The Ghost and the Dragon
"Great storms begin in silence—first a whisper, then a name."
— Northern Saying
(Rickon Stark POV)
Rickon Stark, Warden of the North, was not having a good day.
These past years had been prosperous for the North. Their coffers were full, and their granaries overflowed with grain, enough to feed their people through the longest winter. They had rebuilt their western fleet, and now raids upon their shores were a rare whisper, almost unheard of. His bannermen, too, were content, for he had ensured that the North's newfound prosperity was shared amongst every lord. The deal struck with the Velaryons, in return for House Stark's support, had left every lord's mouth-watering.
The promises made by Prince Viserys, now King, at the Great Council still awaited their full delivery. He had pledged two million gold dragons for infrastructure, a lowering of taxes, and no taxation on premium goods flowing from the North. Rickon had harboured doubts when Alaric had first suggested such audacious terms, uncertain if the southern lords would ever entertain them. Yet, he had underestimated their desperation for Northern support, and now, he could say without a doubt that he was glad he had listened to his son, at that time.
Still, despite the North's newfound strength, Rickon found himself far from having a good day.
The reason, as ever, was his son, his heir, Alaric Stark
Soon after the Great Council, Alaric had proposed the unthinkable: a standing army for the North, one he himself intended to train. Rickon, accustomed to an age of peace, had questioned the need for such a force.
But his son, with a wisdom beyond his years, had merely stated, "It is better to have them and not need them, Father, than to need them and not have them."
He had also warned that it was only a matter of time before the North's prosperity attracted flies, eager for a slice of their pie. And indeed, Alaric's words had proven true. Yet, it was not the recent surge in banditry that troubled Rickon – for the North was more than prepared for such petty brigands.
No, it was his son himself.
When word reached Winterfell of increased banditry on the newly built roads between Winterfell and White Harbour, Alaric had taken his strangely wrought sword, a handful of guards, and vanished into the night. A week later, he returned, having earned himself the whispered moniker 'the Ghost of the North.'
Tales spoke of a figure who moved with such uncanny precision that his enemies never knew he was upon them until it was too late. He had, it was said, moved through their camps in the dead of night, silent as falling snow, and dealt with them decisively, single-handedly.
Rickon was proud, yes, but a cold dread often settled in his heart. The North was vast, larger than all six other kingdoms combined, and yet it still felt too small for a spirit as restless and powerful as Alaric Stark.
And now, that same Alaric Stark was relentlessly training or more like beating every ward of House Stark, male or female, equally. He called it 'toughening them up so they could breathe properly' – a phrase Rickon still did not fully grasp, but the results were undeniable. He had no right to criticize, though he wished his brother would cease his stubbornness and allow his own sons to join. No matter how fiercely Alaric pushed these children, they endured his rigorous training, and Rickon saw a fierce camaraderie blooming amongst them all, save for his three nephews.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
"Father, it's me. You asked for me?"
"Enter," Rickon said curtly, settling into his chair as his son stepped inside.
"What's the matter, Father? You look like you're not having a good day."
This child, Rickon thought, has the nerve to say that to me. Every other day, Alaric would appear with a new request, a meticulously crafted plan for its execution, and then leave Rickon to manage the inevitable aftermath.
Rickon could scarce remember the last time he had enjoyed a proper rest, all thanks to his brilliant son's brilliant insights. Yet, he could not truly be angry—after all, everything Alaric did was for the North.
"An invitation had arrived from King's Landing," Rickon said watching his son closely. "There is a tourney to be held at Maidenpool, in celebration of King Viserys's coronation. Do you wish to go?"
Alaric's face betrayed a flicker of surprise, and Rickon hid a small smirk. Perhaps there were still some things that could catch his son unawares.
"Why so sudden, Father? You despise such southern spectacles," Alaric asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone.
"Do you want to go or not?" Rickon countered, his voice firm. "Remember, if you choose to attend, you will represent House Stark. See that you do not drag our name through the mud."
