You couldn’t help but laugh as Alicent, full of enthusiasm, pulled you through the bustling corridors of the Red Keep. Her excitement was infectious, and your curiosity about her brother grew with each step. As you reached the entrance, you saw a young man on horseback approaching the gates. Both horse and rider were adorned in the Hightower’s signature deep green and emblem. As he dismounted and handed his horse to the stable hand with a courteous nod, he turned to face his sister.

A warm smile spread across his face as he approached, and you could see the resemblance to Alicent—though his hair was a lighter shade of red, and his striking blue eyes contrasted with her warm brown ones. Gwayne Hightower was undeniably handsome, and his confident demeanor suggested he was well aware of it.

Gwayne took Alicent’s hand gently and kissed her knuckles. “Lovely to see you, Alicent.”

Alicent’s face lit up with joy as she pulled her brother into a tight embrace, spinning around with him in a warm hug. “It’s been far too long, Gwayne. You should visit more often now that you’re a proper knight. Perhaps you could even join the Kingsguard.”

Gwayne shook his head with a smile. “I have duties at home on behalf of Father, I’m afraid.”

As Gwayne’s gaze fell upon you, he seemed to realize he hadn’t been introduced. “Oh, how rude of us! Alicent, you haven’t introduced me to your friend,” he said, extending his hand toward you.

You felt your face flush as he took your hand and lifted it to his lips, bestowing a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “Ser Gwayne Hightower, my lady. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Alicent, momentarily flustered by the oversight, quickly introduced you to her brother. You smiled and nodded, withdrawing your hand to regain your composure. “The pleasure is mine, Ser.”

Recognition flickered across his face. “My apologies, Princess. I should have known,” he said, gesturing toward your Targaryen features. “Please don’t worry about it, Ser Gwayne. You’ve had a long journey.”

Gwayne’s smile broadened, though fatigue was evident. “Indeed, my princess.”

Alicent linked her arm with Gwayne’s. “Would you like a tour of the Keep, or should we take you to your room to rest?”

Gwayne struck a thoughtful pose, his hand resting dramatically on his chin. “Hmm, as tempting as a soft bed sounds, I would be a fool to refuse a personal tour from my beloved sister and her beautiful princess companion.”

Alicent rolled her eyes at the flattery, while you felt your cheeks warm again. “I do hope you don’t make a habit of this flattery, Ser. I wouldn’t want the other knights to think I have a favorite.”

Gwayne’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he extended his free arm to you. “We can’t have that now, can we, Princess?” Leaning closer, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Though I do hope I am the one who earns your favor.”

The warmth of his breath against your ear sent a shiver down your spine, and your face flushed even brighter.

After regaining your composure, you joined the Hightowers for a tour of the Red Keep. You helped Alicent describe its history, exchanging jokes with Gwayne and matching his wit with your own quick retorts to his flirtatious remarks. The tour was abruptly interrupted when Otto Hightower appeared. He gave a slight bow in your direction before addressing you.

“Princess, I hope you don’t mind if I borrow my children for a moment.”

You smiled politely and shook your head. “Not at all, Lord Hand. I shall leave you to your family matters.”

Turning to Alicent and Gwayne, you said, “I’ll see you both later.”

They quickly bade their goodbyes, and Gwayne flashed you a final smile and wink as he followed his sister. You quietly cursed the knight under your breath, covering your smile. If he continued this way, he might end up wishing for more than just being your favorite knight. Deciding you needed a distraction from the charming redhead, you made your way to the dragon pit.

A flight with Vermithor always had a way of clearing your mind. Your bond with Vermithor had surprised everyone. The massive bronze dragon, once bonded with the late King Jaehaerys, was thought to remain riderless after his death. However, driven by a mix of jealousy and a desire to emulate your older sister, you sought out your own dragon companion. Despite initial fears of the dragon’s imposing size, Vermithor welcomed you. He became fiercely protective, even introducing you to his mate, Silverwing, and showing irritation when your father attempted to return you to your mother after discovering your empty bed.

Though Queen Aemma initially forbade you from riding the dragon until you were older, your father supported your bond with Vermithor, often reminiscing about his own dragon, Balerion. Since then, you and Rhaenyra spent most of your free time on dragonback, racing and playing in the sky. Your mother’s constant worry about your safety led her to request that you stay grounded whenever she was pregnant, though Rhaenyra’s persuasive arguments often meant you ended up flying anyway.

The days leading up to the royal wedding passed in a whirlwind of excitement and anxiety. The Red Keep was bustling with preparations: tailors from all over the Seven Kingdoms had arrived, vying for the royal family to honour them with their patronage. Banners were being hung, and the kitchens were filled with the sweet smells of honey cakes and roasted meats. Despite all the joy of the impending union, there lay an undercurrent of tension. It was no secret that the small council was urging your father to remarry, and the matter seemed to grow more urgent with each passing day. As you walked through the halls, the main topic of court appeared to be about who would become your new stepmother, rather than your wedding to Gwayne.

The uncertainty and the constant presence of this topic felt like a weight upon both you and Rhaenyra. The already anxiety-inducing thought of leaving your dear sister to start your life as a married woman gnawed at your heart, as if you were leaving a part of yourself behind. This heartache was worsened by the knowledge that another woman would soon replace your mother in the eyes of the people. The marriage would most likely be political rather than one of love; this was the one thing you were most certain of. The encouragement to remarry stemmed from the small council's dislike of Rhaenyra being named heir—they favoured the possibility that this new bride might provide your father with sons. The preference for following patriarchal ideals had already taken your mother’s life, but it seemed the gods were not satisfied with that alone and now wished to replace her legacy. The loss of the queen was still felt deeply within your family, but neither you nor Rhaenyra could ignore the fear of losing the closeness your grief had forged with your father.

