Chapter Text
I ask only that, as you read this letter, Your Grace keeps an open mind. As a family made legendary by your mounts, by the magics that reside within the mists of Old Valyria, I believe you are in a unique position to read these words and understand the depth that comes with them...
Perhaps the funniest thing about all of this is how close the pronunciation of her name is to error.
Errya.
Errya Stark, born 106AC, the eldest of three lawfully birthed children (whatever that is supposed to mean), though only two of them survive to see their first name day.
Error.
It’s the defining word of her life in truth.
She’s an error; she’s quite certain that Cregan didn’t have a sister, never mind an elder one. She’s got vague memories of flicking through the Stark family tree and she’s pretty certain a name like hers would have stood out if not for it’s pronunciation, then for how damningly awful those five letters look alongside each other.
Tapping her quill tip (dry, undipped and unused as the ink pot that resides upon her desk has yet to be opened), Errya considers the parchment before her. Because how does one go about this? Should one go about this? Sticking one's nose in, looking to influence the outcome. There’s just the knowledge that it could affect her darling baby brother, that her very existence could lead to him making one wrong choice and that could see him making a misstep, could cause a cascade of events that leads to Cregan losing his life. If she has already influenced events because of her very existence… then she might as well go the full hog with it.
‘Dear King Viserys…’
Green Dreams is the term given by the First Men to prophetic dreams, filled with symbolic meaning, images, and metaphors of what is to come; I understand that House Targaryen has been blessed in the past with members of their household who hold a similar ability. Some dreams are, of course, clearer than others. Within this letter, you will find another enclosed. Please resist opening it until the birth of your third son, and the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s firstborn.
Upon the parchment, you will find written the names of said babes in hopes this will bring some weight to my claims.
“Are you a Greenseer, daughter?”
Errya’s head snaps up, her eyes (those startlingly green eyes, eyes he wouldn’t have believed possible for a Stark to ever claim) wide and set upon him.
All of six years old, his daughter already outstrips Bennard in intellect by a frightening amount. The Maesters are fast running out of things to teach the girl. Already she reads with a fluency that astounds them, consuming knowledge swifter than a wolf devours venison. She has a head for calculations and Rickon knows it shan’t be long before she can profess herself better with numbers than he himself is. Perhaps she already is. That mind hides behind a face that is so painfully Stark: the same long face; the same deep brown hair and the same wolf’s blood that courses through his veins. It is only the eyes, the only feature that does not fit but cannot hint towards bastardy because Errya’s everything else is from him.
And just like that, something had chimed within his mind, something had trickled down from childhood stories of old. Something had made him look upon Errya and wonder.
She looks back at him, hands stilling from where she had been practising her embroidery (for years she has requested he allow her to train with a weapon in addition to the more womanly arts; he had ceded just a year past, allowing his only daughter to begin learning archery).
“I am,” she says, gaze holding steady. The sky is blue. The snowfall is white. His daughter is a Greenseer. It explains far too much and not enough, all at once.
Rickon steps further into his daughter’s chambers, quietly shutting the door behind him before helping himself to the lone chair beside Errya’s small bookshelf. Already she has a collection of tomes upon it, more written words than he himself probably read before he was a man grown, nevermind as a six-year-old. It seems his daughter has forever got a book within her hands or, failing that, a journal to be scribbling within.
“Is there anything I should know?”
“I wasn’t expecting you to accept this so easily, Father,” Errya mutters, setting aside her embroidery to make it abundantly clear he has her full attention.
“Torrhen Stark’s mother was a Greenseer.”
He can tell the admission startles his daughter, his firstborn, just from the way her shoulders still, sinking ever so slightly as she absorbs this information. “She once prophesised that Torrhen would lose his crown but save thousands in exchange.”
“Because he didn’t fight Aegon the Conqueror.” Of course she knows her history too, his little girl whose appetite for books exceeds that of what the North could provide her without trade deals and exchanges.
“It was mentioned within Torrhen Stark’s own writing.” Journals passed from one Lord of Winterfell to another; Rickon had rued having to read the cramped, faded writing but is now grateful he had done so. It allows him to look upon his daughter and know.
“Oh.” Errya brushes down the skirts of her grey dress, worries her pale lip between a single front tooth. She lost the other, the first of many, just three days past. “Then yes. I believe there is a quite a bit I should share.”
In 115AC, Prince Daemon will abandon his hard-won kingdom in the Stepstones in favour of political intrigues within King's Landing. In this same year, Princess Rhaenyra will welcome her second born son into the world; I will send another letter with the name enclosed when the years have passed and the event in question is almost upon us. I am afraid too much parchment could weigh down the raven which I am only shakily bonded to.
I hope that, once the years have passed and Your Grace has had the opportunity to validate the weight of my words, that I may be of use to the realm in order to further secure the House of the Dragon.
“What?”
Aemond’s quite certain he heard that wrong, is quite certain he must be losing his mind, but he’s not so far gone as to blurt out such a rude question.
Mother, it appears, is that far gone.
They are all seated at the dining table, breaking their fast, when the King drops a sudden change of plans upon them.
Aemond’s ailing father sits at the head of the table, a crust of honeyed bread balanced between his hands as he looks between Mother and a stupefied Aegon. It is as if he cannot understand what they are failing to grasp about his proclamation.
“I am sorry, my love,” Mother says, regaining control of herself, working to smooth over the blunder she had accidentally allowed to slip from between her teeth. “I’m afraid I did not sleep well last night. I believe I misheard you.”
“I have decided upon Aegon’s betrothed.”
It’s the same as what he said before, the same opening line and Aemond flicks a glance to Aegon, just to see if his brother is actually taking this in. From the look of dubiety, the slight flicker of disbelief and that near tangible hope (which is stupid; it would be a delight to marry Helaena), it would appear Aegon has been following the conversation.
“Upon turning five and ten, Aegon shall wed Lord Stark’s daughter.”
Aemond hadn’t even been aware Lord Stark had a daughter. Certainly, it’s not a line the Targaryens have ever married into before (he would know if so), but that leaves one pressing question.
Why?
Unfortunately, it is not exactly a topic that can be struck up over the dining table; the King’s word is law, after all. Mother seems too shocked to even formulate a complaint, staring off into the distance as if the answers she seeks lay a voyage away.
Meanwhile Aegon cocks his head to a side, lips pressing in a thoughtful pout before he nods to himself. Aemond can hear the unspoken ‘not ideal, but better than expected’ that’s no doubt running through his mind. Given Aegon has turned his nose up at marrying their sweet sister, he probably does think this a better option.
Aemond though… for all that he’s only seven, he likes to think himself intelligent. Likes to think he knows a fair bit about the world he lives in and the kingdoms Father rules over. And this— it doesn’t make sense. The Starks are not a family the Targaryen’s have ever married into, they are not overflowing with money or resources, nor are they particularly powerful if one discounts their status as Lord of the North.
Aemond doesn’t understand.
But he plans to make it his mission to correct that.
I thank you, Your Grace, that this knowledge has remained solely between the two of us for all these years, that our correspondence has remained a secret, and thank you for the honest consideration you have given to my proposal.