Spice

"Of course not, but what of the other dragons?" Tyland looked over to you, and you sighed.

"The dragonseeds?" You pursed your lips. "They'd be fools to fly out into open water with such large dragons. Vermithor and Silverwing would be shot down, given how large they are. The only dragon we ought to worry about is Seasmoke. He is large enough to put up a real fight against Indominus, but small and agile enough to dodge the Scorpions. Regardless, you need only kill the rider." You stood as your guard put on your riding crown. Unnecessary, but you liked the regal look. "Don't upset yourself so, Tyland. I intend to drink the wine of revenge from the whore queen's skull for what she did to my brother and nephew."

With your crown fastened and your riding clothes fitted. You climbed the highest deck and jumped onto Indominus. You held tight, closing your eyes before commanding Indominus. "Sōvegon eglie ezīmagon se vēzos, Indominus." You murmured, and so she did. You flew higher and higher above the clouds. You soared through the sky.

"Fly high into the sun, Indominus"

There was a break in the clouds. You stopped above it, looking down. The Velaryon ships waited there. "Ruaragon aōla, Indominus." You smiled before having Indominus dive.

"Hide yourself, Indominus"

You kept yourself low, and once you were close enough, you gave the command for dragon fire. Blue flames shot out, and Indominus let herself show. Her dragon fire split the ship in half. Indominus' fire tore through the ships, and it wasn't long before the sell swords came. It would be another victory in your brother’s name, wherever he may be. You could only pray for his safe return.

More shouts were heard of dragons. You turned and let a wild grin loose. Only Vermax and Moondancer. You'd have to thank your lucky star Seasmoke didn't show. "Angōs Indominus"

"Attack Indominus"

With a final breath of fire towards a Velaryon ship, you took aim towards Baela. You'd have her head and send it off to Daemon for your nephew, and then you'd feed Moondancer to Indominus. Indominus flew, spewing fire at the smaller dragon. You laughed as Moondancer flew higher into the clouds. You could see your cousin holding on tight, trying to hide away from Indominus' fire.

You turned, seeing your bastard nephew fly towards you. You were always rather generous. Perhaps reward your dearest nephew Luke with his brother and dragon. You urged Indominus to go faster. She did, but in turn could no longer spit fire. She resorted to snapping at the tail of Moondancer. Moondancer broke through the clouds, and so did you. Indominus snapped once more, nipping the end of Moondancer's tail before you forced Indominus into a free fall back down.

Using the clouds as cover, you shouted the command for dragon fire. Just as you had anticipated, the bastard was there. He yelled in pain before turning Vermax, having the dragon take the brunt of the fire. Indominus locked claws with Vermax. Your dragon was bigger and had the high ground. You forced your dragon into a death spiral whilst she dug her claws into the legs and chest of Vermax. The dragon cried out in pain. You hoped to throw Jace off Vermax. The brat had himself anchored. With a final spiral, Indominus threw Vermax into the water.

With the injuries, you're sure Jace is to be shot down in the water if Vermax does manage to fly out.

You flew through as you did; you felt heat on your right side. Your hand raised instinctively to protect yourself as you ducked. Your sleeve caught fire. You screamed in pain as you ripped off the clothing on fire. Indominus roared with anger before using her tail as a whip to whip the ship that had launched the fireball at you.

Though you hadn't escaped the fire yet, Moondancer let out dragon fire near your back. You cursed. You were too low to dive. The only thing that awaited you was water. You didn't know if Indominus was strong enough to get out of the water fast enough for you not to get shot with arrows. You looked back. Baela was above you, closing in fast. Indominus was crying out in pain. You'd have to take the chance and dive. So you did. You had her dive into the water, soothing her scales from dragon fire. Before you went under, you saw another dragon charge at Moondancer.

The coolness of the water soothed the slight burns on your arm. You held tight as Indominus swam through the water. You willed her up as you ran out of breath. She broke through, and the water pressure nearly flattened you.

But you were right in your fear. Indominus wasn't fast enough to get you into the air. She was hit by a fireball, and you were shot twice by arrows. Once in your shoulder and the other straight through your arm. Your screams of pain coincided with Indominus'. You looked around as Indominus flew higher. You had done enough. The Velayrons were outnumbered. You watched Vermax and Jace fly out of the water while you flew higher. You let out an annoyed sigh. You stayed out of reach of any harpoons and fireballs.

The dragon that joined was mad. It blew fire upon any ship, regardless of symbol. Your lips pursed. It ought to be fine. What's a few ships lost? They're not your men anyway. Simple sell swords. No loyalty owed to them. Still, you had hoped to kill one of the blacks. Oh well, there would be more opportunities.

For now, your sights turned towards Driftmark. Lohar had made a good point for all her savagery. A blow to Driftmark would cripple Corlys. It would cripple the richest house in Westros to lose its port. You grunted, trying to grab the reins on your saddle. It was no use. Your right arm couldn't be used with two arrows in it. Still, you'd needed to do something about Corlys. Something permanent. "Zālagon tolī, pār bartos naejot Driftmark," You murmured, and Indominus gave a roar before diving once more.

"Burn a couple more, then head to Driftmark."

You wrapped your left arm and held tight. You kept an eye out for Jace or Baela. They were both busy with that rogue dragon. Unfortunately, Indominus hadn't forgotten Moondancer's transgressions. She burned three more Velaryon ships before letting out a roar and making way towards Moondancer. "No! Indominus!" You yelled to no avail as she spewed dragon fire. You wouldn't have objected had the mad dragon not been so close. It had been too close, and it turned its sights to you. You cursed as you willed Indominus away. The rogue dragon was smaller, but it'd put up a fight, and you were in no condition to fight.

You fled, and so did Vermax and Moondancer. Both dragons had harpoons in them. Vermax flew crookedly, most likely from the impact of the water when you sent it crashing down and its injuries. A miracle the mad dragon didn't kill him. Still, Vermax wouldn't fly for at least the next three moons. It was a dragon down in your book. Furthermore, you were sure, at the very least, you had broken some of your nephew's bones.

But you weren't worried about that; your mind was preoccupied with how to lose this dragon on your ass. You flew lower than you should, and you prayed they wouldn't aim at you. Your best shot was King's Landing, and hope Aemond would fly out on Vhagar to help. If not, then there are the scorpions already there. Then you'd have to hope they aren't poor shots.

But you looked to Driftmark; the idea of still going crossed your mind. Indominus dodged and spun, avoiding the dragon fire.

Who the fuck was on that damn dragon!? You turned back and caught sight of white hair. A dragonseed? Aemond had only told you of three. Riders of Vermithor, Silverwing, and Seasmoke. Whose fucking dragon was this?

"Dracarys, Sheepstealer!" You heard, and your eyes narrowed at the familiar voice. Rhaena. You grinned. A fight would ensue regardless. Better over a town you intended to burn rather than King's Landing and earn the common folk's ire like Rhaenys had at the Dragonpit.

"Gaomagon ao pendagon kosti?" You leaned and whispered. Indominus roared before flying upwards and turning towards Driftmark.

"Do you think we can?"

"Let us cripple Corlys Velaryon using one of his own." A wild dragon who spit fire at anything, you wouldn't have to do much, you reckon. Indominus is largely unharmed. The question is whether or not you can hang on. It wasn't long till you both were over Driftmark. You dove under close enough that Indominus just barely grazed the buildings. Just as you predicted, the dragon let out fire aimed downward, burning Driftmark for you. Soon enough, the animal would tire from letting out so much fire. You laughed, hearing the screams of those burning and hearing Rhaena shout. The skies fell upon Spice Town, and it was brought down by one of their own. As Indominus ducked and weaved through the fire, an idea crossed your mind. If you slayed the dragon and whatever was left of Spice Town, they'd turn against Corlys once revealed who the dragon rider was.

You laughed before having Indominus take a sharp turn. You ignored the pain in your arm. The adrenaline numbed the pain. You had Indominus fly upward as you taunted Rhaena for not being able to control her dragon. She had no saddle; it'd be easy enough to have her fall from her dragon. Should she fall, the dragon is sure to give chase in attempts to save her. On the ground, Indominus is guaranteed a win, and so is the destruction of Spice Town.

One death spiral was all it would take. Spice Town was already burned, all without your dragon fire, and Rhaena's dragon was slowing down. It was tired. "Angōs Indominus"

"Attack Indominus"

You flew directly towards the dragon before weaving under and grabbing its claws. Your head grew light. Perhaps the loss of blood— you don't know— but suddenly, falling through clouds, you lost sight of Spice Town. The scenery changed. Both dragons were in free fall. You yelled out for Indominus to spin. She did just before hitting the ground. She twisted and instead sent the wild dragon crashing into the ground.

The people screamed. Indominus flew high, and you circled high in the sky, and you very quickly gathered this wasn't Spice Town. It was more of a tourney field. You recognized the buildings. You've flown over them before. The closest you dare to get to Dorne. Just leagues to the west of the Dornish Marches is Ashford. But how? "No matter. Angōs Indominus!" Your primary goal was to kill a black dragon and deliver justice to your family. Whilst not a son, you're sure Daemon will rue his daughter, and if he didn't, you'll just go for his sons next.

"Attack Indominus"

Indominus roared and dove down until landing. You saw Rhaena, who had fallen off. You grinned and turned, pulling out your father's dagger. The same one your mother used to cut Rhaenrya. You had found it and stolen it, since your mother never gave you anything. You landed close to Rhaena, who crawled back, one of her legs surely broken. You couldn't hold your giggles back at your victory. How long you have yearned to spill black blood just as they did to your nephew. Your blood had boiled when they took your nephew's life. If it weren't bad enough, they made your sister choose, and she chose to give up Maelor; they took Jaehaerys and taunted Maelor that his own mother wanted him dead. Your youngest nephew hasn't been the same since. Yes, you'd take great pleasure in this.

You unbuckled yourself and slid off of your dragon as Rhaena's dragon found its footing and roared, trying to run towards Rhaena. You shouted for Indominus to kill it. You pushed Rhaena down and sat on top of her, forcing her to watch as Indominus charged. She was bigger and stronger. Besides, the wild dragon was tired.

"Watch Rhaena. Watch and see as my Indominus kills your dragon." You panted. "And then maybe you may understand what it felt like being forced to watch my own nephew's head sawed off."

She screamed for Sheepstealer, and all you could do was smile and press down on her even more. Even as a crowd gathered. Both dragons snapped at one another. For each bite Sheepstealer gave, Indominus would use her claws, ripping at Sheepstealer's side. It wasn't long before Indominus gained the upper hand and pressed the dragon down. It gave a weak growl, and Indominus gave a louder roar.

You looked over to the side. Fourteen men on horses all stood off to the side. Two with white hair and Targaryen symbols on their chest. Who the fuck were they? It didn't matter. "Dracarys!" You yelled while Rhaena screamed out in protest. You watched with your teeth bared in a grin as Indominus charged up her fire before spewing it directly at Sheepstealer. The dragon jerked, but it was no use. With the force of Indominus' fire and its shot at the eye, it burned through its skull.

Rhaena cried, and you forced her to keep watching as Indominus began to eat at Sheepstealer's burnt carcass. "Fear not, dearest cousin. I am not so cruel as to let you be without a dragon." You fought against the pain in your arm and pulled her head back before you slit her throat. She bled out under you, and you breathed a sigh of relief as she gave under you. That familiar sense of euphoria rushed over you at the thought of Daemon mourning his daughter.

You stood up and kicked her body over before you sank once more and began sawing at her neck. You stopped midway as you began to feel sick. The memory of your nephew crying out in fear and pain, and blood splattering on your face from him.

Fuck this; you'd have someone else cut her head off. You cleaned the blade on her clothes before sheathing it. You looked over to Indominus, who feasted. You knew better than to get between her and her meals.

"How dare you!?" A man shouted, and you looked up, raising a brow. "How dare you kill a dragon!?"