Alaric simply nodded, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his features. Rickon knew that look. His son was already plotting something that would likely make him regret this very conversation. Yet, he also knew it was only a matter of time before Alaric did something that would ensure every soul in the Seven Kingdoms knew his name. Perhaps it mattered little if that moment arrived sooner rather than later.
"You will depart in a week's time. Have the castellan assist you with your preparations. I shall remain here with your mother; the maester believes your sibling may be born within a moon's turn, so I cannot accompany you."
Alaric nodded, a faint light in his eyes, and then he was gone from the solar.
Rickon Stark rose from his chair and walked to the solar window. Below, the sprawling Winter City continued to rise, its construction delayed only by a brief, harsh winter. When completed, it would stand as one of the greatest cities ever conceived, perhaps rivalled only by the architectural marvels left by the Valyrians.
The city boasted a proper sewage system, meticulously divided into residential, market, military, and industrial districts, with ample room for future expansion, designed never to become the clustered mess that was King's Landing.
Rickon gazed upon the city, teeming with his people. Gone was the dreary resignation that once seemed to cling to the Northmen. His smallfolk were happier, more vibrant than he had ever known them to be.
And all of it, he knew, was because he had listened to his son all those years ago.
He had almost not, but he was glad that he did.
(Rhaenyra Targaryen POV)
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen bounced excitedly in her seat as the colourful banners of House Mooton fluttered in the spring breeze above Maidenpool's tourney grounds. At seven years old, she found everything about tourneys absolutely thrilling—the thunder of hooves, the crack of lances, the roar of the crowd. This was her very first time away from King's Landing for such a grand event, and she was determined not to miss a single moment.
"Sit still, little dragon," her father, King Viserys, said with fond amusement. "The tourney will last all day. You'll have plenty of time to see everything."
"But Papa, what if I miss something exciting?" Rhaenyra protested, her violet eyes scanning the field where knights were preparing for the day's competition. "Look at all the knights! There are so many banners I don't recognize!"
Beside her, Lady Alicent Hightower sat with perfect posture, her hands folded neatly in her lap. At ten years old, she already showed the poise and grace that would make her a formidable lady of the court, though she could not quite hide her own excitement at the spectacle.
"My father says Ser Gwayne will do well today," Alicent said softly, her brown eyes bright with anticipation. "He's been training very hard."
"I hope he wins!" Rhaenyra declared, then immediately contradicted herself. "No, wait—I hope they all win somehow. Wouldn't that be lovely? if everyone could be champion?"
Alicent giggled at her friend's enthusiasm. "That's not how tourneys work, Rhaenyra. There can only be one champion."
"Well, then I hope whoever wins is very exciting to watch," Rhaenyra said, swinging her feet beneath her silk gown. "And I hope no one gets badly hurt. Mama always worries about that."
Queen Aemma would have been here to help manage her daughter's enthusiasm, but she had remained in King's Landing, still recovering from her latest difficult pregnancy. The thought made Rhaenyra's excitement dim slightly—she missed her mother terribly and worried about her health.
"Look there," Prince Daemon said, pointing to the field with his typical smirk. "An interesting contestant approaches."
Rhaenyra immediately perked up, following her uncle's gaze. A knight in plain grey armour rode onto the field, his shield bearing only a painted white wolf's head. No banners, no heraldry that she knew.
"Who is that?" Alicent asked, leaning forward slightly. "I don't recognize those arms."
"Neither do I," Rhaenyra replied, her curiosity blooming. "But look at his horse! It's so big and strong. And his armour is so plain—maybe he's a hedge knight seeking glory!"
"Or perhaps a lordling who wishes to prove himself on merit alone," Alicent suggested more practically, though her eyes were bright with curiosity.
"Perhaps sweetling" Viserys murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "There's something in the way he carries himself...".
Lord Lyonel Mooton, their host, leaned forward from his seat. "Your Grace, the mystery knight has already caused quite a stir. He defeated two knights in the practice yard yesterday—cleanly, efficiently. The maesters are calling his technique... remarkable."
