more like his father. And Stannis, even as a toddler, exhibits a seriousness that marks him as different."
Lyarra nodded in understanding, her hands gently rocking Lyanna. "Orys will find his place at Winterfell. The North's harsh beauty and ancient strength will nurture him, much as it will Robert in the Vale. Jon Arryn's influence will be beneficial for Robert; he will gain the knowledge and discipline needed to lead."
Cassana's smile widened, though the worry lines on her face did not entirely fade. "I trust in the potential of our children, but this alliance, these fostering arrangements—they carry such weight. We're pinning so much hope on their futures."
Lyarra's hand, free from the burden of her daughter, reached out to clasp Cassana's in a gesture of reassurance. "Our children are resilient and strong, Cassana. They carry the best of us within them, and with our support and the unity of our houses, they will rise to meet the challenges of their destinies."
Cassana's grip tightened slightly, drawing comfort from her friend's words. "Your confidence means more than I can say, Lyarra. It is a source of hope."
Lyarra's smile was warm and resolute, her eyes reflecting a steely determination. "We face this journey together, Cassana. Our families are bound not only by alliances but by a shared vision for the future. Together, we will guide our children to forge a legacy that will echo through the ages."
As the two women continued their conversation, weaving their dreams and hopes for their children's futures, the sense of camaraderie between them deepened. Their alliance, strengthened by mutual trust and affection, promised to shape the destiny of Westeros, paving the way for a brighter future forged through unity and resolve.
—
As the sun sank low over Riverrun's sprawling courtyard, the evening light cast long shadows across the bustling grounds. The air was alive with the sounds of revelry: distant laughter, the clinking of armor, and the merry chaos of children at play. Among the throng, two young boys moved through the crowd, their futures intertwined in ways neither could yet discern.
Robert Baratheon, a sturdy lad of five, with dark hair that flared wildly like his spirit, stood by his father, Steffon Baratheon. His wide eyes were alight with curiosity as he watched the other children frolic, their joy a stark contrast to his own restrained excitement.
Not far off, Eddard Stark, a year Robert's junior, stood by his father, Rickard Stark. His serious countenance was a reflection of the northern chill, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces with a cautious blend of curiosity and wariness.
Steffon, ever the affable host, caught sight of the young Stark and beckoned Robert over. "Robert," he called out, his voice imbued with fatherly warmth, "come and meet young Eddard Stark. He'll be Orys' future brother-in-law, and a friend you'll want to know."
Robert, always eager for new adventures, bounded forward with infectious enthusiasm. "Hello!" he proclaimed, his voice bright and welcoming. "I'm Robert Baratheon!"
Eddard looked up from where he stood, his gaze meeting Robert's with a wary but intrigued look. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of his northern upbringing. "Hello," he replied, his accent lending a unique melody to his words. "I'm Eddard Stark."
Steffon and Rickard exchanged knowing glances as the two boys assessed each other with the quiet intensity of youth. Rickard, with a glint of amusement in his eye, suggested, "Why don't you two explore the castle grounds? There's much to see and discover."
Robert, already brimming with energy, turned to Eddard with a wide grin. "Come on, Eddard! I'll show you the best places to climb and explore!" He extended a hand to Eddard, a gesture of budding camaraderie and adventure.
With a tentative smile, Eddard took Robert's hand, and together they ventured towards the castle's towering walls. Their laughter mingled with the fading echoes of the day, a prelude to the lifelong bond they were beginning to forge.
Steffon and Rickard watched their sons disappear into the gathering twilight, their expressions a blend of pride and hope. The seeds of friendship and kinship were being sown, laying the groundwork for a future where House Baratheon and House Stark would stand united. In the grand expanse of Riverrun, two young souls embarked on a journey that would shape their destinies, their laughter a harbinger of the enduring alliance to come.
—
As the evening shadows lengthened over Riverrun, the grand tourney's revelry had given way to a more subdued atmosphere. The distant echoes of laughter and clinking armor grew faint, replaced by the tranquil murmurs of the river below. Orys Baratheon, seeking solace from the festivities, wandered through the castle's winding halls until he found a secluded terrace that overlooked the river's gentle flow. There, he saw Lord Rickard Stark standing alone, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the shimmering water.
"Orys," Rickard's voice, warm and inviting, cut through the quiet as he turned to acknowledge the boy. "Join me, if you would."