One evening, as you sat in your chambers with Rhaenyra, the reality of your departure felt all the more inevitable. Your elder sister was uncharacteristically silent, something you found unsettling. It wasn’t like her to be so withdrawn. As you sat at your vanity, you studied her face while she focused on brushing your hair—a habit you often shared when you both needed to be close. Her eyes were fixed on her task, and her usual smile had been replaced with a slight frown. Rhaenyra paused, her hand stilling in your hair, and tension radiated off her in waves. Just as you were about to ask if she was alright, she broke the silence.

"I don’t want you to leave me, hāedar," she said quietly, her voice tight with emotion.

You met her eyes in the mirror, and an aching tug filled your heart.

"I don’t want to leave you either, Nyra," you replied softly. "But I have to. Gwayne and I are to make our vows, and I want to be with him."

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, her brows furrowing as she resumed brushing your hair, though her strokes were slower and more hesitant.

"It feels like everything is changing," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "First it was Mother and the baby, and now you. It feels like we’re losing something or someone every day. I haven’t been alone since you were born. How will I manage when you’ve been taken away?"

Her words struck a chord within you, her feelings mirroring your own. You reached up and gently grasped her hand.

"You will always have me, mandia. Regardless of where I am. And we will see each other—I’ll make sure of it."

Rhaenyra smiled at your words, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which were filled with unshed tears.

"I know. But it will never be the same. And with Father… I don’t know how I feel about him choosing a new wife."

You nodded in understanding. The idea of someone else stepping into your mother’s place felt like another loss.

"It won’t be easy," you admitted. "But we’ll face it together. Whoever he chooses, we’ll make sure she knows who we are—that you are our future queen, regardless of any children she may provide."

Rhaenyra’s eyes softened as she squeezed your hand.

"Promise me you won’t change. That you’ll still be the sister who sneaks lemon cakes with me, that you won’t let Oldtown turn you into a pious, boring courtly lady."

You laughed, a pure, genuine sound that lightened the air.

"I promise you, no distance will ever change that."

The morning of your wedding was quite possibly the busiest you had ever seen the Keep. The clatter of maids and seamstresses rushing about the halls mingled with the hum of excitement as the final preparations were being made. You stood in your chambers, surrounded by Rhaenyra, Alicent, and your handmaiden. Rhaenyra and Alicent had been constant presences in the last few days, ensuring they spent as much time as possible with you before the separation. They had even arranged for the three of you to have baths together, with lots of warm water and scented oils often becoming the main feature of Rhaenyra’s chambers. Despite the tension between your father and Otto Hightower, Alicent had remained steadfast in her friendship; her quiet support had been a source of comfort. The bond between you now felt more like that of sisters than mere friends.

As Rhaenyra worked on securing the last intricate braid of your hair, Alicent helped you slip into your wedding gown, her movements careful and delicate. The gown itself was a masterpiece—your father had spared no expense. The dress was woven with Valyrian silver threads, with the Targaryen dragon embroidered subtly across the bodice. The long, flowing sleeves echoed the ancient gowns of Old Valyria, a nod to your roots and your father’s passions.

"You look beautiful," Alicent whispered, her voice soft with admiration.

You glanced at the red-haired girl, smiling warmly.

"I feel like I’m floating."

Rhaenyra, having finished with your hair, stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"As you should," she teased lightly. "You’re marrying a knight and flying off to Oldtown. Just don’t forget us when you’re there."

You turned to face both of them, taking a deep breath.

"I could never. I have two sisters close to my heart now. You and Alicent—you’re both part of me."

Rhaenyra’s lips quirked into a small, bittersweet smile, while Alicent’s eyes grew glassy with emotion.

"How dare you make me feel things," Rhaenyra jested, attempting to lighten the mood.

The Great Hall was filled with nobles from all corners of the realm, their finery on full display. The banners of House Targaryen and House Hightower hung side by side, symbolising the union of two powerful families. At the head of the hall, King Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, his expression a mixture of pride and lingering sadness as he prepared to watch his daughter take this significant step in her life.

The ceremony was a mesmerising fusion of Targaryen and Faith of the Seven customs, each tradition seamlessly woven into the fabric of the day. The Septon stood tall before the gathered crowd, his hands raised in solemn prayer as he called upon the blessings of the Seven to watch over you and Gwayne. His voice echoed through the grand hall, invoking the Maiden for purity, the Warrior for strength, the Father for protection, and the Mother for guidance. Yet, while the blessings of the Seven were important, it was the Targaryen rites that truly resonated with you, their significance running deep within your bloodline. As the moment approached for the Valyrian vows, your heart raced with anticipation, swelling with emotion and history.

Before you stood Gwayne, the man who would soon be your husband. Clad in the green and white of House Hightower, the colours were striking against the backdrop of the ancient hall. His hand reached out toward you, fingers steady yet tender. His gaze was unwavering, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with an unspoken promise. Despite the grandeur of the occasion—the regal banners that hung from the walls, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow, and the countless eyes upon you—everything else seemed to fade. In that moment, it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you, standing together, united in purpose and love.

You were the first to speak, your voice soft yet strong, carrying the weight of generations. The ancient words of your ancestors flowed from your lips like a melody, each syllable steeped in tradition and meaning.

"Nyke rūvēbagon ao, issa jorrāelagon. Ēlīrion ziry arlī. Naejot nūmāzma, nyke pāsagon bē naejot ziry rūsīr." I bind myself to you, my love. From this day until the end of days, I will walk with you.

The Valyrian words, so familiar yet sacred, hung in the air between you, like an invisible thread tying you both to the past and to the future. You could feel the weight of their meaning settle in your heart, binding you to Gwayne in a way that transcended time and place.

Gwayne met your gaze, his eyes shining with both love and determination. You knew how hard he had worked to master the unfamiliar Valyrian tongue, spending days—perhaps weeks—practising these very words. When he spoke, there was a slight tremor in his voice, not of fear, but of the significance of the moment. His pronunciation stumbled ever so slightly, but his sincerity was undeniable.

"Nyke rūvēbagon ao... issa jorrāelagon. Ēlīrion ziry arlī. Naejot nūmāzma... nyke pāsagon bē naejot ziry rūsīr."