He had Targaryen coloring. Another dragonseed? Had Rhaenrya grown so bold as to clothe them in Targaryen colors? Still you scoffed, standing. Blood staining your riding clothes, and your hair unkempt, but your crown still held. "Am I meant to ask you for permission?" Your head cocked to the side. "How dare you speak to a Princess in this manner? Do not think yourself mighty because you dress in my house colors. The whore of Dragonstone may have given you dragons, but you are still no one to question me. You'll mind your tongue, or you'll meet the same fate as her." You stepped on Rhaena's body.

You looked over towards Indominus, who paused and looked over to him, giving a warning growl before returning to her feast. You grunted in pain, looking over to your arm. "Don't stand there gawking like a fool. Bring a maester."

The man in front of you made a face, all the while everyone else stood watching your dragon devour the other. Finally, a man walked forward. He wore armor that seemed too small on him; it could be missed by anyone without an eye for these sorts of things. But you'd be around enough knights to spot the difference. He gave a nod, and a maester approached. "Forgive me, but you are?" He spoke with caution. He ought to. You're the one with the dragon.

Still, you raised a brow. Nonetheless, you spoke your name and title.

He shook his head. "They say she died in the Gullet. Perished against the dragons of Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela."

"Are you daft?" You hissed as the Maester book off the end of the arrow on your shoulder and forearm. "Do I look dead to you? Do you think such small, feeble dragons could tear me down?" You scoffed, shaking your head. "The Seven hells shall freeze over before I am bested by my bastard nephew and the little whore of Driftmark." You laughed before you hissed in pain again. "Who are you to question me?"

The man only raised a brow. "I am Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne."

That made you laugh. "Whose bastard are you? Surely not my brother's. My father? Do not spew such lies, or you shall meet the same fate as Aegon's other bastard who fancied themselves King." You looked him up and down and shook your head. "The others, at the very least, had the decency to look Targaryen."

The man behind him, with the face of pox scars, walked behind him. "Mind your tongue when speaking to my brother."

You hummed, nodding. "Another bastard? At least you look it."

He looked as if he were about to speak, but a raised hand from 'Baelor' silenced him. "If you say you are who you are, you'll forgive our disbelief. You were pronounced dead nearly 80 years ago."

"The dragons are gone for your foolish war, and you've just killed another." The man seethed out.

You paused before shaking your head. "I have naught the time for such foolish japes." You turned to the Maester. "You have until Indominus finishes Sheepstealer. If not, I will feed you to her next." The maester looked towards Baelor for help. The Prince only gave a nod, and the Maester ran off to get his things. You looked over to the man who stared at you with hatred. "What is your name?"

"Prince Aerion Brightflame."

Your brows raised, and you hummed. "Cut off the traitor's head and bring me something to preserve the head. When I capture my uncle, I shall serve him the head of his daughter." You stepped on her head, rolling it under your heel. "Rhaena the useless." You stepped back and nodded. He didn't move, and you raised a brow. "Well?"

"You cannot command me. You cannot command a dragon." He spoke, and you laughed.

"For the name Brightflame, you're not very bright, are you?" Now you'd command Indominus just to take a point, but she doesn't listen when she eats, so you'd rather not make a fool of yourself. "Do you think yourself a dragon?" You looked him up and down. For a bastard, he wasn't looking. "I've ridden many dragons; why don't I ride you next and tell you if you are worthy of the title or not?"

"How dare you speak to me-"

"No!" You cut him off. "No, how dare you refuse my order? If I order you to take three paces back, you'll take the three paces back. If I order you to jump, your response should be; how high?" You turned away from Aerion and looked towards Baelor and his brother. "If what you say is true, and I did perish in the Gullet, though as you can see I did not, then the Gods have seen it fit to bring me here where you have no dragons to restore House Targaryen to its former glory." You walked forward, and Indominus stopped eating, leaving the half-eaten carcass of Sheepstealer behind as she walked behind you, her face red with blood. "All of you will speak to me and adequately address me because in front of you stands the last dragon rider of House Targaryen." You turned back towards the dead body of Rhaena. "You all are no different than Rhaena. Dragonless and only a name. I am the last true Targaryen, and everyone will learn their place, or burn."

Note: Did she kill Rhaena and Sheepstealer? Well yes! Did she also indirectly save Jace? Also yes! So #fairs. Anyways, this concept of having a dragon AoTSK has always been in the back of my mind, but I didn't know how to go about it.

First time writing a green character is actually green. If I were to continue this (I'm not bc this is a one-shot) it's prolly turn into a think piece about how Targs with dragons acted vs without.

To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist/Series m.list

Vermax himself had been uncouth to Dany. Jace had said it was only because dragons are never handled by anyone else other than the bonded rider and dragon keepers. Jace had also told her that Vermax is of a bad temperament.

Dany nodded, looking up towards Drogon and Rhaegal. She could understand. Those two are also of a bad temperament.

They both stopped and were offered water by her blood riders. (Jace hasn't the faintest clue what that means) It was silent between them. Dany was too embarrassed to speak, and Jace was too ashamed to look her in the eye.

He had woken crying.

It brought deep shame to him. Jace could feel his face go red in embarrassment every time he even caught her eye.

And Dany? Well, she can't help but feel grateful that he doesn't look at her, or he would see her face go red, and not from the sun. Jace watched the cream colored dragon land on her shoulder. The black and green soon landed.

If she is the one his family drove themselves mad for, he can understand. Jace had never seen anything like it. Not even with him and his own dragon. Dragons had always been some sort of pet to them. Jace is sure that somewhere in a deep, dark room on Dragonstone, there is Vermax's old leash and collars he used to have when Vermax was small enough to walk around inside Dragonstone. But these dragons acted more like children than anything.

Cream, black, and green.

Jace breathed out a small laugh. She turned to him, and his mouth went dry. He cleared his throat and looked over to Vermax, who lay off on a rock, taking in the sun.

"Yes?" She asked, and his heart raced.

For goodness sake, Jace was no green boy to these matters! He actively played in kissing games with Baela! He married Sara! He performed his marital duty to her! Jacaerys Velaryon, for the life of him, cannot figure out why he acts in this way with Dany!

It ought to be her who shouldn't be able to speak to him! After all, felt her touch on his face! Heard her whispers! So why is it he who cannot even look at her without resembling a tomato? "They have the coloring of the c-conquers dragons." Jace managed to speak out, and gods, he wanted to die.

"My children?" Her voice sounded so steady, but the gods know otherwise. Dany, just as he, panics, knowing of the countless days and nights she spent murmuring her life to him. "I am aware, though I don't know much of my — our family history. Only what Ser Barristan tells me, and what my brother told me."

"Your brother?" Jace looked towards her and was willing himself to keep looking at her. He had seen her a dozen times before and heard stories a thousand more times.

"Viserys," Dany spoke, looking down as she brought Viserion off her shoulder and into her lap.

Jace paused, trying to think. Dany was clearest to him. He had spent over a century and a half sleeping, but it was only a matter of days to him. He awoke crying, thinking it a terrible dream of what befell his family, only to then be greeted by Dany. He had cried and mourned for his family, for he knew it then that his dream was no dream at all. "Your mother is Rhaella?"

Dany nodded, looking up to him. Jace looked down. "I wished I could've helped like your brother wanted me to." Vermax stretched and walked closer to Jace until his grand head rested near Jace. Rheagal and Drogon growled; Vermax growled in return. Jace placed a hand atop his dragon, and Vermax exhaled smoke, sending the two smaller dragons rolling back. Dany laughed, and Jace smiled before looking to her. "Viserys would crawl under my bed and ask when I would wake. He told me to wake soon so that I may crush the usurper and ride alongside your brother, Rhaegar, with three dragons behind me."

Dany looked down at her young children. She could not imagine bringing them to war. Handing Dragon over to the slavers in Astapor had already been too much. Dragons aren't tools of war. Her children belonged in no war.

"When your mother went into labor, Viserys begged for me to help her." Jace looked away, ashamed of his own uselessness. "I could do nothing. I watched your mother labor with you for what must've been hours. I heard the storm of your namesake. I saw your mother pass. I saw your brother hate me and curse me. I wish I could apologize to him."

Dany remained silent. She had known of this. Viserys had cursed Jace's name several times, of course. That he was no true dragon and that he was nothing but a sleeping corpse who would never return. "My brother would not have forgiven you."

"It is not forgiveness I seek."

Dany opened her mouth to speak before Ser Barristan stepped in. "Forgive me, my Queen, but we must make haste to Yunkai." Dany gave a nod before standing. "You ought not think of it too much," Dany said, tossing Viserion into the air to fly. "My brother is dead."

Dead? Jace paused. For how long has he been dead? Jace thought about the sweet young boy who came to him for help. His hand clenched at the thought of it. Still, Jace mounted his horse and rode forward until he grew tired of it. He looked back towards Vermax, who seemed annoyed. What dragon had ever marched a whole league? Still, Jace had no saddle to ride Vermax on. No Targaryen had ever attempted to ride a dragon bareback. Not any he can recall anyway. Still, Jace wished to ride horses no longer. He was never one for riding anyway. Nowhere to ride to on Dragonstone after all.

He'd fly atop Vermax, racing with Baela and her Moondancer.

Jace cannot complain despite the sores starting to form inside his thighs and the pain in his rear. Dany has not, and what does a Prince (is he still a prince? House Targaryen only consists of the two of them. House Targaryen was conquered. Should his title not be forfeited? Then why is Dany still called Queen?) look like complaining before a Queen?

Is Dany Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as self-proclaimed, or Queen of those who follow her now? If so, is Jacaerys King? Then would that not force Dany back into a Princess? He'd rather not. Neither her blood riders nor her followers would accept him as King; he is sure. In any case, Jace has no intentions of taking Dany's title. But the question remains: is he still Prince?

He was his mother's heir, but a King cannot rule asleep, so the title passed to Aegon, but he remained heir apparent. Not even when Daeron was born did Aegon proclaim otherwise. Jace remembers his little brother's words well. The crown would be given to him if he should wake.

Time passed, and Jace remained a Prince. Little Egg had said Jace should be King when he woke. A proclamation of a King, but the last King was Aerys, and his heir was Rhaegar. Aerys never spoke to him and only kept him in the Red Keep for Rhaegar. But is his title now forfeit without a monarchy? Does Dany bring a new monarchy? One he is not a part of?

What would his title be? Does he have one? Or shall he give his Targaryen name away? He would only become Targaryen upon his accession to the throne. Right now, Jace still holds the surname of Velaryon. He is salt and sea, and would've only become fire and blood sitting the throne. He is a Lord now, then? Lord Jacaerys of House Velaryon? He is no ser, for he was knighted. Why would he be? He was heir to the Iron Throne.

Should he be knighted now? Should he commission a saddle be made for Vermax and fly back to Westeros? Will Dany ever return to Westeros and take back the throne? He doesn't know. He groaned at all the questions swimming in his mind.

Jace doesn't want to stay in Essos. It is not home. His home is across the sea. But Dany's? Is it here? Or is it the red door with the lemon tree in front? The place where he took shelter in his dream.

Dany had told him he always smelled of lemons. Perhaps it is because in his dreams he would eat lemons.

He wants a lemon pie. Or just a lemon. He is hungry.

Still his questions remain. Shall he go back and take back the throne himself? He has a dragon, but he has no army. Are there still those who long for Targaryen rule? He promised his first daughter to Cregan. Perhaps now it should be he who marries the Starks' oldest daughter. The Northern army is mighty. But what of the Reach? The Tyrells. He could marry one of them, he is sure, but they took no side in the war. An Aryen would mayhaps suit him better, or the Tullys.

Shall he take multiple wives? Like Aegon the Conqueror did? Instead of sister-wives, just two wives. A Stark wife and a Tully wife. Tully for the Riverlands. Always the best place for wars, which he is sure will break out if Jace goes back to conquer. Can he do it by himself? It took Aegon three dragons all bigger than his own, and two sisters to do it. Even then, he lost one to Dorne. But Dorne ought to be eager for revenge, should they not? What did happen to Elia?