Orys approached, feeling an inexplicable sense of ease in Rickard's presence. "Lord Rickard," he began, his voice steady but carrying a weight of anticipation. "I've spoken with Brandon. He's told me of the past, of who you, Lady Lyarra, and he truly are."
Rickard's eyes widened slightly, then softened with an understanding that spoke of many unspoken truths. "So, you've learned," he said quietly. "I had hoped to share this with you myself, but it seems Brandon has already taken that step."
Orys nodded. "He told me of your past lives. That you were Sirius Black, and Lady Lyarra, Amelia Bones. And Brandon... he was Neville."
Rickard—Sirius—nodded solemnly. "Indeed. In another life, we were bound by fate in ways we are only beginning to understand. And now, it seems, we are brought together once more."
Orys drew a deep breath, his heart a tempest of emotions. "I had felt something, a sense of familiarity. But this revelation—it's overwhelming."
Sirius placed a reassuring hand on Orys's shoulder, his touch both comforting and firm. "It is a great deal to process," he said gently. "But know this: we are here for you, as we were before. Our purpose remains—to guide and support, just as we once did."
Orys looked up, his green eyes reflecting a mixture of uncertainty and hope. "What does this mean for us now?" he asked. "What are we to do with this knowledge?"
Sirius's expression brightened with a glint of resolve. "It means we have an opportunity—to forge a new path using the wisdom and strength from our past lives. Your destiny is entwined with this world, and we are here to help you navigate it."
A wave of relief washed over Orys, mingling with a burgeoning sense of purpose. "Thank you, Sirius," he said, his voice filled with sincere gratitude. "Or rather, Lord Rickard."
Sirius chuckled softly. "Call me Padfoot when we're in private," he said with a wink. "It's good to hear it again. And I'll call you Pup, as we did."
As they stood on the terrace, the fading sun casting a warm glow over the river, Orys felt a surge of determination. He knew it was time to share something critical.
"Padfoot," Orys began, his voice carrying a note of gravity, "there's something else I must tell you."
Sirius's interest was piqued, his eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity. "What is it, Pup?"
Orys took a steadying breath. "I spoke with Death shortly after Stannis was born. Death revealed that the magic we once wielded is still within us, albeit dormant. It awaits awakening."
Sirius's eyes widened in surprise and wonder. "Our magic still lingers?" he echoed, the possibility igniting a spark in his gaze. "How do we awaken it?"
"Death was vague on the specifics," Orys admitted. "But I believe the Old Gods hold the key. Death mentioned that we must seek out the Weirwood tree in Winterfell's Godswood for answers."
Sirius considered this thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the river. "It makes sense. Our pasts are etched into us, but we must integrate them into our present. If the Old Gods hold the answers, then we must seek their guidance."
A renewed sense of hope filled Orys. "Yes," he agreed. "We need to stand together, support each other, just as we did before. Perhaps through the Weirwood tree, we will find a way to restore our magic."
Sirius's smile was resolute, his eyes reflecting a fierce determination. "We will find a way, Pup. With the strength of our bonds and the wisdom of our past, nothing is beyond our reach."
Orys felt a deep sense of camaraderie and resolve. "Thank you, Padfoot," he said, his gratitude evident. "For your support, for understanding."
Sirius clapped a firm hand on Orys's shoulder, his grip steady and reassuring. "Always, Pup. We are family, in this life and the last. Together, we will face whatever comes our way."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the river, Orys and Sirius stood united. Their journey, guided by the echoes of past lives and the promise of rediscovered magic, was only beginning. With the Weirwood tree awaiting their quest and their destinies intertwined, they were ready to face the trials and forge a future of strength and unity.
—
As the afternoon sun cast its golden light over Riverrun, a wave of anticipation surged through the assembled crowd. The grand tourney, already a spectacle of opulence and martial prowess, reached a new height as the royal family made their entrance. The sound of trumpets pierced the air, their brassy notes heralding the arrival of the Targaryen dynasty. Banners fluttered like vibrant pennants in the breeze, their colors a vivid reminder of the realm's storied lineage.
King Aerys Targaryen led the procession, his regal bearing unmistakable despite the tension that seemed to cling to him. His gaze was restless, darting about as though searching for concealed threats, a reflection of the paranoia that gnawed at his soul. Clad in rich, dark robes that contrasted sharply with the brightness of the day, he rode with an air of imperious unease.
Queen Rhaella followed, her composure a mask for the turmoil beneath. The delicate curve of her pregnant form was softened by the elegance of her gown, and though her face was serene, it betrayed a deep sadness. Her gaze was steady, reflecting the weight of her royal duty and personal grief.
