Cregan X Reader - Blog Posts

but I'll know, I'll know

summary: At the ripe age of ten, the Realm’s Jewel was nominated by her grandsire the King, despite all the protests of the Small Council, the official Royal Ambassador; thus, her voyages throughout the Seven Kingdoms started, and yet another nickname was forged for her by the Smallfolk: the Wandering Princess.

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 8.4k

warnings: language, mention of labours and pregnancies (nyra has just given birth to aegon), the ass freezing cold weather in the north, scars, nādrēsy eats people, reader is a kid with a dream (marrying cregan) but my guy doesn't want anything to do with her, mention of cannibalism, if you catch the dante's inferno reference I will give you cookies

author's note: this took me forever but it's finally here!! enjoy :)

previous | next | series masterlist

Aegon is born skinny and scrawny, all twitching limbs and bloodied hair, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Dear Gods, aren’t you the ugliest thing?” you say as a midwife carefully passes him to you, fresh out of your mother’s womb. You’re sure he’s at least thrice as ugly as Joff was when he was born — and that’s all on Daemon. 

You pass the babe to a nurse, who then passes him to your mother, who’s breathing heavily but still smiling. She nods to one of her handmaidens. “Go fetch Daemon, tell him it’s a boy.”

A bit after you went to your grandsire and took place in court as King’s Justice, the reason why your mother had wanted to marry Daemon so hastily quickly got out: she was pregnant, pretty surely out of marriage — not that other people aside you and your grandsire were allowed to speculate on that. 

Speaking of your grandsire, he was furious once he discovered that after all, they had really married. You had never seen him so angry, not since Aemond tried to kill you; he broke vases, screamed at the men in the council and behaved insufferably for a whole sennight, before just accepting his defeat. He still refuses to open any of your mother and uncle's letters, even after word of rhaenyra’s pregnancy got out. 

If it wasn’t for the babe, you wouldn’t have talked to your mother for much, much longer. But a pregnancy isn’t an easy thing, and even if you have every right to be mad at her right now, you will not let her die on the childbed without any support — because of fucking course Daemon isn’t there when she delivers little Aegon. He’s run off Gods know where, too scared to face another birthing wife in fear she might die. Coward. 

“I’ll head to King’s Landing on the morrow.” you murmur as the servants finish changing the sheets and exit the room. Now it’s only you, your mother and the suckling-milk monster latched onto her breast. She sends you a bleary gaze, confused, hair mussed and skin still glistening in sweat. “What?” she breathes out. 

“So that for now I can give you my help in washing off all the blood,” you reply. “And then, once they wake up, say goodbye to my siblings.”

“But… you just got here yesterday. Your brothers haven’t even seen you and you’re already running away.” well, that is true. You’ve arrived on Dragonstone after supper was already finished, and the boys had already gone to sleep; then your mother’s labours began barely after the sun rose, so they were yet to wake. Now it was well into the night, and the only person who you have seen is Helaena, who at some point came to see how things were going and offered a kind word to her half-sister. 

You sigh, knowing she would've said that. “The prisons in all the Seven Kingdoms are overflowing, mother. And once the lords heard that the King’s Justice didn’t have to be paid, they either started bringing their prisoners to the Crownlands or started asking if I could come to clean their dirty laundry.” you furrow your eyebrows sadly as Aegon gurgles, hiding deeper in Rhaenyra’s chest. “I thought we already talked about that. I have to be in the Riverlands tomorrow to clean Lord Elmo Tully’s… wastes.” 

She shakes her head, bewildered. “You don’t have to be anywhere! You are a Targaryen, you have the right to show up when and if you want to. I already don’t like the fact that father’s making you do a peasant’s job, but the fact that you think you have to be somewhere is simply outrageous. And–”

“Sorry, I worded that wrongly,” you interrupt her. “I am making myself go to the Riverlands by tomorrow. I actually have more than a prison to wipe out.” once again, it seems you have a list. “Yet another revolt between Blackwood and Bracken broke out, and I can’t wait to see their faces when they see that their beloved Lord Tully has called for reinforcements. Besides, travelling throughout Westeros is fun,” you add. “You know, I’m getting to know all the lords — or better, their heirs, the one that when I rule will sit on their thrones. I have become good friends with Oscar Tully– Elmo’s grandson.”

You look between her and the babe; there’s something strange in your gaze, something that says you should be doing this instead of me. “I am doing us both a favour, mother. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve caught the Hightowers trying to poison grandsire? I already had him change his food tester twelve times and between the change and Otto managing to bribe them into poisoning the King there’s at most a week. It’s never something I can accuse him with, though,” you scoff, “It’s always the poor tasters that I have to make Nādrēsy eat.”

You shake your head as Aegon falls asleep, your mother having tears in her eyes. “Your hasty marriage to Daemon and precocious pregnancy have angered many lords that hoped to marry into the Royal Family. I am merely trying to help our cause.”

“What was I supposed to do?” she whispers. “Having Aegon born out of marriage? Having a real bastard this time?”

You were just trying to say that chastity belts existed and there are many things to do rather than to copulate with your uncle, but surely you’re not going to say that to a woman who has just given birth. “How many years has it been since Queen Aemma’s death?” you ask. You know, but you want her to understand your point. 

“Almost nineteen years,” she quickly responds. 

You raise an eyebrow. “And when did grandsire marry Alicent?”

“Seventeen years ago.”

“See?” you point out. “Grandsire respected the mourning period well enough, yet you still resent him for remarrying and hold a particular disdain for Alicent. And you’re trying to tell me that I’m not allowed to hold against you the fact that you remarried barely four moons after my father’s death?” 

She shakes her head vehemently, “That is not why–”

“It is!” you insist. “I have all the right reasons to hold my deepest disdain for Daemon and resent you for marrying him. Why?” you scoff, “Because as your daughter, I want what’s best for you. And that’s not a man who runs away as soon as he hears that his wife's labours have started. Jace, Luke and Joff may have not been father’s children, but he didn’t miss a single birth, and he was always just out of the birthing chamber.”

“Daemon has been through a lot,” she protests. 

“I have been through a lot too!” you hiss. “Yet I have watched you give birth twice, out of worry that it might be the last time I see you! And I’m how many years younger than him?”

“Your uncle has seen his second wife make her dragon burn her alive for the immense pain she was feeling during the labour,”

“And he also probably killed the first one,”

She sends you a look. “And I saw my father’s carbonised body,” you mutter. “Yet me and my dragon burn down to a crisp criminals for a living. Scratch that, not even for that, it’s just to make the lords understand that once the kingdom passes down to you or to me, it will be well taken care of.”

“My father didn’t have to prove himself worthy of ruling, so why should we? The throne will be ours by right, and the people will just have to accept it.”

The door creaks open, but you don’t turn to see who entered — by the steps, you know it’s Daemon, returning with his tail between his legs. “That’s where you are wrong, mother,” you reason. “Grandsire didn’t, but he is a man. Stop acting like people don’t doubt our capability of ruling simply because of our birth. My grandmother proved herself perfectly capable of being queen, yet she was passed down simply because she is, and will always be, a woman. And that, in our world, is one of the biggest disgraces to men.” you shake your head yet again — it seems this talk is full of disappointment on both ends.

“You could be the bravest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and still be looked down upon because they think your only purpose is to birth children. I am merely trying to change that perspective.”

“Is there a problem?” Daemon has now crossed the room and is right behind you, hand on his sword, hesitant gaze towards his wife. You have to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. “No,” you reply, back on your feet and going for the exit. “I was already about to leave.”

He blocks you by taking you by the bicep, eyebrows raised. “Why don’t you stay for a while?” he asks. “I’m sure your bastard could take a day or two without eating criminals.”

You stare at him up and down. “I’ll stay for a while when you’re either gone or dead. By your inconsistency and age, it won’t take too long. And please, take a bath,” you shake his hand off of your arm, “You stink of dragon, and even if she doesn’t tell you that, your wife suffers the smell.”

It is glorious to see the Hightower’s faces fall — mostly, it is endearing to hear the Lord Hand’s voice stutter. Because he knows you’ve got him. 

“But– but the Princess is but a child!” his daughter protests, looking at your grandsire, outraged. Viserys shakes his head, “This was solely my decision, and I will not let any of you think that your opinion counts on this matter.”

“Aegon is much older,” Otto merely chimes in. He knows his case is weak. “And so is Aemond. They’re men, well experienced and highly educated. I am sorry, Your Grace, but I don’t understand your decision.”

“For starters, I don’t ride my dragon drunk,” you reply to him, the biggest smirk on your face. Alicent’s face reddens at the mention of her firstborn’s biggest problem; you only stand straighter, with now the eyes of the whole Small Council pointed towards you. “Nor am I missing an eye — but even if I was, my dragon listens to my orders. Did you hear about Vhagar's latest mishaps, Lord Hand?”

Her waking up for your uncle to climb on her saddle, only to fall back asleep as soon as he’s on, sleeping so silent that the dragon keepers thought she was dead for good — and then, once they had finally managed to reach the skies, a whole farm burned down when Aemond had simply asked her to land. Either she’s senile, or she doesn’t really like Aemond. 

“Also, I wouldn’t call Aegon highly educated nor well experienced,” you add. “Maybe, yes — if you need a good brothel in Flea Bottom, he’s the man you’re searching for. For political matters?” you shake your hand. “Would you rather him falling off of Sunfyre on the way to Winterfell while drunk, or not knowing a single thing about how he should act? Or maybe send Aemond, and have the possibility of Vhagar burning the entire place down?” you scoff.

“Please, Lord Hand. We don’t want any diplomatic incidents.” you just know Ser Tyland is holding in his laughter. 

“The Princess is heir,” your grandsire adds, and you pretend to act as if you don’t hear Alicent gritting her teeth from the end of the table, where you’re standing. “She is highly educated, as she is to be Queen, she knows her way with swords and with words, and her dragon is as loyal as can be. She is a skilled rider and has already ended other men’s lives via him. She is fit for this task, and as I said, if she does well, it will be hers for the time to come.” 

“She is but ten summers old,” the Queen objects.

“I’m still a better option than a drunkard and a cripple,” you raise an eyebrow towards her, then towards her father, who is just about to speak. “And I would be able to make a better evaluation than you, Lord Hand, if that’s what you want to suggest. No prayers could ever woo me.”

Otto’s eye twitches. Nobody else on the council tries to say anything; the decision is taken, and since everyone in this room values their life and you look pretty threatening with your hand on the grip of your sword, they are smart enough to keep silent. 

“And whose fault is it that my son is a cripple?” Alicent taunts. 

You laugh. “I’m not the one who raised an ungrateful brat. You should be happy I’m here, considering that if I wasn’t and it was his fault, his neck would have been cut. Next time you have a son, maybe teach him to differentiate between a friend and an enemy.”

“That is enough, sweetling,” the King says gently. He looks around the room, at his council members. “You’re all dismissed. Sweetling, would you mind accompanying me to my chambers?” 

You nod dutifully, moving to his side as the others get up and handing him his cane. “Ah, thank you,”

As much as he doesn’t like to admit it, your grandsire is getting old. He can’t walk as much as he used to, and he is getting easier to tire. Small Council meetings almost exhaust him, now more than ever, and travelling isn’t much of an option anymore. 

“How’s little Aegon?” he asks, as you help him climb the stairs towards his chamber. He has yet to reply to any of his daughter or his brother’s letters, preferring to take any information he can from you. 

“Growing steadily,” you reply. “He’s almost six moons now. His dragon hatched; Luke has called him Stormcloud. I went to visit them on Dragonstone last week, after settling the matters with the prisoners on Driftmark. He’s learned how to stand and babbles soundly all the time.”

The King hums as the stairs come to an end, two guards opening the doors of his rooms for you two. “That’s good. Maybe one day you can bring him and your brothers here — I haven’t seen them in ages.”

You hold back a grimace as he takes a seat by the table that sits in the main room, resting his chin upon the hilt of the cane. “I’ll see what I can do,” you promise him. “Mother isn’t fond of King’s Landing, but maybe she would let me bring them here. She has been particularly lenient these last few moons.” that’s just because she’s trying to win you back, but that’s another story.

He nods silently, gaze tender and warm as he looks at you. His eyebrows narrow, though. “The North is harsh,” he warns. “I’ve been there just once, and after I had a fever that lasted the whole way back home. Northerners are– different. Tougher, harsher, more brutal. I need you to understand what you are getting into, before I send you there.” 

“Cregan Stark is the rightful heir of Winterfell,” you murmur, warmed by his worry. “The North is one of our biggest allies. To me it is clear that Bennard Stark is an usurper. And as an heir to the Iron Throne, it is only right that we treat usurpers as the law commands.” you purse your lips, “By death.”

“Northerners like to take care of their own matters,” your grandsire murmurs, “we rarely get involved, but… well, Lord Cregan is barely a man. He is but Aemond’s age, and even if the Small Council insists on not sending anyone, I can’t help but worry. An usurper who manages to get on a throne will only get greedier and greedier as time goes on. One day, we could find ourselves against the North if he ever were to succeed.”

“He has three sons,” you nod, “Cregan is but five-and-ten. And seeing northern standards, he won’t get married for at least another five years. Yes, there are rumours going around of Bennard murdering his first wife, but… it’s not rare that a woman’s death is overlooked on the promise of stability.”

Your grandsire shakes his head, sighing. “Greedy men, always grasping at everything they can take, even if it means killing your own nephew.” he presses his lips against each other, then tries to smile at you. “We will have to send you to Winterfell well equipped. I will send servants down to the market to look for coats and cloaks, but for now– there’s something I feel like you should have.”

He raises from his seat, going for the bed, kneeling carefully by it and reaching for something under it. He takes out a long silver box, decorated with dragon carvings and ruby stones; he motions for you to come near him, and he opens the case. 

Inside, there’s Blackfyre. 

Blackfyre is House Targaryen’s longsword, made out of Valyrian Steel, and once it was his chosen weapon. It is passed down from king to king, a symbol of power and duty, and even if you’ve never seen your grandsire wield it, you know he uses it as a scepter while holding court. 

“‘Tis only fair that it passes down to you,” he says, holding it out for you to take. “Dark Sister would be more appropriate for a woman, as it is more slim and light, but unfortunately it is in the possession of my brother, and I am sure that even if I were to force him to give it to you, you would refuse simply because it came from him. Blackfyre is the sword of kings, though; and now it shall be of a queen, too.”

You shake your head, bewildered, “Grandsire, as much as I am honoured, you still need it.”

He laughs. “And for what? To hold it as a stick during court? Please, granddaughter of mine, don’t jest. With me as its wielder, it will just grow musty, as I can barely even raise it. I insist you take it.”