Or shall Jace remain here and serve Dany? What does she intend to do? Free all the slaves? It would take half their lifetime, and Jace wants to go home.

Jace plagued himself with these questions all the while watching Dany ride up front. Ser Barristan was next to her, and her three blood riders beside her. Three small dragons were flying above her.

"If I look back, I am lost."

Words echo in his mind. Words not of him. A weight fell upon him.

Jacaerys Velaryon. Salt and Sea.

Or

Jacaerys Targaryen. Fire and Blood.

Before Jace could answer, they arrived at Yunaki. Jace dismounted his horse and stood behind Dany.

Fire and Blood, or Salt and Sea? The throne for which he was born or the woman before him? Essos or Westeros? To be the sword of House Targaryen, or the sword of the Prince who was Promised?

"From my blood," Rhaegar began, and the doors of Yunaki opened. "Come, the Prince that was promised," Jaehaerys continued, and slaves walked out. Slaves who looked no different than he. "And his shall the song of Ice and Fire," Egg spoke as Daenerys walked out into the crowd who chanted 'Mhysa'

"When the red star bleeds red," Daeron said with his sandy blonde hair covering his face. "And the darkness gathers," Aerion spoke, his tone harsh. "Azor Ahai shall be born again," Aerys spoke, his voice old and filled with the knowledge of the thousand books he loved to read. "Amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone," Rheagal, brother of Maekar, Aerys, and Baelor, spoke, his voice sounding for the first time and no longer filled with the delusions he suffered his whole life.

Jacaerys looked out as the chant for Daenerys continued. They lifted her into the air.

"The long night is coming," His mother spoke, and Jace froze. "Only the Prince who was promised can bring the dawn," A voice sounded. A voice he'd never heard. Jace looked up towards the three dragons that flew above Daenerys. The three dragons grew and grew. To the size of Vhagar, Meraxes, and Balerion.

Aegon The Conqueror.

His dreams led him to take all Seven Kingdoms.

All the dreamers dreamt of her.

He remembers Daeron the Drunken coming to him, speaking to him of riddles he can now understand.

He remembers Daemon II Blackfyre coming to him, speaking of the Conquerors' dragons reborn again.

He remembers Aerion Targaryen coming to him, boasting proudly that he would be one of the three dragons to return.

He remembers Egg burning, saying that even if it is not him to bring dragons, three dragons shall wake from stone.

He remembers Bloodraven coming to him, racked with guilt of his doings. The death of Baelor. The death of all those so that Maekar, and then Aegon, could be king. From them comes Daenerys.

He remembers Sheira teasing him about how love-sick he will surely be for Daenerys.

He remembers Viserys coming to him asking when he will wake. When the three dragons will wake from stone.

He remembers Aegon telling him to wake so that he may be a knight in his service.

He remembers his mother speaking of the Promised Prince that would wake her Prince.

Jacaerys remembers it all.

He watches the fruit of his family rise in front of him, and still does he question?

No, he cannot. Jacaerys Velaryon died in Salt and Sea, but Jacaerys Targaryen returns to Fire and Blood.

Behind him, Vermax lifts into the air for the first time in over a century. Jacearys stands tall. Regardless of title, Jacaerys is Targaryen as has always been intended.

The Valyrian Empire shall weep not, for in dragon fire and usurper blood will House Targaryen and Valyria be born again.

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She loves him differently than all her other children. She loved Luke, she loves Joff, she loves Aegon, and Viserys. But her Jace? Oh, her sweet Jace, he is her world. With Jace, there were colors. The flowers bloomed the day her boy was born. The bird soared higher the day he took his first breath. The voices turned to song with her boy.

His hair was the richest color of brown, and curls that the sun yearns to warm. His eyes were brighter and more beautiful than the stars themselves. With her first, the world became like one. One heart and soul that beat within them. He made her world bright.

And now? There are no colors. There are no colors as he lies still. Not even his body has colors. His hair, his brown hair, is dull. His curls are now simple waves, having lost their life.

There is no color for Rhaenrya. The flowers have wilted in his absence. The birds cannot fly. The music is gone.

His eyes cannot show her the stars any longer.

The world is dead without her boy. A part of her is gone.

Jace had made her a mother, and without him, she does not feel like a mother.

Rhaenrya cannot let Jace rest. She has him embalmed with honey in the coldest room of Dragonstone.

The world has ceased as Rhaenrya lies in bed. Only the soil remains on the world, yet it has no life within it. Only waters remain, yet there is no life within them. Only the skies remain, yet there is no life within them.

The world remains, but there is no life.

She can scarcely hear Daemon whispering about a Prince. What does it matter? It is not her Prince. He speaks of a false song.

"Rhaenrya, the words are wrong." And? "Prince or Princesses. It is her. The girl in the desert with three dragons suckling at her breasts."

What does she care for a girl in the desert? Does he believe the child is theirs? How?

Why would her child be in the desert?

But still, three dragons. Rhaenyra is young; she may have more children. If her daughter is to come with three dragons, then she will bring back her boy.

So with a deep breath she stood up. "Bring me, Jace."

"Rhaenry-"

Her hand shot up, silencing him. "Bring me, Jace."

There was a book she read. It had been a book chosen at random. A book to spite Alicent and her terribly annoying speeches of the Seven. She chose a book of blood magic. Magic of Old Valyria. In it was a spell, a spell that spoke of life and death. A life for a life. Her son's life, though already forfeit, could be brought back. She would bring back Jace.

She spent night and day preparing her son's body. She brought Vermax's eggshell and placed it on her son's chest. She took the blade with the prophecy and slit her hands.

He rested atop a pyre, and her blood-soaked hands cradled his face. "From my blood, may the Prince that was promised come, and with him, my boy shall return." With her words spoken, the blood on his face sparked and ignited his body. She gasped and stepped back.

Daemon caught her. She looked up to him; his eyes were set on the pyre on which her boy burned. She turned around, and her court stood and watched.

Jace burned, and Rhaenrya could only pray her magic worked. Old Valyria is gone, but its magic is not. Dragons fly, Targaryens live. Their old empire is not forfeit yet.

As the day became night, and night became day, the fire ceased. Smoke came, and Rhaenrya looked over; in the ashes lay her boy, unburnt.

And colors returned to him. As if he were only sleeping. The sun warmed his brown hair, and his curls returned. Rhaenrya smiled, looking at her sleeping boy.

A glass coffin was brought, and her sleeping boy was laid to rest. He laid his head upon the softest and finest swan feathers covered in silk that was embroidered with dragons. He dressed in Targaryen attire from the old days of Daenys the Dreamer. Across his chest was a chain, and its clasp was a three-headed dragon.

Only when all three dragons and the prince came would he come.

Her sleeping boy lay in his room. The room that belonged to the ruler of Dragonstone. His rightful place. Rhaenrya visited him every night. Whispering to him stories of his boyhood, speaking her troubles to him, kissing him, and wishing him a good rest.

When she left for King's Landing, she continued to fly back every week to her boy. When she lost King's Landing, she confided in her boy. She showed Aegon his eldest brother, assuring him that whenever he had issues, his big brother Jace would be there to listen. When her usurper brother came for her, she hid Jace.

Rhaenyra did not cry out as she burned in the halls of Dragonstone. She had no worries, for she knew her first boy would be there for Aegon. If the girl in the desert did not come from her, then surely from her son.

Aegon never visited Jace as much. He never set foot on Dragonstone after his mother was burned. It hurt, but he left his brother. When his son, Daeron, became Prince of Dragonstone, Aegon was torn on whether or not to take Jace from his place in that room. Was he still Crown Prince? If he awoke soon, would he be King?

Aegon would gladly give him the crown. Jace was made in his mother's image. Jace was always the better one out of all of them. He remembers him well. He led his mother's council well. Had he not died, Aegon is sure his mother would've sat the throne longer, and all Aegon would be is a knight. Aegon would be pleased with that.

But alas, so came the choice. Aegon chose to keep his brother in his rightful place. Should he wake, Aegon would give his crown to him.

Time passed, and Daeron was King. Daeron never met his uncle. Has no memory of him living. His father told him that his grandmother, Rhaenrya, said that he would wake one day. On the day a girl with three dragons who wake form stone. His father didn't like dragons. Daeron doesn't have to wonder why. But still, all Jacaerys is a sleeping boy who does not age. Once Daeron was younger than him, then he was the same age as him, and now he is older than him. His room was Jacaerys' room. Daeron decides to let him stay.

Time passed, and Daeron died young and without heirs, so Baelor came to the crown. Baelor knows little other than this body is not holy. It may be his family, but it is a body that should've been gone. Instead, it is held by magic not of the Seven. Still, Baelor cannot fault a body. So he lets it remain.

Time passed, and Baelor refused to marry and passed without heirs. Viserys became King. Viserys did not recall his eldest brother as much as he should. His brother died for him after all. It haunts him. Viserys tries not to visit, but he can't help him. His big brother. Two opposites. The youngest and the eldest. One with Targaryen coloring, the other without. One who lived his entire life with his mother, the other who did not. One who was always heir to the Iron Throne, the other who was not. Viserys let Jace be.

Time passed, and Viserys passed, and Aegon became King. Who Jacaerys was, he could care less. If anything, in his eyes, he was nothing more than a bastard. Jacaerys was placed in a dark room. That era of Targaryens was over. Jacaerys had no importance to him. That room now belonged to his preferred son. Daemon. After all, if a bastard could live in this room, why not another? If one bastard could be heir to the Iron Throne, why not his own?

Time passed; Aegon the Unworthy died fat and treacherously. He legitimized all his bastards. Daeron rose above it and still became King. He does not know what to do with Jacaerys. His great uncle who he only knows died for his grandfather, Viserys. But Daeron does like Jacaerys. Grew to like him more when his Baelor was born. Dark brown hair and a perfect heir, just like his great, great-granduncle. He took Jacaerys from the dark room and placed him in Aegon's Garden. He figures his sleeping grand uncle would rather wake in a garden rather than a lone room. Baelor asked about him once; all Daeron could say was that his great-grandmother used the magic of old Valyria to put her first boy to sleep until dragons wake from stone. Daeron spent more time thinking of Jacaerys when Baelor died at Ashford. In the moment he learned of his first boy's death, he understood Rhaenrya. Had he known the spell, Daeron would've put his boy to sleep too. Daeron could hardly bear it when Baelor died. His first boy. His first child. The firsts are always special.

Time passed, and Daeron died of the great spring sickness, mourning his first boy and his grandchild. The crown passed to Aerys. Aerys left Jacaerys in the garden. Jacaerys always intrigued him. He did not know what book his great-great-grandmother used to preserve him, but he would very much like to read it.

Time passed, and Aerys died without heirs, and Rhaegal passed, choking on a pie. Aelor only saw Jacaerys once before he too died; Aelora never set her eyes on him before killing herself. And so the kinslayer, the one who everyone says killed his own brother to take the throne himself, even though the gods know it to not be true, Maekar Targaryen took the throne. Maekar kept Jacaerys there in the garden. Sometimes, if the skin was tanner and his hair shorter, he could picture Baelor in that glass sleeping away. He too wishes he could have Baelor sleeping alongside Jacaerys.

Time passed and Maekar was killed in doing what he did best: putting down rebellions. Daeron died, Aerion went mad and died, Aemon refused the throne and went to the Wall, though he too spent much time with Jacaerys, and little Egg took the throne with Ser Duncan by his side. Aegon never spent much time with Jacaerys until he did.

"Ser, did you know that my great-great-great-granduncle, Jacaerys, firstborn to Rhaenrya, will awake when dragons awake from stone?"

Aegon took him to Summerhall. When Jacaerys wakes, Aegon would make sure to be there. When the great fire of Summerhall happened, Aegon worried Jacaerys would burn. He didn't, but Aegon did. Aegon burned in front of Jaehaerys. Aegon begged for Jacaerys to wake. He did not, for dragons did not wake from stone.