Their children rode beside them, an emblem of the Targaryen legacy. Prince Rhaegar, at eight years old, carried an aura of quiet intensity. His silver-gold hair and violet eyes set him apart as a figure of enigmatic allure. Even now, his love for music and poetry hinted at a soul already burdened by the weight of future expectations.
Princess Rhaenyra, his twin, was a vision of ethereal beauty and grace. Her presence was captivating, her movements fluid and poised. Despite her youth, she exuded a charm and elegance that drew admiring glances from all around her.
As the royal party approached the dais prepared for them, Lord Hoster Tully emerged to extend his warm welcome. With a deep bow, he addressed the king and queen, his voice carrying the respect due to their station.
"Your Grace, Your Majesty," Hoster intoned, his voice rich with deference. "It is a great honor to have you grace Riverrun with your presence. May this tourney be a celebration worthy of the Targaryen name."
King Aerys's response was a curt nod, his expression inscrutable. "We shall see, Lord Tully," he replied, his tone edged with an unspoken threat. "We shall see."
As the formalities were observed, Rhaegar and Rhaenyra dismounted. The young prince's gaze was distant, lost in contemplation, while his sister's eyes danced with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. Rhaenyra's voice, soft and eager, reached her brother's ear.
"Rhaegar, look at all the knights and banners," she whispered. "It's like something out of a tale."
Rhaegar's lips twitched into a rare smile, though his eyes remained somber. "Indeed, sister. But remember, not all tales have happy endings."
A shadow crossed Rhaenyra's face as she processed his words. "Yet, we can hope," she replied softly, her gaze sweeping over the tourney grounds. Her eyes, though, were restless, searching the crowd with a sense of purpose.
As the royal family settled into their seats, the excitement that had pervaded the air took on a sharper edge. The Targaryens' presence had injected a new layer of intrigue into the proceedings, drawing all eyes to the field where knights would vie for glory. For Orys Baratheon and his allies, the stakes had risen, and the path forward was shrouded in uncertainty. The tourney was not merely a contest of skill and honor; it was now a stage upon which destinies would be written, and the future of the realm would unfold under the watchful gaze of the Targaryen dynasty.
—
As the grand tourney at Riverrun surged with spectacle and revelry, a new wave of whispers and anticipation rippled through the crowd. The arrival of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock was nothing short of a dramatic proclamation, their presence commanding respect and attention.
At the head of the procession rode Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, his stern visage a living testament to his unyielding authority. His steely gaze and rigid posture silenced any murmur as he advanced, a silent warning to those who dared to cross him. Beside him, Lady Joanna Lannister radiated an air of grace and beauty, though her eyes bore the weight of unspoken worries. In her arms, she cradled her one-year-old twins, Jaime and Cersei, whose bright green eyes observed the world with a curious innocence that contrasted sharply with their mother's strained demeanor.
As the Lannister entourage approached the dais, where the royal family was seated, the crowd parted with respectful reverence. Lord Hoster Tully stepped forward, bowing low to greet them.
"Lord Tywin, Lady Joanna, it is an honor to welcome you to Riverrun," Hoster intoned with the practiced warmth of a seasoned host.
Tywin inclined his head slightly, his gaze sharp and calculating. "Thank you, Lord Hoster. It is a pleasure to be here," he replied, his voice a deep rumble of controlled power.
The royal family awaited them with a mix of formality and personal sentiment. As the Lannisters reached the dais, King Aerys Targaryen's gaze flickered with an unsettling mixture of recognition and something darker as he regarded Lady Joanna. His eyes lingered on her with an intensity that made her discomfort evident, though she masked it with a forced smile.
"Lord Tywin," Aerys said, his voice laced with a thin veneer of warmth. "Lady Joanna. Your presence honors us."
Joanna curtsied with practiced elegance, her voice steady despite the tension coiling within her. "Your Grace, the honor is ours."
Aerys' gaze, however, remained fixed on Joanna, a hunger barely concealed beneath his smile. "It has been too long, Lady Joanna," he said, his tone dripping with false charm. "I have missed seeing you at court."
Queen Rhaella, seated beside Aerys, maintained her serene facade, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of sympathy and concern as they drifted to Joanna. Their past friendship was well-known, with Joanna having served as Rhaella's Lady-in-Waiting before being sent to Casterly Rock in an attempt to distance her from the King's unwelcome attentions.