Your heart softened as you listened to him. Though the words were foreign to his tongue, their meaning was not. In his voice, you heard the depth of his love, his willingness to embrace not only you but the traditions that were so deeply a part of who you were. His love for you, and his commitment to your shared future, radiated from him like a beacon, stronger than any stumble over the ancient language.

A soft smile played on your lips, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you despite the opulence of the hall and the presence of so many witnesses. It felt as though time had stilled, and in that suspended breath, the two of you stood at the precipice of a new beginning. Your worlds—Targaryen and Hightower—were being brought together, not only by this union but by the promises you had just made to one another.

The ceremony continued with the exchange of rings, the smooth metal sliding onto your finger, a tangible symbol of the vows you had spoken. The Septon offered final blessings, his voice rising once more in prayer, but you barely heard him. All you could focus on was Gwayne, standing there, as bound to you as you were to him—by vows both ancient and new, by fire and faith.

When the final blessing was given and the hall erupted into applause, you felt a wave of joy surge through you. Gwayne turned toward you, his face lit up with warmth and joy, his smile wide and unguarded. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both tender and triumphant. Around you, the crowd’s cheers rose, their voices blending together into a sound like the distant roar of dragons.

The Great Hall was alight with celebration after the wedding ceremony, its high vaulted ceilings echoing with laughter, music, and the clink of goblets filled with the finest wine from across the realm. Long tables were laden with platters of roasted meats, sweet fruits, and delicacies meant to honour the union of House Targaryen and House Hightower. Banners bearing both houses' sigils fluttered overhead, the Targaryen dragon and Hightower beacon intertwined in a show of unity.

You sat at the head table beside Gwayne, your hand resting comfortably in his, fingers interlaced as if you couldn’t bear to be separated even for a moment. He smiled at you, a soft, adoring expression that warmed your heart. The hall was loud and vibrant, but the world felt quiet and intimate in the small bubble you both created. You couldn’t stop stealing glances at him, the reality of your marriage still sinking in. Gwayne was yours now—your husband—and you, his wife. The weight of that truth was thrilling.

Across the hall, Rhaenyra and Alicent exchanged looks, both beaming at you with obvious joy. The tension that had shadowed your lives since your mother’s passing seemed to lift, if only for this night. Rhaenyra caught your eye, a mischievous glint in her gaze, and you knew exactly what was coming next. She stood abruptly, waving a hand to the musicians, and the hall quietened for a moment before erupting into cheerful applause as the first notes of a lively dance filled the air.

“Come on, dear sister,” Rhaenyra called from her place, grinning widely. “No wedding is complete without a dance!”

Gwayne chuckled softly, squeezing your hand as he stood and extended it to you. “Shall we?”

You felt your cheeks warm as you took his hand, allowing him to lead you to the centre of the hall, where couples were already gathering. The music swelled, and soon you were twirling under the twinkling lights of the Great Hall, Gwayne’s hand steady on your waist, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. His laughter was infectious as you spun together, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You dance far better than I expected for a knight,” you teased, breathless from the movement.

“And you, my princess, dance with all the grace of a dragon taking flight,” Gwayne replied with a smirk, his tone playful.

You laughed, the sound bright and carefree, and for a moment, the whole room felt distant. It was just you and Gwayne, your hearts beating in time with the rhythm of the music, a perfect match.

As the song drew to a close, Rhaenyra pulled you away from Gwayne, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "You’ve had enough of your husband for now," she teased. "It’s time for the sisters to share a dance."

You twirled with Rhaenyra next, your hands entwined as the two of you moved effortlessly through the dance floor. Her smile was genuine, full of love and happiness for you. “I’ll miss you,” she said softly as you spun together, her voice barely audible over the music.

“I’ll miss you more,” you replied, your chest tightening at the thought of leaving her behind in King’s Landing. But for now, there was no sadness—only joy, only this moment.

Alicent soon joined the fray, pulling you both into a playful circle, the three of you laughing together as you danced. The bond between the three of you felt stronger than ever, and though there had been difficult times, it was clear that the friendship and love you shared could endure anything.

As the lively reception continued, the sounds of music and laughter filled the hall. You had been swept into the rhythm of the evening, dancing and speaking with guests, but as you stepped away for a moment of air, you found your father standing near the edge of the courtyard. The warm glow of lanterns illuminated his familiar face, making the silver strands in his hair catch the light. He smiled when he saw you approaching, his eyes filled with pride.

“You look radiant tonight,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, but steady as always. "Just as beautiful as your mother was on our wedding day."

His words made your heart tighten with affection. You reached out and took his hand, feeling the callouses that had been there for as long as you could remember.

“I wish she could be here,” you whispered, your voice softer now, filled with a longing that had been quietly sitting in the back of your mind.

“She is here, my sweet girl, in the love we carry forward,” he said, squeezing your hand gently, a quiet reminder of the legacy you had inherited. “And I can see so much of her in you, especially tonight.”

You leaned into him, finding comfort in the familiar embrace of your father. It felt good to share this moment with him. “Thank you, Father. For everything.”

He looked down at you, his gaze serious. “This is only the beginning, my daughter. You and Gwayne will face challenges, but always remember that family comes first. Lean on each other, trust each other, and never forget the strength that comes from unity.”

As the music played on, you looked back toward the hall, where Gwayne was chatting animatedly with Rhaenyra and Alicent, laughter bubbling around them. Your heart swelled with affection for him. He was your partner, your equal, and together, you would navigate whatever lay ahead.

After several more dances and rounds of wine, the energy of the hall began to feel overwhelming; the excitement was almost too much to bear. You exchanged a knowing look with Gwayne, who seemed to read your thoughts immediately. His hand found yours again, and with a small, playful smile, he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“Shall we sneak away, my love?” he murmured, his voice low and full of mischief.

You grinned, feeling a rush of exhilaration. “Lead the way, husband.” With careful steps, you slipped away from the throngs of people, unnoticed as the revelry continued in full swing. Gwayne guided you through the familiar stone corridors of the Keep, your hand tucked securely in his as you moved swiftly past guards and courtiers. The cool, quiet halls felt like a world apart from the boisterous celebrations, and your heart raced with anticipation.

