The royal procession had come to a halt, the snow crunching under hooves and boots, the air turning colder with every passing second. The guards were still alert after the strange object struck the King's carriage. It was then that the small boy had run toward them, the same one who now stood calmly before the King himself, speaking like the winter wind was the only thing that mattered.
Among the party was Loras Tyrell, a twelve-year-old squire to Ser Gerold Hightower. Even though he was young, his ambition was taller than any tower of King's Landing. He dreamed of wearing the white cloak one day — to become a Kingsguard whose name would echo through song and history. And everyone who trained with him in the yard already knew how skilled he was — no one in his age could match his hand with sword or lance.
But today, standing beside his knightly master in the middle of a snow-covered northern road, Loras had never felt this insulted.
The boy — with his wild black hair and bright green eyes — stood before the King of the Seven Kingdoms like he was staring at a market vendor. No fear. No awe. No respect.
And what was worse, none of the great knights said a word.
Ser Arthur Dayne just stood there with that calm smile of his. Ser Gerold looked tired of the cold. Even the King seemed amused instead of angry.
Loras clenched his fists. His young pride burned hotter than the frost could cool. Someone needed to teach the brat his place.
He took a bold step forward through the snow, lifted his chin, and spoke in a voice that cracked only once.
"You stand in the presence of King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Faith."
The boy blinked at him, confused, then looked back at the King. "Oh," he said simply, "nice to meet you."
Loras's mouth dropped open. For a moment, he couldn't believe what he had just heard. The other knights exchanged glances, trying not to laugh. Ser Arthur even hid a smile.
Loras turned red from ear to ear. He couldn't let that stand.
He raised his voice. "When you are before a king, you kneel!"
The boy tilted his head slightly, still not afraid. "My father told me," he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "that you only kneel before the gods. No one else."
The field fell silent.
The words struck like a hammer. Even the wind seemed to stop for a heartbeat.
Loras stared at him, stunned. "You— you can't just say that in front of the King!" he stammered. "That's treason! The King rules because the gods chose him!"
Rhaegar Targaryen stepped forward then, his long silver hair shimmering like frost, his face unreadable. The knights moved aside at once, and even the wind seemed to calm as he approached the boy.
"What is your name, child?" the King asked, his voice quiet but strong.
The boy looked up. "Sirius. Sirius Gryffindor."
Loras blinked. Gryffindor? That name meant nothing to him, yet the way the boy said it — proud, certain, fearless — made it sound like the name of a house greater than any lord's.
"Your father sounds like a bold man," the King said softly.
Sirius smiled brightly. "He is! He is the best!"
Rhaegar Targaryen, still half-bent toward the small boy, examined the leather object in Ser Arthur Dayne's hand.
"What were you doing with this?" the King asked, his voice calm and curious rather than commanding.
Sirius grinned, brushing snow from his sleeve. "That? That's just a ball. We were playing baseball."
Arthur tilted his head. "Base… ball?"
Before anyone else could ask, a young voice piped up from behind the King.
"What is baseball?" asked Prince Viserys Targaryen, his breath fogging in the cold.
The boy turned toward him cheerfully, eyes gleaming with excitement. "It's a game. It'll take forever to explain, but if you want, you can come and watch we play!"
The words fell into the cold air like stones dropped into a still pond.
Viserys blinked — not used to being spoken to so freely — but he smiled despite himself.
Behind him, Loras Tyrell stiffened. The squire felt his stomach twist. He'd always been taught to measure his words, to bow low, to use titles properly — always properly. Even when joking, he never forgot to address Viserys as my prince.
Yet this mud-splattered boy from nowhere — this wild northern child — was talking to the Targaryen heir like they were equals.
The sheer audacity of it made Loras's blood boil.
He stepped forward, voice high with indignation. "Didn't you teach me, Ser Gerold," he said loudly, turning toward his master, "that the smallfolk must be kept well-obedient? Otherwise, they might forget their place?"
A sharp silence followed.
Gerold Hightower's brow furrowed. "Loras—" he began, but the boy wasn't done.
"This boy doesn't even know basic manners!" Loras went on, his young voice trembling between outrage and confusion. "He stands before the King and the Prince like they were nothing! Are we just going to tolerate it? What if others see this and think they can act the same? Then it will spread! We have to stop it before he spreads his… rebellious way of thinking."
A few of the guards exchanged glances; some amused, others wary. Even Prince Viserys, standing close to his friend, looked uncomfortable.
Sirius turned his bright green eyes toward the squire. For the first time, he didn't smile.
"I'm not rebelling," he said softly. "I just don't think playing has anything to do with bowing."
Loras's lips pressed into a hard line. "It starts with disrespect, boy. A small spark becomes a fire if you let it."
Sirius tilted his head. "My father says fire isn't bad. It keeps people warm. It only burns when you use it wrong."
That silenced even Loras.
Rhaegar straightened slowly, his silver hair glinting in the pale light. He studied both boys — one noble-born, trained and tempered in duty; the other, wild as the northern wind, fearless and free.