Reluctantly, you take it in your arms and observe it; it is as you remember, clean silver and dark handle, a ruby on its end and something resembling a dragon wing at the start of the blade. It is too long for you to wear normally, that is already clear, so you’ll probably have to wear it on your back and hope it doesn’t reach the ground. 

Your grandsire smiles. “A good sword for a worthy wielder.”

The next sennight is filled with fittings and preparations for your upcoming trip to the North — which will be the farthest you’ve ever gone from King’s Landing. It will be a harsh and long journey, but you and Nādrēsy are ready for it. 

The night before your departure you ask the servants for a bath; a hot one, with the water almost boiling, as Targaryens like it. You take your sweet time, sending away the maids and sinking in the bathtub, tasting a warmth you probably won’t feel for a while. Looking at the mirror sitting a few feet away from the tub, you can’t help but glare at the scar on your temple — and it seems to glare back. 

It has now turned pink-ish, a little red on some days, and looks a bit like a thunder going from your head almost down to your cheekbone. In a year and a half of having it, you have yet to get used to it. For your ninth nameday, your grandsire gave you a white gold coronet that you always wear. It’s some sort of replica of his own crown, as they are much similar — the only differences being the way they fit, the colours and the Great Houses emblems; in fact, in place of those, you have amethyst stones, a nice touch requested by your grandsire. 

The coronet is a great relief, as it hides most of the scar from others, and if anyone notices, it seems they value their tongue too much to comment about it. The only one who has protested is Alicent, who insists that since you are neither a king nor a queen, you have no right to wear such a thing. Your grandsire, of course, ignores her, almost as well as you do. 

You only take the coronet off to go to bed and to wash yourself, otherwise, it’s always on your head. It acts as a shield between you and your insecurities, and you’re more than okay with it, especially because it is one of the prettiest jewels you own. The fact that for most of your days you now wear your usual dragon riding attire doesn’t mean you don’t like pretty dresses and shiny things anymore — in fact, you thrive on the days where you can wear your beloved gowns and show off all your jewellery. You already plan on bringing your best pieces to Winterfell. 

A look at your scar is enough to bring back all the memories you only wish to bury deep in the sand — Aemond’s attack, Jace and Luke’s little faces covered in blood, your mother injured and the sight of your father's carbonised body, added to the screams of your grandmother. You really wish things had been different. 

You leave on the morrow, right after breaking your fast. All the things you’ll need are already loaded on Nādrēsy’s back, near the saddle, and your grandsire comes with you to the Dragonpit to be able to bid you his goodbyes. Surprisingly, Aegon tags along.

He’s yawning for the whole ride, falling asleep at some point. He already reeks of wine and has blood-shot eyes, yet you appreciate the gesture. You don’t have that much of a relationship, aside from him teaching you the right words to insult Daemon, but still. He’s not really a bad person, he’s just… lost. Something tells you that if your mother had raised him, he wouldn’t be drowning in his cups every day all day. 

By the time you all exit the carriage, he’s wide awake and a man on a mission. “Bring me the best wine you can find,” he says, with a lucidity untypical of him. You burst out laughing, “Well, uncle, I’m pretty sure they don’t make wine in the North. But I’ll look for the strongest ale I can find.”

He sighs dreamily. “Oh, sweet niece, what would I do without you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Without me always defending you your mother would have killed you a long time ago for the sake of the family — can’t really say I’d blame her.”

He pouts grumpily while your grandsire joins you, having just exited the carriage. “Farewell, sweetling,” he murmurs, tears in his eyes, hugging you tight. “Be careful, please.”

You laugh softly. “Don’t you worry, grandsire, I’ll make sure to come back all in one piece.”

He hugs you again, Aegon standing there awkwardly — Viserys has never really shown affection for him, nor for his siblings. You always reprimand him for that, but he’s a lost cause. You do feel pity for them, to only have Alicent to love them — and what kind of love it must be! Maybe she whacks them twenty times instead of the usual thirty when they do something wrong. 

After securing Blackfyre on your back again, you mount Nādrēsy’s saddle, and he roars happily, spreading his wings. “Be careful!” your grandsire screams, as your uncle yells, “Remember the ale!”

Soon after, the Red Keep becomes but a small dot on the ground, and you are to reach Winterfell. 

They had warned you that the North was cold, but not even in your wildest dreams you could have thought it was this cold. You’ve been in the Riverlands, and it’s cold there too, yes, but the North? Nothing the maids had said could have ever prepared you. 

It feels like years since you’ve seen a green speck of land; now it’s all covered in snow, and it’s a miracle that dragons have a particular high body temperature, because otherwise you and Nādrēsy would’ve been swaddled by the hailstorms and snowfalls, for they are violent and — have you already said cold?

The coronet by now is freezing, so cold that your head hurts. You’ve already damned enough Gods and Saints to grant yourself the ugliest spot in one of the deepest pits of the Seven Hells, and judging by his grumpiness and complaints, your dragon is suffering too. He’s constantly huffing fire in an attempt to melt the ice and snow, trying his best to protect you, and even if it’s not of much use you are thankful for him. You briefly think that Syrax would never be able to sustain such a voyage, as spoiled as she is, and despite everything it brings a small smile to your face.

Rhaenyra does treat her girls well. 

The thought of your mother warms you, despite your discrepancies, and you wonder how she fares; you had written to her about your journey to Winterfell, but had not stayed long enough to receive a reply. Hopefully, little Aegon and all your brothers are well and thriving and aren’t having too much trouble adjusting to another sibling learning how to walk in the house — you know a thing or two about that. And about that, Rhaenyra treating her girls well reminds you about something… 

“Ivestragon, valītsos,” Say, boy, “Ziry iksos nūmāzma jēda īlon rhaenagon naejot pendagon nūmāzma lī belmos syt ao, iksin nyke paktot?” It's about time we start to think about those rings for you, am I right?

Your teeth are cluttering against each other, but your smile is loud and clear, and your dragon roars happily. You should've gotten him those horn rings ages ago, before Joffrey was even born, but with everything that happened it just slipped your mind. You promise yourself it will be the first thing you think about when back to King’s Landing, as he has more than earned them, especially after this trip. 

Your mother once said that a trip from the Crownlands to Winterfell on dragonback would have taken two days, but it takes you and your dragon five whole days, as you two are slowed by the bad weather and the constant stops to just light a fire and warm up a bit. Even as Winterfell enters your view, the snow doesn’t stop, and by now the scarf that is covering most of your face is basically frozen and crusted with ice, as well as the hairs that escaped your cowl. 

“Ninkiot, Nādrēsy!” Land, “Konīr, ondoso se dōros!” There, by the walls!

You have no intentions of scaring the Starks — or, should you say, the Stark? — so, for now, as much as it pains you, your dragon will have to stay outside. As the huge door that brings inside Winterfell is slowly opened, you open the chains that bind you to Nādrēsy while in the skies, as he stirs his wings and lets out a big yawn — that to the guards probably seems like a threat, because they immediately sheath their swords, preparing to attack. 

As if our dragons didn’t melt enough swords to make a throne of it, already.

“Lay down the blades!” a voice comes in. “It’s the Royal Ambassador you’re pointing them at, and I’m sure King Viserys would be dismayed if a diplomatic incident were to happen.”

You recognize him instantly — ah, first love, always hard to forget. He’s grown, of course, and now resembles more a bear than a man, especially with all the furs he’s wearing, and you take immediate notice of the difference between him and Aemond. They’re the same age — your uncle’s a little bit older, if you’re not wrong — and yet he’s still skinny and scrawny, bony, even with all the food his mother forces him to eat. 

And, of course, Lord Cregan Stark is much, much taller than him. 

He’s on a horse, followed by what you assume are his guards and men, and he quickly dismounts, bowing. “Princess, it is an honour to be able to host you in the Stark’s holdfast. It is a pity that it must be under such dire circumstances.” 

You hide a smile. Ah, Starks. So up their asses. 

“Hopefully I am not late for supper, am I, Lord Cregan?” you ask, pulling down your scarf to be able to talk better. You take out the dagger tied to your waist, manoeuvring yourself to be able to cut the cords that bind your luggages to Nādrēsy. They fall on the snow below, surely without much damage. 

He gets up, shaking his head. “Not at all, Princess, we weren’t even about to eat. You have the time to change into warmer clothes before the food is ready.”

You nod. “Good.”

You easily slide off your dragon’s wing, not noticing the way the boy reaches out — afraid that you’ll fall or worse. Gods know what kind of war a dead princess in Winterfell would bring to the North. You look back at Nādrēsy, “Ōños iā perzys lo jaelā, yn umbagon kesīr!” Light a fire if you want, but stay here!

He roars, not happy at all, and you turn back at him, glaring. Your next words are yelled and incomprehensible to Cregan, as he doesn’t know a single thing about High Valyrian, but he knows well the way insults and cursing words are said, and those sound like a lot of them. It’s so scary that him and some of his men shiver — and it’s not for the cold. 

Once you are done with him, he’s grumbling, quietly opening his mouth to burn a tree nearby, then hugging it with his body with a huff. You scoff, “You think you have raised a decent dragon and he turns out to be spoiled. What’s next? I’ll have to cook and cut up the meat for him to eat like they do for Syrax?”

He roars again, but this time you ignore him, walking towards the Lord of Winterfell, who stands there with his mouth agape. You held out your hand expectantly, raising an eyebrow as he looks between you and your dragon. In the end, he takes your hand in his, kissing the ring with the Targaryen emblem that sits on your middle finger, trying to ignore your worryingly big dragon. 

Standing straight again, he motions over two of his men, pointing at the bags left in the snow. “Take those and bring them to the chambers we reserved for the Princess,” he then looks at you, “I took it upon myself to appoint you three maids, Princess. The King advised me to, as he said you would’ve come here alone, and as much as I would like to think that your travels were nice, the weather suggests otherwise.”

That’s because right now the wind is icy, freezing, with splutters of snow falling from the sky. You nod, “Thank you, Lord Stark. It’s warming to see such a welcome after the freezing journey.” Quite literally.

He winces. “Cregan will suffice. We’re both far too young for you to call me Lord Stark.”

You chuckle. “As you wish. I will not ask you to stop referring to me as Princess, though, I hope you know that.”

He frowns. “Of course. I would never ask Your Grace to do that.”

He gently gestures towards his horse, dark hair frizzled by the wind, “‘Tis best if we go back to the castle, Princess; yet another hailstorm is brewing. You can ride with me.” 

You don’t let him repeat himself twice, letting him help you up on the saddle then quickly jumping on behind you, manoeuvring the horse towards the gates, which close behind you. If he sees the dagger you stole from him, he makes no mention of it. “‘Tis cold in Winterfell, my Princess, but I assure you that you will have the warmest room of the castle. The maids will make sure to keep the fire going; I imagine that going from the warm temperatures of King’s Landing to the constant snowing of the North mustn’t be easy.”

His northern accent makes butterflies explode in your stomach in such a good way that you think that if all men had the same tone, dealing with them wouldn’t be so difficult. You swing your legs over the side of the horse, careful not to hit it, and you focus on your hands, trying to take your mind off from your warm cheeks. “Thank you, Lord Cregan.”

He raises an eyebrow at your sudden silence. “…Of course, Princess. Anytime.” 

Truth is, you haven’t seen Cregan in years. It’s now a bit more than two summers since your last encounter, when he had all but stood you up on the dancefloor, on your own birthday. And as much as you would like to feign anger, or disinterest in his regards, he’s just too… well. 

He’s young, yet he’s able to hold on his shoulder such a heavy burden, being the Lord of Winterfell and going against his uncle. You can act tough all you want, but you are too a little girl who likes to listen to the love stories the septa tells you, and you wish for a husband who will treat you right — not like Daemon, who ran away from Dragonstone as soon as your mother’s labours began. 

Something tells you Cregan would treat you right. (In truth that’s just your inner child's dream speaking. You’ve liked him since before you were even able to really see or remember.)

You raise your gaze, looking at the boy in question. “Are you perhaps betrothed to anyone, Lord Cregan?”

He stills, a bit awkward, the horse stopping in front of the gates of the castle, “Well, no, Princess. By northern standards I am far too young. Here, usually men marry well into their twenties, or after their eighteenth summer.”

You hum. “Not in the Crownlands.”

Cregan frowns a bit, “If you are suggesting a…” he hesitates, “Betrothal, between you and me, Princess — and forgive me if I’m wrong — I think you are far too young to think about that, and I am too. I don’t think it would work.” He’s trying to break it to you in the nicest way possible, because — yes. You are a kid, barely ten summers of age, who’s probably already doing too much for her House, and marriage shouldn’t even cross your mind yet. He doesn’t find you funny nor is he attracted to you, obviously, so there’s no way he’s ever going to marry you. Besides, princesses are expensive, known to be spoiled, and he isn’t sure if he would ever be able to fulfil your needs and listen to you whine all day. 

You glare at him — and if looks could kill, he would already be in the family crypt, right beside his father. “Fine.” you hop off the horse before he can protest, strutting over the entrance, scaring the servants who are asked to show you around the place. “Princess, I should be the one to do that–” he tries to protest, in vain.

“Nonsense, Lord Stark!” you yell, dismissing him with a hand, not even turning back to look at him. “I’m sure the servants know the holdfast better than you.” and then you’re gone, followed by a maid who sends him a pleading look, inside the castle acting like you own it. If he doesn’t want to marry you, you’ll make sure to make him regret that — not only in this trip, but also in the years to come. 

Ah, children’s ego. So big yet so fragile. 

Cregan sighs, getting off his horse, immediately joined by Ser Rodrick, heir to House Cerwyn and in Winterfell to support him in this battle against his uncle. “What did you do to make her react that way?” he asks, bewildered. 

The boy huffs, kicking a rock nearby. “I rejected her marriage proposal.”

His friend pales. “Isn’t she, like… ten summers old?”

The Stark laughs, even if he’s not amused at all. “She is.” he shakes his head, in disbelief. “Children acting like adults. The King, between all of his capable and loyal subjects, chose his petty and spoiled granddaughter who has never heard a no in her entire life to send here to help me.”

He sighs again, getting into a foetal position, commiserating himself. “She would be capable of threatening me to give Winterfell to my uncle unless I marry her.”

You ponder the option of giving Winterfell to Bennard Stark unless Cregan is at least betrothed to you, but then again, it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Besides, you suspect he wouldn’t treat you well if you forced him to marry you. 

Maybe he’s right. You shouldn’t think of marriage right now, as you are simply here to prove yourself worthy of the honour of being Royal Ambassador. I’ll shorten the trip, you think to yourself, as the maids show you your chambers and strip you down, guiding you to a hot bath. I’ll deal with the Stark usurper after supper. Besides, all I have to do is hear him out and then kill him. That was what Viserys had told you to do — Bennard had proven himself guilty, and unfortunately had too many people to support him for you to let him live. You’ll depart tomorrow after breaking your fast, and let Nādrēsy play with his preys if he wants. You could visit the Riverlands, pass by Riverrun to say hi to Oscar, and then by Dragonstone to see your brothers and mother. 

