Old Blood, New Games
"The boy you hold in your arms will grow into a man you may not recognize."
— Old Northern Proverb
(Rickon Stark POV)
The sun hung like judgment over King's Landing, baking stone and iron into a furnace. Rickon Stark sat stiff in his seat, wrapped not in furs but in silence. Around him, lords and ladies murmured and laughed, all eyes drawn to the melee grounds. The clamour of steel echoed beneath their gallery like war drums, dulled only by the breeze that swept the banners above them.
He hadn't wanted to come here. Not truly. The summons, the taxes, the veiled commands disguised as royal hospitality—it all reeked of southern courtly games. And now, to be jeered at by that lion from the West, all arrogance and curls, wagering hard-earned coin over blood sport. Rickon's jaw tensed at the thought.
But none of it stirred him more than the boy at his side. His boy.
His son had spoken up when he should've held his tongue. Stepped into the Lannister's game like it was some trading stall in White Harbour. Rickon had nearly stood then—nearly hissed at him to stop, to remember himself—but too many eyes watched, and pride chained him down. The lad was clever, aye. Maybe too clever. But at the end of it, he was just a four-name day-old child. He fell for the honeyed words of a Lannister like it was the right thing to do. Like it was right to spend hard-earned coin on sport.
I'll have words with him after this is over, Rickon thought grimly. About gambling. About lying. He hadn't given the lad an allowance—neither had Alisa—and yet the boy had lied straight through his teeth. Now he would be the one paying those gold dragons… all for a bet he never wanted to make.
He expected the worst. Expected Alaric's chosen knight—some old, lean, quiet man from the Stormlands—to be skewered by a lion, or a Reachman, or worse. But the man barely fought. Only attacked when it suited him, only defended when he had to. The rest of the time, he lingered along the edge of the melee like a man avoiding a fight altogether. Craven, they called him. Even the gallery jeered. Laughter echoed around them.
Rickon glanced sidelong at his son. Alaric sat upright, hands folded, eyes sharp. Not excited—no, not like a child who had just gambled his coin. Just… watching.
Time passed. The crowd thinned. The weak fell. And still the Stormlander stood. He was the only one not panting. His breathing remained steady, his gaze cool.
"Well," Lannister drawled beside them, amusement tugging at his lips. "Looks like you didn't choose wrong, young lord. If your chosen one can make it this far… Though I must say, the man fought like a coward. Now that the weaklings are gone, he'll be cut down easily—mark my words."
Rickon cast a glance at his son. Alaric wore a quiet smile.
"We'll see about that, Lord Lannister," he said softly. "It's not over until there's only one man standing."
Then the knight moved.
He did not fight like a craven this time. He fought with purpose. Precision. Like a sword freed from its sheath. The laughter around them faded when he felled a second opponent. Then a third. Soon the jeers became murmurs. Then silence. By the end of it, the Stormlander stood alone—bloodied, but victorious.
A beat passed. Then applause. Reluctant, then growing.
At first, the Lannister's smile had been indulgent, mocking—a lion humouring a pup. He hadn't expected to lose. "You were lucky," he muttered. "Here—the promised gold. It was… enlightening to meet you, Lord Stark. Please excuse us. We have preparations to make. I hear Prince Daemon himself will be entering the tourney."
Rickon had forgotten about the real event of this celebration. The real show would come later, when dragons and princes joined the fray. Today was for the lesser men—for wagers and whispers and quiet tests.
Rickon gave a curt nod in return. Alaric had won the bet, but Rickon knew—knew—luck had nothing to do with it. The boy chose that knight with certainty. But how?
Later, as the sun dipped low and the crowd dispersed, Rickon found his son standing alone beneath a carved pillar.
"You shamed me," he said quietly. "Our land. Our people. We don't play with hard-earned gold. Our folk bleed and toil to earn what little they can. Some never spend coin in their lifetime, not with winter always looming."
His voice was not unkind, but firm. "Speaking when you should've waited. Wagering on games of blood…"
"I know," Alaric replied calmly.
Rickon blinked. That voice—it unsettled him. Not just the tone, but the weight behind it. It was like speaking with something old. Not a boy. Not his son. He looked away and asked, "Why that man? You'd never seen him fight."
The boy shrugged. "Gut feeling."
Rickon scoffed. What sort of gut feelings do four-name day-old children have?
But something in his chest stirred. Uneasily.
He'd known the boy was different—brilliant, even. A mind too old for a frame too young. But this? This wasn't some clever negotiation over the New Gift or a new idea for farming. This was intuition. Instinct. Honed like a hunter's spear.
He found himself wondering—not for the first time—just how brilliant his son truly was.
They walked together in silence as torches lit along the Red Keep's corridors. Rickon said nothing as they made their way to their quarters.
But as he glanced once more at his son—striding beside him in that same quiet, thoughtful way—Rickon Stark realized something unsettling:
He had raised a son.
But he did not know the man growing behind those grey eyes.
And he wasn't sure anyone ever would.