The herald's voice boomed across the field: "Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown challenges the Mystery Knight!"
Rhaenyra leaned closer. She knew of Ser Gwayne by reputation—he was Ser Otto's nephew, a skilled knight in his own right, though perhaps not the most seasoned warrior present. Still, he was a proper knight with years of training behind him.
As the knights took their positions, Rhaenyra found herself studying the Mystery Knight more intently. He was smaller than she had expected, not much taller than some of the older squires, but he sat his horse with perfect balance. His northern destrier was sturdy and well-trained, bred for endurance rather than speed.
"He's young," she observed, swinging her feet beneath her silk gown. "Look at how he holds himself—like the dancing masters when they show us proper stance."
Daemon raised an eyebrow at his niece's observation. "You have a keen eye, little princess. Aye, there's something almost... precise about his posture."
The flag dropped, and the knights charged. Rhaenyra held her breath as the two riders thundered toward each other, lances lowered. But what happened next made her gasp in amazement.
The Mystery Knight's movements were flawless—his lance found its mark with surgical precision while somehow avoiding Ser Gwayne's strike entirely. The Hightower knight went down hard, his lance passing harmlessly through empty air.
"By the sevens! How did he do that?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice filled with wonder. "It was like he knew exactly where Ser Gwayne would strike!"
"Exceptional skill," Lord Mooton murmured. "Or exceptional luck."
But as the challenges continued, it became clear that luck had naught to do with it. The Mystery Knight faced Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, a knight from the Stormlands known for his agility, and defeated him with the same eerie precision. Then came Ser Ryam Redwyne, a seasoned warrior from the Reach, and a member of king's guard who fared no better.
The next challenger was Ser Harwin Strong, the heir to Harrenhal and son of the Master of Laws. He was young but powerfully built, known for his strength even at his age. Rhaenyra had heard the adults speak of how he might one day be one of the finest knights in the realm.
"This should be interesting," Daemon mused. "Young Strong has potential."
The charge was fierce, both knights displaying excellent form. But once again, the Mystery Knight's technique was flawless. Ser Harwin went down, though he managed to strike his opponent's shield—the first to even touch the mysterious warrior all day.
"He's unbeatable!" Rhaenyra declared, clapping her hands with glee. "Nobody can touch him!"
Her words proved prophetic. The Mystery Knight faced three more challengers—Ser Steffon Fossoway, Ser Donnel Darklyn, and finally Ser Criston Cole, a young knight from the Dornish Marches who had fought his way to the final rounds.
Each fell with the same inexplicable precision. It was as if the Mystery Knight could see their attacks before they made them, positioning himself perfectly to avoid strikes while delivering his own with devastating accuracy. She was almost sure that this mystery knight is going to win until— Prince Daemon.
"Uncle Daemon!" Rhaenyra exclaimed, sitting up straighter in her seat. "He's going to fight the Mystery Knight!"
Daemon was resplendent in black and red armour, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen blazing across his chest. He was known throughout the realm as one of the finest warriors of his generation, having earned his reputation through years of combat and countless victories.
"This should be interesting," King Viserys murmured, though Rhaenyra could hear tension in his voice. "Daemon doesn't like being upstaged."
The prince raised his lance in salute to the royal box, his violet eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Brother!" he called out. "I hope you don't mind if I test this mystery knight's mettle myself!"
The crowd roared its approval. This was what they had come to see—a true contest between proven skill and mysterious talent.
As the knights took their positions, Rhaenyra noticed something different about the Mystery Knight's posture.
"He's not afraid," she observed with wonder. "Uncle Daemon is one of the best knights in the realm, and he's not afraid at all."
The charge was magnificent—two skilled riders thundering toward each other with perfect form. But when they met in the centre of the lists, something extraordinary happened. The Mystery Knight's lance struck true while Daemon's passed harmlessly to the side, as if the mystery knight had somehow predicted exactly where the prince would aim.
