Chapter 3 : The wind of change (1)

(7 months later)

[William's POV]

Night had fallen hours ago, but sleep stayed far from me. I was laying in my crib, eyes fixed on the ceiling, a gnawing sense of dread creeping through my thoughts. Logically, everything should go smoothly, but logic never quite settles nerves.

Anyone in my position would feel the same unease, at least, anyone with a shred of empathy.

"AAAAAHHHHHH!!!" That scream, echoing through the stone halls belonged to Minisa. The reason behind it? The same one my father wasn't in his bed tonight ; She was in labor.

I had mixed feelings about it all. On one hand, I knew how much Minisa longed to be a mother. A part of me was even happy for her, truly. On the other hand, I couldn't help but wish I could sit her down and explain to her, with a PowerPoint if possible, why, considering the future actions of her kids and her health, she and Hoster might want to reconsider expanding the family.

Of course, that wasn't an option. Microsoft Office wasn't exactly within my reach and I wasn't even able to speak, much less make a coherent argument. Besides, no matter how sweet and gentle Minisa seemed, the noises that sometimes drifted from her and Hoster's room left no doubt ; She had a nymphomaniac streak that wasn't going away anytime soon.

Anyway, let's focus on the new addition to our family ; Catelyn. I mean, it has to be her, unless I have somehow completely messed up the timeline.

Here's the thing ; I don't like Catelyn. I know, shocking revelation. Whether it was her decisions, the way she raised her children, or how she treated Jon Snow, among other things, she got more things wrong than right to me.

However, and this is a significant 'however', I can sort of understand why she turned out the way she did.

From what I know of the original story, Catelyn's upbringing wasn't shaped by her parents as much as it should have been. Instead, it was three people who molded her ; My father, a Septon, and a Maester.

The Maester, likely Maester Kym, and the Septon, whose influence seems to have fueled Catelyn's more narrow-minded views, definitely both played a role in forming some of her less admirable traits in my opinion.

As for my father, I won't pretend he passed on only virtues. After eight months of being close to him, I have seen his flaws. Stubbornness being chief among them, and I would bet good coin that Catelyn inherited that same trait.

Now, stubbornness isn't always a bad thing, but for Catelyn, it didn't often work in her favor.

"YYYYYAAAAHHHH!" One of Minisa's screams jolted me from my thoughts once again, but this time I could sense a change in her voice. There was something final in this scream, perhaps painful relief. Moments later, the sharp cry of a newborn, "OUAH! OUAH!" confirmed it.

And with that, I knew. Life at Riverrun was about to get a lot more complicated.

(2 years later, 266)

[Brynden's POV]

The more time passed, the clearer it became that my brother was taking this imagined competition between Catelyn and William far too seriously, like it was some grand contest to see which one of them was the brightest.

Idiot.

It's not paternal pride speaking when I'm saying that if there was any real competition, Catelyn would be losing by miles. It's not that she wasn't clever for a girl of two name days (if refraining from eating your own boogers is considered a mark of intelligence at that age), but William was in a different league altogether. Immensely more mature and talented, not just when compared to her, but to every other brat I had ever come across.

Hoster never missed a chance to boast about how Catelyn took her first steps at one name day or how she spoke her first word not even a moon after. I could have easily pointed out that at the same age, William was nearly running and forming more or less coherent sentences. But I was above that kind of petty boasting.

Most parents might worry about their child growing up so unnaturally fast. Not me. I shed blood for the first time at thirteen name days, and I wanted William to be better prepared than I was as the need for it will arise sooner or later.

Of course, for now, he was far from ready to wield a sword, whether steel or wood. But I could see it in his eyes whenever he watched me train for hours ; He was a warrior.

Yet I knew his life wouldn't be limited to the battlefield. He had the heart of a warrior, yes, but more than that, he had the mind of a scholar.

Two moons ago, he decided to teach himself to read. After days of Maester Corwyn reluctantly giving him basic instruction, he started tearing through the books in Riverrun's library at a speed that would make even a seasoned maester jealous. Actually, 'reading' might not be the right word to explain what he was doing. He was skimming through pages, spending no more than a few seconds on each one. And, he was memorizing everything he read, every word, every punctuation mark. Nothing escaped him. It was... unsettling.

And that was just one of many things that set William apart.

As soon as he could walk steadily, he took to exploring the castle. Now, Riverrun was his domain ; The stables, the armory, the kitchens, he knew every corner. And his curiosity wasn't limited to places. He spoke with everyone, from blacksmiths to soldiers, even the passing merchants. They all said the same thing of him ; a strange boy, but never arrogant, never condescending, even though he was highborn.

He had a way with people, a knack for finding the right words to make them like him. And recently, his new hobby had only deepened that affection.

Right after learning to read, he asked for lead pencils and parchment, his first request of me. I was curious, so I gladly obliged. As soon as he had them, he began sketching. At first, his drawings were, frankly, terrible. But over time, they improved. Remarkably so. Soon, he was drawing lifelike portraits of those around the castle and gifting them.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to win hearts, including Catelyn's.

William's relationship with children around his age was... complicated. He didn't share their interests and wasn't particularly fond of their company. That didn't bother me, but it did trouble Minisa.

She had envisioned William and Catelyn becoming playmates, growing inseparable over time. But William clearly had other ideas, keeping his distance from Catelyn. Before he took up drawing, he hardly spent time with her, making Minisa worry about her daughter's growing loneliness. Now, though, Catelyn had become one of his favorite models.