Jaehaerys took the throne and took Jacaerys back to Dragonstone. His father spent much time with Jacaerys. Jaehaerys did as well when he learned why his father spent so much time with him. "When the red star bleeds red, and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone." So had spoken the red witch who came to court. Jacaerys would wake soon; Jaehaerys would see to it. He brought Jacaerys to the Red Keep, where all came to see the last dragon prince sleeping.

Robert Baratheon saw a sleeping boy who would never wake.

Eddard Stark saw a boy of old.

Tywin Lannister saw an impossibility.

Cersei Lannister saw a man who, had it not been for his plain coloring, would have been better-looking than Rhaegar.

Jaime Lannister saw a fallen heir.

Tyrion saw a boy who used to fly with dragons.

Barristan Selmy saw a relic.

129 years, the last dragon-riding prince slept. Jaehaerys knew that he would wake soon. He made sure the last dragon prince saw the union of his two children, Aerys and Rhaella.

Time passed, and three short years after taking the throne, he passed, and Aerys took the throne. Aerys kept him in the Red Keep. Rhaegar was fond of Jacaerys. Rhaegar would play his harp for him. Rhaegar would ask him about dragons. Rhaegar often asked Jacaerys if he was the Prince that was Promised. When Rhaegar became Prince of Dragonstone, he took Jacaerys with him. Jon Connington often watched Rhaegar become enamored with Jacaerys. Rhaegar believed Jacaerys would wake soon. Rhaegar would hope to talk to him about dragons, though three dragons would wake soon, would they not?

Elia bore their first child; he took her to see Jacaerys. She returned once more with Aegon. Rhaegar told Jacaerys he saw that his daughter would be the one to wake dragons from stone, that he would have one more child. That when that daughter was born and of age, when dragons woke from stone, when Jacaerys woke, Rhaegar said his last daughter would be married to him. A marriage to bind House Targaryen. Dragons of old, to dragons of new. As if dragons never went.

Time passed, and Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark. Rhaella came to Dragonstone. Viserys spent his time sitting underneath the sleeping dragon Prince. Viserys liked looking at Jacaerys. Viserys liked being with Jacaerys. He would wake soon, and this war would be over. Jacaerys would come back with three dragons in tow and the Prince that was promised. But when his mother began his labors, Viserys forced the masters to give birth in a room where Jacaerys slept. Jacaerys would keep his mother safe.

He didn't. Jacaerys only slept. Rhaella died giving birth to Daenerys Targaryen.

Jacaerys was no dragon.

Viserys loathed Jacaerys. He loathed him when they crossed the Narrow Sea, where he died. He loathed him when he was forced to sell his mother's crown. He loathed him when he had to marry Dany off, and he loathed him when he died.

As for Jacaerys, he stayed on Dragonstone.

Robert Baratheon threw him into the sea where he belonged. Where he should've stayed. A damned Targaryen Prince. A son his mother gave up for the throne. He ought to find his rotting dragon in the sea too.

Jacaerys drifted in the sea for sixteen years, asleep. The sun did not burn him, for he was already burnt with fire. His fine clothes broke down after the first five years, his chain broke off, and on the tenth year, his sleeping body bumped into Vermax. The dragon, which too had been put to sleep when his mother burned his eggshell alongside him. His saddle was long broken off. The bolts in his neck were gone, and the wound was scarred shut.

And then six years later another pyre burned with three stone eggs. A pyre similar to his own. Three young dragons roared. Three young dragons suckled at their young mother's breast. But Jace did not wake. He remained asleep, drifting in the sea.

From Black Water Bay, to the Gullet, to the Narrow Sea passing Tarth, to Cape Warth, Estermont, Bloodstone, the Stepstones, to the open seas, the Smoking seas of Valyria took everything that was not of Jace or Vermax, to then the Gulf of Grief, to finally Slavers Bay. Jace drifted for another year.

Until he was taken by Astapor Slavers. They dragged his and Vermax's sleeping bodies from the sea. They cleaned his skin that despite being at sea for so many years, was without blemishes. His body was too hot for anyone to touch for too long. As if fire coated him. His dragon was equally as hot. As if the two bathed in fire.

They splashed them, trying to wake them. They cut Jace trying to wake him; his wounds only closed, and he did not wake. So they instead splashed their hands in water to dress him without getting burned. They propped the dragon up to have a view of all of Astapor.

They propped him inside to be viewed. He lay back in a bed of flowers and was perfumed daily.

A couple of months later, a Prince and three dragons came. She asked why they had a dragon. The Prince worried a dragon would not be enough since they had one already. They still accepted her dragon.

The Prince set fire to them and freed the slaves.

Breaker of Chains. She ordered the dragon down. They got burned. The Promised Prince went to the sleeping dragon. She cut its ropes and came down. She watched the sleeping green dragon with awe. Its warm breath soothing her.

The bride of fire walked, letting her hand roam over the dragon scales, disregarding the warnings of her advisors.

She stayed in Astapor until every slave was freed; all the while she spent her time with the dragon. On the fifth day, an unsullied came to her about a sleeping man. The sleeping man that came with the dragon.

Azor Ahai smiled and ran to the man who lay asleep on his wilting flowers. She looked over and onto the handsome man. She tapped his face. He did not wake. He only slept. Slowly she traced her finger along his face. His nose, lips, freckles that made her head tilt. He had a faint summer blush on his cheeks. Her hands drifted to his curly dark hair.

Her advisors suddenly came, and in embarrassment, she pulled her hand back, nicking her finger on a thorn. She winced before turning around.

Ser Barristan Selmy paused, looking at the man. "The last Dragon riding prince…" He murmured, looking upon him as he slept. "Jacaerys." Dany looked to Ser Barristan Selmy, then back towards this…Jacaerys. She asked about him, and so he told her of the tale of Prince Jacaerys. That when he died, his mother, in her grief and unable to lose her first son, performed magic of Old Valyria to have him slumber. He told her of how he had been asleep for 153 years of Targaryen rule. He told her that her brother, Rhaegar, loved to speak with him. That Viserys sought comfort in him. That her father was married in his presence, and that her grandfather was fond of him.

"The red witch said that when the red star bleeds red, and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone and only then will the Prince awaken." Ser Barristan spoke and tilted her head.

"Then is our Queen not Azor Ahai?" Jorah spoke.

"Perhaps there is a ritual that has been lost to time." Ser Barristan responded, and the dragon queen pouted. She wondered what stories Jacaerys would tell.

"Bring him and load him onto a wagon; we shall take him and his dragon."

And so it was done. Dany spent most of her time with him. She would ride in the wagon simply looking at him. She sometimes would whisper and ask what her brother Rhaegar would say to him. Other times she would tell him about Viserys and how he used to be kind or of her dreams. But mostly, she'd trace his features. Were all men of her family as beautiful as him?

Dany had said at first she was only with him because he was all she had of her family, but in truth the more she spoke to him, the more she began to imagine. If she is meant to wake him, how?

She admires him, speaks with him, eats with him when she can.

She lies beside him, tracing his face. He has 153 freckles. She's counted. His eyelashes are long, but she yearns to know the color of his eyes. His lips are full, though she yearns to know how he sounds when he speaks. His nose is tall, and she traces the slope of it.

As the days grow together and they close in on Meereen, the ideas start popping into Dany's mind on how to wake her sleeping prince. Perhaps blood?

She pricks her finger and lets it drop into his mouth. He does not wake. She whispers Valyrian sayings to him. He does not wake. Mayhaps milk from her teat? Drogon, Rhaegal, nor Viserion drink much. She tries to squeeze out a drop of milk, just a singular drop. She collects it and drops it into his mouth. Nothing.

Her dragons often spend their time sleeping by him and her, or by the other slumbering dragon.

It isn't long before they do arrive in Meereen and the Breaker of Chains rises once more. She keeps Jacaerys close. Keeps Vermax near her camp. Jacaerys stays near on her bed and hidden behind curtains in her tent. She meets the sellswords. Stormcrows and Second Sons. She meets an envoy from Yunkai; Grazdan mo Eraz. She speaks with the two captains of the Stormcrows; Prendahl na Ghezn and Sallor the Bald. She can see the consideration in Daario Naharis, a man who takes her interest. That interest lacks with Mero, the captain of the Second Sons.

Dany offers gold, gold she doesn't intend on paying. She gifts him wine to share with his Second Sons. Grazdan mo Eraz offers gold; she refuses. She tells him they have three days to free their slaves. If they do not, she will sack the city.

She'll sack the city tonight. While the Stormcrows argue over her offer and the Second Sons become drunken, there is no one to protect Yunkai. She waits in her tent, spending her time with Jacaerys while Ser Barristan speaks more of Jacaerys and his dragon Vermax. He tells her of how at the age of Dany, he was already considered a man worthy of the Iron Throne. That he was the mind behind his mother's council.

And Dany can't help but wonder what advice the Prince would give her. Her plan was, well, she thought, would he give her a better one?

That night when Ser Barristan leaves, she traces over his features once more. She is enamored with him as she assumes her brother was. So Dany looks around, as if embarrassed of what she is about to do; she leans in, smelling the sweet perfumes and feeling the heat that can only belong to a dragon envelop her, and she kisses him. A sweet, soft peck of a girl who has a simple crush on a man.

She looks at him. He does not move. There is movement outside. She turns and misses the twitch in the Prince's face. She stands up from her bed and looks to the man before her.

Before her stands Daario Naharis holding the heads of Prendahl and Sallor, his fellow captains, and pledges the Stormcrows to her service. She gives a smile, nodding before hearing someone take a deep breath behind her. She twists back and looks towards her Prince as he gives groans and small whimpers. She crawls back to her Prince's side, watching him in awe as he seems to wake.

She tressures the sounds that come from his mouth; she waits for his eyes to open. She turns back to Daario before telling him to leave her. He does. Her Prince still hasn't opened his eyes. Did her kiss wake him?

Should she kiss him again?

She does. Her hands cup her Prince's face, kissing him once more. He kisses her back, and she melts into him. She breaks away and watches him, half asleep, attempting to chase her lips. And slowly she watched him begin to blink.

Eyes more beautiful than the stars themselves opened and closed, adjusting to everything. Dany stared in awe.

170 years later, the last dragon prince woke.

Note: This was inspired by a TikTok I saw. Thought it would be cute.

1st day of the 12th moon of 129 AC The Red Keep Crownlands, King's Landing, Tower of the Hand  Kind Viserys Targaryen D.R. 209

House Stark

Winterfell, North

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

30th day of the 11th moon of 129 AC

Lord Stark,

I trust this letter finds you in good health and good spirits. By now, I have no doubt you have received the invitation to my grandson's wedding. Regrettably, your presence shall be required elsewhere.

You are to remain in Winterfell, where you shall receive and host a guest whose welfare is of the utmost importance to the Iron Throne, and to me personally. There are few souls in this realm whose safety I value so highly, and I would see that trust placed only in those whose honor has never been called into question.

I need not remind you that the North has long enjoyed the Crown's confidence. It is my sincere wish that this confidence continues unshaken. I should therefore be greatly distressed were any misfortune, however unforeseen, to befall my guest whilst under your protection. Such a failure could scarcely be viewed as the fault of chance alone, but rather as a failure of the solemn duty entrusted to House Stark.

I am certain no lord of wisdom would willingly invite the displeasure of the House of the Dragon, particularly where so precious a charge is concerned.

Let there be no uncertainty: her safety is your first duty. All other obligations are secondary until she has departed your halls unharmed and has been returned to me.

I expect nothing less than the vigilance and honor for which Winterfell has long been renowned.

King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

…

1st day of the 1st moon, 130 AC

Cregan looked over the letter once more before giving a deep sigh. All over you. The North was nearly put at risk because of you.

After a while, he left the purple flames. How you managed to do that, he doesn't know. He was going to ask you since you had left so abruptly, and he was still in shock at seeing the purple flames; he didn't think to stop you from leaving.

The King holds you in high regard, no doubt about it, if the letter is anything to go by. He had thought you were a lover of some sort, but perhaps it is your witchcraft with flames. Targaryens are fond of their blood magic. Could you be their witch? Then why come North?