One of the maids asks you if she can take off the coronet to tie your hair up, and when you nod she proceeds — only to quietly gasp at the sight of your scar. She immediately pales and apologises when you glare at her, quickly laying the coronet on a stool, going back to tying your hair up so that it doesn’t get wet. 

You know it’s hideous, but the least she could do is pretend it’s not. The urge to go away as soon as you can gets stronger. 

They dress you in the warmest dress you have brought, the purple one with embroidered pearls and fur sleeves, then braid your hair into a loose plait, delicately putting your coronet back on your head, hiding your scar. They make no mention of it, thankfully.

They guide you to the Great Hall for supper, and you are not surprised to see everyone already seated — you had taken a lot more than you normally would just to spite Cregan. The Hall seems to contain at least five hundred people, with four long tables and a raised platform for the Lord of Winterfell, noble guests and his closest men — you guess, since he doesn’t really have any family left —  banners with the Stark emblem on every wall, covering the stone. 

Cregan quickly gets down from his table, up on the platform, to greet you, offering his arm, which you — kind of rudely too — don’t accept. “I… I hope the chambers were of your liking, Princess.”

You snob him. “They could’ve been warmer. As could have been the bath.” 

He nods patiently. “I’ll make sure to alert the servants to burn more wood for the rest of your stay.”

“Don’t worry, Lord Stark,” he winces, “I won’t annoy you for too long. I’ll take my leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he asks, panicked. In all of this you are walking towards the platform, towards your table, and everybody is yet to sit down. “But– the King said you were supposed to stay for a sennight, Princess. The matters for the settlement of the succession must be–”

You groan loudly, “I know, don’t worry, you will have your throne by the time I go back to King’s Landing.” you sigh, “Men, always only caring about what is owed to them and what they want.”

That seems to shut him up, and without another word you go up the stairs that take to the table, him begrudgingly taking out the chair for you, sitting down quietly. Then everyone follows your example, relieved huffs echoing in the hall, immediately followed by a quiet chattering while waiting for the food. 

It seems that everyone is on their best behaviour tonight, because Cregan’s men are unusually educated and cordial for being soldiers and guards — you know that once out of this room, they’ll let out all the burps they’re holding back now, as they chug on beer tankards (but with their pinky fingers raised politely, no doubt a try at tea parties etiquette).

Roasted honey venison with olives, peas and beans is served, and as you eat the men start to get a bit impatient — having lasted most of the day without eating, they are starving, and it shows: they are scarving down the venison like eventually it’ll come back to life and run away. Cregan glares at them, even if it shows that he himself is a bit rusty when it comes to manners, since he has bread crumbs all over his tunic. That must happen when a boy not even six and ten is left in charge of an entire household, you guess. 

As dessert is served and dinner is finished, you are the first one to get up from your seat, looking at Cregan with a raised eyebrow — even now that you are standing, he’s taller than you, and he’s still seated. “Where is Ser Bennard Stark?” you ask him, determined to end this matter as quickly as possible. 

He raises his brows, confused. “In the dungeons, with his sons, of course. But– surely you don’t mean to go there now, Princess, do you? It’s late. The sun has already set–”

“And I am to leave tomorrow. I wish to see him now.”

Childish and petty, Cregan thinks. But that is what you are, no? A child. The fact that you will inherit the Iron Throne doesn’t change anything, for you are still ten, and him at your age was still playing knights with his friends, with barely a care in the world. How in the Seven Hells have the Targaryen raised you?

He surrenders to your will, sighing and getting up, bidding goodbye to his men and guiding you out of the hall. Two guards swiftly follow you without being told to, and the way to the dungeons is silent. Both you and Cregan know the problem well — you have been informed of it by the Small Council, who chose Ser Bennard’s sentence, while he had lived it himself. There was pretty much nothing else to add to Bennard Stark’s case, and it was only because of his status that he had the right to be heard, even if his sentence was already declared — not that he or Cregan knew of it. 

The Small Council said in the beginning that Bennard Stark had to be killed, but with him being the son of a lord, things could get messy quickly. You didn’t really understand the problem, but apparently in the North everyone’s pretty attached to the Starks, making it hard for them to… well, kill each other. A blessing by the King is needed, but yours will suffice too. 

The dungeons are dimly lit and cold, with guards standing in front of each cell, vigilant and awake. Cregan guides you in front of one of the cells, and kicks at the metal bars of it. “Uncle, you have visitors.”

Ser Bennard Stark is a gruff man, thin from his prison days, face unshaven and bleary eyes. “He looks like you haven’t been feeding him,” you comment. Cregan snorts. “We do. He just refuses to eat.”

A guard brings you a seat, and you thank him and sit down. The man in the cellar looks at you, forehead pressed to the bars. “Who is she, dear nephew? Your playdate?” he’s sarcastic, that much you can tell. You already don’t like him. 

“Uncle, this is the Princess firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velayon. She is here as Royal Ambassador to evaluate your case.”

His uncle raises his eyebrows, looking at you up and down. “I don’t believe that. She’s barely a babe out of the womb.”

You glare at him, tapping your foot on the ground. “And you look like the worst scum out of Flea Bottom. But I guess looks can be deceiving.” you sigh heavily, crossing your arms. “Ser Bennard Stark–”

“Lord Bennard Stark,” he interjects. 

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll call you whatever in the Seven fucking Hells I want to. You are no Lord, and I am a Princess, so you are to speak only when interpelled. Are we clear?”

He makes no sign of a reply. “I said, are we clear?”

“Please, uncle, you have already embarrassed this family enough,” Cregan reiterates. In the end, the man opts to make a small approving sound. You lean back in your seat. “Good.”

You take a small piece of paper out of your sleeve, having prepared it earlier. You open it, and show it to him. “This is the order of the Small Council– your three sons will be executed as soon as your matters are settled, with or without you. They have no titles and are young, so there shouldn’t be many against it. You, however…” you tilt your head, “Your life sits in my hands. You are a knight, crowned by my own grandsire the King, and you are the son of a lord — a lord that was well liked and loved by his people.”

You sigh again, a bit tired from your journey, passing the paper to Cregan for him to read. “So, Ser, give me a good reason why I should let you live.”

“For instance, my good for nothing nephew ruling Winterfell alone would make the castle crumble to pieces in hours.”

You turn around, feigning confusion, staring at the walls and at the ceiling. “What a strange thing to say. He’s been ruling alone for almost three sennights and Winterfell still stands strong.” 

The man narrows his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be playing with your dolls and learning the alphabet?”

You stay silent for a moment, your foot still tapping against the floor. “And shouldn’t you have died of starvation by now? It would have made a lot of things easier. Do you know that there are people condemned to die of starvation?”

Your head turns to Cregan, who stands by your side and tilts his face to look at you. “Have you heard about that lord in the free cities?”

He thinks for a bit, then nods, and your gaze returns to the prisoner, “I think it was in Qohor. They locked up a man in a tower, with his four sons, and just waited for them to die, as they were left without food or water. They say he was the last one to die, and apparently, he ate the remains of his sons once he went mad from hunger. Unfortunately you don’t seem to understand the situation you’re in. Have you got anything to defend yourself against the accuses of usurpation?”

He starts yelling, slamming against the bars, hands reaching for you and his nephew. “That throne is mine! I won’t let children take it away from me!”

You laugh. “I guess we’re done here.” you rise from your seat, Cregan standing beside you to block Bennard’s attempts at reaching you. “Thank the Gods; my dragon could really use some breakfast tomorrow.”

“It is northern tradition that the Lord of Winterfell executes the prisoners–”

“Do I look northern to you?”

“No, Princess, but–”

“You have to understand that if you ask for the Crownlands’ help, then the matters are going to be resolved in the Crownlands’ ways,” you mutter, glaring at him. Bennard and his sons are tied to a tree, screaming and thrashing around, as Nādrēsy stares at them hungrily — he likes his preys scared, even if they’re a bit too thin for his usual liking. He’s waiting for your command. “Besides, my dragon’s hungry.”

“But my uncle and cousins are still Starks,” he tries again. There are guards who are watching the exchange intently, stealing scared glances at your dragon. Some people of the smallfolk who heard about the execution have bundled up at a fair distance, not wanting to get near Nādrēsy. “It is best if they die in our ways.”

You raise an eyebrow, staring at him like he’s crazy. “Lord Stark, you do not realise that by trying to steal your right, they threatened the Crown. And by threatening the crown, they threatened me, and my whole family. It is right that I seek justice in the name of the Targaryens.”

He backs up a little bit, hesitantly nodding after a brief pause. You nod back. “Please never question my judgement ever again. There is a reason why I was chosen to be Royal Ambassador, and it is not because I am spoiled or the favourite of my grandsire.”

Looking at your dragon, eager to have a taste at his relatives, Cregan understands why you have been chosen. Nādrēsy is scary, and his reputation precedes him, surely making any exchange easier.

His uncle and cousins die screaming, swallowed like flies by the dragon’s mouth, not even chewed on. The northermen can just stare, realising that if they ever were to be confronted by that monster, they would stand no chance. They look at their lord then, hoping that he never angers you in any way.

The matter is settled, so you are now ready to fly to the Riverlands, and once the sacks with your things are tied to Nādrēsy’s back you are free from your obligations and can go. You bid goodbye to Lord Cregan, thanking him for the hospitality, and climb on your dragon’s back, taking a hold of the reins, before stopping.

“Oh, I almost forgot– Lord Stark!”

He perks up, worried. “Is there any problem?”

“No, no, everything’s alright. Just… where do I find your best ale?”

the heir and the wolf

summary: Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir is a difficult thing, but what happens when you also become one of the Realm's most prized posessions?

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader, reader x platonic targs/velaryon

i. the dear daughter (2.8k) - At one-and-twenty and eight-and-ten, barely a year after their marriage, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen welcomed their first child, a daughter, into the world. The girl immediately became dear to the whole court, coddled and spoiled by all, but mostly by her grandsire, King Viserys I. The man saw in his granddaughter her mother, and as the girl grew to look like his late wife, Aemma Arryn, it became even clearer that he doted on her more than he did to his own children or his other grandchildren.

ii. about children and trouble (8.2k) - It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.

iii. little big lady (5.0k) - Court whispers tell us that during her third pregnancy, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was particularly sensitive. She managed to cover it up pretty well, apparently, but she had one weak spot: her daughter, her firstborn and heir, who later on witnessed her little brother Prince Joffrey's birth by request of her mother. Despite openly disliking the experience, it is said that the Realm’s Jewel insisted on being present to future labours in case things went downhill — and she did, attending her mother in giving birth to all her future children.

iv. dragons' scars (6.4k) - And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.

v. you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind) (tbd) - When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.

more to come!

extras:

snippet cut from chapter three

sneak peak at reader and cregan's baby number #1

memes tag

Wedding Night {Blurb} - Cregan Stark

Warnings: Breeding kink goes brrr for big winter man🙏, 18+, smut but not too detailed im sorry, X-Reader, no use of y/n

Cregan doesnt bed you on your wedding night for his own pleasure, not only is his an afterthought in comparison to yours, the most important thing to him was breeding you. Tensions had rose so much before you had finally been married, you, ever the minx, brought up having a brood of babies and giving Rickon siblings at every point you could. Perhaps you were doing it innocently, truly just earnest to be a mother, but it had gotten to him each time you said it. He wanted to be a noble gentleman and wait until the proper time, after you were fully wed, but to the old gods had you been making it difficult. You had once mentioned wanting atleast five babies early into your marriage. You had said it casually, asking if there was anything you could eat or drink to help with your own fertility and womanly health before the marriage, but it made the wolf in him go nearly feral.

After hours of taking his time to empty his seed into his bride, both of you were spent yet he still kept himself inside you. To think of it he hadn't taken himself out the whole time, not fully. As if hearing your thoughts your husband spoke "the maesters say a couple must stay connected until conception has started, I wont take my chances"

My bad if this is sorta badly written i had the idea so quickly i havent even come up with a description🙏

Cregan Stark Masterlist

Angst=🥀Smut=🪷Fluff=🌸Headcanon=🐛

Flowers and Ice - (Part 1)🥀🌸 (Part 2)🪷🌸

"May the flower remind us why the rain was so necessary" - Xan Oku. The beautiful Rose of house Tyrell is promised to Cregan Stark after the war. She arrives before Cregan comes home, and is forced to make home in the north by herself, despite the challenges of a harsh winter.

The kindness of Heart🥀🌸

"An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind" - Gandhi. The lord of winterfell takes a new bride after his first wife passes. She's the kindest, most generous women he could ask for, and the most joyous stepmother, but certain wetnurses and servents seem adept at using her joy to their advantage

A Dreamer in The North 🌸🪷

"The sight of stars makes me dream" - Van Gogh. A targaryen dreamer, born to the heir Rhaenyra, is wed to Lord Stark for a political alliance, but the sweet dreamer can sense their marriage will be much more then just a promised duty.

Wedding Night {Blurb} 🪷(ish)

-description incoming, its just cregan × you having a breeding kink and finally have your wedding night

A Little Girls Dream🥀🌸

"It never occured to me that one day, i could wake up sick, and never feel better" - Unknown. The princess of Rhaenyra Targaryen and sister to Jacareys Valeryon was an ill woman. She was beautiful, in a ghostly, frail way. Cregan sees her for himself on a meeting after Rhaenyra successfully retains her throne, and he decides he wishes to marry the girl in return for his effortless duty during the war.

Hot springs Cold Winters🌸🪷

"Quote to be determined," Cregan and his bride have a long evening in the hotsprings of winterfell after feeling like they hadn't seen each other forever

SWEETPIANOXOXO

About Me:

18+ blog most posts include some kind of sensitive detail. Some contain religious blasphemy, canon-typical incest , and smut.

All dividers used in this blog will belong to @anitalenia

Anything is subject to change (titles, tags, etc). Feel free to ask questions if navigation becomes confusing!