Finally, Gwayne stopped, pulling you into a secluded alcove near one of the grand windows overlooking the city. The moonlight bathed the room in a soft, silvery glow, and for a moment, the two of you stood there, catching your breath, laughing at the thrill of your escape.

“I think we’ve officially abandoned our own wedding feast,” Gwayne said with a grin, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“I think they’ll manage without us for a little while,” you replied, stepping closer to him. The playful atmosphere shifted as the space between you disappeared, the weight of the moment settling in. You were married now, bound to each other for life, and the realisation sent a shiver of excitement down your spine.

Gwayne’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “You know, I never imagined this,” he said softly, his voice filled with awe. “Marrying you, being here like this. It feels... unreal.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with love for him. “It feels perfect.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, gazing at each other, the magnitude of the day sinking in. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Gwayne leaned down and kissed you, his lips soft and warm against yours. The kiss was slow, tender, full of the promise of everything yet to come. Your hand grasped his tunic, your senses focused solely on him.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, but your smiles spoke volumes that words couldn’t convey. “Well,” Gwayne said with a playful smirk, “I suppose we should return to our guests before they notice our absence. Though I wouldn’t mind staying here a little longer.”

You laughed, tugging him toward the hall again. “Come on, husband, let’s not give the courtiers something to gossip about on our first night as husband and wife.”

Gwayne groaned dramatically but followed, his hand still clasped in yours. “As my wife commands.”

Hand in hand, you returned to the feast, your hearts full and your souls bound, ready to face whatever life had in store for you together.

The Great Hall gradually quietened as the feast drew to an end. Guests trickled out, content with food, wine, and revelry, while the musicians played the final soft notes of a ballad. You and Gwayne remained at the head of the hall, but you could already feel the subtle glances cast your way, the unspoken expectation that the bedding ceremony should commence soon.

But that moment never came.

King Viserys, seated beside his daughters, had made it clear to the courtiers: there would be no bedding ceremony. No raucous crowd of drunken nobles tearing at your clothes, no jeering chants echoing through the castle halls. Instead, the King rose to his feet, silencing the last whispers, and raised his goblet in a final toast to the newlyweds.

"Tonight," Viserys declared, his voice steady yet warm, "my daughter and her husband shall have their privacy. I trust them to find their own way together, with no interference from us. Let this be the start of their journey, not only as husband and wife but as partners, as equals."

A murmur of approval swept through the hall, though some lords seemed disappointed by the lack of spectacle. Gwayne stood beside you, his hand once again finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Relief washed over you, grateful for your father’s understanding.

After the final goodbyes were said, the two of you were quietly escorted to your chambers. The flickering candlelight cast soft, golden shadows on the stone walls as the door to your room closed behind you, leaving you and Gwayne alone.

For a moment, there was a brief, almost shy silence. Both of you had been caught up in the whirl of the day—the ceremony, the feast, the dances—that now, in the stillness, the enormity of it all began to settle in. You were married. You had chosen each other, not just for duty but for love, and that realisation filled the space between you with a new kind of energy.

Gwayne turned to you, his expression soft, his smile gentle. “Are you as nervous as I am?” he asked, his voice laced with tenderness and a hint of vulnerability.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and warm. “Perhaps a little,” you admitted, stepping closer to him. “But mostly... I’m just happy. So very happy.”

His hands found your waist, pulling you gently toward him, and you felt the warmth of his body seep into yours. “I am too,” he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead. “I never thought I would marry someone as captivating as you.” There were no words needed after that. The tenderness between you both, the love you shared, was enough. The night passed in quiet, stolen kisses and whispered promises of forever. There was no rush, no pressure, just the sweet unfolding of two hearts finally joined, fully and completely.

Afterward, you lay together in the quiet of your chambers, Gwayne’s arm draped protectively over you as you rested your head on his chest. The warmth of the hearth, the soft rustle of the sheets, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat created a cocoon of peace around you both.

“I was thinking,” Gwayne murmured, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. You smiled and pushed yourself up, looking at the red-haired young man. “A dangerous pastime for you, no?”

Gwayne laughed and shook his head. “Yes, indeed. My brain is about to implode at the effort of my princess.” You laughed and settled back down to your earlier position, encouraging your husband to continue. “Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted, I was thinking about what our life will be like in Oldtown. Do you think they’d allow us to build a dragonpit there?”

You looked up at him, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “A dragonpit in Oldtown? Surely the septons would have a heart attack.”

“Well,” Gwayne said, grinning, “we’ll need somewhere to house Vermithor and Silverwing, won’t we?” You smiled, the thought of your dragons resting in Oldtown sparking excitement. “It’ll have to be large enough, though. Not just for them.”

Gwayne raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner. “Well, we need a place for all their future clutches. Our children will be part dragon after all.” He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “Of course. We’ll need to plan for a whole brood of dragons. Oldtown might not know what to do with itself when we arrive.”

The idea of building a future together—not just a home but a legacy—filled you with joy. You could see it clearly: the two of you in Oldtown, your dragons soaring over the city, your life filled with love and adventure. It was a future you hadn’t dared to dream of, and now it was within your grasp.

The morning of your departure arrived all too soon. The excitement of the wedding had faded into a bittersweet calm, and the reality of leaving King’s Landing—and Rhaenyra—was heavy on your heart.

Rhaenyra stood by the stables, her face tight with emotion as you approached. You knew this was hard for her. The two of you had been through so much together, and now, the idea of being separated felt like a deep, aching wound.

“You’ll visit,” she said, her voice soft but firm, as though she were willing it to be true.

“Of course I will,” you replied, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I’ll fly over whenever I can, and you’ll always have a place with us in Oldtown.”

Rhaenyra squeezed you tightly, her breath catching as she held back tears. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. “Emā ōños lantra syt tolī... Nyke daor ivestragī iā ao nūmāzma.” We’ve already lost so much... I can’t bear to lose you too.