Regardless, he went searching for you. Cregan didn't speak much, other than what was necessary. He found it better to listen and observe. A lesson he had to learn through the betrayal of his uncle. Had he listened more to the words of his uncle, he would not have been so blindsided by his siege of Winterfell.

So Cregan does not speak much, not unless necessary. That is his reasoning. Not the loss of his wife, and surely not the fact that he does not truly know how to care for his own son. His son, whom he fears, needs a mother. He still nurses from the wet nurse. He has gone through three; each whose milk has dried. Cregan thinks Rickon needs his mother. But from where shall he get one? Arra is dead, long dead.

There is Sara, but she is only a girl. Five and ten, far too young to take on Cregan's responsibilities, let alone be the acting lady of Winterfell and mother to Rickon.

And thus it leaves Cregan. Leaves Cregan to make sure Sara does well in the duties Arra once did. Leaves Cregan to take care of a child who is in desperate need of a mother. Leaves Cregan to manage the North in the way he was raised to do, yet he still fears that some will not deem him worthy, or a mistake will fall so swiftly on him that it dooms the North.

So when he goes out of his way to find you and speak to you, and he finds out you've gone to the top of Winterfell. He wonders what business you have up there. 'Fireworks,' you had said, were for next year. His wonder is quickly subsided when he saw you on the ledge looking down.

A mistake that will fall on him so swiftly, resulting in the doom of the North.

The fall of the North would be on his hands. His chest hurt, and his heart stopped; he swears it did. The realm he has fought so hard for, the realm he fought for five years to take back from his uncle, the realm he has only managed for four years would fall right before him if you jumped. If he hadn't stopped you.

Should he have failed, no doubt they'd call for his uncle and his cousins to come back. He'd execute them, but kinslaying is the worst crime of all, so Cregan let them live.

And Cregan needs you to live. For the good of his people, you must live until you go back, which he now hopes is sooner rather than later.

He remembers the way you seemed so angry that he stopped you. He had half a mind not to throw you over himself if that's what you wanted. He yelled and asked what the hell was wrong with you. You didn't respond. In fact, you haven't said anything.

He'd rather not, but he has locked you in your room. Your room should be on the first floor. He had thought about it. But it would bring shame not only on you but on him. Only on the first floor do the servant rooms reside. He cannot, so instead he boards up your window, and your room is closest to his, so that he can intervene because he fears he cannot trust anyone else on the matter. The stress of it all leaves him sleepless.

He spends his nights sleeping in short intervals, not that it does him any good. The walls are of stone. So he exits and looks to the guard assigned to protect you. Ser Marston. Some protector. He had been petrified at your attempt. The knight never leaves your side anymore. Perhaps his head was on the line, too.

Your life for Ser Marston's life. Your life for the thousands — no — millions of lives in the North. It angered him beyond belief. Fill him with fear beyond belief because you are not of sound mind.

Ser Marston goes into your room and gives a nod that you are alright, and only then does Cregan go back to his room to sleep, only to be woken up by his inability to sleep a short while later.

Perhaps he should take Rickon to his room? Cregan is a busy man. The North does not rest; day after day, it is met with tasks. Dull tasks, but his duty is done nonetheless. So perhaps these restless nights should be put to good use by caring for Rickon. The boy is restless at night, but awfully lazy during the day.

So he had Rickon with him; he constantly fusses. Fusses for milk. It makes him angry, and sometimes he just wants to leave it all. Either have it all or none of it. He wants his wife back. Arra had been a good friend, and as such, a good wife. They had grown up together. She lent her father's support in his fight against his uncle. Then Cregan married her. She gave him everything, and how did he repay her? By giving her a son, who resulted in her death.

So now he holds Rickon, and that constant stress, that constant regret, that constant anger, how can a man bear it all?

But Cregan loves his son. Despite it all, Cregan loves Rickon.

He couldn't imagine losing him. Not in the way he lost his little brother. Cregan appualdes his father. Should Cregan lose his son, his Rickon, he'd go mad with grief over his boy. So even now, even as the boy fusses, Cregan holds him near, trying to sleep, trying to pour all of his love into his boy.

And now you're here. He hadn't given you much thought. You wrote him a letter of wanting to see Winterfell. He accepts, because what does he care if a southerner wants to sight see in the North? You want to look at the plan of Bran the Builder? Fine.

What he didn't agree to was having to care for you.

He doesn't need another child. He doesn't need someone else who can put the entirety of his realm at risk. He doesn't need someone who will put his son's life at risk.

You must go.

…

8th day of the 1st moon of 130 AC

And yet, you remain. You remain in one place, in one spot. Your bedroom, your bed. You don't move out and about; you lie there, and you rot.

Cregan has sent Sara to speak with you, each time his sister returns with nothing to show for it. She said she asks you questions, but all you give her are one-word answers.

Cregan asks Ser Marston if this is normal; the man says he doesn't know. Cregan has a gray hair, one singular gray hair that wasn't there before.

He can't stand to hear about you. You've done nothing this entire time you've been here. Aren't you supposed to be doing something? The papers to build Winterfell, it's what you came for. So why the fuck haven't you gotten out of bed and asked for it? Every time he hears about you, a year is cut from his life. Every murmur of your name is another gray hair. Every reminder of you is a test to his patience with you.

To make it worse, he has to feed your small calvary of men. Cregan would've thought your stay to be a fortnight at most. The end of a fortnight is near, and you've shown no signs of leaving. And to be clear, he means the North, and not leaving the land of the living.

Had you chosen to arrive in the spring, it'd be no issue, but you've chosen to arrive in the middle of winter. House Stark does not take more than it needs. It had already taken too much in the five-year civil war between him and his uncle. Cregan cannot afford to take more than his household needs. He now must accommodate an extra thirty men. All of whom do nothing! Ser Marston and his men take care to look after you the most.

Then you have your other guards, each with six men serving them. Ser Robert Darklyn, Ser Robin Massey, Ser Willis Fell, and Ser Julian Wormwood.

What they do, what purpose they serve? Cregan hasn't the faintest clue. They spend their days playing 'cards', a series of games that use small paper rectangles and whatnot; apparently it had been a gift from you.

Such odd games you had. Poker, spades, speed, blackjack, trash, and whatever else. All of their men each placing bets on each of them.

You had made them gamblers. Lesser men they were.

Lesser men that Cregan had to feed for who knows how long.

Though if Cregan is being honest, it's only thirty more people he can accommodate. The North is not poor. The Starks are not poor. What he cannot stand for is that they do nothing, and yet he must feed them and provide shelter for them.

It is why there is another snapped quill in his hand as he curses.

"You should not curse out guests, brother."

Cregan looked up, seeing Sara walk in with a sleeping Rickon on her hip. Should he be allowed to sleep much during the day? Regardless, Cregan ignores it; it isn't as if he knows any better. "I curse myself and these weak-willed quills, not them nor her."

Sara only gives him a smile, walking over to him and taking a seat across him. Rickon remains asleep, and Cregan wishes the boy would sleep like that during the night. Before either of them could say anything, there was a knock on the door.

Cregan gives a sigh messaging the bridge of his nose. Sara calls for them to enter. A maid steps in. One allocated to you because you didn't have any. Or rather, you had one, but she stayed back at Harrenhall because she got sick. 30 men, but only one maid. Ludicrous.

"My lord, I would not disturb you had I not thought the matter pressing." The maid spoke, and Cregan, ever the man to try and practice patience, gave a nod and allowed her to speak. "Our guest…" The maid paused, and Cregan had to thank the gods he had already broken the quill in his hand, or it surely would've snapped under his grip. "She does not eat, my lord. She does not drink. She touches nothing. I had thought it odd, but thought she was at least drinking." If Cregan grinds his teeth anymore, he won't have any by tomorrow. "She hasn't. I check her, she awfully weak. Should this continue, I doubt she will make it through this week."

Gods help him! Old or new, he doesn't care!

Cregan turns to Sara, his jaw tight. "Have you not spoken to her?"

Sara only shrugs. "I tried, but she says nothing! I didn't know she wasn't eating."

How can he deal with this? Why must he deal with this? What has Cregan Stark done to upset his gods? You must live, but how if you refuse to eat or drink? He feels another one of his brown hairs turn gray! He swears he can feel it! Shall he force you to eat? Hold you down and force food down your throat? It would leave you harmed, would leave you bruised no doubt.

And worst of all, would leave Cregan disfavored by the king. Still you dying would be worse still. "I care naught for excuses." The maid lowered her head. "She will eat and drink, I will see it happen."

Cregan cannot know the worth of your life. Your life for millions of Northerners, your life for Ser Marston Waters, your life for all your other knights. He does not know the worth of your life other than the price put on it. He cannot imagine prizing you above all. Not until now, it seems. "Should she die under your care, you will suffer the same fate as her." Now your life for this maid who has served his family long before he ever knew of your existence. A price he has put on your life. Another life for yours. How valuable you are. "Do I make myself clear?"

He watched the maid he has known since he was fifteen give a nod. A new fear within her. Her fear is worth your life and more. He feels sick. He feels shame.

All for the love of you.

How disgraceful.

…

Draft:

The Narrow Tidings

10th day of the 1st moon of 130 AC

Future King Married!

On New Year's Eve, Jacaerys Velaryon, firstborn son of Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and rumored father, the late Laenor Velaryon, has married the lady Baela Targaryen, daughter of Daemon Targaryen and the late lady Laena Velaryon.

Their engagement was first announced to the public shortly after Princess Rhaenyra returned to the capital in a dispute over the inheritance of her second son, Lucerys Velaryon, due to bastardy claims, seeing as the boys do not resemble their late father, and the clarity of their plain features.

The wedding was grand, as it ought to be to celebrate the future of a ruler. Prince Jacaerys, according to many accounts, is a promising prince despite his relatively young age. He currently rules Dragonstone instead of his mother, who is busy caring for her newest child, Princess Visenya Targaryen. Claims are made that she looks more like a beast and a dragon than a Princess.

Perhaps this is the consequence of such unnatural marriages, such as uncle and niece.

Maids in the palace also state that this child is so beastly looking, it scares even our lady!

Many quote that Dragonstone has prospered under the young prince's rule. They recall the young prince as kind and understanding, as well as assertive in his ruling.

However, some also say there is a maid he favors. A maid who constantly remains by his side. A Dornish maid. Such a wonder the Dornish maid did not accompany him. But such are only rumors.

This brings excitement from many who will one day see him on the Iron Throne.

Prince Jacaerys is, by many accounts, a very handsome young man and serves as the perfect example of what all princes should strive to be.

The princes gifted to the realm by Queen Alicent should strive to follow. It is noted that Prince Aegon is a drunkard and lust-driven Prince. No maids of a comely appearance should be allowed near him.

Her second son, Prince Aemond, seems to be the worst of the two. The young prince is allegedly madder for a woman than his brother is for whores. And let us not mention the odd Princess, wife of Prince Aegon and their deformed children.

After the feast and ball, the Prince ordered that all food be donated to the food pantry established by our Lady who has gone North. (See more later!)

There is speculation that our Lady and our Prince are in allegiance with one another. Many find that both are friendly with one another. It should only serve to show that our Prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is of a pure and kind heart. Some say they would make a better pair! It shall never be known unless, gods forbid, the death of the lady Baela.

His bride, Lady Baela, named after her grandfather, Prince Baelon Targaryen, is noted to be an intrepid woman, as one can only expect from the offspring of the Lord Flea Bottom, Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Lady Baela's place of birth is across the Narrow Sea in the Free City of Pentos during Prince Daemon's exile with his lady wife, Laena Velaryon. Marriage forbidden by the king, but alas, young love. (Or perhaps not love, seeing as he married his own niece not even a fortnight after laying his late lady wife to rest. Mayhaps it is the love for power that entices Prince Daemon)

It is known that Lady Baela enjoys dancing, hawking, riding, flying on her dragon, Moondancer, and especially kissing games with boys from both Dragonstone and Driftmark. According to some, in Pentos, the Lady had a pet monkey.