Seeing Catelyn and William getting along, Minisa stopped fretting about her daughter's isolation. But unlike her, I noticed something. William was different with Catelyn. He wasn't himself. With adults, the contact was natural and easy. But with her, there was no genuine enjoyment.

It was almost amusing. Minisa, who was always quick to criticize Hoster's lack of attention, failed to notice that William's friendliness toward her daughter was just an act to please her.

Maybe her second pregnancy was dulling her senses.

"You seem lost in thought, Father." William's voice broke through my thoughts, his dark blue eyes never leaving the parchment as he worked on my portrait.

"What makes you say that?" I asked, amusement creeping into my tone.

"Well…" William shifted slightly on the tree stump he was sitting on, "I couldn't help but notice you have paused your sword sharpening."

I glanced down at the whetstone in my left hand and the longsword in my right. Yes, I had stopped without realizing it, "You are mistaken." I said with a smile, "I was only staying still so I wouldn't ruin your drawing."

"Very well..." He said quietly, handing over the parchment with his little right hand, "Feel free to continue then."

I set the whetstone aside and took the drawing from him. Once again, I was struck by his skill. Unlike the flat, lifeless sketches of so-called artists, William's drawings had depth and perspective. It was like seeing myself captured in shades of gray and white.

I could sense that there was still room for improvement (despite the fact that it was much better than anything I had seen from other artists), but considering his age, his talent was more than just impressive.

Though I was not a man prone to outward displays of emotion, William's gift moved me to the point where I nearly reached out to embrace him. Yet, his expression revealed that he didn't hold his work in the same high regard as I did.

This wasn't new. He never showed personal pride in his accomplishments related to his drawings. Just a flicker of satisfaction when others admired them.

And then it hit me. William enjoyed reading. He enjoyed talking with the adults around the castle. But when he drew, his face was always... closed off, like there was no joy in it. Why?

I folded the drawing and tucked it into my pocket, then looked at my son with a more serious, but not unkind, expression, "Why do you do something you don't enjoy, William?"

For a brief moment, his eyes widened in surprise. Then he smiled, "It's a necessary practice. You will understand when I'm good enough."

(1 year later, 267)

[William's POV]

If Lysa's birth had one silver lining, it was that it finally put an end to Minisa's relentless crusade to make Catelyn and me the best of friends. I swear, she tried to sell me as a great idea bonding with a kid whose only remarkable characteristic was her ability to continually produce snot in industrial quantities and because I refused (knowing full well that it was a scam) I somehow became the villain of the story...

It made me wonder if my aunt and I even shared the same understanding of justice.

Occasionally, I would catch myself thinking that maybe I was overreacting. After all, the portraits I sketched of Catelyn did help to keep the peace with Minisa. But those moments of doubt were always fleeting. Sure, it lifted Catelyn's spirits and kept Minisa happy, but the price was too high. It felt like I was sacrificing my time, wasting it on drawing Catelyn.

The incessant and stupid questions like "Can you count from 0 to 2 without using your fingers?" while I was trying to concentrate, along with her random crying and screaming, made me want to throw my lead pencils at her more than one time. 

Of course, I was aware that she was just a child, and that judging her by my standards was unreasonable. After all, her behavior was no different from that of most kids. But despite all the excuses you can make for them, the truth remains ; Kids are a pain in the ass.

Back to my drawings…

I was quite pleased with myself at the moment because my initial short-term goal had simply been to improve. Now, not only was I becoming more skilled at drawing each day, but my art was also earning me the appreciation of many people and the good reputation that came with it.

Recently, a merchant even offered to supply me with parchment and lead pencils in exchange for my services whenever he passed through Riverrun. This got me thinking about the monetary possibilities that my drawing skills could bring. I mean, if I can earn a few silver stags on the side by sketching a lord's portrait, then why not?

To start turning my ambitions into reality, I lack many things, but mainly two ; Gold and credibility. If honing my craft could bring in the gold, then I needed to seize the opportunity.

Credibility, though, that's a trickier issue. I'm not even four name days old, and that, by itself, would be enough to raise doubts. But in my case, there's more to consider. So, let's break it down ; On one hand, my intelligence, maturity, and knowledge should work in my favor. On the other, my age works against me and I can't exactly go to my father or my uncle to get things done the way I want.

My father's unpredictability terrifies me, so I would rather not involve him. As for Hoster, even if he supported my ideas and it was my future gold which was invested, I doubt he would let me have any control. He's become far too hands-on since becoming Lord of the Riverlands.

Fortunately, there's someone else in the castle who could help. From the moment I was born, he's insisted that I'm destined for greatness, blessed by the Seven. If anyone would be open to what I'm about to suggest, it's him. At least, I hope so.

[Third person's POV]

A small boy, dressed in breeches, leather boots, and a white tunic, stood still before a wooden door. His frozen gaze hinted at more than just waiting; it revealed hesitation, as though he wasn't sure whether to knock and draw the attention of the person on the other side.

He inhaled deeply, finally lifting his left hand and curling it into a fist.

Knock

Knock

A harsh cough from beyond the door made the boy's youthful face tighten with worry. But relief softened his features when he heard his grandfather's voice, still carrying traces of strength despite the illness, "I can tell it's you, William, just by the way you knock. Come in."