“Ao daor ivestragī nyke,” You’re not losing me, you reassured her, your own tears threatening to spill. “Īlva mandia iksi. Daorun ivestragon ziry.” We’re sisters. Nothing will change that. Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, her violet eyes glistening with emotion. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao,” she said softly, her voice breaking. I love you.

“Se nyke jorrāelagon ao,” you whispered back. And I love you. “Va moriot.” Always.

Alicent appeared beside you, her own eyes watery, though she managed to keep her composure. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said, giving you a small smile before wrapping you in a warm hug. “Oldtown isn’t so far, you know.”

You smiled through your tears. “I’ll write, and you can visit too. There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

When it was time to say your final goodbye to your father, King Viserys, you could see the sadness etched into his face. He pulled you into a long embrace, holding you tighter than he had in a long time.

“I’ll miss you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been the rational one, the one who tempered Rhaenyra’s fire.”

You smiled softly, feeling the lump in your throat grow. “She’ll be fine, Father. She’s strong. But I’ll miss you too.”

Viserys pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders as he looked at you, his eyes full of pride and sadness. “You’ve made me proud,” he said quietly. “Go and build the life you deserve. And know that you’ll always have a place here.”

The atmosphere of the tourney was electric, filled with the clamour of cheering crowds, colourful banners, and the resounding clash of metal on metal as knights battled in the lists. You sat in the royal box, your eyes flickering between the spectacle in the arena and the uneasy glances exchanged by the lords and ladies around you. The Queen was in the birthing bed, and though the event was meant to celebrate her labour and the anticipated birth of a new royal heir, an undercurrent of anxiety was palpable. 

Your sister, Rhaenyra, sat beside you, her posture rigid, her face tight with concern. Despite her efforts to appear composed, the tension between you both was tangible. The cheers and festive air of the tourney seemed overshadowed by a growing sense of unease.

Leaning towards Rhaenyra, you whispered in Valyrian, "Ziry dōrī nykēda, issa mandia?" She’s not well, is she, sister?

Rhaenyra's lips tightened as she gave a small shake of her head, replying softly, "Ñuha prūmia iātykes. Rāelagon īlva sīmonagon." My heart is heavy. Let us hope she is strong.

The trumpets blared once more, signalling the next round of jousts, but your mind couldn’t fully focus on the tournament. The clash of steel and the roar of the crowd felt distant, drowned out by the growing dread gnawing at your heart. As the tourney continued, your eyes instinctively searched for Gwayne in the lists, a fleeting distraction from the heavy weight of worry for your mother.

Just as the next match was set to begin, a runner entered the royal box, breathless and pale. He knelt before your father, King Viserys, whispering something urgent in his ear. The King’s expression darkened immediately. Without a word, he rose and departed, his absence now noticeable. The lords and ladies exchanged anxious glances, the festive mood dipping. Your hand gripped Rhaeynera’s tighter.

The air was heavy, but the crowd quickly erupted into excited cheers as your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, rode out onto the field, his dark armour gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. The Rogue Prince's reputation preceded him—brilliant in battle, unpredictable, and dangerous.

Next came Gwayne, his green and white banner fluttering proudly as he took his place on the field. A pang of pride mixed with apprehension tugged at your heart. Gwayne was a skilled knight, but Daemon was something else entirely. You glanced at Rhaenyra, her expression mirroring your unease, though her fondness for your uncle was no secret to you.

The joust began with a thunderous charge, both knights hurtling towards each other with lances aimed true. The first clash sent a tremor through the stands as Daemon’s lance splintered against Gwayne’s shield. Both men remained upright, but the raw aggression in Daemon’s attacks was unmistakable. With each pass, his strikes grew sharper, faster, and more brutal. Gwayne held his ground, but Daemon’s relentless assault began to wear him down.

On the fourth pass, disaster struck. Daemon’s lance struck Gwayne square in the chest, the force of the blow sending him crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. You leapt to your feet, heart hammering in your throat. The arena was a blur of noise as the crowd cheered, oblivious to the danger.

“Gwayne!” you gasped, gripping the edge of the railing.

Rhaenyra’s hand shot out to steady you. “Stay calm,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with worry.

Maesters and squires rushed to the field, but you could already see how Gwayne lay motionless, his armour dented, blood seeping from beneath his breastplate. You cared little for propriety or the eyes of the crowd as you hurried down from the royal box, your heart racing.

By the time you reached him, Gwayne was conscious but clearly in pain. His face was pale, his breaths shallow, and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. The maester bent over him, assessing the wound as you knelt by his side.

“Gwayne,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached for his hand. “I’m here.”

He managed a weak smile, his eyes finding yours through the haze of pain. “Princess...we need to stop meeting like this,” he murmured, his voice strained but laced with a flicker of humour.

Tears stung your eyes as you squeezed his hand, managing a dry laugh. “You’ll be fine,” you whispered, though fear gnawed at you. “You’re going to be fine.”

The maester worked quickly to stabilise him, instructing the squires to carefully lift him from the field. You followed closely, ignoring the rest of the tourney, your thoughts consumed with worry for Gwayne and the dread hanging over your mother’s labour.

Hours later, as Gwayne was being tended to in the keep, word came.

Rhaenyra found you in the hallway, her face pale, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She didn’t need to say the words—your heart already knew.

“The Queen... our mother,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “She’s gone.”

The shock hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. The world spun, the walls of the keep closing in around you. Rhaenyra’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. Both of you clung to each other in shared grief, tears flowing freely.

The news of your mother's passing weighed heavy on your chest, a burden too vast to comprehend in that moment. Rhaenyra's arms tightened around you as your legs threatened to give way beneath you, both of you trembling with the shock of the loss. The Queen—your mother, who had been so strong, so regal—was gone, swept away by the very event that was supposed to bring joy. The child she had laboured to bring into the world, the son your father had so desperately wished for, lay in his cradle, struggling for life.