In the death of her mother, Prince Daemon returned to Westeros with both Lady Baela and her twin, Lady Rhaena, who owns no dragon and as such holds no real value to the realm nor to her father, or so it is presumed. Shortly after her father married Princess Rhaenyra (another marriage explicitly forbidden by King Viserys), Lady Baela knew her childhood both on Dragonstone and Driftmark. Some note that she was often lectured by her grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon, for wrestling with squires and, if rumors are to be believed, more. After all kissing games, then move on to other games. Playing house. Playing at marriage.

Some grow weary of the thought of having a rambunctious queen in the future. A worry that she will birth bastards instead of true born Princes and Princesses.

However, with the guiding hand of the Queen who never was, Princess Rhaenys, reports of Lady Baela show a promising future for the realm.

During the bedding ceremony, it was confirmed that both Prince and Lady consummated the marriage, and many hope that in just a short couple of moons, the pair shall be expecting another royal family member. Though it was never stated whether her maidenhood was intact. Perhaps in her games of house she also played marriage and practiced with such squires and boys of both islands.

In other news, with all high lords in attendance from all the kingdoms in Westeros, there have been two exceptions, those of course from Dorne, and surprisingly, a lack of attendance from Lord Cregan Stark. But then again, when do Northerners attend anything?

However, it should be noted that Lord Stark has a good excuse, seeing he is the host of our lady. She set off for the North in the middle of the last moon of the year. Why at that time? One cannot truly say without accusations. It is common knowledge that a trip during the middle of winter is never advised. Though it is unclear as to why she left in the middle of winter, some suggest souring relationships within the Keep.

More specifically, souring relationships with Prince Aemond, Prince Daemon, Prince Aegon, and the Green Queen, Alicent Hightower. Prince Aemond is no stranger to rumors with our Lady and the odd bruising shown on her neck. Prince Daemon is ever hateful of anyone who stands in the way of his quest for power and closeness with his brother. (An odd relationship, but Targaryens are queer and as such their customs as well. Perhaps he holds love for his brother, but not in the way a brother should. His niece, King Viserys' daughter, is the closest he can have to him. How odd and queer indeed.)

Despite this, others say it is for the betterment of our realm. Our gracious King, Viserys Targaryen, has commissioned her with a project that will be for the betterment of all.

Regardless of the circumstance, one thing remains certain: it is unknown the amount of time that shall be spent in Winterfell.

Notes to consider. What if you fail in the mission given? Shall it be your head?

…

Official release:

The Narrow Tidings

10th day of the 1st moon of 130 AC

Future of the realm has been decided! Second in line to the Iron Throne, the firstborn son of the heir apparent, Jacaerys Velaryon, has married!

On New Year's Eve, Jacaerys Velaryon, firstborn son of Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and the late Laenor Velaryon, has married the lady Baela Targaryen, daughter of Daemon Targaryen and the late lady Laena Velaryon.

Their engagement was first announced to the public shortly after Princess Rhaenyra returned to the capital in a dispute over the inheritance of her second son, Lucerys Velaryon.

The wedding was grand, as it ought to be to celebrate the future of a ruler. Prince Jacaerys, according to many accounts, is a promising prince despite his relatively young age. He currently rules Dragonstone in the stead of his mother, who has busied herself at court in King's Landing, and with the birth of her first daughter, Princess Visenya Targaryen.

The Princess thrives under the care of her mother, but it is reported that the Princess was born without breath. Our Lady came to save both Princesses from the Stranger's call. Princess Rhaenrya was saved by the knowledge of our Lady, and Princess Visenya was given life anew with what many dub as a "kiss of life." Both now reside within the Red Keep.

Many quote that Dragonstone has prospered under the young prince's rule. They recall the young prince as kind and understanding, as well as assertive in his ruling.

This brings excitement from many who will one day see him on the Iron Throne.

Prince Jacaerys is, by many accounts, a very handsome young man and serves as the perfect example of what all princes should strive to be.

After the feast and ball, the Prince ordered that all food be donated to the food pantry established by our Lady who has gone North.

There is speculation that our Lady and our Prince are in allegiance with one another. Many find that both are friendly with one another. It should only serve to show that our Prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is of a pure and kind heart.

His bride, Lady Baela, named after her grandfather, Prince Baelon Targaryen, is noted to be a venturesome woman, as one can only expect from the offspring of the rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen.

Lady Baela's place of birth is across the Narrow Sea in the Free City of Pentos during Prince Daemon's exile with his lady wife, Laena Velaryon. It is known that Lady Baela enjoys dancing, hawking, riding, and especially flying on her dragon, Moondancer. According to some, in Pentos, the Lady had a pet monkey.

In the death of her mother, Prince Daemon returned to Westeros with both Lady Baela and her twin, Lady Rhaena. Shortly after her father married Princess Rhaenyra, Lady Baela knew her childhood both on Dragonstone and Driftmark. Some note that she was often lectured by her grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon, for wrestling with squires.

Some grow weary of the thought of having a rambunctious queen in the future.

However, with the guiding hand of Princess Rhaenys, reports of Lady Baela show a promising future for the realm.

During the bedding ceremony, it was confirmed that both Prince and Lady consummated the marriage, and many hope that in just a short couple of moons, the pair shall be expecting another royal family member.

In other news, with all high lords in attendance from all the kingdoms in Westeros, there have been two exceptions, those of course from Dorne, and surprisingly, a lack of attendance from Lord Cregan Stark.

However, it should be noted that Lord Stark has a good excuse, seeing he is the host of our lady. She set off for the North in the middle of the last moon of the year. Though it is unclear as to why she left in the middle of winter, some suggest souring relationships within the Keep.

Despite this, others say it is for the betterment of our realm. Our gracious King, Viserys Targaryen, has commissioned her with a project that will be for the betterment of all.

Regardless of the circumstance, one thing remains certain: it is unknown the amount of time that shall be spent in Winterfell.

- The Narrow Tiding News,

Stories corroborated by many anonymous witnesses within King's Landing. For the safety of those who share their stories, all shall remain anonymous. These news pieces come to you unbiased and only seek to inform you as a reader of what is happening in your realm.

…

22nd day of the 1st moon of 130 AC

How fortunate you are.

Cregan has been thinking. Yes, your life for the maid's life that he's known since he was a boy. Yes, your life for Ser Marston and every other guard the King has given you for free passage. Yes, your life for the millions of people Cregan carries on his back. Yes, your life for Cregan's.

No noble woman is worth that much. Not even half of that much. The only comparison that can be made is your life to the life of a Princess, but you are not that. You are a commoner. No noble birth. No name. No money. No anything, and yet your life is worth a million of them.

So why do you insist on doing this, condemning everyone around you? It makes Cregan seethe with anger. You barely eat, you're barely alive. You condemn him, you condemn the north, you condemn everything around you, and Cregan cannot stand for it any longer.

It's why he stands in front of your door and orders Ser Marston away.

"My lord-" Ser Marston starts, and Cregan simply gives him a look.

"Am I obliged to ask you for permission to speak to my own guest, in my own home?" Cregan can feel the irritation bubbling.

Ser Marston lowers his head, shaking his head. "Of course not, my lord." And with that, the knight was off, and Cregan stepped into your room.

It was warm. Very warm. Yet you were under the covers. You didn't even stand to greet him. A commoner who has been given too much. Still you haven't learned.

You cannot strike the master who owns you without your master breaking your hand.

You cannot strike the master who owns you without your master breaking your hand. Your hand is broken, but like all broken things, it will heal. Such dramatics are unnecessary. "Are you finished?"

You don't respond.

"Enough with your act on all of this. Do you know how many would kill in your position? Instead, you lie here doing nothing!" You turned over to him. "You've come here for a reason. Do it, and begone."

"What did you say?"

It was rude; he knows it. But your presence here puts his entire kingdom at risk, and Cregan is not willing to price your life for a million others. "I said, do your duty and begone."

"No, before that." You sat up. It cost you. He saw it. The way you breathed heavily. The way your arms trembled in holding you up. "You said I'm lucky?"You scoffed. "You're pretty lucky from where I'm standin'. Fancy furs, good boots, leather clothin', and a real pretty sword on your back, and more than a hundred people at your beck and call."

"What you call luck is legacy." Cregan stood taller, looking down towards you. "I carry the weight of the largest Kingdom in Westeros."

"Is that so?" You only raised a brow. "And pray tell, what have you done to earn the Stark name?" You shrugged, looking at him. "You weren't just born lucky; you were lucky to be born as a Stark. You were lucky enough to be born with the name of a lord paramount, and you were lucky enough to be born a man. Not just anyone has that luck." Your head tilted to the side as if almost mocking him. "God knows I wasn't that lucky. I wasn't born with a name, not one that means anything here anyway. I wasn't born with anything you didn't already have tenfold of. I wasn't even born lucky enough to be a man."

"And yet you are lucky to be here. How many commons do you think have the chance to earn the favour of a king? How many do you think have the chance to earn it and then keep it?" He watched you roll your eyes, and Cregan clenched his jaw. "Not even those of noble blood are lucky enough to have the chance you have been presented with. And what do you do with it? You squander it away in favour of your self-loathing and self-deprecation."

"Ah yes, of course, my lord. I should be grateful, shouldn't I?" You nodded. "I should be grateful that instead of a knight finding me and dragging me to the Red Keep as if I were a criminal, it was not some other person. Yes, I should be grateful for that, shouldn't I? I should be grateful that instead of being a prostitute on the street of silk because there is no other choice for women who have nothing, that I am instead one for a royal?" You paused, looking at him. "I should be grateful that instead of letting the 'commons' as you call them use me for my mind and body, I am instead being exploited by a King and Princes alike. Of course, Lord Stark, how can one not relish in thankfulness?"

"Do you know how much your life is priced at this very moment?" Cregan took a step closer.

"Shall I be grateful that my life has a price as well?"

Cregan hissed out your name. You are selfish. You don't care. You annoy him. How could you not care? Have no regard for other life?

"No." You spoke, and Cregan could imagine the vein on his forehead becoming more prominent. "I will not be grateful for that. I will not be because you don't know me." You're right, and Cregan doesn't care to. "I will not be because you have your family." He doesn't. They rest in the crypts.

"I don't-"

"You do!" You yelled. How lucky you are to be able to yell at him, and he can do nothing. Anyone else would've been expelled from the North. "You have their bones. You have their portraits, you have their statues. You have the people who have the memories of them." You pointed at yourself, repeatedly shaking your head. "I don't. I don't have any of it. I could spend the rest of my life digging through the soil of this earth and never find them. I could empty the seas, and I still wouldn't find them. I could wait a thousand years, and they would never be! Do you know why?" You grabbed the side of the bed and pulled yourself up. "Because they don't exist here and they never will!" You almost laughed. "Can you imagine? Losing everything you've ever known? Lost every right you've ever had? You are a lord now, and the next you are a slave. I can't. I can't imagine all my rights being taken away from one day to the next. No, instead I'm fucking living it!"

Cregan looked towards you as you tried to fight the frown on your face.

"Lord Stark, a bird who has known freedom and is now caged will break its wings to know freedom again. I am no exception. Neither are you, I'm sure. I am sure you would not stop fighting to get home. Going home for me only comes in one way, a way I don't even know will work. I do not know if God will come back for me. But I do know other things: I know that I will never be buried in that land of my people. I know that I will never breathe the same air as my ancestors. I know that I will never drink the water of my land that has been there and recycled for billions of years." You gave a shaky breath as your eyes glossed over. "I know that I will never speak my mother tongue with another who shares it. I know that I will never see my culture being practiced again. I know that I will never be warmed with the same sun I was born to. I know that I will never see the stars that I used to map. I know that I will never look at the same moon my family and everyone I've ever known has."