MASTER-MASTERLIST

ASOIAF:

Cregan Stark (hotd)

Rhaenyra Targaryen (hotd)

Daemon Targaryen (hotd)

Aemond Targaryen (hotd)

Aegon Targaryen (hotd)

Helaena Targaryen (hotd)

Sansa Stark (GoT)

Daenerys Targaryen (GoT)

Sandor Clegane (GoT)

Criminal Minds:

Spencer Reid (Cm)

Aaron Hotchner (Cm)

Call of Duty MW:

Poly 141 (141)

John Price (141)

What i write:

-Headcanons

-Blurbs

-Oneshots

*when something written on the masterlist before a link to it appears, its a w.i.p (work in progress) or is a planned idea for something to be started shortly

Requests: open

Drabbles with multiple characters will be listed here:

The Targaryens With... ->drabble series including Rhaenyra, Daemon, Aegon, Aemon, and Helaena

-A Stark Woman

-A Lannister Lady

-A vampire wife (vamp au)

Would you like to be tagged for all my works or specific characters? Comment below and tell me, and i can create / add to tag lists.

{~House of the Dragon Masterlist~}

[Series]

{~Rhaenyra x Fem!Reader x Daemon~}

Whispers Through Time

A New Arrival

Secrets in the Shadows

Meeting Daemon

Whispers of Warning

Unexpected Encounters

Shadows of Suspicion

Revealing the Truth

Trials of the Heart

Unveiling Fate

Whispers of Destiny

[One-Shots]

legitimacy

summary: “Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense,” it is said that the Wandering Princess reiterated once she heard of her uncle’s accusations. “My late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate.”

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 4.5k

warnings: mentions of killing off someone🥰, reader is pro-blackwood, reader has some kind of anger issues, oscar is my babygirl and my babygirl only, language as always

author's note: an update of the heir and the wolf? in this economy? also pls don't comment about tagging, click here and join the taglist so that it's easier for me to tag everyone

previous | next | series masterlist

You’re sure you are going to kill every man and woman in the Riverlands till only their fantastic wine — without which you wouldn’t have made it this far — and vineyards remain, so that you can drink in peace without dealing with… the consequences. 

Lord Bracken has been sprouting nothing but insults and curses towards the Blackwood family for what feels like the last three hours. He surely hasn’t talked without being interjected, as Alysanne Blackwood has been responding to all his insults with doubled hate. 

You stare over at Oscar, sitting beside you, with an unamused expression. “Once we get out of here, I’ll make sure to break your legs in half as punishment for having me subjected to this torture,” you hiss, hand clenching around your goblet. He shrugs. “Didn’t you say to ask you if I ever needed anything? I needed help just this once, or else I would’ve cut my ears two hours ago.”

Of course Lord Tully had to fall ill when there were matters to resolve, leaving his eldest grandson in charge. You wish Kermit was born first, so that you wouldn't have to sit here and hear all of these people complain.

You huff. “Better your ears than my sanity.”

The thing that worries you the most is the fact that they seem to have no intention of stopping yet — and they’ve been going on for ages, accusing each other of heinous crimes committed by their ancestors or something. You’re not quite sure about that, as you’ve stopped listening to their rants about ten minutes in.

You glance at the servant standing by the door of the council chamber, who’s about to turn the hourglass for the fifth time now. When he does, it’ll officially be two hours and a half into them talking about their centuries-long feud. You have to do something, or else you’ll go mad. 

You cough loudly, and the two sides of the discussion shut up, looking at you. The table is rectangular and long, wide enough so that nobody can smack the person in front of them with ease. You sit at the end of it, a map of the Riverlands in front of you, Oscar sat to your right. “So,” you start, “have you all got it out of your systems? Can we start now?”

Both sides look at you puzzled, and for a moment you fear they might go back to screaming, but they don’t. “Lord Samwell, Lord Amos, could you both raise your hands for me? I forgot your faces when you started screaming because I thought I was back in Dragonstone with my younger brothers having a tantrum about a toy — they are six and three, by the way.”

Red-faced, both lords raise their hands; Lord Amos is a bit older than Lord Samwell, his face sickly and hair grey, a high contrast to the Blackwood's dark brown hair and plump face.  “Good. Now I would like you two to choose a spokesperson that will talk in your places.” 

Lord Samwell raises an eyebrow, “Pardon me?” he says, as Lord Amos raises from his seat. “This is an outrage! Why should we choose someone else to talk in our place? We can definitely settle this matter once for all alone!”

You raise an eyebrow at his antics, motioning over a guard to make him stand back down. “Well, if you could settle this matter alone I wouldn’t be there, would I?” you ask him with a short laugh. “Besides– don’t you still have the scar Lord Samwell kindly gifted you back in the days where my mother was looking for a husband? I don’t want the two of you to settle your matters alone if it means someone being stabbed again.”

“We would be perfectly capable of doing it now–”

“Choose a spokesperson or don’t speak, Lord Amos, as you have already talked enough for my likings. The choice is all yours.” 

The guard now stands behind him, hand on the pommel of his sword, and the lord begrudgingly sits back down. “I shall name my uncle, Ser Lothar,” Ser Lothar is an old man with white hair and no beard, who looks like he’s seen the rise and fall of all the Gods in the world and death herself. 

You don’t say anything, even if you’d like someone who doesn’t look like he’s a night away from dying. “Lord Samwell?” 

“My sister, Lady Alysanne,” is his resolute response. Ah, the lady who was screaming at Lord Amos earlier. She's young and thin — no doubt close to your age — with black hair to match a raven's feathers.

“Rubbish!” is Ser Lothar's not-so-smart response. You notice now that he’s missing three teeth and speaks horrendously — as if their accent already isn’t helping. “How old is she? Seven and ten? She should be in the birthing bed, not in this council chamber!”

Everyone stares at him, bewildered — even his own kind. Maybe if you weren’t there, the comment would’ve been overlooked, but seeing as the council was being literally held by a six and ten year old girl, it wasn’t the smartest comment he could’ve made. You can feel from your seat the murderous intent that comes from the Blackwoods — thankfully you made everyone leave their weaponry outside. You just hope nobody has a hidden knife somewhere in their breeches.

“For your information, Ser Lothar,” you speak up before things can escalate, “I am six and ten and perfectly able to run a council on my own. I’m sure Lady Alysanne will manage just fine.”

He squints his eyes at you, like he’s just noticed your presence. “I will be listening to no cunt!” 

You blink at Lord Amos, who’s red in the face, as calm as ever. “Would you like to change your mind, Lord Bracken? I’m afraid Ser Lothar will be too preoccupied with being my dragon’s breakfast to be here with us as we discuss this serious matter.” 

Lothar screams obscenities as the guards take him away to the courtyard, where Nādrēsy is staying for the time being, and Lord Samwell has a smug look on his face — no wonder happy that his sister has had justice. “Lyle!” Lord Amos roars, making a boy no older than twenty jump from his seat. “Y– yes, my lord!”

You intertwine your fingers in front of you. “Good. Now that the table has been cleaned we can actually start.” you ask them to take the seat of their lords, so that they’re near you and you three can talk more clearly. “I want to make sure that it is clear that I don’t expect your houses to be friends after this council. My only purpose is to end the brotherly blood shedding that in the last centuries has exasperated the Riverlands to the point that Ser Oscar Tully here had to ask for the Crown’s help to put an end to it. I just want your houses to stand each other.” 

You sigh, pointing to the map with their territories traced out in front of you; you push it towards them so that they have some reference. “This was the outline of the territories that King Jaheaerys’s ambassador drew the last time there was a council like this. Peace lasted only for about two years — my goal is to make it last at least twenty, so that when the Lords die their heirs are of age.” you darkly jest. Lord Samwell sends a glare to Lord Amos: he was six when his father was killed in a Bracken ambush. 

“Obviously, it is not. My goal is to make it last. So, I would like you two to outline the territories that are most important to your houses that as of now are owned by the other. Then we’ll see what we can do about it — see if we can make it a fair exchange to avoid spilling more blood.”

The two nod and immediately get to work. You are surprised to see that they do not speak to each other — not even a little nag or tease. They seem to be more mature than their elders, a thing that strangely you do not find weird at all. 

You didn’t expect for it to be an easy negotiation, but Seven Hells if you had underestimated it. They would be competing for the entire Riverlands if there weren’t any other houses, you’re sure about that. And before you know it, it’s been a sennight and you’re still staying in Riverrun, hoping that some god takes pity on you and strikes you down. Sure, you had them choose their spokesperson, but that doesn’t mean the others don’t protest when you say something they don’t like. 

“I’m thinking about arranging a marriage,” you say to Oscar one evening. 

You’re in the guest chambers, the ones you’re staying in. The chess match in front of you is basically forgotten, replaced by a discussion about peace treaties and ways to stop feuds. Your friend snorts, taking another sip of his wine. “My ancestors have tried before. It always ends up in a massacre before the bride can even receive the groom's cloak.” 

You shake your head. “I’m thinking about Olyver Bracken and Alysanne Blackwood.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “A drunkard and a hunter? Weird choice. Don’t know if I feel like ruining a lady’s promising future.” 

“Think about it.” you lean over, elbows on your knees. You take two pawns, placing them on the table. “He is Lord Amos’ heir, and he is useless. Meanwhile, she would be able to run Stone Hedge like it was the fucking Night Watch. We could make them marry, then maybe right after she already gave birth to a boy, an heir… a terrible accident could happen.” you knock down one of the pawns, “A tragic fall from the horse, a bad fever… you name it. And suddenly Lady Bracken is free from her preposterous husband and can raise his heir however she wants.”

You take two other pawns and place them near the others. “Then we marry small Benjicot Blackwood off to Cressida Bracken. They are still young, younger than Olyver and Alysanne; if Cressida is sent to live with the Blackwoods as soon as the engagement is announced, she may not feel the same hate towards him as any other Bracken would.”

You sigh, rubbing your hands together. “Give it twenty years, and the heirs to the Blackwood and the Bracken territories will all be cousins. What kind of cousins would ever start a war against each other?”

Oscar blinks at you. You blink back. “I mean what kind of cousins that aren’t in my family, Oscar.”

“Oooh. Oh, yes, that makes sense now.” he tilts his head to the side, looking at the pawns. “You plan on killing the Bracken guy?”

You shrug. “Only if Alysanne finds him annoying. I would never force the poor girl to stand him, knowing I wouldn’t even be able to wait to have an heir before I got tired of him, so if she manages to do it, I will gift her a new set of arrows and a bow. Closing an eye on his mysterious disappearance would be the least I could do, if the rumours about him are true.”

Hearsays say that he’s insufferable and that he spends more time in brothels than in his own bed, but ultimately he’s pretty defenseless and has gotten his ass beaten in pubs more times than his father is able to count. Oscar snorts, “Let’s see if there’s no carnage during the wedding, then we can actually talk about it.”

The next day comes, and you dread the moment you’ll be sat at that fucking council table again, and will have to announce not only one but two betrothals. It’s for the best, at least, or that’s what you tell yourself when Alysanne Blackwood looks at you like you just sentenced her to death. The whole table protests against your decision, but you’re unremovable, and you’re telling them beforehand just because you feel nice today. Your mother would’ve probably arranged the marriage without telling anyone anything until the day of the wedding. 

“You can’t just do that!” Samwell laments, red from anger. It seems he doesn’t like the thought of his sister being married off — quite thankfully, honestly. You’re happy that you’re not the only sister who has brothers who care about her. 

“The thing is, Lord Blackwood,” you reply, “that I can and I will. As ambassador to the King my word is his, and I’m sure he would agree with me in this decision. You lot have killed enough men, women and children in this feud of yours; the whole RIverlands are tired, as honestly am I, of hearing of your endless feud and your constant blood spilling. I say we put an end to it.” 

They don’t seem to care; they yell at you, then at each other, spitting venom and curses, talking over each other so loudly that you don’t understand anything. You clench your hands, rage rising inside you; you wish you could just make Nādrēsy burn their beloved castles down to the ground and call it a day, so that there aren’t any more territories to fight about, but unfortunately it isn't exactly diplomatic. Is this how your grandsire feels when he holds court? 

You stare at the map in front of you; the distribution of the lands has changed, even if the number of acres both families own has basically remained the same. You have either split the territories in question or gave one to the Brackens and another to the Blackwoods, trying to be as fair and equal as you could be — but of course none of them would be happy; they both wanted the other’s whole territory. 

You feel like you’re looking after all your little brothers who can’t agree for the life of them. Aegon will say that a toy is his and Viserys will reply that it’s actually his, even though they both have no idea where that toy came from in the first place nor that it was actually yours a decade ago. 

“Children!” you shout over the voices of the lords, shutting them up real quick. “You are behaving like children — except you are grown men! And I am disgusted by you all! Your families have been in these lands for centuries, and not only have you never managed to overthrow one another, but you also have to make it everyone’s problem! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t you have just a bit of remorse for all the suffering your hatred is causing? How many men, women and children have to die before you–”

The door bursts open, a servant barging in, “Princess–!” “What?” you yell, enraged, turning to look at him. He cowers, trying to make himself as small as he can, knees trembling under your furious gaze. “I… I–”

“Talk before I cut your tongue out and let her talk for you,” you spit. You would never do that, of course, it’s just that you have found in the last few years that a threat here and a threat there get the job done far more quicker and easier. 

The servant gulps. “A raven from King’s Landing,” he squeaks, “It’s from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” He hands you the letter and opts to run as fast as he can, away from you, shutting the doors of the chamber behind him. 

You look at the letter, confused, only to rip it open and read it. The men at the table watch you intently, hoping that it’s some kind of good news so that your mood lightens up — maybe the princess is pregnant again? Maybe Prince Joffrey has managed to mount his dragon for the first time? 

All their hopes are crushed when they see you get redder and redder in the face from anger as you read; if your dragon happened to be in the same room, they are sure that the paper would be burned down to ashes. Oscar leans to your side, peeking at the letter and reading what he can, frowning once he understands what your mother has written. “Wha–”

“A petition!” you roar, outraged. “And they didn’t cut his tongue when he started talking about it!” 

“Madness,” Oscar sighs, “pure madness.” 

You tear the paper into pieces, making the lords flinch. “The council is dismissed,” you declare. “The terms of the negotiations remain the same; Lord Tully will make sure that you all agree and the deal will be sealed tomorrow. Or else,” you lean down, placing your hands on the table, “I’ll come back once my matters are settled in King’s Landing and make sure that you all agree, in one way or another.” The threat is subtle, but they all understand that if they refuse to bend to the treaty, you’ll visit them in their beloved lands — with your very hungry dragon, surely. 

As the lords start to leave the room, you look over at Oscar, “You’re coming to King’s Landing with me.”

He blinks, “I am?” 

You snort, unamused. “You are. Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense, as my late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate. I’ll need you to keep me sane during the whole ordeal, Oscar. My ears did not bleed without a price during the last sennight.”

“But I’ve had no time to prepare– gods, let me fetch the servants, they need to start preparing my bags–”

“Tell them to bring your finest dresses and gowns,” you grunt, “wouldn’t want you to make a bad impression to the whole court, my dear Lady Oscar. Where else will you go to search for a husband otherwise?” 