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled away from Rhaenyra, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Anger mixed with sorrow, and your thoughts darkened. Your father’s obsession with a male heir has cost you your mother. You could not suppress the bitter thought, no matter how much you wanted to. It felt as though this had all been for nothing, as though her life had been sacrificed in a desperate attempt to fulfill his need for a son.

Rhaenyra, too, looked stricken, her usual fire dampened by grief. She shook her head slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was all for him... for a son." Her eyes flickered with hurt as they met yours. "Father... he never stopped, not once, even though Mother could hardly bear it. He would have kept trying, no matter what it cost her."

You felt the sting of tears once more, biting your lip to contain the sobs rising in your throat. Your father’s love for your mother had been real, but it had been overshadowed by his desire for an heir—a boy. A son to sit on the Iron Throne. The ache in your chest swelled, a painful, gnawing sorrow. “She was more than just a vessel for a son,” you murmured, voice breaking. “She deserved more... she deserved better.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her lips tight with unshed tears. "I know," she whispered. "And now she's gone, and all he has is..." She trailed off, her voice faltering as if she couldn’t bear to complete the thought. The child, the boy, was innocent in all of this. It wasn’t his fault, and you both knew it.

Together, you made your way to the chambers where the babe lay. Despite the hurt in your hearts, you could not bring yourself to blame him. The baby boy, your brother, was a tiny, fragile thing swaddled in silk. His breath was shallow, his tiny fists curling and uncurling with each laboured exhale. The sight of him stirred something deep within you, a love that overcame even your deepest grief. He was so small, so helpless. He had taken your mother from you, but it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked to be born into this world of crowns and kings.

Rhaenyra stood by his crib, gazing down at him with a mixture of sorrow and tenderness. "He's beautiful," she whispered, her hand hovering over his small form as though she feared touching him might cause him more harm. You nodded silently, your heart aching for the brother you would barely get to know. His tiny breaths, each one a struggle, filled the room with the sound of a life hanging by a thread.

Without thinking, you reached down and gently stroked his cheek. His skin was soft, warm, and beneath your touch, he stirred ever so slightly. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of your lips. "He’s a fighter," you whispered, hoping, praying that somehow he would survive.

Rhaenyra’s voice was thick with emotion as she added, “He shouldn’t have to fight this hard just to live. He’s only a babe.”

The silence in the room was heavy as you both watched him, two sisters standing on the precipice of a shared grief that neither of you had wanted. The baby’s breaths slowed, becoming more and more laboured as the hours wore on. His little body, too frail for this world, finally gave in, his chest rising one last time before falling still.

The room was eerily quiet in the wake of his passing. You felt Rhaenyra’s hand slip into yours, her grip tight as tears streamed silently down both your faces. Your mother, your brother, gone within the span of a day. It was almost too much to bear.

The day of the funeral arrived, shrouded in the somber rituals of Targaryen tradition. The Red Keep was draped in black, and the air was thick with the scent of incense and the solemn hush of mourners. The Queen and the babe-prince were to be laid to rest in a ceremony befitting their royal blood, their bodies to be committed to the flames, as was the Targaryen way. The funeral pyre stood on the cliffs outside the city, overlooking the sea—a place of both beauty and sadness.

The sky was grey, clouds swirling ominously overhead as the dragons circled above, their low, mournful cries echoing across the cliffs. You stood beside Rhaenyra, your hand clutching hers as the ceremony began. Your father, King Viserys, stood at the forefront, his face a mask of grief and regret, though you couldn’t shake the lingering bitterness you felt towards him. His love for your mother was evident in the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes stared blankly at the pyres, but his relentless pursuit of a son had led to this moment.

The fire was lit, the flames licking hungrily at the wood piled beneath the bodies of your mother and the babe. The Queen’s face, serene in death, was still as beautiful as you remembered. The small form of your brother lay beside her, the two of them consumed by the fire. The smell of smoke filled the air, and the heat from the flames washed over you, though it did little to thaw the coldness in your heart.

You watched as the fire rose higher, its crackling roar swallowing the prayers of the septons and the low murmurs of the gathered lords and ladies. As the flames claimed the bodies, your mother’s soul and that of your little brother were sent to the gods, to join the legacy of your ancestors.

The dragons let out another mournful cry, their wings casting shadows over the cliffs as they flew low over the flames. You closed your eyes, a silent prayer forming on your lips, hoping your mother had found peace in whatever world lay beyond.

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened in yours, and you turned to her, both of you finding solace in each other’s presence. The funeral was a blur, but the bond between the two of you had never felt stronger. The pain of losing your mother and brother was a shared burden, one you would carry together.

The room erupted in congratulations and expressions of delight at the news of your mother’s pregnancy, but you were momentarily lost in your own world, still processing the joyous news of your engagement alongside the worry for your mother. Gwayne, standing beside his father, beamed at you with a mixture of relief and happiness. The dream you had scarcely dared to hope for was now becoming a reality.

You glanced over at Gwayne, his gaze fixed on you with genuine warmth and affection. He stepped forward and took your hand in his, his touch sending a comforting tingle through you. “Princess,” he said softly, “I’m truly honored. I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. “And I am equally honored to be betrothed to you, Ser Gwayne.”

Your father’s voice drew your attention back to him. “Yes, it is indeed a fortunate match. I trust you both will handle the responsibilities with grace.” He looked around the room, his gaze settling on Gwayne’s father, Otto Hightower, who gave a nod of approval. “We have much to prepare for, but for now, let us celebrate this joyous occasion.”

The rest of the meeting was a blur of well-wishes and excited chatter. Your thoughts kept drifting back to Gwayne and the future you would share. It felt like a dream, and yet the warmth of Gwayne’s hand in yours made it all the more real.

As the small council room began to clear out, you found yourself alone with Gwayne once more. He gave you a shy, yet hopeful smile. “I suppose congratulations are in order for both of us,” he said softly.

You laughed gently, the sound light and carefree. “Indeed. Though I suspect there will be a lot of work to do.”