Joanna's smile tightened as she responded, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil. "You are too kind, Your Grace," she said. "But I am content at Casterly Rock with my children."
Aerys' smile remained fixed, though his eyes grew colder. "Indeed," he said dismissively. "Tywin, you are fortunate to have such a gem by your side."
Tywin's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his expression carefully controlled. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said curtly, his arm slipping protectively around Joanna's waist.
Sensing the undercurrent of tension, Rhaella intervened with a smooth, diplomatic grace. "Joanna, it is wonderful to see you again," she said warmly, extending a hand. "We must find time to catch up. There is much I wish to share."
Joanna's smile softened, her affection for her old friend shining through. "I would like that very much, Your Grace," she said sincerely.
Aerys watched the exchange with a calculating gleam, though he chose not to speak further. As the formalities concluded, the Lannisters moved to take their seats, their twins now in the care of their nurse. The palpable tension began to ease as the focus of the gathering shifted back to the tourney grounds.
The presence of the Lannisters, alongside the royal family and the other prominent houses, set the stage for a day of tournaments and intrigue that would be remembered for years to come. Amidst the clamor of competition and the shifting tides of political maneuvering, alliances would be forged, rivalries ignited, and the fates of many would be sealed under the watchful gaze of those who held the power to shape the realm's future.
—
As the grand tourney at Riverrun thrummed with excitement, the royal family had taken their seats, yet Princess Rhaenyra's curiosity remained insatiable. She tugged insistently at her brother Rhaegar's sleeve, her eyes gleaming with uncontained excitement.
"Rhaegar, let us explore the tourney grounds," she implored, her voice brimming with youthful enthusiasm.
Rhaegar, ever the reserved and contemplative twin, hesitated. "We should remain near our parents," he countered, glancing toward the royal dais where King Aerys and Queen Rhaella observed the spectacle with detached grace.
But Rhaenyra's determination was unwavering. "We have Ser Barristan with us," she pointed out, indicating the towering figure of Ser Barristan Selmy, the esteemed Kingsguard who stood sentinel by their side. "We shall be safe."
Rhaegar sighed, his resistance waning under the force of his sister's enthusiasm. "Very well, let us go."
With a grin of triumph, Rhaenyra clasped Rhaegar's hand and led him into the bustling heart of the tourney grounds, Ser Barristan following in their wake. The knight's vigilant eyes scanned the crowd with a practiced wariness, his duty to protect the royal children never faltering.
As they wandered past the myriad stalls and attractions, Rhaenyra's gaze darted not to the jousters practicing their lancework nor to the merchants peddling their goods, but instead to the crowd, her eyes alight with a resolute determination. She was searching for someone—an elusive figure whose identity she kept closely guarded.
"Look, Rhaegar, sweetmeats!" Rhaenyra exclaimed, pointing eagerly at a vendor's stall.
Rhaegar's lips curled into a smile of indulgence. "Would you like to try some?"
Rhaenyra shook her head, her attention already shifting to other sights. "Perhaps later," she said absently.
Ser Barristan, observing the twins with a blend of affection and duty, noted the determination in Rhaenyra's manner. He had watched them grow from babes to the inquisitive children they were now, and he was ever committed to their safety and well-being.
"Princess Rhaenyra, is there something specific you seek?" Ser Barristan's deep voice carried a note of concern.
Rhaenyra glanced up at him, her eyes meeting his briefly before flitting away. "I am merely exploring," she replied, her tone evasive.
As they meandered through the throng, Rhaenyra's heart beat with a mingling of anticipation and hope. She felt a deep, almost primal certainty that the person she sought was near, though the exact nature of their presence remained a mystery to her.
"Rhaegar," she said softly, as they paused by a large tent where knights readied themselves for the next joust, "do you ever feel as though you're searching for something, even if you're not quite sure what it is?"
Rhaegar studied his sister, his violet eyes reflective. "Sometimes," he conceded. "It's as if there's something just beyond my grasp, something of significance."
Rhaenyra nodded, her grip on his hand tightening. "That is how I feel now."
Ser Barristan, sensing the gravity of their exchange, allowed them a moment of privacy while remaining within reach. His respect for Rhaenyra's instincts was well earned, given their frequent accuracy.
"Do not worry, Rhaenyra," Rhaegar said gently. "Whatever it is, we will find it together."
Rhaenyra's smile was one of quiet resolve. "Yes, we will."