You shake your head right after, not in the mood to jest, “Be fucking serious, Oscar; bring a change or two and let it be done. We’re not going to King’s Landing to have fun, it’s a trial.” your expression is dark, stare truce. “And a death sentence, if we’re lucky.” 

Your mother will never make it out of the trial unscathed is the green wench sits or her father sit on the throne; she needs you. She made that very clear in the letter, and you have no intention in turning your back on her.

Oscar departs immediately, calling for the servants and his brother Kermit, and you follow right after, not surprised to find Lady Alysanne Blackwood out of the room, waiting for you. Even if she was half as smart and hard headed as you thought her to be, she’d probably still be waiting out the council room to talk to you about the half-wit she would marry per your orders. Poor girl. 

“If you wish to talk, we can do so as we head to my rooms,” you say before she can open her mouth, “I have matters in the King's Landing to tend to, and I can’t afford to waste time.”

She grimaces, “Didn’t you come here to attend this council? Weren’t you here to help our families?”

“First of all, I was ambushed by Ser Oscar,” you clarify, “Second, yes, I was. And I did.”

She looks downright haunted. “You are a woman,” she murmurs. “You are a woman and you have sold me as no man had ever dared to do before.”

“You were bound to be sold off, Lady Alysanne,” you reply, tone calm. You can imagine her rage right now, but she must know that with her place in her family, she could have never possibly found the freedom she surely wants. You understand that by not living in the Crownlands, she had more hope for her future, with the freedom she was clearly given growing up; but you have grown in the Crownlands, and you have seen younger girls being married off to worser men without being able to escape. “I just did the honors.”

“I will slash my neck open before that brute can even think of touching me,” she boldly says.

It makes you stop to take a better look at her. She’s tall, taller than you, and a tad bit older. It’s kind of sad to see her with tears in her eyes. “I know what an unhappy marriage is,” you inform her. “In the Keep we’re full of them. My own mother was in one with my father.”

You lower your voice, leaning your head, “But you have me on your side. And I wouldn’t be against… a little violence.” at her confusion, you explain yourself. “I wouldn’t refuse to turn a blind eye to a hunting accident, let’s say.” At her joyous face, you relent, “Not on the night of the wedding, Alysanne! At least we need one heir, or the feud will never end. Lord Bracken is old and sick, and it’ll be a year or two before he dies, hopefully — I'll see if I can help the process go faster. Then his son might accidentally die, too, oh, he was so young, leaving his pain struck wife and son behind,” 

She snorts, “A tragedy, wouldn’t it be?” 

You laugh grimly. “Ohh, you get it.”

“What’s this smell?” Oscar yells over your shoulder, trying to make himself heard over the sound of the wind and the flapping wings of your dragon. 

“That’s the capital for you!” you reply, already missing the fresh air of the RIverlands. “The weather doesn’t help Flea Bottom’s odour. It’s been like this since forever.”

He gags, “Don’t understand how you manage. Smells like piss.” 

You shrug, “You get used to it. Trust me, there’s lords in court who smell far worse than Flea Bottom does,” 

Nādrēsy roars unhappily: a full day of travel and it’s only to get back into the dirty streets of King’s Landing. You lightly slap his side, yelling over his laments, “Ilagon, valītsos!” Down, boy! 

Oscar, behind you, shakes like a leaf as your dragon replies by roaring with vigor — no doubt, that equals to at least ten curses in dragon’s language. “How can you talk to him like that? He’s going to eat you alive one of these days and you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

You snort. “I’d like to see him try.”

The Dragon Pit is more animated than usual: some Keepers are holding back Vermax, who screeches and spits fire, while others bring Syrax back in her cave, her belly swollen, her step slow and cautious. Caraxes follows right behind, shaking his wings to throw the dirt off of them. 

The Keepers greet you and your dragon, sending a weird glance towards Oscar. One of them — Kilya is her name, you believe — comes near, shouting so that you can hear her. “Īlin umbagon syt ao, dārilaros.” she says, “Aōha muña gīmēdegon īlva hen aōha māzigon.” We were waiting for you, Princess. Your mother warned us of your arrival. 

You nod; you had no time to reply to her raven, but she must’ve guessed that there was no way you wouldn’t have come. “Se eman māstan.” And I have arrived, “Gūrogon Nādrēsy naejot zȳhon ripo, eman gaomon naejot imāzigon.” Bring Nādrēsy to his cave, I have matters to attend. 

You help Oscar get off; he yelps as the chains around his ankles are unfastened and yells as you help him down, where the Keepers promptly catch him before he falls on his backside. You jump off your dragon’s back, landing perfectly fine, and opt to pat roughly Nādrēsy’s back, just as he likes it. “Sȳz sōvegon, valītsos.” Good fly, boy. He roars back happily.

“I’ll never understand that language,” Oscar mutters, standing back up straight, a frown upon his face. “It’s like you don’t want your secrets to be known. Why won’t you teach me High Valyrian?”

“Iksis ziry doru-borto?” the Keeper asks. Is he stupid? You shake your head, then think about it and snort, relenting. “Mērī mirrī.” Only a little. 

Your friend pouts, sticking out his tongue at you. “Is that what I get for being your bestest companion?”

You laugh, walking off the Pit and to the entrance, where a carriage is promptly and not surprisingly waiting for you. “My bestest companion? Didn’t know you had wings and were named Nādrēsy.”

He gasps, dramatically grasping his chest, “You wound me!” 

You both get in the carriage, and you look at him seriously. “Before we enter the Red Keep, there are some rules you must abide by.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Rules? I was raised well, you know, I shouldn’t need those. I hope the King knows that.”

You shake your head, “No, those are my rules for you. Let’s say that it’s what you’ll need if you want to go back home unscathed from the Keep’s snakes.”

Oscar gulps, “Go on.”

“First, don’t talk to the Queen. Then don’t talk to her sons unless I’m in the room. Avoid Larys Strong — he’s the guy with the crippled leg and the corpse face, you’ll know it’s him instantly — and avoid the councilmen.”

“What, you want to keep me a secret?” he asks, bewildered. “Is there someone I’ll be able to talk to? Is there a reason why I have to avoid all these people?” he gasps, “Am I your whore? Is that why you want to keep my mouth shut?”

“If you were my whore, I’m pretty sure I would want your mouth wide open and working,” you mutter, “but no, that is not why. Truth is I would rather make sure that you stay out of their claws; it’s better to keep away from their schemes.”

The actual truth is that you don’t want them to speculate something about history repeating — your mother was already rumored to have a lover from the Riverlands; the last thing this family needs is another princess said to have an affair with yet another lover from the Riverlands. They would wonder if it actually was some kind of preference that was passed down from mother to daughter, and even if the only thought of being attracted to Oscar makes you laugh, you’re sure the councilmen definitely wouldn’t be amused by it. 

“Besides, you can talk to Mushroom,” you add. 

“Who’s Mushroom?”

“The court’s jester. He’s insufferable, small and will try to steal your gold, but you can talk to him.”

Your friend grimaces, “Why do you keep him in the castle if he steals the lords’ gold?”

You shrug, “He makes me laugh.”

Slowly, the carriage rattles to a halt, a page opening the door for you. “Ready to see the Red Keep for the first time?” 

He nods, “Ready to face your evil step-grandmother?”

imagine cregan and y/n breaking the bed one night just because of his sheer strength and muscle whilst pounding her, ik the conversation with the winterfell wood crafter would be awks as hell afterwards whilst asking for it to be repaired 😇😇

IM HAVING A PROPHETIC VISION, ANON.

At this point, Cregan and his boo thang are just going to have to become familiar with the man. There is no other option, because your choices are either to have this embarrassing conversation a multitude of times with multiple woodcrafters or just one. Because if y'all think this is a one-time thing, you are terribly mistaken.

Cregan is a very passionate person in bed, regardless if he's on top or not. He wants to make sure the two of you are satiated—that does mean the bed will snap like a twig under a boot i dont make the rules i just work here. Personally, I find the actual deliverance of the bedframe to be the most mortifying. Firstly, that big ass broken bed has to be dismantled and removed, if it's not fixable, which takes manpower, and then the new one brought into the Great Keep and put together. Otherwise, the woodcrafter is going to have to make a house call and show up with his tools and planks, walking toward your marital chambers which is embarrassing too :)

ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. (thoughts ver.)

NSFW stuff under the cut. 18+ only. I'm not responsible for the content you choose to consume. ty.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

That familiar groan under his weight should've been the first warning sign, but Cregan was too distracted to notice. He was lapping at her pretty cunt, tongue delving as deep as he could go and as thorough as he could be without the motions being too unsteady. Alright maybe he did notice initially, but the thought was very quickly shoved to the back of his mind—especially when his pretty wife was trying to rock herself onto his nose, letting out the most quiet of whimpers muffled by their sheets. His ears were focused on her and her only.

With her pearl rubbing against his bridge and his cock feeling so strained in his trousers, no one could really blame him for forgetting about the delicate state of the bed in an instant. Last time they’d gotten particularly frantic in their lovemaking, there had been a low snap somewhere beneath the mattress, a taunt that he was probably too hefty to be moving so much. But winter was coming, a man’s gotta eat…in more ways than one.

By the time he’d recalled they should begin to take it easy on the bed, he was already balls deep behind her, hands gripping the flesh of her ass like a lifeline. He was suffocating in the best way, cock nestled inside, fogging his brain with nothing but instinct. And then she started begging. By then, well, he decided they needed a new bed anyway—six moons wasn’t too bad. Lasted longer than the previous replacement. Three harsh, unrelenting spanks bloom red on her backside as she squeezes around him, sending his blood pumping to the beat of an imaginary war drum. It would be a miracle from the Gods if she wasn’t pregnant by mid-summer. Cregan just couldn’t help himself.

Rutting against her like a man starved, the right side of the bed almost completely collapses, caving in and nearly throwing him off balance. His wife gasped, pleasure momentarily halted as she looked back at him. “Again? Seriously? I told you to write to him last time, did you?” The answer was no, no he did not. “It might have…slipped…my mind.” He murmured, trying to ignore the throbbing in his full balls. They had a silent conversation of glares and a sheepish grin. Then she concedes. “...We might as well finish then. I doubt it can get any worse.”

It could, actually. And it did. He came hard some twenty minutes later, pounding their hips together with a steady desperation. The dip of the broken side was a little annoying, but manageable. Without the support, the right beams of the canopy end up falling right down. No one was harmed, of course. It was only drapes. Cregan found it almost comical but his wife did not. It was going to be a long letter.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

CREGAN STARK IN A LONG LOIN CLOTH WET FROM A BATH‼️‼️

internal changes

summary: your long time betrothed jacaerys heads to winterfell to make good relations with the north, your relationship has always been one of love and happiness until you show up a month into his trip to winterfell where everything seems to have changed between the two of you. your relationship may never be the same and it has everything to do with a particular stark.

jacaerys velaryon x cregan stark x fem!non targ!reader

cw: infidelity, internalized homophobia, queer cregan and jace, threesome, poly relationship, hand job, oral (f), prob ooc for everyone man, p in v, anal, top!cregan, sub!jace, dom!reader, like one smack to the face, ‘sara snow’ mention? (its just cregan), not proofread

an: havent written in a hot minute im rlly rusty but ive gotten asked to write this for forever so here you go 😁

perm jace taglist ! (open) @cruelworldlana @smurfelle @ireneispunk @hxtd @venmondiese @urmomsgirlfriend1 @jacesvelaryons @earth4angels @itsemohours @valdezthg

perm cregan taglist ! (open) @ireneispunk

He had been acting weird since you arrived. avoiding you at every turn, barely speaking to you and it bothered you to no end. His letters to you had been nothing but positive, speaking highly of winterfell and the lord stark who jacaerys also seemed to be avoiding as well.

he spoke about how much he missed you, how much he longed to see you but now that you were actually here he seemed to want nothing to do with you. a month ago you were the love of his life, he was obsessed with you, and now he would not even do so much as look your way.

then you heard the rumor for the first time. It seemed everyone had been trying to hide it from you but you heard it one night. the maids had been talking around the corner. Sara snow. The lord rumored bastard sister. With pretty long dark hair just like her brother. They had been sleeping together for basically his whole time there you presumed, you had even heard they got fucking married in front of the weirwood trees before you showed up.

You were sick. so sick about everything so sick of the thoughts you were having and you grew angry, furious but you managed to stay rational, calm, for now.

“are you happy?” he looked up at you started, you had barged into his room and locked the door quickly behind you. “y/n-“ “i am not angry, i was angry, but this is a very typical thing in marriages here i just wish you had informed me,” He stands up from his desk. readjusting the buttons on his white tunic to cover himself up further as he looked at you alarmed. He looked beautiful and you hate that. His hair wet and face flushed as he tries to find his words.

“i dont know what,” “ive heard the rumors. everyone talks about it, everyone looks at me with pity in their eyes. whether its this sara snow or some other lady i dont care because i believe it.”

He freezes. He looks down at his hands which shake, you wait for him to say something. Anything. a part of you hopes he denies it, even if it would be a lie you pray he can give you some false sense of hope but he doesn’t. merely standing quietly in shame while you let out a soft laugh devoid of anything. “if you wish for our marriage to be one of agreement then so be it. but do not try to trick me into believing itll be anything more than that any longer i refuse it.”

You turn to walk out of the room, no longer being able to stand in his presence but as you go to open the door his voice calls out to you. “there is no other lady.”

You scoff and turn back to him, his eyes are glazed over with tears as his chest rises with heavy breaths. A part of you wants to walk over to him and wipe his tears off his face but you remain firm as you scoff. “do not take me for a fool-“ “i mean it. there is no lady.” he puts an emphasis on the word that has you tilting your head. you open your mouth to question him until the pure desperate look on his face causes it to click. there is no lady. but there is someone.

“im sorry.” he flats and looks as though he did not expect you to say that. “for what? you have nothing to be sorry for it is i who should be-“ “i cannot be mad at you for who you are it is not your fault.” He walks over to you as you close the door, grabbing your hands as he shakes his head. “you miss understand me i like you i love you like i man loves a women but he,” he lets out a frustrated sigh but you can tell its not directed at you, “i love him as i love you.”

When there is a silence in the air for far longer than he likes he squeezes you hard tight as he looks at your blank face. “please say something my love.” “who is it?” he looks down once more as you remain firmly staring at him. “y/n..” “who?” “cregan.” He says his name likes its forbidden, the word travels in the air like a brush of wind but you still hear it all the same.

he doesn’t dare look up at you again as another wave of silences washes over you two. His heart is aching so badly he wants to clutch his chest and fall to the ground. He does not want to be like this, one of those men. He holds himself in higher regard, but he cant help how he feels about the winter wolf who smiles at him so kindly. He thought it could be one and done, manage to shake this illness from his skin and be done with it but it has only gotten worse.

it is wrong. he should not want to love cregan as he loves you. you are his light his world but why does he think of cregan as he thinks of you. Its wrong, immoral. He should be punished, he wishes for you to yell, to scream at him, hit him but you don’t. you merely pull away from him and walk out the room without another word. He drops to his knees when as you shut the door and he clutches his chest as he begin to sob, he is a monster and this fate is a cruel but just punishment in his eyes.