Gwayne nodded, his eyes reflecting the same determination you felt. “Yes, but I have every confidence that we can face it together.”

You shared a moment of silent understanding, the connection between you deepened by the shared promise of a future together. As the evening approached and the Red Keep’s halls began to quiet down, you and Gwayne took a stroll through the gardens. The weight of the day’s events settled comfortably between you. The air was cool and the stars began to emerge, twinkling like distant promises of what lay ahead.

Gwayne stopped beside a fountain, the water’s gentle murmur providing a soothing backdrop. He turned to you, a serious expression on his face. “I know that our betrothal may have come sooner than either of us expected, but I want you to know that I am committed to making this work. I want to be more than just a husband; I want to be your partner and friend.”

You smiled, feeling a rush of affection for the knight who had so quickly become an integral part of your life. “And I want the same, Gwayne. I am eager to face whatever comes our way with you by my side.”

Gwayne reached out, taking your hand in his once more. “Then let us make the most of this time we have together, learning and growing in each other’s company.”

With a soft laugh, you nodded in agreement. “Yes, let’s do that.”

As the night deepened and the Red Keep settled into peaceful slumber, you and Gwayne walked side by side, the promise of your shared future lighting the way forward.

In the weeks following your betrothal, the reality of Gwayne’s impending departure to Oldtown settled in. The excitement of your engagement and the whirlwind of wedding preparations provided a welcome distraction, but the necessity of his return to his duties as acting lord was a constant undercurrent in your thoughts. When he left, Gwayne’s letters became a cherished part of your daily routine. Each letter was a blend of affection and updates about his work in Oldtown. He spoke of the challenges he faced and the responsibilities he managed, but his words were always filled with love and reassurance.

You reciprocated with equally heartfelt letters, sharing news of the preparations and your daily life at the Red Keep. The Queen’s pregnancy progressed, and though her growing discomfort was evident, everything appeared to be moving along smoothly. The announcement of a grand tourney to celebrate the expected birth added a new layer of excitement to the Red Keep. The tourney was to be a splendid affair, and you immersed yourself in the preparations with renewed vigor, driven by both the anticipation of the event and the hope of Gwayne’s return.

As the day of the tourney approached, the Red Keep transformed into a bustling hive of activity. The grounds were adorned with vibrant banners, the lists were meticulously set, and the royal box was prepared to host the day's festivities. The air was charged with excitement, and every corner of the castle seemed to be abuzz with the promise of the upcoming celebration.

Despite the flurry of preparations, your thoughts often drifted to Gwayne. You found yourself daydreaming about his return, imagining the joy and relief of seeing him once more amidst the spectacle of the tourney. The thought of him being present, competing and celebrating, added a personal excitement to the already festive occasion. The prospect of reuniting with him after his time in Oldtown filled you with a blend of anticipation and eagerness.

The day of the tourney arrived, and the atmosphere at the Red Keep was electric. Knights from across the realm gathered to compete, their colorful banners fluttering in the breeze as the crowd’s cheers filled the air. You took your place in the royal box, flanked by Rhaenyra and Alicent, who were equally caught up in the excitement.

The days after your mother and brother’s funeral were a blur of overwhelming grief, sorrow, and anger. The hollowness left by your mother’s absence weighed down every moment, and the thought of your baby brother, gone so soon after his first breath, only deepened the ache. Yet, alongside the sorrow burned a fierce anger, one you couldn’t contain. It wasn’t directed at the innocent babe, but at your father, King Viserys. His relentless desire for a male heir had cost your mother her life.

The Red Keep, once filled with warmth, now felt cold and oppressive. Every hallway, every room, was haunted by the memory of your mother, her laughter and presence woven into its very walls. But the pain of remembering was laced with bitterness. You couldn't help but think how it was all for nothing. Your father’s obsession had pushed your mother to her limits, and now she was gone. For what? A son, who lived for a mere day?

You found solace in your sister Rhaenyra, the bond between you strengthened by shared grief and a silent understanding. You spent hours together in the godswood, sitting beneath the weirwood tree, its blood-red leaves casting shadows over your faces. Neither of you spoke much at first, the weight of your emotions too heavy for words. But the silence between you was comforting, a reminder that you were not alone in your pain.

"It was all for him," Rhaenyra finally whispered one afternoon, her voice tight with unshed tears. "All because he wanted a son. And now she’s gone."

Your jaw tightened, the anger flaring up again. "She wasn’t just... a vessel," you muttered bitterly. "She was more than that. She deserved better."

A soft rustle of fabric behind you made both of you turn. Alicent Hightower approached cautiously, her face pale but filled with sympathy. She had been your closest friend, and she never neglected your needs. Alicent knelt beside you, her brown eyes soft with compassion as she reached out, taking both your hand and Rhaenyra’s.

"I am so sorry," Alicent whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I cannot imagine what you must feel, but please, know that I am here. I will always be here."

Rhaenyra’s lips tightened, her anger still too fresh to fully accept the comfort, but she squeezed Alicent’s hand in gratitude nonetheless. You leaned into Alicent’s embrace, allowing yourself a moment of vulnerability as tears welled up in your eyes.

"I just... I can’t understand it," you said quietly, your voice trembling. "Why did it have to come to this? Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t Rhaenyra?"

Alicent’s grip tightened slightly, her voice soft but firm. "You were more than enough. Both of you are more than enough. Your mother knew that. She loved you both so much."

Rhaenyra scoffed, though it was more in pain than dismissal. "Father didn’t. Not until now. All this... all for a son who only lived a day."

Alicent didn’t respond to that. There was nothing to say. The truth of it hung in the air like a sword, sharp and cutting.

Gwayne’s recovery was slow, but steady. You spent countless hours by his bedside, watching as he healed from the injuries inflicted by your uncle Daemon during the tourney. The wound had been deep, and there had been days when you feared he might not recover. But bit by bit, his strength returned. His pale complexion slowly regained colour, and his humour, though weak, began to surface once again.

One evening, as you sat beside him, Gwayne gave you a tired but genuine smile. "You look worse than I do," he teased softly, his voice hoarse but laced with affection.