"Enough," the King said at last, his tone neither harsh nor soft.
Loras opened his mouth to protest but stopped when he met the King's eyes. There was no anger in them, only quiet depth — the kind that made even grown knights lower their heads.
Rhaegar turned to Sirius again. "You have courage, young one, and perhaps too much honesty. But the world you live in does not forgive either easily."
From the royal carriage, Queen Elia Martell stepped out, her face pale against the dark fur framing her hood. Her children — Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys — followed close behind, clutching each other's gloved hands. Around them, the great lords of the Reach and the Crownlands murmured among themselves, scandal thick on their tongues.
"What has happened?" Elia asked sharply, her breath misting in the air.
A knight bowed stiffly. "A boy, Your Grace. He struck the royal carriage with a leather ball… and then spoke to His Majesty as if—" He hesitated. "As if he were his equal."
At once, voices began to rise among the gathered nobles.
"A peasant dares such insolence before the King?" snapped Lord Tyrell, cheeks flushed red from both cold and outrage. "Loras was right — the boy must be punished. If you let one speak freely, ten will follow."
"Spare us your arrogance," grumbled Lord Tarly. "He's a child, not a traitor."
But Tyrell would not be silenced. "A child who mocks the King learns to become a man who defies him. A whip now saves the axe later."
Others joined in, their breath clouding the air in angry bursts. Some demanded flogging, others the Wall, and a few — with sharper tongues and colder hearts — even spoke of punishing the father for raising such a son.
And yet, in the center of all that noise, Sirius stood calm. His small hands were clasped behind his back, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and he looked not frightened, not defiant — merely impatient.
When the shouting reached its peak, he raised his voice just loud enough to cut through the storm.
"Can I have the ball back?"
The crowd fell still.
"What?" Lord Tyrell barked.
"My ball," Sirius said simply, pointing toward Ser Arthur Dayne, who still held the worn leather sphere. "You can keep arguing if you want. But my friends are waiting. We were in the middle of a game."
The words dropped into the snow like stones in water — soft but sending ripples through every heart.
Even Rhaegar blinked, as though the boy's innocence had struck him harder than any insult.
From behind the King, a young voice chimed curiously. "What is baseball?"
Every gaze turned to Prince Aegon Targaryen, his cheeks red from the cold, his silver hair half-hidden beneath his hood. The boy's violet eyes were wide, innocent, and full of wonder.
"It's a game," Sirius explained quickly, brightening. "If you want, you can come play with us!"
Aegon blinked. "Play? With you?"
"Why not?" Sirius said with a grin. "We're about the same size. You can be the hitter if you like."
A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the knights, but none dared speak.
To Aegon, it was an invitation — to the others, it was blasphemy.
The lords began whispering again, angry and scandalized. A smallfolk boy speaking to a Targaryen prince like a playmate? It was beyond comprehension.
And yet, Aegon hesitated. He had never seen anyone — not noble, not smallfolk — talk to him like that. No bowing, no trembling, no forced smiles. Just plain words, light as air. For a heartbeat, he wanted to say yes.
But then he remembered Loras's warning from earlier: keep the commoners obedient, or they'll forget their place.
His face hardened. He stepped forward, boots crunching through the frost, and caught Sirius by the collar before he could take the ball from Arthur's hand.
"Wait," he said sharply, his voice trembling slightly but loud enough to command attention. "You don't just walk away from the King."
Sirius blinked, puzzled. "Why not?"
"Because he's the King!" Aegon snapped, cheeks flushing. "You don't talk to him like you're equals! You don't just— you don't turn your back on him!"
The boy looked up at the prince with a faint frown. "I'm not turning my back. I'm just going back to my game."
The two children stared at each other — one born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, the other raised free of crowns or fear.
The tension broke when Arthur Dayne spoke softly. "Your Grace," he said to Aegon, "let him go."
Aegon turned, startled. "But, Ser Arthur—"
The Sword of the Morning smiled faintly, his breath forming white clouds in the air. "He means no harm. Some words are better answered with patience, not punishment."
Slowly, Aegon released his grip. Sirius brushed his collar with exaggerated care, took the ball from Arthur's open hand, and gave a quick nod of thanks.
"Thanks," he said simply. "I hope you find something fun to do too. It's really boring to just stand around."
Then he turned and jogged back toward the snowy field, his laughter echoing through the cold air.
No fear. No bow. Just the sound of a child's joy fading into the distance.
Elia Martell looked from the King to her son, her voice tight. "He defied you, Rhaegar. In front of the realm. What lesson does that teach?"
Rhaegar did not answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the small shape vanishing into the snow.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "it teaches that not all men are born to kneel."
Elia frowned, pulling her cloak tighter. "You sound almost… impressed."
The King's lips curved faintly, though his eyes were distant. "I am reminded," he murmured, "that courage can come in the smallest of forms."
And though none heard him, his next words were whispered to the wind — a name, old and haunting.