Cregan does not know you. Does not know what you mean, and in this moment, he does not care. He cares about his own people. He cares about keeping the North safe. If it means dismissing you, then so be it. Because despite everything, yes, you are still lucky. "And yet you are still alive. You are still here, and you force everyone around you to price your life higher than anyone's ought to be." Your brows furrowed, looking at him. "Do you know what our king values your life at? Over a million lives for yours. I do not know you. I don't care to know you. Despite it all, you have forced me to value your life above the maid I've known since I was a boy. Should you die, it is her head. All those guards you brought? Should you die, it is their heads. Should you die, relations will sour with the North, and my people will starve! Millions! Men, women, children. Blood on your hands. Blood on my hands." He stepped closer to you. "You think yourself special? Don't you think others haven't lost their families? Their livelihoods? Out there, throughout all the lands, exist children younger than you and I who have lost everyone and have nothing. You say you lost everything, yet you have anything you could ever ask for if you simply ask. That is luck. That is something given to no one but you."

You stayed silent, and Cregan looked down as you looked towards the boarded window. "Look at me." You didn't, so he lifted your chin. It was improper, but everything about this conversation was already improper. You looked up, and he looked down. His eyes bore into your own. "Do you think your sadness is worth famine?" You didn't answer. "Do you think your hurt pride and ego, and whatever else, is worth the lives of millions?" You continued to look at him. He never once looked away because you must understand what you are worth. Cregan must have you understand, and he must know if you care. "Speak."

"No."

"No what?" You must answer for it all.

"No, I don't think it's worth famine or millions." You looked to the side, and he let you. It shows you have shame. You feel shame.

Good.

"No, it's not. So, you will pull yourself together as many others before have done, and stop this charade of pity and do what you came to do and then be on your way. Then you can do whatever it is you want. Until then, you will act accordingly."

…

29th day of the 1st moon of 130 AC

The scratch of Cregan Stark's quill was the only sound in the solar besides the crackling of the hearth and the occasional babble of little Rickon as he sat upon the rushes with a carved wooden wolf clutched in his tiny hands. Snow drifted lazily beyond the narrow windows, turning Winterfell's godswood into a blur of white and dark branches.

Cregan scarcely noticed.

There was always another report to read. Another levy to account for. Another raven to answer. Winter did not wait upon grief, nor duty upon comfort.

A heavy sigh broke the silence.

Sara all but threw herself onto the bench beside him, folding dramatically against the table as though she carried the burdens of all the Seven Kingdoms upon her shoulders instead of merely the boredom of another afternoon.

Her arrival earned little more than a sidelong glance before Cregan lowered his eyes once more to the parchment before him.

"Forgive me for saying this about our guest, brother," Sara lamented, reaching without shame for the quill resting beside his hand, "but she is the dullest person I have ever met."

Cregan caught the feather between two fingers before she could make off with it.

"So I've heard."

"Not heard." She huffed. "Experienced."

She folded her arms. "All she does is work." She gave a deep sigh. "I go to her chamber after breaking my fast," Sara counted on her fingers. "and she is bent over that desk." She lifted another finger. "I return before noon..." Another. "Still working." Another. "I visit before supper..." Another. "Still writing." She leaned closer, lowering her voice theatrically. "And last night...I found her pacing." His hand continued moving across the parchment. "Back and forth. Talking to herself. Muttering words I could scarcely understand. I think she has gone mad."

"So long as she is working," Cregan muttered as he took his quill back from Sara and dipped it in ink to begin writing his letter.

Sara groaned loud enough that Rickon looked over before returning to his wolf. "You are impossible. You are exactly alike. The both of you. So dreadfully boring." Cregan said nothing. Sara rolled her eyes. "I wished for someone to laugh with. Someone to gossip with. To walk the battlements. And instead?" She gestured dramatically toward the corridor. "I have another Cregan."

That made him make a face. He was nothing like you. Nothing at all. "She is no girl, Sara. She is here to work." Cregan watched as his sister pick up Rickon, who struggled to be loose from her grip.

"But would it kill her to speak to me?" She finally put the boy down before letting a silence fall over her. Cregan's brows furrowed before looking back over towards his sister, who picked at her nails. "Do you think…" A small frown formed on his sister's face, and Cregan finally put his quill down and focused on her. "Do you think she does not speak to me, or like me because I am a bastard?"

Cregan had no answer. He simply looked towards his sister, who hadn't had a friend since Arra. You were from the south, of course, disregarding everything you had said to him. He knows you were not born in the South, though from where you are from he cannot say. After all, he didn't stay around long enough to comfort whatever it is you found sad enough to throw your life away for. In fact, since then he hasn't seen nor spoken to you at all. You don't leave your room, not even for supper.

He supposes you should try and get some sun, the little that is offered in Winterfell.

And if his sister makes a friend out of you, all the better for him. So he stands and walks over to his sister. "If it means that much to you, I shall see to it that she speaks to you."

"Do not force her," Sara murmured, now playing with the ends of her sleeves. How easily his sister pouts. First she wants a friend, now she does not want a friend. Things were much simpler with his dear Arra.

Cregan gave only a sigh before motioning over a maid. "She stays in my keep; she will treat you in the way that I deem fit, not to what is the Southern standard." He turned back to the maid. The same one he had said would be her life forfeit should you die. "Invite her for supper in the dining hall."

And so with that, Cregan is finally left alone by his sister, though the peace does not last long as Rickon begins crying for milk. He looked over towards the wet nurse before giving a nod. She takes the boy, whom Cregan thinks is too old for milk.

With everyone gone, he is left alone in his gray study. He looked out the window. Outside filled with a light winter snow. It is a pleasant surprise and a welcomed gift. The North's lands are hardly suitable for farming, but with light snow, his people shall not suffer. Cregan had expected harsh winters, as had been the previous years. For once, he estimates there shall be a grand surplus. His mind drifts back to your purple flames. It was breathtaking; he will admit that much. And so perhaps, despite your actions, he cannot find it within himself to doubt your well wishes of a prosperous year.

He stood from his chair and went to the window. Mayhaps he too should go out more. He rarely does after all. The worry that his people will doubt that he works. That they shall prefer his uncle.

A bird flies across the sky, and your words come to him.

"Lord Stark, a bird who has known freedom and is now caged will break its wings to know freedom again."

He'd rather not think of it, but he cannot help it. Not as he looks out to the vastness that is the North. Not even the vast North can hold those doubts and fearful thoughts he holds. Still coming from his mind enter the words you spoke. He'd rather not think of it, but it is better than the thoughts of doubt that creep in.

He watched what he thinks is a falcon dive down. He waited, keeping his eyes where the falcon dove; he was rewarded with the falcon flying up, yet it held nothing. It missed. It shall go hungry.

Night was approaching fast.

He thought back to your words. If he were a bird, if he were a falcon, would he break his wings to freedom once more? Freedom is a funny word. Freedom is just another word for being on your own. The falcon shall starve tonight, but his caged falcons are fed every night and kept safe.

Freedom is being alone. Freedom to do anything. Freedom also costs lives.

The falcon shall starve, and so shall the lone free wolf, but the pack survives, and his falcons thrive.

So no, Cregan doesn't think he would break his wings for freedom. He would stay where there is food, where there is a chance not just for survival but to live.

Night finally falls, and Cregan leaves the falcon to starve whilst he makes his way to the dining room. He sits down as food is served, yet you are not here. He and Sara wait and wait. The food is long cold by now. He looks over to his sister, who only picks at the food in front of her. Shame written on her face.

Fucking Southerners.

So he stands and walks. Walks to your room where two guards sit. Not a care in the world. Even when they spot him, they stand slowly. A northerner is never as valuable as a southerner. To them, Northerners are simple savages.

He ignores them and enters your chambers without a single knock. Just as you do not respect him, he shall not respect your space. You sit in a chair reading a book. Beside you are papers and papers stacked upon one another. In another corner are piles of books, some opened, some not.

The tips of your fingers are stained black, so is the bread you eat. There are black ink marks on your jaw. Your brows are furrowed as you read. Cregan watches you set the book down, and he stands taller, prepared to be acknowledged. You don't. Instead, you pick up a quill in the way a child who has just learned to write with it does. Then you write.

Do you ignore him on purpose?

Only when he clears his throat do you jolt in surprise. You stand up. A tired look in your eyes.

"What are you doing?"

A knock sounded at your door, though it was so soft it scarcely rose above the crackling of the fire. Before you could answer, the door eased open.

"Ah!" You startled, looking up from the book spread across your lap. Beyond the frost-laced windows, the sky had long since surrendered to night, leaving your chamber bathed only in the warm glow of the hearth and a handful of candles that had burned low enough to leave wax pooling over their brass holders.

You quickly set the book aside and rose to your feet with an apologetic smile. "Lord Stark. Forgive me—I didn't hear you come in." You clasped your hands together. "This is my work, this is what you told me to do, so... I am working."

Cregan's gray eyes drifted slowly around the chamber before settling on the nearest stack of books. "Books?" he asked evenly. "Books are your work? You traveled all this way... for books?"

"Uh..." You rubbed the back of your neck, your eyes wandering toward the ceiling as you searched for the proper words. "Partially. Technically right now, I am…." Your brow lifted as you tried to think. "Trying to ascertain the best way to go about my project." You flipped through papers all written in messy ink, clear signs that you didn't let some dry fully. "I gather mathematical equations and use Winterfell's structure to understand possible hydraulic equations. It is the base for everything. Flow rate, slope, and pipe sizing. I've made sketches if you'd like to see." You gathered the papers in your hands, walking over to him.

The drawings were rough but meticulous, cross-sections of walls, tunnels, reservoirs, and imagined channels running beneath Winterfell's courtyards. Margins overflowed with annotations squeezed into every available inch of parchment.

"I even made sketches," you added, a small smile creeping across your face. "If... if you would like to see."

Cregan accepted the papers. "So," he said after a long moment, "this is what you have been doing."

You nodded, the smile lingering only until you caught the expression on his face. It faded. "...Did I do something wrong? I have been eating," you added quickly. "Small amounts, but eating nonetheless." You gestured vaguely toward the room. "I am working." You fidgeted and squirmed under his gaze. "What did I do?"

His gaze remained fixed upon you. "Ignoring my invitation to supper. And in doing so, showing discourtesy not only to my sister... but to me as well."

You blinked and raised a brow. "Supper?" Your forehead creased with genuine confusion. "What are you talking about? I eat supper here." You glanced toward the small table tucked beside the hearth, where the remains of an untouched tray still sat beneath a linen cloth. "That is... how it goes, isn't it?"

"I extended an invitation," Cregan said, his voice calm though noticeably firmer than before. "You accepted it, and yet here you are, choosing parchment over my sister's company... and mine."

You frowned. "Accepted when?" you asked, genuine confusion written plainly across your face. "I do not recall you inviting me to supper."

"The maid." He watched your face carefully. "The same maid who attends you."

Realization flickered only briefly before you shook your head. "I remember her coming in some time ago," you admitted, "but I do not usually pay much attention to what the servants say."

"You nodded," Cregan replied. "You hummed in acknowledgment. She took that as your acceptance."

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips. "I tend to do that."

"You... tend to do that?"

You shrugged. "It usually makes people leave faster."

For a long moment, Cregan simply stared at you. "I see." He let you sit in the silence, watched you struggle to stay still. Like a dog who has been caught doing something it should not have. Like him watching his vassal lord argue in his grand hall and only becoming silent when Cregan looks over them. "Do you take offense to my family's presence?"

Your head tilted. "No."

He exhaled quietly through his nose. "Allow me to ask differently." Taking a measured step toward you, he folded his hands behind his back. He was careful to keep his face still lest you run away. "Does my sister's station offend you?"

You blinked. "...Station?"

"Her birth." He watched your eyes dart around as if looking for an escape. "The fact that she bears the name Snow."

"Oh." You hesitated. "You mean... that she comes into my room whenever she wishes?" A thoughtful hum escaped you. "I suppose it can be a little distracting." You offered an apologetic smile. "But it is hardly something worth complaining about."

Cregan's jaw tightened ever so slightly. "Do not play the fool."

"I'm not."