Cregan wake up that morning prepared to walk the same routine he always does. The images of the dark haired prince that flash in his mind go ignored another day as they have been ever since the princess arrived. he did not hate you, no he actually rather liked you a lot but he did miss getting to spend time with jacaerys who clung to his side before you had shown up and now had not even spoken a word to him.

He walks into the hall and pauses. There you sit, arms crossed and two plates of hot foot in front of you. it clicks. he looks around at all the guards and maids in the room, “everyone out.” the room quickly scatters, “and make sure nobody enters.” the doors as shut with a hard slam as he stalks towards you, eyeing you down with a gleam of mischief in his pupils. “its a shock to see you here princess.” “i am not a princess.” he hums as he takes a seat and begins to pick at his food while you merely stare at him. “something the matter?” “how long?”

he raises his brow as he dunks his bread in the soup before shoving it in his mouth, “how long what?” “dont play dumb with me lord stark.” He chuckles leaning back in his chair and you find yourself readjusting in your seat. He watched you with a pleased look as he licks on of his fingers. “not long enough that your pretty little head should be worried about it princess.” “he said he loves you.”

cregans face falls and his face turns serious as he looks at you. He can see the questioning in your eyes and lets out a sigh. “two weeks. but we’ve been friends this whole time. i never meant for it to go further i swear on my sons life. stepping in between the bonds of a betrothal is not my way.”

You hate that you find yourself believing him. you itch at your skin to the point it becomes red. “do you like him?” cregan scratched at his jaw as he moves his food around on his plate. “i do. very much. i apologize.” he watched as you take a deep breath as you stare at your plate, “i will not peruse it, you are his betrothed and it would be inappropriate and wrong of me. i will leave him alone, i will never even glance at him i have disrespected your honor and dignity enough.”

he stared at you waiting for a response, he watches as you bring the bowl of soup to your lips snd take a long sip before placing it back down and wiping the excess from your lips. “would you accept his mother terms here and now so we could leave by the afternoon if i asked?” “yes of course anything you want.”

he expects you to ask him to do it but you merely bring your chalice to your lips as a sinister grin finds its way to your face. “do you find me pretty lord stark?” his brows raise in question but he coughs into his fist, “um, yes i do princess.” he watches as you lean over the table and grin at him sweetly. “just how pretty lord stark?” he almost asks you whats wrong before he feels your foot drag up his leg slowly letting out a shaky breath before a groan as your food digs into his bulge. shakily and breathlessly staring as you as you press your boot covered leg harder against him leaving him gripping the table. “i have an idea im sure you will be pleased with.”

jacaerys is on the edge of cracking. he had not seen you all day. he had gone to your room to ask you to have breakfast with him but he was informed you were not there. he had gone looking for you, searching every corner for you and he found nothing. nobody would even tell him where you were but they all had an odd look in their eyes when they said that to him.

He does end up seeing you, finally with cregan stark on your arm and he feels his heart plummet. “good day jacaerys.” his mouth opens and closes like a fish as he stares at the two of you. “good,,, day,,,?” he watches the look the two of you share as he feels his heart stop, “cregan’s been showing me around a bit would you like to join us?”

He feels like this is a trick. The two of you look far too happy, he gulps and fiddled around a bit before giving you a weak nod. he ends up trailing behind the two of you as the two of you talk about winterfell. you ask cregan about the history of certain things and he eagerly answers your questions. jace is just waiting for the fire to lit, for the two or you to turn on him and begin to berate him.

His mind wanders as he imagines the two of you punishing him the way he deserves, cregan holding him down while you tease his cock, refusing to give him what he truly wanted. He lets out a light whimper as his thoughts continue to run wild and his eyes widen as he coughs into his fist trying to play it off as nothing. He lets out a sigh of relief as the two of you say nothing but he misses the look the two of you share.

You all arrive at a large study, “this was my fathers before he passed.” “do you not use it?” cregan shakes his head, a more somber look on his face. “i should, i will, one day, for now his legacy shall be preserved here.” you hum and nod your head in understanding. you take off your cloak as cregan also begins to strip himself of his outerwear. jacaerys stares at the two of you confused, you walk over to him and begin to untie his cloak from around his neck. “you should make yourself comfortable jace.” “what is happening my love?” he asks you in a hushed voice but you dont answer him, a small smile creeps its way onto your face and he grows worried.

he allows you to strip him down to his undertunic, making no move to fight you his eyes drift behind you to cregan who has made himself really comfortable his undershirt untucked and being held open but just one button, cregan raises his brow at jace as he catches his eyes, taking a long drink from his bottle.

you grab his face and jacaerys blushes, “what are you looking at?” cregan stalks his way over and stands behind jacaerys his hands wrapping around his waist as jacaerys feels his breath caught in his throat as cregan presses his head into his neck.

“you’re such a greedy boy, wanting two people at once huh?” he whines. cregan begins to suck at the skin on his neck. he’s confused. he has no clue whats going on. “what’s happening?” he curses as your hands dip into his pants and harshly grab at his cock, “me and your secret lover have come to an agreement isn’t that right?” cregan lifts his head and hums. He watches in amazement as the two of you share a small kiss and he throbs at the sight of the two people he cares for most being intimate.

“hmm thats right princess.” jacaerys struggles to think as you tug on his throbbing cock, rubbing your thumb around his tip as cregan goes back to sucking on his neck. “since you’re so greedy, you can have us both arent we so kind?” jacaerys moans in delight at this turn of events and buckles his hips into your hand. your face sours and you lightly smack him across the face, “and not a single thank you? you’re disgusting.” jacaerys whines and shakes his head vigorously. “im sorry im sorry thank you thank you i love you.”

He feels cregan chuckle into his neck, his hands pull away the buttons on jacaerys tunic not caring about the now ruining garment as cregan caresses his skin. jacaerys continues to greedily rut his hips into your hands feeling himself closer and closer to his release. He suddenly feels cregan press into his back and he lets out a shudder as cregan begins to grind his hips against jacaerys, his tunic having long been disregarded and their bare skin presses against each other.

Your hands are suddenly pulled off him and cregan also takes a big step away from him and jacaerys whimpers at the loss of contact and the way his cock throbs as his orgasm dies down. “dont think im going to let you get away with this that easily.” your lips are suddenly presses against his and a fury and he eagerly tried to match you. “fucking another man behind my back so cruel.” he whimpers as it feels like a dagger begins to dig into his chest, “im sorry im sorry.” he slurs against your lips messily as you begin to pull him back as you sit on the bed, staring up at him. “prove it.”

He drops down to his knees like he was born to, quickly throwing himself under your skirt and get a taste of you like hes been craving for weeks now. your hand grips the back of his head while he begins to lick at you through your underwear and you look at cregan who takes another chug from his bottle before placing it down and walking back over to the two of you. jacaerys pushes aside your underwear and moans into you as he gets a taste of you. you gasp and look down at jacaerys skirt over head as your free hand grips at the sheets below you. “fuck jace.”

as his lips wrap around your pearl he gasps into you as he feels a body press against him and hands wrap around his cock. “dont think im not gonna join in.” jacaerys heart pounds as he continues to messily eat at you while cregan rubs his hands all over his cock, coating his fingers in his precum before sliding him inside of jace. his back arches and the vibration of his moan has you throwing your head back while cregan works open his hole as hes done plenty of times now.

the pit continues to build in your stomach and you lock eyes with cregan who grins at you and you wipe some sweat off your face, “dont you look pretty?” “shut the fuck up cregan.” the man laughs as he continues to work his fingers inside of jace, “you look so pretty when you’re about to cum doesn’t see jace?” the man though he cant see you now knows the expression on your jace far too well and nods eagerly against you. once you do release jace eagerly licks up every drop before you rip his head away and cregan pulls his fingers out. jacaerys still without any sort of release grows desperate as tears stream down his face.

“im sorry im sorry ill be good i swear please just let me cum please please.” you lean back into the bed and stare at cregan with a mock pondering look, “hmm what do you think my lord you think hes been good enough?” cregan smirks while jacaerys looks up at him with a pleading look, “oh how can you deny this face? look at him.” cregan cups his face in his hands and brushes some of his tears away. you look at jacaerys fucked out face and pretend to ponder for a few more moments while jacaerys squirms in cregans arms before grinning. “fine, come on my love.”

jacaerys heart beams at your words finally calling him by the affectionate name you had given him and he rushes towards you, “undress us.” his hands greedily tug off your clothes stripping you both bare and you grab his face and kiss him lightly. “you know ill always accept you jace, no matter what.” the layered meaning of your words hits him like a truck and the tears continue to well in his eyes, “i do not deserve you.” you shake your head as you affectionately run your fingers through his hair, “if this is who you are i do not mind it. i am serious, the three of us can be together if you so wish. cregan will grow on me im sure.” “im still here you know.”

you lightly chuckle as jacaerys beams at you, “you are the most amazing person i have ever met.” cregan now as bare as the both of you walks towards you two and raises a brow, “am i atleast second place?” jacaerys turns his head towards him, “of course you are.” cregan softly smiles and leans to press a gentle kiss against his lips.

When the two of them pull away the lust returns and you greedily turn jacaerys towards you and pull him into a deep kiss, falling back with him on top of you, “fuck me jace.” he moans as he eagerly lines himself up and pushes into you, shoving his head into the side of your neck as he bottoms out. he begins to work himself into a gentle rhythm before he feel cregans cock press against his hole and he freezes as cregan works his way inside of jacaerys.

jacaerys has never felt so full. so content. with the two people he loves the most bringing him to the heights of pleasure. he hopes his days are like this for the rest of his life, with the two of you by his side. that night after you had left the study and made a mess around cregans room as well he listens to the two of you bicker in bed about the mess youve made in his father study and how his legacy has been tarnished, “is it not strange he has a bed in his study?” “my father spent most of his time in his study, how do you think i was made?” “yuck do not say those things.” “oh you were certainly not complaining as i was eating-“ “oh dont bring up old news stark.” that night jacaerys falls asleep with a big smile on his face your voices lulling him to sleep.

the heir and the wolf

summary: Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir is a difficult thing, but what happens when you also become one of the Realm's most prized posessions?

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader, reader x platonic targs/velaryon

i. the dear daughter (2.8k) - At one-and-twenty and eight-and-ten, barely a year after their marriage, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen welcomed their first child, a daughter, into the world. The girl immediately became dear to the whole court, coddled and spoiled by all, but mostly by her grandsire, King Viserys I. The man saw in his granddaughter her mother, and as the girl grew to look like his late wife, Aemma Arryn, it became even clearer that he doted on her more than he did to his own children or his other grandchildren.

ii. about children and trouble (8.2k) - It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.

iii. little big lady (5.0k) - Court whispers tell us that during her third pregnancy, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was particularly sensitive. She managed to cover it up pretty well, apparently, but she had one weak spot: her daughter, her firstborn and heir, who later on witnessed her little brother Prince Joffrey's birth by request of her mother. Despite openly disliking the experience, it is said that the Realm’s Jewel insisted on being present to future labours in case things went downhill — and she did, attending her mother in giving birth to all her future children.

iv. dragons' scars (6.4k) - And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.

v. you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind) (5.3k) - When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.

vi. but I'll know, I'll know (8.4k) - At the ripe age of ten, the Realm’s Jewel was nominated by her grandsire the King, despite all the protests of the Small Council, the official Royal Ambassador; thus, her voyages throughout the Seven Kingdoms started, and yet another nickname was forged for her by the Smallfolk: the Wandering Princess.

↳ interlude (tbd) - Blood stained sheets. The first thing that comes up to your mind? Burning them and fleeing, obviously.

vii. legitimacy (tbd) - “Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense,” it is said that the Wandering Princess reiterated once she heard of her uncle’s accusations. “My late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate.”

more to come!

extras:

pinterest board | spotify playlist | ao3

beautiful fanart | another beautiful fanart | yet another amazing fanart

snippet cut from chapter three

sneak peak at reader and cregan's baby number #1

memes tag

the dragons from nādrēsy's perspective

the time line

the heir and the wolf

summary: Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir is a difficult thing, but what happens when you also become one of the Realm's most prized posessions?

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader, reader x platonic targs/velaryon

i. the dear daughter (2.8k) - At one-and-twenty and eight-and-ten, barely a year after their marriage, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen welcomed their first child, a daughter, into the world. The girl immediately became dear to the whole court, coddled and spoiled by all, but mostly by her grandsire, King Viserys I. The man saw in his granddaughter her mother, and as the girl grew to look like his late wife, Aemma Arryn, it became even clearer that he doted on her more than he did to his own children or his other grandchildren.

ii. about children and trouble (8.2k) - It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.

iii. little big lady (5.0k) - Court whispers tell us that during her third pregnancy, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was particularly sensitive. She managed to cover it up pretty well, apparently, but she had one weak spot: her daughter, her firstborn and heir, who later on witnessed her little brother Prince Joffrey's birth by request of her mother. Despite openly disliking the experience, it is said that the Realm’s Jewel insisted on being present to future labours in case things went downhill — and she did, attending her mother in giving birth to all her future children.

iv. dragons' scars (6.4k) - And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.

v. you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind) (5.3k) - When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.

vi. but I'll know, I'll know (tbd) - At the ripe age of ten, the Realm’s Jewel was nominated by her grandsire the King, despite all the protests of the Small Council, the official Crown Ambassador; thus, her voyages throughout the Seven Kingdoms started, and yet another nickname was forged for her by the Smallfolk: the Wandering Princess.

more to come!

extras:

snippet cut from chapter three

sneak peak at reader and cregan's baby number #1

memes tag

dragons' scars

summary: And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 6.4k

warnings: blood, fighting, grief, graphic description of wounds, vomiting, probably medical inaccuracies, representation of alicent and viserys' failmarriage at its best

author's note: whoof. this was a whole lot to write. sorry for the delay, I've been on vacation, but I still hope you all like it! in the next few chapters we'll see reader head first in her position as heir and enter a bit of a rebellious phase. i'm not sure i'm completely satisfied by this chapter, but i hope you all enjoy!

previous | next | series masterlist

The raven announcing Ser Harwin Strong’s death arrives at Dragonstone barely a day after the one announcing Laena Velaryon’s passing — as if moving to Dragonstone hasn’t already been hard enough on your family. Now not only is your father unresponsive, but your mother, too. 

Laenor had taken quite badly Lady Laena’s passing. He disappeared until supper, only to come back completely black out drunk after, carried by Ser Qarl. Your mother didn’t have the heart to get mad at him, and simply asked the knight to accompany him back to his chambers; she is closing off, too. 

You’re left to look after your brothers, since your parents are still barely at the start of their grieving; you visit them in the nursery, you play with them, you tell them how good they did with their lessons. You suspect Jace knows the truth about Ser Harwin probably being their real father and maybe he would like to drown in his own misery, too, but you won’t let him. Not when your parents are already going downhill. 

None of you knew aunt Laena, even if your father had promised multiple times to bring you to Pentos to visit her, but her death is still a tragedy. Burnt by her own dragon, per her own request, during childbirth. The fact that your mother survived the same thing not too long ago makes you shiver. 

It’s night when you hear the door of your chambers being opened, and you rouse, a bit alarmed, until you recognize the silhouette of your father under the moonlight. “Father? Is– is everything alright?”

He sniffs, standing beside your bed, then sitting down on the ground. “Do you mind if I stay here? Even for a little while will do.”

“I… sure. For as long as you think you need, father.” He reeks of wine, but you don’t point it out to him, turning in the bed so that you’re facing him. You give him your hand and he gladly takes it, squeezing it. “You know,” Laenor mumbles, “She would’ve loved you.” he wipes his nose with the back of his free hand, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. “I promised you that one day you would have met her, but I couldn't keep my promise. I was waiting for her to come back to Westeros — but I should’ve just flown to Pentos once you were born. Now my sister never got to know my daughter — nor any of my children.”

He laughs; a bitter, teary laugh. “She would’ve really loved you. You could’ve ridden Vhagar and Nādrēsy together — the biggest dragons in the world finally flying together.” another sniff, “I always wrote to her about you, and she said that she had bought some jewellery to give to you. That was years ago, though.” he lets out a choked sob, “I haven’t heard from her in what feels like a lifetime.”

You can’t even imagine being away from Jace and Luke for more than a sennight — Joffrey, maybe, yes, but that’s just because he only cries, eats, sleeps and poops. In a few years you won’t be able to part from him either, let alone grieve for him. You’ve known your brothers for most of your life, while they’ve known you for the entirety of theirs. Losing them, in such a way… you don’t even want to think about it. 

“Where’s aunt Laena now?” you ask him. She may have passed, but she has to be somewhere, right? How can a person just… stop existing?. She still has to be somewhere. Maybe she’s with Merrax.

Your father shakes his head. “I don’t know. For us Velaryons, once we die, the sea takes us back. We’re buried in it, so that it may take back all that we owe it. But Laena was also a Targaryen, and for Targaryens death means going back to Old Valyria with their dragons — but Vhagar’s still alive, so I don’t know how she could be able to reach Old Valyria. For the Faith of the Seven, there are Seven Hells and Seven Heavens, and everyone is judged for their sins and actions, and put where the Gods find adequate.”

“I don’t want to be judged when I die. Isn’t death a punishment enough as it is?” 

“I…” Laenor shakes his head. “I understand that for you it might be hard to comprehend, but death isn’t exactly a punishment. Truth is, men are executed just to prevent other people from committing their crimes by scaring them, and also to prevent them from doing it again; but death itself isn’t a punishment. Sometimes it’s a relief. I suppose that’s how your aunt perceived it.” 

You confusedly nod, still not understanding how she could find it a relief. She had two daughters, a husband, a good name for herself; some people would have given anything to be her. So, why? 

Your father has tears in his eyes. “There are fates way worse than death. I guess Laena thought she had enough.”

He leaves you to sleep with a choppy kiss on the forehead and a cracked goodnight, but you barely close an eye. You ask yourself if your mother would have ever left you and your brothers in favour of a quick death, had the situation been the same. 

Three days later, you depart for Driftmark on your dragons. Your parents carry one of your brothers each, while Joffrey is left on Dragonstone under the attentive care of the wetnurses and maids. The ride to Driftmark isn't too long, and you're one of the last ones to arrive for the funeral — as your grandsire, along with your uncles and his entourage, is already there, and so are many others. 

You see what probably is your uncle Daemon with his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, talking to your grandparents — Corlys a collected expression on his face, Rhaenys with teary eyes. There are a few Velaryon family members, who you recognise from your various visits to Driftmark in the last few years, and your grandsire, sitting on a makeshift throne under the gazebo of High Tide’s courtyard — where the tables with wine and refreshments are already placed. 

A guard announces the start of the ceremony, for Laena’s casket has been placed and is ready to be honoured, and you all move towards the cliff, where your aunt's body is ready to be dragged down and thrown onto the sea; you hold on tight to your father's hand as uncle Vaemond starts his eulogy. He squeezes back, sending you a tender glance full of tears. 

The eulogy is in Valyrian, and you are surprised to find barely any mentions of Laena's life. It sounds more like a praise to House Velaryon, of the thick blood that runs through it, and somehow an attempt at something. You can't decide if he's referring to your brother's not-so-Valyrian features or if he's simply trying to get on your grandfather's good side. Probably both.

“Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”

Laena's casket is slowly dragged down the rocks, and soon enough, it falls into the waters below. 

You look up at your father, tugging on his vest. “Father, will we be buried like this too?” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “I will be. One day, I shall be united with my sister again and join her in the sea. But you'll be buried like a Targaryen, sweetling. You are destined to be something far greater than to be just a Lady Velaryon.”

You don't like it. You don't like the way he's saying it, like being a Velaryon is a curse. “Why? I want to be buried with you.”

He shakes his head again, almost stoically. It seems this is a talk that, at this moment, is too difficult for you to understand. “You'll be a Targaryen, sitting on the throne. You're destined to be burned by dragonfire.” he sniffs. “Or, or maybe you'll be buried by your lord husband’s family traditions; that's not unusual. I'll be a mere Lord, one day. I am your father, but I am not your duty.”

Your lower lip is trembling, and you bite it to hold in the tears that almost manage to escape. “Father, what are you even saying?” it isn’t fair that you can’t choose where to end up, even in death.

He grimaces. As soon as the ceremony ends, he lets go of your hand and simply disappears, as you all gather back in the courtyard stationed on the cliffside of High Tide. Your mother quickly comes to the rescue, holding you under one arm and your brothers under the others, promising you all lemon cakes and sweets once the ceremony is over.

You soon go to your grandparents, giving them your condolences like your mother told you to and then hugging them tight. Rhaenys almost bursts into tears, but actually, she’s great at hiding them for someone who just lost her only daughter. She pats you on the cheek and just stares for a moment, like she’s searching for something, before your grandfather brings her out of her stupor, gently nudging her to other courtesans. 

You greet your grandsire after that, who kisses your temple and hugs you tight, blabbering about how much he has missed you. “The Red Keep has become dull,” he murmurs, coughing a bit. “My children are in no way as bright as you are. Why don’t you come visit sometime? I could use some laughter, you know, and with your witts you often bring me to tears from it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Grandsire, I’ve been gone for not even a moon.”

He huffs. “Forgive this old man for missing his only granddaughter. You and your brothers are children, behaving like children; that's why your presence is dearly missed.” his gaze goes to your uncles; Aemond is staring dully in the distance, and Aegon is eyeing the maids while being on his… what? Fourth cup of wine? “Meanwhile, I’ve got… children behaving like forsaken adults. A drunkard, a spiteful brat, and… I don’t even know what to say about Helaena. At least she’s quiet.”

You’ve never understood why everyone describes Aemond as spiteful. He’s awkward, maybe even unpleasant at moments, but you wouldn't say exactly spiteful. “Grandsire, that is not a nice thing to say. Helaena is very good at embroidering, for one. Aemond is good with books. Aegon… well, I’m not really sure what, but there has to be something good about him.”

He lets out a disappointed noise, shaking his head. “They all excel at giving me headaches. But you know who’s best at it? Their mother.” he grunts, “She’s been insufferable as of lately. I fear I will go mad.”

You desperately try to take the conversation away from your uncles and aunt, not liking the way he talks about them. “If the Queen gives you trouble, I have a dragon. We could either run away on Nādrēsy or make sure he takes care of her.” as if on cue, a dragon roar is heard from the other side of the cliff.

Your grandsire chuckles and pinches your cheek. “Aren’t you a little rascal? That could be considered treason, sweetling. You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

Soon after you leave him, too, in favour of your cousins Rhaena and Baela. They stay out of the crowd, sitting on a little bench, looking completely inconsolable. You near them, not quite knowing how to start a conversation, since they must have heard condolences all day. 

“Uh, I, uh,” not really the best ice breaker, but you surely have their attention now. “I have some dresses — they do not fit me anymore. But I think that they’d fit you both nicely. If you ever need to take a breather, or, or, some time to think and have some fun, you could come to Dragonstone.” you try to smile, but surely it comes out crooked. “I’d be delighted to have you there. I’m always available if you need me.”

Rhaena tries to smile, too, while Baela barely nods. “Thanks, cousin.” 

Corlys comes up to you three, laying a hand on your shoulder. “Could you go fetch your father, dear?” He looks stiff, and you soon understand why: your father is standing in the waters below, on the beach, kneeling in the saltwater and looking completely lost. It does not take you long to join him, holding up your dress so that only your shoes and collants get wet. 

“Father,” you call out. You can’t go too much farther. “Father, are you alright?” He doesn’t reply. He just stares ahead of him, into the vastity of the Narrow Sea, like he can almost see his sister again. You’ve never seen your father so lost, so… unlike himself. It’s like Laena brought with her a part of him. Is he buried in the sea now, too? Am I destined to never see him again? Not even in death?

“Father,” you try again. You get a bit closer, the cold water biting your skin. “Please.”

Laenor barely turns his head to look at you. He looks like a shell of himself, and you think that maybe, it’s just now that he has realised that Laena’s never coming back. Earlier, he had you to ground him; but once he let go of your hand, he suddenly understood that he was alone. His sister is dead. There’s no one else with whom he has shared the same experiences he shared with her, no one else so willing to understand him as she was, no one else who will look at him as an older brother. 

Laena Velaryon is no more, and you are sure she has dragged your father with her in the depths of the sea. 

It’s well past midnight when you are rudely woken up. It’s Rhaena, you realise, and she is calling your name quite insistently. “What?” you hiss, softening once you remember that you were the one to tell the twins that you were always available if needed. You intended by day, but if they need you, then you’ll gladly get up and get going. 

“Someone has stolen Vhagar,” she murmurs, tears brimming in her eyes. You can hear the she-dragon roaring outside, and she doesn’t sound too happy. “Jacaerys, Lucerys and Baela are already going out — but you have a dragon. Can’t you just… follow her?”

She doesn’t have to repeat it twice, because you’re already putting on your riding pants and a tunic, going for the balcony and calling for Nādrēsy. The infamous Cannibal doesn’t take long to arrive, always at your beck and call, and you soon mount him, as Rhaena runs off — probably to where your brothers and her sister were headed. 

It’s almost impossible not to spot Vhagar: she’s an old, gigantic dragon, that in the years has lost all her spikes and now looks like a giant lizard. Her scales are green, fading into a deep bronze, and her saddle is vacant — not really, you think, as you see your uncle Aemond barely clinging to the ropes of the saddle, almost flying away. 

Nādrēsy roars, unhappy to see his mother, you imagine. He moves to turn away, away from her, and you try to hold tight on the reins, keeping him in place. “Daor, Nādrēsy, daor!” No, Nādrēsy, no!

He whines, rebelling against you for what is maybe the first time in over two years, and you can feel how unsettled he is. It radiates off of him, and before you can even understand what is happening, he’s turning back and going for the beach — searching for a landing. Every attempt to stop him, to make him obey, is vain; he roars over your voice, tuning you out, even when you punch and kick at his neck — it seems the only one hurt by this is you, actually. His spikes are not going to fall off for a while, it seems. Unlike Vhagar he still has them all. 

He lands on the beach, roaring loudly and huffing fire. Since now Vhagar is landing, too, and she is pretty far away, you decide to forget about the stunt your dragon has just pulled in order to catch up with the others — you’d hate to miss Rhaena and Baela, or anyone really, going ballistic against Aemond. 

Except, once you finally reach the entrance of High Tide, you find yourself in front of a scene that will surely haunt you in your dreams for a good while. 

Now, you don’t like Aemond. Not really, since he supports his brother in constantly calling your brothers bastards and mostly keeps to himself. That doesn’t mean that him being beaten up by four children way younger than him isn’t honestly pitiful. You had hoped for a fight, yes, but the kind with screams and insults, not the kind with punches and blood, where one of your brothers could easily get injured. 

Aemond is three-and-ten. The twins are a year younger than you, while Jace is six, barely a year older than Luke. The way they easily win against him almost saddens you, and despite the fact that you have nothing against seeing him beaten to a pulp, your mother is already having a hard time adjusting to the changes of the last few weeks — Joff’s birth, Harwin’s death, moving to Dragonstone — and, you think, your brothers and cousins killing your uncle surely wouldn’t help her. So, against all your best wishes, you stand up for Aemond.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” you scream, prying them all off of him. You take Jacaerys and Luke by their ears, making them whine as you throw them around. “Is this what Ser Cole taught you? Four against one? It’s not a fair fight!” 

“Whose side are you on? He stole my dragon!” Rhaena screeches, outraged. “Vhagar was supposed to be mine!”

“Well, now it isn’t!” you find yourself saying. “I lost my dragon too, and guess what? I found another one! If he was able to claim Vhagar, then maybe she wasn’t meant to be yours. And I say that with the utmost respect and affection for you, cousin, trust me. If Vhagar accepted him, then maybe she’s not worth that much.”

You turn, leaving your brothers with red ears, looking at your uncle, left groaning on the ground. You offer him your hand, leaning a bit. “Uncle, let’s just go to sleep and forget about all that has happened.”

He glances at you, then at your hand. He takes it, and before you can react, he drags you down towards him. 

He’s got a pointed rock in his free hand. 

Luke and Jace scream before you even feel the impact of the stone with your temple, and it’s not a light throw. It’s one with intent, probably aimed to kill. The pain explodes and leaves you in shambles on the ground where your uncle was just a moment ago, and as he prepares himself for another hit, Jacaerys tackles him. 

Aemond lets go of the rock to fight against your brother, who apparently didn’t come here unprepared, because he’s got a knife that he promptly sheathes. “How dare you?” he roars. “My sister helped you! She reprimanded us about not fighting fairly and you maim her!” 

He tries to fight off the grip on his wrist, his knife pointed at Aemond’s throat. “She should’ve let us kill you!”

His uncle manages to shove him off, throwing him on the ground right next to you, barely conscious and hopefully still breathing. “Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” you never quite understood why people described Aemond as spiteful, but now, laying on the ground in a pool of your own blood, you incoherently understand why. “You will die screaming in flames like your father did, bastards!”

The knife is on the ground, too, but as Aemond reaches for it, Lucerys is quicker. 

When the Kingsguard finally comes to the scene, they find a disfigured prince and an unconscious — dead-looking — princess, both still bleeding, both in immense pain. 

The first to snap out of his daze is Ser Harrold, who immediately comes to your side, glancing at the open wound and reaching for his handkerchief, pressing on the bleeding gash with it. This seems to snap you out of your trance, too, because you let out a blood curdling scream, thrashing against him. “Princess!” he exclaims, trying to calm you down. “I am merely trying to stop the bleeding!”

But it looks like you don’t comprehend anything anymore, blood covering your face and teeth, you find yourself spitting it. All you can think about is the fact that Aemond was going for a second strike. And suddenly, you hold no more pity for him, and find yourself agreeing with your grandsire. A spiteful brat, he had described him. 

Your grip on Ser Harrold’s arm would surely draw blood if it wasn’t for his armour, and you can see the terrified gazes of your brothers and cousins, clouded with tears, as the guards keep them away. As your vision darkens and your head spins, you think you can hear Nādrēsy roaring from outside. 

You are unable to stay conscious for much, slipping between being completely passed out and being awake but quite comatose, and you barely register Ser Harrold taking you in his arms — a guard with a screaming Aemond right behind — and getting you out of there. The thundering from your dragon outside just keeps getting louder and louder, pounding in your ears and shaking High Tide. 

The Grand Maester looks horrified when Ser Harrold brings you into his chambers, screaming about needing immediate help, but soon gets to work. Him and his apprentices work overtime, roughly patching Aemond up for the meanwhile because they have a dying girl in their hands, and it doesn’t take much for you to be mostly drunk off of milk of the poppy. 

When you wake, your head is in a tight bandage, and you’re laid down on a daybed, Rhaenys and Corlys by your side along with your brothers, still covered in blood. Their little butchered faces make you want to cry — you failed. As an older sister, you have one job — protecting your brothers — and you have failed. 

“Mummy,” is the first word that comes out of your mouth — like the scared little girl you are, you are searching for the comfort of the same person who has always given it to you, ever since you were but a blob in her womb: your mother. It’s rasped and barely a whisper, but Luke hears it. 

“Sister!” he screams, jumping on the daybed. “You are awake!”

Your head is pounding and your vision is blurred, but you recognize this room to be the best guest chambers of High Tide, the ones your grandparents sometimes let you to sleep in. If you are correct, right now it’s your grandsire who resides in them. There are murmurs around you, a maester nearing, and a heavy hand settling on your shoulder. 

“She’s not here, sweetling,” it’s your grandfather Corlys, but you don’t recognize him. “Daddy?” you ask, as the maester puts in your trembling hands a calice. You hesitantly drink from it, but as soon as the liquid touches your lips, the first instinct is to spit it out. Corlys grimaces. “He’s… he’s not here either, but we sent for them. They both should be here any moment now.”

“I thought you had died,” Jace sobs, “I could see your skull.”

“It will surely scar,” the maester murmurs, tightening the bandages. “Hopefully, it will do only that.”

A wave of nausea comes over you. The maester seems to notice, and he’s quick to ask for a bucket, passing it to you and patting your shoulder as you vomit in it, ears ringing. “That’s normal. She’ll probably have constant nausea for a while.”

The people around you murmur, and another voice makes itself known in the crowd. “—re’s my granddaughter? Where’s my granddaughter?!”

It’s your grandsire, the King, and he stops once he sees you, bandages bloody and bleary eyes, skin pale and covered in sweat. “What have they done to you, my girl?” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. He looks at the maester, “Is it serious?”

“I– we have no actual idea of how much it’ll affect her in the long term. In the best scenario, it’ll only scar and leave her with migraines every once in a while,” he grimaces, probably fearing for his life as the King looks furious, “I– in the worst… it, it could have some… permanent effects. Intellect-wise.”

Your grandsire shakes his head. “If you really value your head, dear maester, then you’ll make sure she doesn’t have any repercussions. Don’t forget you have the heir to the Iron Throne in your hands.”

The maester gulps, and Viserys sits by your feet on the daybed, gently placing a hand on your knee. “How are you feeling, sweetling?”

You whine, too nauseated at the moment to speak. The door is thrown open, your mother and uncle Daemon running in, Rhaenyra screaming your names. “Jace, Luke– dear Gods, my girl, what has happened to you?”

Her trembling eyes are frantic, looking at your bandaged wound and the blood splattered on your face, but she is quick to compose herself, putting up a facade in front of the whole court. Later, in the privacy of her chambers, she will hold her three babies and weep as much as she needs, but for now, she has to stay strong. 

Unexpectedly, it is you who starts crying first. Just a little girl crying for her mother, covered in blood and scared for what’s to come. Are you going to be ridiculed for your scar as Mushroom the fool is for his height? You sure hope not.

This enrages your grandsire even more, and he raises back on his feet, throwing his hands in the air. “Gods be good, how could this happen?” he turns to Ser Harrold, “How could you allow such a thing to happen?”

“The princes were supposed to be abed, my King,” the knight replies, tense himself. 

Viserys snarls. “And who had the night watch?”

The Lord Commander’s eyes dart towards Ser Criston, who speaks before he can even be interpelled. “The Prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace.”

Viserys barely spares a glance at Aemond, sitting by the fireplace, his left eye socket being stitched by the Grand Maester. “The Prince?” he says in disbelief. “The Prince? The heir to the Iron Throne could've been killed! You swore to protect my blood!”

A moment of silence. Ser Harrold speaks up. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace.” 

Ser Criston straightens. “The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from other princes, Your Grace.”

“That is no answer!” your grandsire yells, shaking his head. He looks at the Grand Maester, who is now almost finished with Aemond. “It will heal, will it not?” 

“The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

The King sighs. Rhaenyra nods. “That is not even near enough punishment for what he has done to my daughter.”

Alicent’s eyebrows raise up to her hairline. “What he has done? My son has lost an eye. Over what? An innocent scuffle?” “That’s not true!” Jace screams. “He attacked Baela!”

“He broke Luke’s nose!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!” 

“He tried to kill our sister!”

“Enough!” Viserys rages, immediately shutting down the children. He looks over to you, eyes softening. “My dear, dear girl, are you able to tell me what has happened?”

You sniff. The tears have stopped by now, but the ringing is persistent. “I arrived a bit later than the others.” you murmur, eyes downcast, to your hand, tightly held in your mother’s grasp. “I… I tried to help Aemond. Gave him my hand.” 

You raise your eyes, still full of fear and regret. “Grandsire, he went for another strike.”

“It should be my son telling the story!” Alicent interrupts, voice cracking. “Lucerys Velaryon had a knife– Aemond was ambushed! They meant to kill my son!”

Before your grandsire can reply, you shake your head. Your mother is surprised to find no rage in your words, only… confusion. Disbelief, maybe. “Your son maimed at me when I was simply trying to help him.”

She scoffs. “He was merely defending himself.”

“I gave him my hand to help him off the ground. I had no bad intentions nor weapons with me.” 

You are just discovering one of the bad traits of the human species, Rhaenyra realises. Betrayal, and the worst kind. The one that comes when the intentions are the purest, but the receiver takes advantage. She wonders if after this you’ll be able to help anyone without doubts or second thoughts ever again. 

“He aimed for a kill.”

Viserys turns to his son. “Aemond, I will have the truth of what has happened, now.”

He looks lost. A little kid coming up with a lie. He’s older than you and yet so stupid. “T… they attacked me.”

“That's not true!” Jace bursts. “You called us bastards!”

Silence falls upon the room; you stare at your brother. Had you known that was the motif of the whole ordeal, you would have happily let them beat Aemond till he was no longer recognisable. Your mother pales, and opens her mouth to speak again. “Your Grace, my sons were attacked and forced to defend themselves and their sister, already struck down. My daughter is heir and my sons are in line for the Iron Throne; this is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might know where he heard such slanders from.”

“Over an insult?” Alicent asks, voice trembling. “My son has lost an eye.”

“Your son has permanently damaged the heir to the Iron Throne,” Viserys corrects her. “Now, you tell me, boy. Where did you hear these lies?”

“The insult was but a training yard buster,” his wife interjects, again. “The lot of boys. It was nothing.”

“Aemond,” your grandsire presses firmly. “I asked you a question.”

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? Where is the children’s father? Perhaps he might have something to say on the matter.” 

“I…” your grandsire seems to agree, even if doubtfully. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, Your Grace,” your mother quickly replies. “ I... could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”

“Entertaining his young squires, I would venture,” the Queen mumbles. The King chooses the best strategy — just ignoring her. “Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

This is turning messy, you think, too many cards on the table. Your injury, Aemond’s lost eye, your brother’s questioned legitimacy, your father’s absence. For what specific thing are you here? For the fight that broke out or the years of bottled up rage and hatred? 

Aemond’s trembling too, you realise. Yet, for the first time in your life, you can’t find it in yourself to hold even a little bit of pity for him. “It… it was Aegon.”

His brother stands straighter beside him, taken aback. “Me?” 

“And you, boy? Where did you learn such calumnies?” the boy hesitates, “Aegon! tell me the truth of it, now!”

“I…” your uncle sighs, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “We… we know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them,”

Your grandsire is silent for a moment, shaking his head. “This interminable infighting must cease! All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!”

You’ve never seen him so enraged — Viserys The Peaceful, the smallfolk calls him, and not as to jest. He really is a calm and collected person; he has simply had enough, it seems. 

“That is insufficient,” Alicent declares. “My son has been damaged permanently, my King. ‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”

Your grandsire sighs. “I cannot restore his eye, Alicent. He has wound the heir to the throne. He should repute himself lucky to not have lost his head.”

His wife shakes her head, bewildered. “He is your son, Viserys, your blood! There is a debt to be paid!”

“My granddaughter has already paid more than enough for your son’s thoughtlessness!” Viserys screams. “He wounded an innocent child who was acting in good faith! She helped him and he spat in her face! That is how you are raising your children, Alicent? Aemond is three-and-ten, almost a man, and yet he attacked a girl not even nine summers old! He should be ashamed of himself.”

The Queen looks dazed. “He has paid more than it is acceptable.” her eyes flicker to you; a glimmer of greed, typical of HIghtowers, sits in them. “We… we could wed the children. Who would want the Princess, now that she has been ruined? My son would have a bride as consolation for the lost eye and she wouldn't have to worry about her future husband finding her… hideous, or worse, not finding a husband at all.”

Viserys takes a deep breath. “Alicent, the girl is only eight…”

Rhaenyra's eye twitches. The only thought of one of Alicent’s spawns getting on the throne by marrying you would've been enough to send her on a rampage. "So that she can say that her husband abused her even before the start of their marriage and you can have one of your children on the throne? I would rather my daughter die a spinster than to see that happen. Besides, she’s a Princess — a scar inflicted by your animal of a son could never manage to taint her beauty. It surely won’t help him in the search for a bride, though, so I can’t say I’m really surprised by this proposal.” your mother is trembling in anger as she says this, “I had already proposed something like this, Your Grace, so I don’t see why my proposal should be denied while you expect yours to be happily welcomed.”

A piece of information is missing, you realise, because you have no idea what your mother is talking about. “Very well,” replies Alicent, voice stone cold. “There is still a debt to be paid, and if the King doesn’t bring justice, the Queen will. I shall have one of your sons’ eyes in return. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Luke screeches and you jump up from the bed, fighting nausea and headache, just to try to keep him safe. Your mother is already making sure of that, hiding him behind her, grabbing you too in the meanwhile, holding you close to her. “Mother!”

“Alicent,” your grandsire chastises.

“He can choose which eye he wants to keep — a luxury that was not granted to my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” the King commands to the knight, who looks conflicted. “Stay your hand.” 

“No, you are sworn to me!”

It seems Ser Cole is not that much of a fool to cut a prince’s eye out of his socket, and he takes a step back. “As your protector, my Queen.” 

“Alicent,” your grandsire starts, “this matter... is finished. Do you understand? And let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons should have it removed.”

Your mother takes a breath, and her grip on you and your brothers loosens. “Thank you, father.” 

It all happens so fast. 

In a second or two, Alicent has a knife in her hands — snatched from your grandsire’s belt — and your mother has bolted forward, holding her wrist in place, preventing her from attacking any of you. “Stay behind!” she yells, barely looking at you all — and before you can move to obviously disobey and try to smack Alicent as hard as you can, it’s uncle Daemon who comes up behind you to hold you back as the guards do the same to your brothers. 

You shriek, “Let me go, let me go! I’ll cut her eye out since she wants one so bad!” 

“And then what?” he taunts, putting a hand over your mouth. “For this all to escalate even more?”

“Stay with the King!”

“Alicent!”

“Hold your approach!”

“Stay your hand, Cole!”

Your trashing and turning against Daemon’s hold doesn’t cease, only worsening as your mother grunts in fatigue. “You’ve gone too far,” she grits, glaring at the Queen, steadily holding her wrist and preventing her from wounding her. 

“I?” Alicent asks. “What have I done but was expected of me?” she shakes her head, trembling. “Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law, while you flout it all to do as you please!”

“Alicent, let her go!”

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It's trampled under your pretty foot again!”

“Alicent, release the blade!”

“And now you take my son's eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!”

“Your son almost killed my daughter!” your mother screams, her rage finally exploding. She snickers, but it’s clearly sarcastic. “Exhausting, isn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” she shakes her head, and her voice softens. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent manages to free herself from your mother’s grip; Rhaenyra is sent tumbling behind, but luckily there’s your grandfather to catch her. Her arm is profusely bleeding — the wench managed to cut her — and the dagger falls on the ground with a loud thud. 

Daemon finally lets you go, and you sprint to your mother, holding her wounded arm tight and sniffing into her dress. Despite everything, she still manages to hold you close — as she always does — pressing her nose into your hairline, murmuring sweet nothings and reassurances. 

Your grandsire is speechless; his eyes dart to your mother, then to Alicent, then to your mother again. In the end, he looks at his wife, an unreadable gaze in his eyes. “I accept Princess Rhaenyra’s proposal of marriage,” he declares, the room eerily silent. “and I declare my youngest daughter, Helaena, and my oldest grandson, Jacaerys, betrothed, to put an end to this rift between our family. They are to be married once the boy reaches the age of sixteen.” 

His face holds something you’ve never seen in his face, as he looks at the Queen. Is it disdain? You are too young to really know. “I hope you are happy now, wife.”