Chapter Text
Winterfell
Rickon Stark could not have been more proud, more satisfied than when his wife gave birth to twins. “One of each!” He announced gaily to the head maester and to the room full of nursemaids. “We are complete,” and he leaned to kiss the mother of his children, uncaring of the sheen of sweat on her forehead. Gillianne lay breathless but managed a weary smile in return.
Her pregnancy had been perilous from the start; her optimism was unwavering even when her stomach swelled beyond the norm for only one babe, but the maesters could only speculate the possibility of twins. It was suggested she remain on bedrest and Rickon was devoted, worried for his wife; it had been all the more concerning that morning she woke him with a start.
“They are coming!”
After the prolonged hours of her labor, she finally bore one daughter and one son, in that order, and they were named Adelayde and Cregan Stark.
Cregan Stark would grow into his father’s image with the same strong jawline and brunette locks that, despite their mother’s combing attempts, remained perpetually disheveled. His eye color was mismatched; one eye was a dark brown and his other was grey-“The color of a winter storm,” their mother said-but both had rust streaks that danced around his pupils and glittered whenever he smiled, whether it was genuine or mischievous.
Adelayde shared her mother’s striking features, with the same alabaster complexion and dark curls that shone black within the castle walls and its candlelight. Her eyes were hazel, with amber streaks that brightened with her emotions. She was also tall, just like their mother, which made Cregan sour but Rickon would toss the boy’s locks and remind him that Stark women grew fast, but she would not always have the height advantage on him.
Their similarities were in temperament, as both were equally fearless, headstrong, and competitive with one another; anything one could complete, the other swore they could do it better. With their age, Cregan was loud and bold with his defiance, whereas Adelayde was a subtle force with her rebellion, but still unafraid whenever confronted.
The twins also shared the same premature grey their father had and he would tell his children it was the streaks of winter. For Cregan, it would eventually show in his beard, but the silver was bold in Adelayde’s curls when she was just a girl. Life in Winterfell was joyous; they would shadow their father’s every step and he would dote upon his children, taking the time to explain his actions and daily tasks, so they could understand the duties that were required by his titles. The North was faithful to their Warden and Rickon Stark was dutiful with his responsibilities in return.
A decade had passed when Gillianne let her husband know she was once again with child. The maesters murmured their concern and Rickon’s forehead creased with worry to the news, for they had been strongly advised against another pregnancy.
She would just look at him and smile in return, her hands cradling her now budding stomach. “This will be another miracle baby, Rickon. I know this,” she had told him.
However, just as the gods would give, they would also take, and Lady Gillianne Stark would not have another miracle in life. Despite the loss of both his wife and the babe, Rickon remained devoted to children, as well as his role as Warden of the North. He was diligent to bring both his son and daughter along to anything pertaining to his title, determined for them to understand the responsibility he would pass along.
With Adelayde, Lord Stark allowed her to spar with the men in the courtyard and was proud with how she was apt with a blade; for Cregan, he allowed his son to help select councilmen who would inevitably serve him, which brought Lord Bartholomew Glover, their mother’s brother, back to Winterfell.
They were able to fall into a new normalcy and the years continued on, with the grief not as stifling but more a comfort that their mother was not forgotten.
This was until the end of winter, when the Lord of Winterfell caught, what the maesters initially believed to be, just a common cold.
Cregan and Adelayde remained dutiful to the schedule their father set, but also allowed time to alternate visitations with him and keep him company during his recovery. The weeks rolled away and the severity of his illness was not apparent until one morning when Adelayde went to visit with her father and their elderly Maester Cullen stepped in her way, blocking the door frame.
“My lady,” his voice was feeble, almost nervous. “You cannot see your father today.”
She fell back a step and her eyes darkened as they locked onto the maester’s, who shifted his weight under her severe gaze. “Is my father sleeping right now?” She offered him an explanation for his behavior. “I can always return later.”
Maester Cullen feigned a cough to avoid her direct stare. “Later would be no better, Lady Adelayde. It might be best to call for your uncle, for he is not doing well and it would be best-” but she did not allow him to finish his sentence.
Instead, she placed her forearm onto his chest and pushed him soundly against the oak door, pushing into the room and through the nursemaids who attempted to halt her. Adelayde came to the draping that covered the bedpost and pulled it back; she could not stop the small gasp that escaped her.
Rickon Stark had almost a rosy complexion, especially with the persistent fever, but now looked yellow and his skin seemed almost waxy. His eyes were open with an opaque fog that washed away his grey coloring and if he could hear the commotion she created, he did not act to recognize it. Instead, he stared emptily forward, his chapped lips moved slow with incoherent utterances.
Adelayde stared at him, her hand white with her hold of the fabric until a cool palm urged her to release her grasp and walked her back out of the room, bringing her to Maester Cullen.
He made a show of rubbing his chest, but she did not apologize for her prior actions and instead asked him, “When did this worsen?”
“Sometime late last night, my lady,” he paused. “He is unresponsive to everything and we have tried…”
His voice faded away and Adelayde thought of her brother; in part, she wished that Cregan was at her side, but she also felt grateful that he would not see their father in this condition, which she later would know to be his final moments. Instead, as the maester finished, she excused herself and made her way to their father’s study; she found a quill and wrote an urgent note to send to their uncle, her father’s brother, and asked him to come to Winterfell.
Bennard Stark was fast with his response and showed up promptly with his wife, Lady Margaret, and their wretched sons. He did not share Rickon’s revered demeanor, but he was able to take charge and offered to be regent to Cregan, to help him with the transition of his role in the north, as well as the preparations for the funeral.