"Does it offend you that Sara is a bastard?" he asked, each word measured. "Does it offend you to sit beside one? To dine with one? To speak with one?" His gray eyes settled steadily upon yours. "This is not the South." Though he tries to keep his voice steady and even, the anger at the mere thought of someone so openly and brazenly disrespecting his sister doesn't sit with him well. "We do not measure a person's worth by the circumstances of their birth." He took a step forward, and you took a step back. "She is my sister, so now I ask you plainly because I am not like you Southerners with your pretty words. Does it offend you to spend time with her?"

"Then I will answer you in the same manner because I am not a southerner with pretty words." Your back straightened and you took a step forward. Cregan did not move back. "I couldn't care less about your sister being a bastard. I don't care about things like that. It makes no difference to me if one is or isn't or 'proper' birth."

"Then why," he asked more quietly, "do you never speak to her?" His eyes drifted toward the mountains of books surrounding you. "Do you truly prefer ink, books, and quills to another person's company?"

You looked around the room as though the answer ought to be obvious. "I... don't understand what you're upset about." You gestured helplessly toward the papers scattered across your desk. "You told me to work." A hand swept over the stacks of books. "So I worked." You motioned toward the covered supper tray resting beside the hearth. "You told me to eat, so I ate. What else do you want from me?"

"To act normal, or as normal as you can. A semblance of normal." How dense can one be? How dense can you be? To simply be and do you work as he does. It cannot be that he is asking the world of you. He is not.

You only smiled and gave a slow nod before leaving him to go sit back down. "I'll add it to my list of things to do."

How mad you drive him, cannot be normal. How irrational you make him cannot be normal, so instead of arguing, he simply walks out, trying to hold in his frustration at you. One would think he is asking you to bring down the sun and moon to him. He walks past everyone and storms outside into the cold air of Winterfell. Only then does he finally feel just a little calmer. He walks over to where his falcons are kept.

"I shall feed them tonight," Cregan murmured, and his keepers bowed, taking their leave. He picked up a large piece of cut-up meat, but as he went to feed one of his falcons, something came down and took it from his hand. Cregan hissed and looked up. He was greeted by the falcon from before. It let out a cry as it landed far off.

"I am no exception."

Your words returned to him. He scoffed, looking down at his fingers, now bleeding from sharp talons.

…

29th day of the 1st moon of 130 AC

"On your feet, Princess." You smiled down, looking towards Helaena. "For if you should scrape your hand, you would blame it on me, seeing as, according to you, I am responsible for all your misery and all evil deeds done." Helaena's brows furrowed, trying to understand your words. "But all who have fallen became victims of their own deeds. Those people are now in a terrible state. However, don't be mistaken, Princess; it shall be your fate as well."

You smiled, giving a small nod before walking off. Helaena sat there bewildered. Had you already returned from the North?

No.

She watched your figure disappear behind the wall. You had been wearing a small crown. You didn't wear those, at least…not yet. Though still, had you been speaking to her? What other Princess?

Jaehaera ran across the garden with Jaehaerys chasing after her. Her brow furrowed.

Helaena had mourned you leaving. She would've thought that with you gone, these visions of you that make it hard to know where she is would leave with you. Apparently not.

Helaena turned her gaze to see her older sister walking with Daemon. In her arms was the little dragon-like babe. Rhaenrya gave a small nod and smile; Helaena returned it. Rhaenrya hadn't been happy with your departure North. Apparently she has been writing frantic letters requesting your return.

You haven't answered, if small talk by the servants is to be believed. Rhaenrya is paranoid about the safety of her only daughter. Helaena can understand. The visions of you do not help. The dreams do not help; Helaena fears for her children. The only thing she can seek refuge in is time.

Helaena will mourn the day you don a crown.

A small movement caught her eye. A small caterpillar. A small reddish-brown one. It looks prickly. Helaena lets it climb up her dress. She can barely see it as it climbs higher. This growing womb of hers obstructs the view.

"It's a blue morpho caterpillar." You spoke, and she jumped, startled by your appearance. "Or at least I think it is. They're native to the Americas." You smiled, looking down at her dress.

Helaena said nothing, but in the distance, like an echo, another voice sounded. "What is that?"

"What will probably be called the New World." You looked over to your side; Helaena saw no one. But you did. Someone you love. Your smile grew soft. "A world that has yet to be discovered here, it seems."

"I shall mount Seasmoke and bring its wonders to you, mother." The voice echoed. A Targaryen son. Your son, it would seem. Helaena wonders which one. You look older. You look to be in the era of which you are happiest. A large crown on your head, and expensive dresses of a style not yet in.

"Bring me élotl." You smiled, sitting down on the floor.

"Élotl? What is that?" The voice echoed once more. Yes, it was a boy's voice. A young boy. Perhaps around her Luke's age.

"Corn." You leaned, and it almost looked as if you leaned on Helaena's leg.

"Corn?"

"Corn."

"I do not know what that is." Your son spoke, and you laughed. "When I am King, I will conquer the new world. Bring it under the Targaryen banner."

Helaena's brow furrowed. Your son would be King? How? Who did you marry? Jace?

"Will you?" You sat back up straight, your eyes following whom she assumes is your son as he stands in front of you.

"I will! After I take Dorne. Then I will take the New World, and after? I will bring you, and you can show me corn."

You only shook your head. "I'd advise you not to confuse manatees for mermaids."

"Manatees?"

"I will draw one for you." Your hands lifted. "Help me up."

Helaena watched as you were pulled up, invisible indents on your sleeves where hands held you to pull you up. "Mother?"

"Yes?" You bowed down, and she watched your crown be adjusted. Once fixed, your hands reached out, cupping a face that Helaena could not see.

"What will you gift Father for his nameday?" The voice echoed much farther now. Helaena could barely make out the words.

"Hm, I'm not sure yet. Still a moon away."

"Is 40, isn't he? It should be grand." The voice of your son finally faded away, but your voice was still clear as if you really were walking away from her.

"Where did you get that number from?" You laughed, and now finally your voice began to disappear. "He is only six and thirty," Helaena didn't hear the rest as you left.

It leaves much for her to ponder. How old were you then? You looked older than what Rhaenrya is now. Perhaps it is the stress of being Queen, but you don't seem stressed at all.

She does wonder if you have married Jace. It is hard to imagine Jacaerys as an older man. Helaena wonders how long he has been King for. She wonders what the son between the two of you looks like. Dark hair perhaps?

But then, what happened to Baela? Jace and Baela are on their tour of the Kingdom, as is customary for all future heirs. Did Baela die? It would be a shame. Perhaps not, though. Perhaps you both are married in the ways of old Valyria. Two wives and one husband. Then if your son is to be King next, you must have given Jace his first child. Will you both marry soon then? A marriage will arrive soon.

All Helaena can do is smile. It seems it won't be long till the era of you wearing a crown arrives then. Won't be long till she sees your firstborn son who has a conqueror's heart and seeks to discover the New World.

She wonders what name the small conqueror will have.  

…

5th day of the 2nd month 130 AC

Cregan entered the dining hall and his brows lifted in surprise to see you there. You had a smile on your face as you ate bread and berries, chatting away with Sara about who knows what.

Though he derives it is from the gift you received at night. Must've been some gift; he heard you crying the few times he got up to check on you. "I should send Prince Jacearys a thank you letter for lifting your spirits." He spoke, taking his seat.

"Prince Jacearys?" Sara gasped, scooting her chair closer to you. "You know him?" She grinned like a girl in love. Cheap considering she had never even met the man. Though they're due for a visit soon, considering the young prince is on his marriage tour. Though Cregan finds it odd, why would a married man be sending you, of all people, gifts? And a very personal one if it made you this happy.

"I do. He and I met in my first couple of days of being in the Red Keep." You spread jam onto some bread and took a bite with a smile on your face. You two must be more than just acquaintances if your smile is anything to go off of.

"Was he dreamy — no! Is he as dreamy as they say?" Sara bit her lip, leaning over to you, her meal long forgotten. Cregan only shook his head as his food was served.

"Dreamy? Who told you that?" You laughed. "Handsome, I suppose; dreamy? Well, not with the hair that I first met him with. It was horrid. I convinced him to let it grow." Your gaze turned back to Cregan. "I suppose now his hair is at the length of your now Lord Stark."

Cregan only hummed and nodded, eating his meal.

"How well do you know the Prince?" Sara stole a berry from your plate. You two have gotten friendly often, fast.

"Well enough to get a prince from him while he's on his honeymoon, apparently," Cregan muttered, picking at his eggs. You only gave him a look before turning back to Sara.

"I'd say pretty well. He and I were pen pals for a short time." You nodded.

"Pen pals?" Sara lifted a brow.

"We wrote letters to one another."

"Oh!" Sara exclaimed. "What were they about? How was his penmanship?"

"His penmanship was fine, from what I remember," you replied with a small shrug. "We didn't speak of anything significant. But I suppose it's thanks to him that I even knew what Winterfell was."

"You didn't know what Winterfell was?" Sara asked, lifting a brow in surprise.

"I'm not from here," you answered matter-of-factly, "so no, I didn't."

"Where are you from?" Sara asked curiously.

That drew Cregan's attention. He looked up from his breakfast, his curiosity piqued. As of late, he had found himself returning to your strange remarks more often than he cared to admit.

"I could wait a thousand years, and they would never be! Do you know why? Because they don't exist here and they never will!"

"Far away," you replied simply.

"How far?" Sara pressed, resting her chin in her hand.

"Very."

She frowned. "How did you get here?"

You took another sip of your water before answering. "I fell off a bridge and drowned. I washed up on the beach."

Sara blinked. "...Oh."

"Yeah," you said with a small nod, as though that explained everything.

A brief silence settled over the table before Sara brightened once more. "Do you have any of his letters?"

You shook your head. "No. They were burned."

"Oh?" Sara's grin widened mischievously. "Were they love letters? Or perhaps naughty letters?" She dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Cregan shot her a warning look over the rim of his cup.

You, meanwhile, nearly inhaled your water. A coughing fit seized you as you hastily set your cup down, one hand pressed to your chest while Sara laughed even harder. Once you had finally caught your breath, you cleared your throat. "No," you managed between coughs. "They weren't. There was an... accident."

Sara only hummed knowingly. "So no affair."

"Sara," Cregan scolded, his voice firm.

His sister merely smiled, entirely unrepentant.

You shook your head. "No affair," you assured her. "Just friends."

"I wish I knew what he looked like," Sara sighed dramatically. "I wanted to go to the wedding, but Cregan said no."

"No," Cregan corrected evenly, "I said we have duties here."

His gray eyes shifted toward you. "What?" you asked, noticing his gaze.

"The king commanded us to remain in Winterfell to receive you," Cregan explained.

You gave a small, understanding nod.

He turned back to his sister. "He is a married man now," Cregan continued. "You will see him soon enough. He should arrive within a moon or two."

As the conversation drifted elsewhere, Cregan found himself studying your face. Nothing. Not a flicker of surprise. Not a hint of discomfort. For someone who claimed not to be from the South, you possessed a courtier's 'poker face'.

A new word he heard circling around his guards from yours.

Note:

How I felt writing Helaena's POV:

+

y'all I thought it was obvious Daemon is a Valyrian supremacist. 🫠 He only fw TargARYENS and Valyrians. Why y'all think he ain't fw his first wife? Mysaria has white hair in the books. That man thinks sheep are prettier bc they got white on them 🤣 Only reason he fw Nettles is bc she got a dragon. He does NOT like anyone else. Just another layer as to why he don't like MC😋

(Also low-key lazy ahh chapter but I used all my powers on this new one-shot I'm making)

Also, yay, we got another chapter out that didn't take a month or more to write 🥹 though it is on the shorter side, but I've committed to a schedule; hopefully I can stick to it. This chapter was gonna be shorter and end at Helaena's POV, but shit was too good, and I had to pile another POV.

What do we think of the news clippings? And I'm curious whether emotions were brought up by Heleana's POV. Also, we got Cregan handling business.

also low-key I'd pay more attention to the draft of the newspaper rather than the one released.

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