"Lyanna."
The snow fell harder then, covering the boy's footprints, leaving only silence behind.
Snow drifted in soft spirals as the royal convoy pressed on through the narrow road leading to Winterfell. The wind bit sharper the farther north they rode, and even the Targaryen banners — crimson dragons against black silk — hung heavy under the frost.
Within his carriage, King Rhaegar Targaryen sat in silence, his fingers resting on the cold glass as he watched the pale fields pass by.
Beside him, Prince Aegon stared out through the small window, his violet eyes following a group of distant children laughing and playing on the snow-packed hills.
The laughter carried faintly across the wind, mingling with the rhythm of hooves and the rattle of wagon wheels. For a moment, Aegon smiled. But then, from somewhere beyond the tree line, a low, haunting howl rose through the air — long and deep, like the echo of a ghost.
The laughter stopped.
The guards tightened their reins. And in the carriage behind, a small gasp broke the quiet.
Princess Daenerys, barely four, clutched Elia's sleeve. "What was that?" she whispered, her silver hair tumbling across her fur-lined hood.
"A wolf," said Elia Martell, pulling the little girl close. Her voice was steady, though her eyes flickered toward the woods. "A northern song, my love. They say the Starks hear them in their dreams."
Daenerys pressed her face into her mother's cloak. "I don't like it," she murmured, trembling.
The King's voice came softly from the carriage ahead. "Do not fear it, my daughter. The wolves are the heart of this land. They do not sing without reason."
Even as he spoke, the wind carried another howl, this one closer, clearer. It lingered, fading only as the great gray walls of Winterfell rose from the mist ahead — vast and ancient, carved from stone and shadow.
The gates of Winterfell stood wide open. The smell of pine and hearthfire filled the air.
"They know we're near," Ser Arthur Dayne said, pulling back his hood. "They've been watching from the walls."
Rhaegar nodded faintly. "Lord Rickard has always been a man of readiness."
The carriages slowed as they passed through the first gate, then the second, moving deeper into the fortress. The clang of chains and creak of wheels echoed off the ancient stone as the royal party entered the great courtyard. Servants hurried to clear snow from the path, and the sound of horns welcomed the dragons to the domain of wolves.
"Winterfell," murmured Oberyn Martell, stepping out of his carriage and looking up at the towering walls. His breath hung in the cold air. "I always thought the tales exaggerated. I was wrong."
Beside him, Queen Elia Martell lifted her niece down gently, wrapping her in furs. "A kingdom built of ice," she whispered. "And yet, the people live."
"Barely," Oberyn said dryly, rubbing his hands together. "Even the air bites here."
From another carriage emerged the King himself, cloaked in black and white fur, his silver hair shimmering under the gray light. Prince Aegon followed, their cheeks flushed from the cold. Behind them, Prince Viserys descended, pale and shivering, but trying to appear regal.
At once, the royal guards formed a half-circle, Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and the rest of the Kingsguard standing firm as the lords of the North came forward.
At the forefront was Lord Rickard Stark, tall, broad-shouldered, his gray beard touched with white. Beside him stood his sons: Eddard, quiet and solemn, and Benjen, his eyes sharp with youth. Behind them were the northern lords — Wyman Manderly, Jeor Mormont, and others — their breaths misting in reverence.
And then, between them, standing slightly apart, was a woman.
She wore no crown, no jewels. Only a long fur-lined cloak of deep blue and a simple silver clasp shaped like a direwolf's head. Her dark hair fell freely to her shoulders, and her eyes — gray and cold as the northern sky — met the King's across the courtyard.
Lyanna Stark.
Rhaegar's breath caught.
For years, he had imagined this moment — perhaps feared it. And yet, no memory, no dream, no song could have prepared him for the sight of her standing there, calm and radiant against the frost.
The great lords of the North bent the knee one by one. Lord Rickard knelt first, his voice deep and steady.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing his head low. "Winterfell welcomes the King and his house."
Eddard followed, silent and solemn. Benjen bowed as well, his eyes flickering toward the royal children. Around them, every man and woman knelt.
Every one… except Lyanna.
She remained standing — tall, still, her gaze locked on Rhaegar's.
A hush fell over the courtyard. Even the wind seemed to stop.
For a heartbeat, all the world narrowed to that single moment — the dragon and the wolf, meeting once more under the pale sky of the North.
Elia Martell froze where she stood. Her hand tightened around Daenerys's. "Rhaegar…" she whispered, disbelief and anger flickering in her tone. "She's here?"
Oberyn's dark eyes widened. "So the ghost returns," he murmured. "The wolf-maid of songs."
Rhaegar said nothing. He couldn't.
Because the sight of her — proud, unbowed, beautiful as winter's dawn — had struck something deep within him that he thought long buried.
And though the crowd whispered and shifted, and the cold gnawed through every cloak, neither of them moved.
For in that frozen moment, beneath the gray northern sky, the past stood before the present, and neither dared look away.
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