As they continued their exploration, the cacophony of clashing steel and the roar of the crowd faded into the background for Rhaenyra. Her focus remained unwavering, her eyes scanning every face and every corner of the grounds. They passed knights practicing their swordplay, their movements sharp and precise, yet Rhaenyra's mind remained intent on her quest.
"Look there!" Rhaegar pointed to a group of knights preparing their horses for the next joust.
Rhaenyra glanced over, her interest momentarily piqued but fleeting. "Indeed," she acknowledged, though her attention swiftly returned to her search.
As they approached a large pavilion adorned with the banners of noble houses, Rhaenyra's pulse quickened. A profound sense of anticipation gripped her, drawing her toward the pavilion as if guided by an unseen force. She tugged on Rhaegar's hand with renewed urgency.
"Over there," she directed, her voice tinged with a compelling urgency.
Rhaegar followed without question, trusting his sister's intuition. Ser Barristan, ever the vigilant protector, trailed behind them, his eyes sharp and curious. He had learned to trust Rhaenyra's instincts, which often proved to be remarkably accurate.
With each step closer to the pavilion, Rhaenyra's heart brimmed with hopeful expectation, knowing that what she sought was drawing nearer, and with it, the chance to uncover the connection that seemed so vital to her.
—
As the grand tourney at Riverrun unfurled its colorful spectacle, Orys Baratheon and Brandon Stark meandered through the throngs of spectators, their youthful curiosity leading them from one marvel to the next.
"Look at that!" Brandon exclaimed, pointing towards a cluster of knights honing their swordsmanship. "I've never seen fighters of such skill up close."
Orys's eyes sparkled with admiration. "It's incredible. Imagine possessing such prowess."
Their exploration continued, driven by a blend of wonder and excitement. The vibrant tents and the mouthwatering aromas of roasted meats and fresh breads drew them in, each new sight and sound adding to their exhilaration.
As they neared a large tent where the knights were preparing for the next round of jousts, Orys's attention was suddenly caught by a flash of silver hair and a pair of violet eyes. He squinted, struggling to place the figure who seemed disturbingly familiar.
"Orys, what's wrong?" Brandon asked, noting his friend's sudden distraction.
Orys blinked, dispelling the fleeting sense of familiarity. "Nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew."
Brandon followed Orys's gaze but saw only the usual crowd. "Perhaps you'll run into them later," he suggested with a grin.
Meanwhile, Rhaenyra and Rhaegar, accompanied by the vigilant Ser Barristan Selmy, continued their own exploration. Rhaenyra's gaze was a sharp sweep through the crowd, her heart thrumming with anticipation. She had a premonition that 'Arry' was near, and she was resolved to find him.
Approaching the same tent, Rhaenyra's eyes locked onto Orys. Her breath hitched, a thrill of recognition igniting within her. She pulled gently on Rhaegar's sleeve, her voice a whisper of urgency.
"Rhaegar, I believe I've found him," she murmured, her gaze fixed intently on Orys.
Rhaegar followed her line of sight, his curiosity piqued. "Who, Rhaenyra?"
Rhaenyra did not respond immediately. Instead, she moved forward with a mix of determination and awe. Ser Barristan, his watchful eyes ever scanning for danger, maintained a respectful distance, allowing the encounter its space.
Orys and Brandon continued to observe the knights, oblivious to the approaching princess and her entourage. It was only when Rhaenyra drew near that Orys turned, a premonition tugging at him. His eyes widened as they met hers, and a flicker of recognition flared between them.
"Fleur," Orys breathed, the name emerging with a sense of inevitability.
Rhaenyra's face brightened with a blend of relief and joy. "Harry," she replied softly, her eyes misting.
Brandon and Rhaegar exchanged knowing glances, understanding the weight of the moment. Ser Barristan, discerning the depth of the connection, kept a respectful distance, his presence unobtrusive but alert.
As Orys and Rhaenyra stood facing each other, the vibrant chaos of the tourney seemed to recede, leaving only the two of them and the profound bond that transcended their current lives.
Rhaenyra took a step closer, her voice trembling with emotion. "I knew I would find you," she said softly, her words heavy with the weight of unspoken memories. "I could feel it."
Orys's hand reached out, brushing hers with a gentle touch. "I felt it too," he replied. "I just didn't realize it was you until now."
For a moment, they stood enveloped in a silence filled with shared history and silent understanding, the din of the tourney fading into insignificance. The crowd and the event seemed to dissolve around them, leaving only the quiet, poignant connection between two souls reunited across the expanse of their lifetimes.
---
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone