Aria

Unhurried. Heavy. Familiar already.

“You make an impression,” Lord Stark said.

You did not startle. Instead, you slowed just enough that he fell into step beside you, his shadow long against the torchlit wall. But you watched them walk in turn with each other, your silhouette matching his in your fur cloaks, his tall stature towering above you. What a pair you made.

“I’m told that is expected of me,” you replied lightly. “Princesses, dragons, all that.”

He glanced sideways at you, expression unreadable. “Not that kind.”

You arched a brow. “Do tell.”

“They’ll talk about it,” he said. “The children. The men. You let them near her. You trusted them.” A pause. “You trusted us.”

You stopped walking.

Cregan halted as well, turning fully toward you now. Up close, the lines of him were sharper and weathered in a way no southern lord ever was, as if the cold had carved him deliberately. A stone statue within an ancient stone fortress, a lineage longer than Old Valyria.

“Trust isn’t given lightly here,” he continued. “But it isn’t forgotten.”

“Nor is fear,” you said quietly. “I chose which one I wished them to remember.”

Something shifted then. His eyes were not straight ahead where you both walked, but at you, really and truly looking at you. What was he seeing? His expression was warmer, perhaps, than before. The expression he reserved for his people, not the cold scrutiny reserved for a southern invader and her dragon.  

“The North remembers kindness,” he said at last. “But it remembers danger longer.”

A faint smile touched your mouth. “Then it is fortunate I am both.”

That earned you a low huff of breath, not quite laughter, but close enough to count. Your smile grew. He found himself marvelling at your free use of smiles. Surely men would pay to see them.

He gestured ahead. “You’ll dine with us tonight. No court. No ceremony.”

You studied him for a moment. “Is that an invitation or a test?”

“Up here,” Cregan said, already turning away, “they’re sometimes the same thing.”

You followed.

~

You dined without song or spectacle.

The hall was quieter than you expected—voices low, laughter brief and earned. Cregan sat at the high table but not apart from his men; they spoke to him easily, challenged him, disagreed without fear. You found yourself watching more than eating, noting the way he listened, how decisions seemed to form without announcement. The North ruled itself differently.

When the meal ended, it was not wine that lingered but purpose.

“The Wall,” Cregan said as you rose. “At first light.”

You blinked. “That’s… quite far.”

“For southerners,” he replied evenly. “I’d rather you saw it than heard stories.”

You studied him. “You’re not escorting me for comfort.”

“No,” he said. “I’m taking you because if war comes—and it will—you should understand what the North guards.”

Talk of war settled between you like frost.

You nodded once. “Then I will gladly ride.”

~

The road north was growing ever white and endless.

Thick snow started to swallow any sound, muffling the world into something vast and lonely. But there was a vague sense of unbridled freedom you knew you’d never truly feel. You rode wrapped in furs atop a strong northern mare, Seraph a pale shadow in the sky above because when she chose to follow, she insisted on coming. She was close enough that you felt her presence like a tether.

She had always been your tether; the one that got you scolded when you sought after her in the dragon pit all alone and curled up against her wings when Aegon had made an uncomfortable comment, or Aemond… or when Aemond had stolen you away somewhere dark in the palace and ripped out a chunk of your hair. 

He had wrapped it around his ring finger. You could not quite remember what vitriol he had whispered in your ear, something about marriage. He’d never forgiven you for siding with Lucerys. But whilst you had grieved for the loss of his eye, you couldn’t have betrayed your family, nothing could stand between you and them.

Seraph was your sole comfort in times when you needed your mother and she was focussed elsewhere. Sometimes you could swear the dragon regarded you as her little hatchling.

Cregan rode ahead with a handful of men. They spoke little. When they did, it was practical; weather, distance, rations. No gossip. No speculation.

It was hours before the Wall emerged.

At first, it looked like a great cloud. Then stone. Then ice so immense your breath caught painfully in your chest. It rose from the earth, impossibly tall, its surface shimmering faintly in the thin northern light. An imposition of death and beauty. What had they come across to build such a thing…

“So this is it,” you murmured.

Cregan dismounted beside you. “This is where the world ends for most men.”

A horn sounded in the distance. Black-clad figures moved along the top of the Wall, small as ants against its vastness. You felt acutely small. An unusual feeling for a girl that had spent most of her life looking down at the tiny people her dragon soared above.

The Wall did not feel real until you stood directly beneath it.

Up close, it was not merely ice but layers upon layers of history frozen into place. Centuries of cold. You reached out before thinking, gloved fingers brushing its surface. It burned. Not with heat, but with a biting, living cold that crept through leather and wool alike.

A wooden platform waited near the base, ropes thick as a man’s arm threaded through iron pulleys overhead. The lift creaked softly in the wind, swaying just enough to remind you how far it would carry you.

One of the Night’s Watch shifted beside it, eyeing you with open uncertainty. “You needn’t ride up, my lady. Most lords don’t stomach it.”

“I’m not most lords,” you replied, stepping onto the platform without hesitation. “I’m a dragonrider.”

The ancient boards groaned under your weight. Cold iron pressed against your glove as you caught the railing. The Watchman hesitated, then nodded and gave the signal.

The lift lurched.

Your stomach dropped as the ground fell away, the Wall rising higher and higher around you. Wind tore at your cloak, snapping it like a banner. The ropes strained and sang, the platform swaying just enough to remind you there would be no soft landing if it failed.

You did not scream. You did not close your eyes.

Instead, you laughed a short, breathless, exhilarated laugh. And maybe Cregan had baulked at the sound of unrestrained joy and awe. Perhaps if he could bottle up this laugh he could drink it to feel it himself. Experience its beauty in his own skin.

When the lift finally ground to a halt and the gate above opened, the world unfolded.

Endless white stretched northward, broken only by dark forests and distant, jagged hills. No roads. No keeps. Just wilderness. Untamed. Unforgiving. Freedom.

“It felt like flying,” you said softly, eyes bright despite the cold. “But without wings.”

Several of the men exchanged looks. One of them huffed out a laugh despite himself.

“Aye, Princess,” another muttered. “That it does.” You gave him a bright-eyed smile and just missed the red spreading across his cheeks. (“It’s the weather you cheeky tosspots,” as the men nudged and goaded him.)

You walked the length of the Wall slowly, boots crunching over frost, glancing down into the abyss on either side without fear. The men watched you closely at first probably expecting hesitation, perhaps, or revulsion. But they would find none. You leaned over the edge, eyes sharp, curiosity alight rather than horror.

“How thick is it?” you asked. “How long did it take to build?” “Do the ravens fly north in winter, or only south?”

You listened when they answered. Truly listened. And when they spoke of storms that froze men solid, of nights when the silence pressed so heavy it rang in the ears, you did not flinch.

“Most who come here look south,” a grey-bearded man said after a time. “You keep looking north.”

“There’s nothing for me south that I haven’t already seen,” you replied quietly.

The wind howled, carrying your words away.

Cregan stood a short distance off, arms folded against the cold, watching the way the men had begun to speak to you not as a princess, but as something rarer; a witness. A believer of something far greater than they. Afterall, why would they be standing atop this wall?

A horn sounded below.

Sharp. Urgent.

A rider was approaching the gate from the southern side.

You turned as the man had quickly emerged onto the Wall, still catching his breath as the makeshift pulley came to a halt, face drawn tight beneath frost and exhaustion. Black cloak. Southern dust still clinging to his boots.

He froze when he saw you.

“My—” He swallowed. “My Princess.”

Cregan stepped forward. “What news?”

The man hesitated.

Your stomach tightened.

You felt it before the words came, a subtle shift in the air, as if the Wall itself was holding its breath.

“Speak,” Cregan said, voice hard and commanding. He disliked the fearful stare aimed at you.

The man’s eyes blinked at your unwavering ones.

“It’s from King’s Landing,” he said hoarsely. “From the court.”

You waited.

And somewhere far above, Seraph cried out, agonising and sorrowful in the grey sky. And you had cried out, just like her, when the words came out:

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon is slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

...

poor bub ☹️

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE!! i hope i havent missed anyone from the taglist. sorry for later update, i now have a j*b...

They were training.

Steel rang softly against steel. But there were no shouted commands, no crowd to impress. Just motion. Discipline. Endurance. You watched from above, chin resting against your hand, mind wandering.

In the Red Keep, mornings began with whispers. With servants murmuring of who had been seen, who had spoken too freely, who had lingered too long in the wrong place. Here, the North woke to work.

A knock sounded behind you.

You turned, schooling your features before calling, “Enter.”

A young woman stepped inside, bundled in grey wool, her dark hair braided tight against her head. She carried a basin of steaming water and did not curtsy deeply, only inclined her head politely. You did not mind.

“Princess,” she said. Not reverent. Simply factual. “Your fire is stoked. Breakfast will be ready when you wish it.”

“Thank you,” you replied, accepting the basin. Your fingers stung as the heat seeped into them. “Might I ask your name?”

She hesitated, slight surprise gracing her young features. “Carys, my Princess,” she offered with a small smile.

You nodded, “Thank you, Carys.” She left, the door closing softly behind her.

You dressed carefully, choosing to adorn your furs over a red and black silk dress, leather boots instead of soft slippers. When you fastened the cloak at your throat, you looked at yourself in the mirror. Unused to being dressed in fine furs and admiring how it looked against the Targaryen colours.

By the time you stepped into the corridor, Winterfell was fully awake. Steel striking steel. The dull thud of wood against leather. Boots crunching through frosty ground. As you stepped into the courtyard, the cold bit sharper than it had above, cutting through your furs and settling deep in your bones. You drew your cloak tighter but did not turn back.

The men were arranged in pairs, moving with brutal efficiency. No wasted flourishes. No shouted praise. A blow landed, another parried, bodies shifting and adapting in quiet rhythm. It was not a spectacle. It was a practise of survival.

Lord Cregan Stark stood among them.

He did not command. He did not pace like a caged animal as Ser Criston Cole did when pitting your brothers against your uncles, nor did he lounge as though the effort were beneath him. He watched. Occasionally, he stepped forward, corrected a grip with a sharp gesture, murmured something too low for you to hear. The man he corrected nodded once and adjusted immediately.

You lingered at the edge of the yard, uncertain whether to announce yourself or retreat. No one stopped for you. No one knelt.

It was… strange. And freeing.

One of the men went down hard, slipping in the churned snow. His opponent stepped back at once, offering a hand without hesitation. Cregan’s gaze flicked toward you then, brief but unmistakable. He did not dismiss the yard. Did not approach.

You lifted your chin and stayed where you were.

Minutes passed. Your fingers numbed despite the gloves, the cold creeping in where pride refused to yield. White strands of hair escaping from its singular plait. Eventually, Cregan broke away from the men and approached, his boots leaving deep impressions in the muddening ground.

“Standing still is how the North reminds you it’s in charge,” he said. “Movement helps.”

“I thought the North prized endurance,” you replied, meeting his eyes with a radiant smile. “It would be poor form to flee so soon!” 

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Endurance without sense is just stubbornness.”

“And is that not a Stark trait? I seem to recall my mother saying that once.”

This time, the twitch became something closer to a smile.

“You’re dressed better today, Princess” he observed, eyes flicking briefly to the furs, the red and black beneath. “But silk still freezes.”

“A dragonrider does not wear silk atop their steed,” you replied evenly. “I assure you.”

Something shifted in his expression. “Good,” Cregan said at last. 

“Good,” You replied in turn.

He studied you for a moment, something thoughtful passing through his eyes. Then he turned, gesturing back toward the yard.

“Watch, then,” he said. “If you’re to stay here, you should know how the North keeps itself alive.”

~

The air grew warmer as you followed the familiar pull toward Seraph after growing tired of watching the training. Winterfell’s outer yard gave way to the dragon’s resting place: a wide, open stretch of ground.

You were stopped as you reached the threshold of the castle.

“Are you really a princess?”

The voice was small but bold, cutting through the cold like a thrown pebble. You slowed, turning to find two children standing near the edge of the path. One was a girl of perhaps seven or eight, her cheeks red from the cold, hair tied back in a crooked braid beneath a fur-lined hood. The other was older, a boy, thin and sharp-eyed, his boots mismatched, cloak too big for him. Maybe two and ten.

They did not bow or curtsey.

You smiled anyway.

“I am,” you said gently. “But you needn’t sound so disappointed.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “I’m not. Your hair is white like it should be. You don’t have a crown though.”

“Do all Princesses wear crowns?” you asked.

She nodded solemnly. “And speak very important and- and have wars fought over them.”

You laughed softly, eyebrows raised. “Then I fear I am poorly made for the stories.”

The boy tilted his head, eyes flicking past you, toward where smoke curled faintly into the sky. “Is it true you brought a dragon?”

“I did.”

“How big?” he pressed, “bigger than the castle?”

“Not quite so,” you replied, crouching slightly so you were closer to their height. “And far better mannered than the stories suggest.”

The girl beamed. “Da says dragons eat people.”

“Only rude ones,” you said conspiratorially. “And only if they forget to ask permission.”

That earned a snort from the boy.

“My da’s the stable master,” the girl announced proudly. “He says no one touches beasts without leave.”

You nodded at once. “He sounds very wise, dear girl.”

You straightened, brushing off your gloves. “If you’d like, I could introduce you to her. But only if your father agrees. A dragon is still a beast.”

The boy studied you for a long moment, then grinned. “You’re not like the other southerners that ‘av come.”

“I would hope not,” you said quietly but with humour, as if sharing a secret with the boy. 

Footsteps approached. The stable master himself halted a short distance away, eyes wary but curious.

“My lord— my lady, –uh Princess” he corrected himself quickly.

You inclined your head, ignoring his blunders at what title was appropriate. “Your daughter tells me you are wise with beasts. I wished to ask your leave before approaching my dragon… and perhaps allowing them both to see her.”

He looked at you, truly looked, then at the children, and finally toward the distant shape of the white dragon in the distance.

After a moment, he nodded. “If the beast allows it.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest.

“She will,” you said. “She always does.”

You turned, leading the way at an unhurried pace, careful not to rush the children or pull them too close too quickly. The ground grew warmer beneath your boots as you neared Seraph’s resting place, the frost thinning to damp grass and ash-darkened earth. Heat shimmered faintly in the air, carrying the familiar scent of smoke.

Seraph lay coiled near the far edge by some trees, ivory scales dulled only slightly by soot, wings folded close to her body. One pale eye cracked open as you approached, narrowing in lazy recognition. A low rumble stirred in her chest, acknowledgment of her lovely rider.

The girl stopped short, fingers clutching at her father’s cloak. “She’s… she’s breathing smoke.”

“She does that when she’s content,” you said softly. “Like a cat purring. Just louder.”

Seraph lifted her head then, long neck uncoiling with deliberate grace. Steam curled from her nostrils as she regarded the small group before her, gaze flicking briefly to the stable master, then lingering on the children.

You raised a gloved hand, palm outward. “Easy, beloved,” you murmured in High Valyrian, the words flowing like a familiar song. “These are friends.”

The dragon’s rumble deepened, she lowered her head slightly.

The boy’s breath caught. “She listens to you.”

“I listen to her,” you corrected gently. “That’s the difference.”

You glanced back at the stable master. He stood stiff, shoulders squared as if bracing for a charge that never came, eyes fixed on Seraph with wary respect rather than fear.

“If you like,” you said to him, “they may come closer.”

He hesitated, then nodded once. “Slowly,” he told the children in a gruff Northern tone. “Like you would with a horse that doesn’t know you yet.”

The girl took one careful step forward, then another, boots sinking slightly into the warm, soft ground. Seraph watched her intently, head tilting just a fraction as though puzzled by the smallness of her.

“She’s beautiful,” the girl whispered. You smiled at the sight of them looking at each other.

Seraph exhaled, a soft huff of smoke and heat. She lowered her head further until it rested back on the dirt.

Pride thread quietly through you. “She likes honesty,” you said. “And patience.”

For a moment, no one spoke. “Can I take your hand?” The little girl looked at you and held out her small palm. You slowly guided it to the ivory scales that adorned the dragon.

A little exclamation of awe released from her mouth, “Can Micah touch her too, Princess?”

You searched for where the boy was standing next to his father. “Come, Micah.”

He joined your other outstretched hand and you positioned him next to your side. Placing his hand gently on Seraph’s large head you muttered, “Breathe with her, can’t you feel the heat and life flowing through her?”

Micah swallowed, then nodded, eyes never leaving Seraph as he mimicked the slow rise and fall of the dragon’s chest. His shoulders eased. The awe on his face was unguarded, reverent in a way no courtier’s ever was.

Behind you, boots crunched softly over the half-thawed ground.

You did not turn. You knew who it was before the stable master stiffened and before his shoulders straightened.

Lord Cregan Stark came to a stop beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. He said nothing at first. He simply stood and watched. Seraph’s eye flicked toward him, pale and unblinking. A dragon knew when it was being assessed.

Lord Stark did not flinch.

“She trusts you as well, my lord.” the stable master said quietly.

You glanced back then, meeting Cregan’s stare for just a heartbeat before returning your attention to the children. “She trusts those who do not covet her, who respect her” you replied. “Arrogance smells sharp to her. Like blood.”

Cregan’s mouth curved faintly at that. His eyes stayed on the children, on the way Micah’s fingers trembled and then steadied, and on how Seraph remained still, immense and patient.

“That’s a lesson most men never learn,” he said.

The girl laughed softly, emboldened now, her small hand warm against the dragon’s scale. “She’s warm like the springs,” she said.

“Yes,” you answered. “But stronger. Old magic runs through her veins.”

“Dangerous?” Micah asked, voice hushed.

You considered him carefully before answering. “Very.”

After a moment, Lord Stark spoke to the stable master. “You did right by them, most children never get this close I imagine” he said.

The man exhaled, tension leaving his frame. “Aye, my lord.”

You withdrew your hands gently, guiding the children back a step. Seraph lifted her head slightly but did not rise, her tail flicking once before settling again into the dirt.

“That’s enough for today,” you said softly. “She’s been generous.”

The girl nodded solemnly, as though she’d been entrusted with a secret. Micah glanced back at Seraph one last time before stepping away.

As they were led off, Cregan finally turned fully toward you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “I don’t think other dragonriders would.”

You brushed ash from your gloves, heat still lingering beneath your skin. “The North does not belong only to lords,” you replied. “Nor do dragons.”

For a long moment, he studied you; not as a princess, not as a political piece, but as something newly understood.

“Children remember moments like this,” he said at last. “Long after banners fade, they’ll tell everyone they know ‘I touched a Princess’s dragon once’.”

You met his gaze, steady and unafraid. “Then I hope they tell it truthfully, my lord.”

The dragon rumbled low behind you, as if in agreement.

I think Seraph is a much more terrifying, bigger version of Light Fury lolol, thanks for all the love!! ╰(*°▽°*)╯

Taglist: @silverlightsaber @gloangielina @ateliefloresdaprimavera

(comment if u want to be added pls xx)

Your steps slowed half a pace. “And do you think I am lying, my lord?” Genuine concern swept over your face, the last thing you wanted was to build a relationship with the North based on lies and deception, though you didn’t know what you were supposedly lying about.

He stopped.

The courtyard seemed to still around you, the clang of steel and murmur of voices dulling as Cregan turned fully to face you. Up close, you noticed the scars that adorned him: small, pale lines at his knuckles, one near his jaw. Not ornamental. Earned.

“No,” he said simply. “But you were sent here for more than courtesy.”

You held his gaze. Oh. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, but this was not King’s Landing. He had offered bread and salt and warmth. You would not insult that.

“My mother fears for my safety,” you said quietly. “And she fears what my presence might be used to justify.”

Understanding dawned. Not surprise, but recognition. As if he had been waiting for you to say it aloud.

“The Queen sends her daughter north,” he said, voice low and gruff. “Out of reach. Out of sight.”

“Out of hands,” you added, eyes cast down at the trail of his cloak.

Cregan inclined his head. “Then she chose wisely.”

You stared up at him in surprise with those big, bright eyes that men fought over to be looked at by. Gratitude and the gravity of the situation swirled in them. He kept your gaze for a moment, then nodded once more with a muttered “Princess” as he walked away.

~

Inside the ancient grandeur of the castle, warmth wrapped around you like a living thing. Steam rose faintly from the stone floors, and the scent of pine and smoke clung to the air. Your boots echoed as you crossed the hall, banners of direwolves hanging heavy above you. No dragons. No crowns. Only wolves, stone, and history.

You felt suddenly, profoundly young. Inexperienced and out of your depth surrounded by the northern people that were so different from the preening flowers of the Red Keep.

Servants appeared as if summoned by instinct rather than command with offerings of wine spiced with cloves, thick wool cloaks, bread still warm from the oven. You accepted gratefully, fingers thawing around the cup as Cregan suddenly appeared and dismissed the others with a gesture.

“You will dine with me tonight,” he said. Not a question.

“I would be honoured.”

His gaze lingered on you again, thoughtful. “You are far from your kin.”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss them?”

You thought of Dragonstone’s cliffs, of Jace’s laugh, Luke’s earnestness. Of your mother’s hands trembling just slightly as she kissed your brow goodbye.

“I think I have the ability to miss someone even if they are standing two feet away from me,” you admitted with a small smile. Sheepish, not sure why you would admit that to him you added, “But distance can be its own kind of mercy.” Dragonstone had started to become as suffocating as King’s Landing after all.

He considered that. “The North understands mercy earned by endurance.”

~

Later, alone in your chambers, you shed layers of wool and leather until only the heat of the stone remained and the brush of your silk dress. You stood by the narrow window, watching faint premature snow begin to fall, drifting like ash from a dying fire.

So different from the ash you knew.

A knock came, sharp and curt.

“Enter,” you called.

Lord Cregan stepped inside, this time without his sword belt, cloak exchanged for a simpler mantle and sleeves rolled up. Less lord. More man. You were surprised.

“There are matters we should speak of,” he said.

You nodded, gesturing to the small table near the hearth. “Politics rarely wait for comfort.”

“No,” he agreed. “And the war you flee will reach even here.”

You met his eyes. “Then I will not pretend I am only a guest.”

A pause. Then: “Good.”

He leaned forward, bare forearms braced on the table that you tried not to ogle. “The North has not yet declared for either side. Your mother’s cause is just—but justice and survival do not always ride the same horse. Or dragon.”

“I know,” you said. “That is why she sent me. Not to demand oaths… but to remind the North of who she is.”

“And who are you?” he asked.

The question was not idle. Not cruel. Yet, it was a challenge.

You straightened. “I am Rhaenyra Targaryen’s daughter. I am a dragonrider. And I am not a pawn to be traded for peace.”

A slow smile ghosted across his face. “Then you will do well here.”

Outside, somewhere beyond stone and faint snow, Seraph let out a low rumble - content and protective.

You then let yourself wonder if the North might not only shelter you…but change you.

And accept you as one of theirs, if you were willing to stay.

~ 🐉🤍

Hope you enjoyed part two!! More to come! Please keep leaving comments I appreciate them so much as I’m new to posting fics 🩷🩷🩷

During childhood in the Red Keep, the brothers kept their eye on their strange little niece. Whilst not everyone said it, most people thought that Rhaenyra’s dear daughter was the fancy of the two young Targaryens. Accepting her as part of the family; trailing after her more than her own bastard brothers sometimes. And the Queen Alicent encouraged it.

As opposed to a match with her darling Helaena and one of the heir’s ‘plain-featured sons’, she rejoiced in a possible union between the Velaryon rose and one of her own. She could take away Rhaenyra’s clearest claim to the throne after her. Binding her to this side of the family. Away from Rhaenyra’s lying, manipulative insolence. Alicent was rather fond of you, bearing the features of her own children and more… normal than Helaena. More receptive to a hug or a kiss on the cheek. Rhaenyra despised such a match, much to the dismay of her father and Alicent. However, as you grew, the boys’ attention sharpened into something else entirely.

Aegon’s smiles lingered too long, his cups always refilled before he spoke to you, his voice sweet with a familiarity he had not earned as he verbally sparred with your brothers daily. He spoke often of how the realm loved beauty, how a girl like you might one day soften a war before it ever began. He laughed when Rhaenyra bristled, as if it were all harmless talk, but the suggestion was clear enough… he would marry you. And peace could be bought with a daughter’s hand. Rhaenyra tried to push thoughts away that she’d rather chop off both of your hands than give them away to her monstrous siblings.

Aemond did not smile.

And when you left alongside your brothers after you had sided with Lucerys taking his eye. He wondered if he had perhaps made you up all together. That he had simply imagined your kindness, your wonder, your empathy at his lack of a dragon. Until you came back to the castle to argue for that wretched creature’s legitimacy for the Driftmark throne, as real as the day you left him.

He began to despise you. But this hatred grew and festered like a gaping wound. He became obsessed and Aemond’s obsession was as dangerous as Vhagar’s jaws. Dreams of you that were more akin to nightmares plagued his sleeping hours. Council meetings that were alike to watching paint dry were easily escaped in his mind’s wandering. How you’d look on your knees, begging for his forgiveness. You would stare up at him with those illuminating eyes, glistening with tears. His hand around your throat, a marriage band around his slender finger. The glint of the gold a haunting contrast to the bruising around your neck. He silently worshipped these thoughts and his obsession widened into a gaping hole of need, for you.

Rhaenyra grew paranoid by the day as they left for Dragonstone yet again. But this time she would act. She would send you away under the guise of a Queen ordering her dragon to secure the North but really as a mother, sending you to the furthest corner of Westeros, the largest territory, and people that hadn’t yet turned their backs on her. You would be safe. For now. 

~

Your dragon soared over the Northern skies and you felt a chill like no other. They were expecting you, a princess of the realm, hopefully they had furs aplenty to keep you warm in this climate. But you had always hated the heat of King’s Landing, much preferring Dragonstone’s harsher wind and lush green grass. Maybe you’d get used to the feeling of an impending snowstorm. 

The enormity of Winterfell arose in the distance, heavy and imposing even with this hazy view. It looked as harsh as its bleak surroundings but also as a monument of protection and honour. The Starks were one of the most honourable houses weren’t they? Your nerves sent your mind in different directions. They were not oathbreakers; they would welcome you, not send you and your dragon running. You scoffed to yourself, what ever could be waiting in Winterfell, of all places, to scare off a dragon? Seraph the dragon huffed in the air as if offended you’d ever think her scared of something. 

You guided your beloved dragon further down to one of the many entrances of Winterfell.The wind cut sharper as Seraph descended, her wings stirring debris and ashy mud alike as she circled the ancient stone. Horns sounded along the walls, low and wary, the North announcing that it had seen you. Men gathered in furs and steel, faces lifted not in awe but assessment, hands never straying far from sword hilts. Winterfell did not gape at dragons the way the South did. It watched them. Weighed them. You felt suddenly, acutely visible. No longer soaring through cloud cover on a dragon with ivory scales.

And then you saw him.

Lord Cregan Stark stood at the fore of them, dark hair loose from the wind, his cloak heavy-looking, one gloved hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword. He did not kneel. His eyes tracked Seraph’s descent with a calm that made your breath hitch. It was as if he had already decided something the moment your shadow crossed his walls.

When Seraph’s claws met stone and the air finally stilled, Lord Cregan Stark stepped forward alone. The world seemed to hold its breath with you.

“Princess,” he said, voice low and even, carrying easily through the cold. “You are welcome in Winterfell.”

Not a promise. A declaration. 

You smile, the cold biting at your cheeks as you incline your head in return. “Lord Stark,” you greet, voice carrying despite the wind. “You have my thanks,” you added shyly, “and my apologies. I did not think a raven would do justice to the sight of me.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, though his eyes never leave you. “Ravens are poor at warning of dragons,” he replies. “But we were told to expect you.”

“Good,” you say lightly, though your fingers curl tighter around the saddle strap but you step down onto the ground anyway. “I would hate to be mistaken for an invasion.”

A few of the men behind him shift at that. Cregan does not. His gaze flicks, briefly, to Seraph. She takes in her surroundings, hot breath emitting plumes of smoke.

“You’ll find no enemies here,” he says. “So long as that dragon finds no prey.”

Your dragon lets out a low grunt as if dismissing the conversation. You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “She has already eaten. And she prefers sheep to wolves.”

“Good,” Cregan answers. “Our wolves bite back.”

Silence stretches - not awkward, but deliberate. Measured.

“You came alone,” he says at last.

“I did,” you reply, meeting his eyes squarely. “By my moth- Queen’s order.”

Something shifts then. Not in his stance, but in the weight of his attention, as though your words have revealed something.

“You will be an honoured guest in Winterfell, Princess,” he says. “Bread, salt, fire. No harm will come to you beneath my roof.”

Cregan studies you for another long moment before nodding once, sharp and final. He turns toward the gates. “The North is cold to strangers, but it keeps what it shelters.”

And for the first time since you left Dragonstone, your nerves steady just a bit.

hehehehhehehe let me know what you're thinking!!! i normally never post anything EVER

i will be writing part two!