Prince Daemon hit the ground hard, his pride wounded far more than his body. The crowd gasped in stunned silence—no one had expected to see the feared Rogue Prince so thoroughly defeated.
"By the Seven," Lord Mooton breathed. "He unhorsed Prince Daemon!"
But Daemon was far from finished. Rising to his feet with fluid grace, he gestured sharply to his squire. "Bring me my sword!" A page hurriedly brought Dark Sister to him and ran away just as fast.
The crowd erupted in excitement. This was unprecedented—a prince of the blood calling for single combat at a tourney. A page hurried forward with the Valyrian steel blade, then scurried away as quickly as he had come.
"Uncle Daemon looks angry," Rhaenyra whispered, noting the tight set of her uncle's jaw and the dangerous gleam in his eyes.
Indeed, Daemon's pride had been stung. To be defeated by an unknown boy, and in front of the entire court, was not something he could let stand. As he stalked toward the centre of the field, Dark Sister glinting in the afternoon sun, he looked every inch the dangerous warrior he was reputed to be.
The Mystery Knight accepted the challenge with a simple nod. He drew his own blade, and both girls gasped in unison at the sight of it.
"What kind of sword is that?" Rhaenyra whispered, her violet eyes wide with fascination.
The weapon was unlike anything she had ever seen. It was longer than a normal sword but not quite as long as a greatsword, with a gently curved blade that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light. The edge looked impossibly sharp, and there was something almost graceful about its shape—like a frozen piece of moonlight given form.
"It's so... elegant," Alicent breathed, equally mesmerized. "Look how it curves, like a dancer's arm."
"And it's so thin," Rhaenyra added, watching as the mystery knight held it with obvious expertise. "How can something so slender be strong enough for battle?"
The handle was longer than those of normal swords, wrapped in what looked like silk cord in a diamond pattern. Even the way the mystery knight held it was different—with both hands, the blade angled slightly upward in a stance that spoke of perfect balance and control.
"That's not a normal sword," Rhaenyra observed, studying the weapon intently. "It looks almost alive. And the way he holds it... it's like it's part of him."
What followed was perhaps the most spectacular display of swordplay any of them had ever witnessed. Daemon attacked with all the skill and fury that had made him legendary, Dark Sister weaving deadly patterns through the air. But somehow, impossibly, the mystery knight was always exactly where he needed to be to deflect each strike.
The curved blade moved like liquid silver, flowing from one position to another with impossible grace. Where Dark Sister carved brutal arcs through the air, the mystery knight's strange weapon seemed to dance, its edge finding Daemon's blade with pinpoint precision again and again.
"Look how he moves it," Rhaenyra whispered in awe. "It's like he's painting with the blade."
"The way it catches the light," Alicent added, equally mesmerized. "Every time he turns it; it seems to glow."
It was like watching a dance— a deadly, beautiful dance where one partner seemed to know every step before it was taken. The mystery knight's movements were economical, precise, wasting no energy on unnecessary flourishes. Where Daemon was all aggression and raw skill, the unknown warrior was pure efficiency.
The combat lasted longer than anyone expected, testament to Daemon's considerable abilities. But gradually, inevitably, the prince began to tire while his opponent remained as fresh as when they had begun.
The end came suddenly. Daemon overextended on a particularly aggressive strike, and the mystery knight was there, his curved blade at the prince's throat before anyone could blink.
"Yield," the unknown warrior said quietly, his voice carrying clearly in the stunned silence.
For a moment, it seemed as if Daemon might refuse. His violet eyes blazed with humiliation and rage. But finally, grudgingly, he stepped back and raised his hands in surrender.
"I yield," he said through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible.
The crowd erupted in cheers, but Rhaenyra could see the fury etched into her uncle's face as he sheathed Dark Sister. This defeat would not be easily forgotten or forgiven.
As the sun began to set, the herald called for the day's final ceremony. "The Mystery Knight stands victorious! He may now crown the Queen of Love and Beauty!"
Rhaenyra's heart raced with excitement. This was always her favourite part of tourneys—the moment when the champion chose a lady to honour. She looked around at the noble ladies present: Lady Alicent beside her, several daughters of House Mooton, and other young noblewomen who had come to witness the spectacle.
To her complete shock, the Mystery Knight rode directly toward the royal box. He dismounted with fluid grace and approached the rail where she sat.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying a distinctive Northern accent, "if I may be so bold."
He reached up and removed his helmet, revealing a face that was startlingly mature for his apparent age. Up close, she could see that he was indeed young—perhaps only a few years older than herself. His dark hair showed auburn streaks beneath where his helmet had pressed, and his grey eyes held that strange silver gleam.
"I would name Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realm's Delight, as Queen of Love and Beauty, for she is the fairest flower in all the Seven Kingdoms."
The crowd erupted in cheers, but Rhaenyra barely heard them. A crown of flowers—white roses, blue winter roses, and golden marigolds—was placed upon her silver-gold hair, and she felt her cheeks burn with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.
"Forgive me, good ser, but I don't know your name," she said as he stepped closer to place the crown.
"Forgive me, Princess. That was an oversight on my part. I am Stark, Alaric Stark, heir to Winterfell and son of Lord Rickon Stark, Warden of the North."
His words surprised her. She had heard of the Starks, of course—her septa did not speak kindly of them, calling them heathens who worshipped barbaric old gods. But looking at him now, she could see none of the savageness her septa preached about.
All she could see was a boy not much older than herself, with grey eyes that almost seemed to shine with the sun falling on his face and a small smile without any of the false pretence she had come to know living in the Red Keep.
"Thank you, Ser Alaric," she said, trying to sound as regal as possible despite her young age. "I am honoured by your choice."
As the crowd continued to cheer, she caught sight of her father's face. King Viserys was watching the young Stark with intense interest, and she could see recognition dawning in his eyes.
"Your Grace," Alaric said, turning to address the king directly, "forgive me if I have given offense with my conduct. I am not a knight, so this was the only way I could participate in a tourney held in your honour."
Her father simply smiled. "No offense taken, young Alaric. That was one of the finest displays of martial prowess I have ever witnessed. Your swordplay was truly beautiful to behold—as was your blade. May I ask where you came by such a weapon? It held its own against Dark Sister itself."
"Thank you, Your Grace. As for the sword, I had it forged in Winterfell according to my own design. I call it Mēre Aeksia."
The name surprised her, and she could see it had the same effect on her father and even Uncle Daemon, who had just re-joined them, his face still dark with wounded pride.
"Mēre Aeksia," her father repeated thoughtfully. "Moon Blade in the Common Tongue. You know High Valyrian, young Stark? That is... unexpected."
"No, Your Grace, I have not had the pleasure of learning High Valyrian," Alaric replied. "The name was suggested by one of my workers—a man from Dragonstone who came north seeking employment. When he first saw my blade, he called it Mēre Aeksia. When I asked for its meaning, he told me, and I liked the sound of it. I had it engraved upon the blade."
Her father nodded approvingly. He presented him with his winnings and extended an invitation to the evening's feast. After that, he announced the end of the day's events, and the crowd began to disperse.
As they prepared to leave the royal box, Rhaenyra looked back at Alaric Stark—this remarkable young wolf who had dominated the field with impossible skill and who had stood before her father with the confidence of someone much older. Those silver-flecked eyes held secrets that seemed far too deep for someone barely past his tenth nameday.
As the ceremonies concluded and the crowd began to disperse, Rhaenyra kept the crown of flowers upon her head, treasuring the moment. She had been chosen as Queen of Love and Beauty at her first great tourney, and by a knight whose skill seemed almost magical.
But as she watched her father and the young Stark exchange meaningful glances, she could not shake the feeling that this honour was just the beginning of something much larger and more complex than a simple tourney celebration.
The wolf had come south for more than just glory, and somehow, she knew that his presence would change everything.