It had been held the following morning, another grey and solemn winter day in the North that was suitable to begin Winterfell’s mourning period over their lord’s sudden demise. Cregan and Adelayde stood in their uncle’s shadow, but kept from their aunt and cousins.
“Lord Rickon Stark was an honorable man,” he droned on to the gathered crowd of wet eyes in the courtyard.
Cregan pulled off his glove and began to chew his thumbnail, an anxious habit. “Stop,” Adelayde hissed, but gently grabbed his wrist and pulled it to his side. She was quick to remove her own and held his hand so he would not continue; when she noticed his pained expression, she squeezed for comfort and softened her tone to tease him. “The Lord of Winterfell will need all his digits,” and she gave a small smile.
It allowed him a moment, a quick reprieve from the service unfolding and the sudden onslaught of responsibility of his new lordship title. He smiled at her and Adelayde squeezed his hand again, returning their attention to the insincerity their uncles continued to spew, which had started the moment he arrived to Winterfell.
“Lord Rickon Stark was an honorable man,” Bennard Stark repeated himself, his voice cracked with practiced emotion. When his speech ended and the ceremony completed itself, he was quick to usher his wife and their three children to settle themselves in their quarters.
That night, Adelayde was restless in her bed with the day’s events replaying in her mind. Afterwards, with her hold on Cregan, she pulled her brother to follow their uncle into their father’s study. The essence of their father was present in the stilled room and Bennard dove into the role as regent; his first endeavor had been to try and dismiss the men of Winterfell’s council, trying to bring on his own men that traveled with him.
Adelayde would not stand down and spoke boldly against his actions, adamant that these men, with their uncle Lord Glover and Lord Norrey, should continue to serve Winterfell as deemed by their father. “You may bring a few men of your own, uncle,” she finished, the amber aflame around her pupils; Cregan numbly watched their back and forth. “But you will honor our father’s wishes to keep this council he so meticulously prepared for my brother.”
Their uncle made a discontent noise, appalled with how she squared off and commented on her impertinent tone. It was only when Cregan snapped to, backing what she had said with Lord Norrey and Lord Glover chiming in, that their uncle conceded.
Once the room was dismissed, his wife, Lady Margaret, was quick to step in and pull her from Cregan’s side; she voiced her critiques of Adelayde and her suggestion that she needed to be, “refined in the proper etiquette of Westeros,” and that she had, “gone long enough without a mother’s guidance.”
She had been appalled with the callouses on her hands.
Insipid woman, Adelayde sighed, rolling over and pulling her quilts to her chin. She acts as if King Viserys already sent over a proposal this same morning!
It was in the quiet of that moment, that she felt her brother call to her. Addy.
It was something they had never spoken about out loud, this connection; whether it stemmed from when they shared the womb or perhaps the old Northern magic that was settled in the Godswood, whatever its cause, they always responded whenever one called to the other.
Adelayde was quick to sit up and swing her legs from the bed, slipping on her slippers and robe. She wrapped her quilt around her shoulders and crept down the corridor towards her brother’s door, tapping it softly with her fingernail. “Addy?” His voice was so low and would have been missed by any untrained ear, but it was enough for her to know to open the door.
Cregan was sitting upright in his bed and, without a word, handed her one of his extra pillows; Adelayde moved to next in the window nook by his bed, taking care to rearrange the other decorative pillows and nestle in, just as she did when they were much younger.
There was a pregnant pause and Cregan finally asked, “Addy, how will I replace him?” His voice was a rasped whisper. She shifted her weight, hugging one of the pillows to her chest when she turned to face him. He was still upright, now on the edge of the bed, waiting for her response. “You cannot replace our father,” she began, careful with the words she chose. “However, I know that you will be a great Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. You will make him proud. Mother too,” she added.
“Our uncle nearly disposed father’s entire council,” Cregan almost looked pained. “I barely responded.”
“Cree,” she kept her voice soft. “So much had changed for us in such a short amount of time. Besides, you were wise to recognize a good idea when spoken, regardless of who it belonged to. You backed me when I demanded them to stay and your council held its stance.”
Cregan chuckled as he recalled their uncle’s expression when faced against his sister and her bold tongue. “Addy, you were the one who paid attention to how father would command a room, always watchful with his decisions involving Winterfell and all of the North,” his voice was sad, heavy with each word said. Though they only turned fourteen, the last few weeks seemed to age them decades.
“I should have paid closer attention to it all, I thought I had more time,” Cregan sounded broken, frightened. “I cannot fail him.”
“You still have time,” she soothed. “You are not alone, brother. I know he is a pompous ass,” and Cregan smiled with that, “I still think we are fortunate that he will be your regent, even if it comes with the cost of his unpleasant family.” She grit her teeth at the thought of Lady Margaret, but continued, “I trust you will absorb everything that must be learned. You also have Lord Norrey and Uncle Barth for your council,” she smiled. “I am here, Cree. I swear I will relay every lesson remembered and I trust you will be fine.”
He let out a shaky exhale. “Thank you, Addy,” and he finally relaxed enough to lay back against his pillows, curling underneath the furs. “I swear I will do good by the North and for Winterfell,” he paused. “And for you. I know Lady Margaret plots to wed you immediately, but I will not allow that.”
Adelayde laughed. “She is a fool if she truly thinks she can pry my attention away from what father wished me to learn,” she was smug. “He always said every woman should know how to raise a sword and I plan to continue with that.”
“These will be your selling points when she sends out inquiries to find you a husband,” he giggled.
“I will only accept whoever may best me, then, if I am to even consider a proposal,” she curled herself to fit comfortably in the nook, the pillows positioned to sink against. “Sleep well, Warden of the North.”