You managed a small smile in return, though it didn’t reach your eyes. The grief still clung to you, a shadow that refused to lift. "I doubt that," you replied, brushing a hand through his hair. "You’ve looked better."

"Ah, my lady, your words wound me deeper than Daemon’s lance ever could," Gwayne said with a playful groan, wincing as he shifted.

You laughed, a short, dry sound, but the tears quickly followed. Gwayne’s expression softened, and he reached for your hand. "It’s not your fault," he whispered. "None of this is your fault."

His words were a balm to your fractured heart, but they did little to quell the anger that still gnawed at you. "I just... I can’t stop thinking about her. About what she went through. For him."

Gwayne gently pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you as you rested your head on his chest. "She loved you. Both of you. She wouldn’t want you to carry this weight alone."

You nodded, though the guilt and anger still lingered. But in Gwayne’s arms, you found a moment of peace, however fleeting. It was enough, for now.

In the days that followed, the court shifted around you, and so did your father’s focus. The loss of your mother and the infant prince had shaken him deeply, and though the kingdom still mourned, there was a question that had to be addressed—who would be his heir? With no surviving sons, all eyes turned to Rhaenyra.

The announcement that she would be named heir to the Iron Throne came with both triumph and bittersweet irony. Everything your mother had endured, all the sacrifices made in pursuit of a male heir, only for the throne to go to Rhaenyra—the daughter who had been there all along.

The ceremony was grand, filled with the pageantry expected of such a historic moment. You stood beside Rhaenyra as she knelt before your father, who placed the heavy gold chain and crown upon her head, naming her Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Seven Kingdoms. The lords and ladies of the realm gathered to swear their fealty to her, though you knew some did so begrudgingly, the age-old preference for a male ruler still lingering in their minds.

Alicent stood nearby, her expression filled with quiet pride as she watched her closest friend take her rightful place. Yet, you couldn’t ignore the tension that still hung in the air. The crown that now sat on Rhaenyra’s head was one your father had long wanted for a son. But the gods had willed it otherwise.

After the oaths were sworn, Rhaenyra caught your gaze, her expression solemn. Despite the pride she undoubtedly felt, the sadness was still there, just beneath the surface. The two of you had been thrust into roles neither of you had expected so soon—heir to the Iron Throne, and the one left to carry the weight of a motherless legacy.

As the court dispersed, Rhaenyra took your hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. "We’ll make her proud," she whispered, her voice steady, though her eyes shone with unshed tears. "No matter what."

As you returned to the hall, a quiet understanding lingered between you and Cregan. The warmth of the North’s hospitality was beginning to feel familiar, but there was a solemnity in the air, knowing that peace would be fleeting. The tension between your mother’s claim and Aegon’s usurpation of the throne loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Later that day, as you and Jace prepared to show Cregan and his sister Sara what it’s like to ride dragons, a raven arrived with grim news—Lucerys had been slain at Storm’s End. The message was a cruel blow, draining the warmth from the day. Jace froze as he read the letter, his hands trembling. His eyes, dark with fury and grief, met yours, and in that moment, you felt the overwhelming weight of the war pressing down on both of you.

Grabbing the letter from your brother’s hands, you quickly read its contents. Lucerys, your younger brother, was gone.

"No..." Jace’s voice was barely a whisper at first, then broke into a snarl of raw anger. "Aemond did this. That wretched—" His words turned into a snarl, his hands curling into fists. You reached out, placing a hand on his arm, your own heart heavy with sorrow.

"Jace..." Your voice was soft but firm, trying to pull him back from the edge. "We need to be strong now. For the boys. For mother."

But Jace couldn’t contain his rage. He turned away, pacing the room with wild, furious steps. “He will pay. I swear by the gods, Aemond will pay with his life!”

Cregan, watching from the side, approached cautiously. His usual calm was now replaced with a hard resolve. “I grieve with you,” he said steadily. “This is a grave offense, a violation of all honor.”

Jace nodded, doing his best to remain composed in front of company. “We leave for Dragonstone,” he announced, his voice sharp with decision. “Our mother will know how to respond. And when she calls for war, we will not hold back.”

You nodded, though your heart ached with the knowledge of what was to come. Lucerys had been kind and innocent, and his death seemed senseless in the brutal game of thrones. The thought of your mother learning this news, already weighed down by grief, felt unbearable.

Cregan stepped closer to you, his expression serious but his voice gentle. “Princess Y/n, if you wish to remain here for your safety, you are welcome. I understand if—”

You interrupted, shaking your head. “I must return to Dragonstone with Jace. Our mother will need us both.”

Cregan’s eyes searched yours for a moment, and in that brief silence, there was an unspoken bond—a promise of support that went beyond politics. He nodded solemnly. “Then the North will stand with you. Whatever aid you need, Winterfell will be ready.”

Before long, you and Jace mounted your dragons. Vermax was restless, sensing the turmoil within Jace, while Mithrax remained steady, her presence a comfort amid the storm of emotions swirling around you. As you took to the skies, Winterfell’s snow-covered landscape faded into the distance.

The flight back to Dragonstone was fraught with silence, your thoughts consumed by what awaited you. The winds howled around you, reflecting the tempest inside your heart. When you landed on the blackened shores of Dragonstone, the weight of the news you carried settled heavily upon you. The castle loomed ahead, its towers dark and foreboding against the stormy skies.

Jace dismounted first, his face a mask of determination as he strode towards your mother’s chambers. You followed close behind, your heart pounding with dread. Inside, your mother was seated before the fire, but as you and Jace entered, her eyes turned toward you, and her face softened.

“Mother,” Jace began, his voice tight, “is it true?” His words hung heavily in the air.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, and for a moment, her grief was overshadowed by the sight of her children before her. She swiftly came to you both, her eyes glazing with unshed tears as she pulled you into a tight hug. "No..." he whispered, her voice breaking. "Not Luke. It's all my fault."

You shook your head at Jace’s words. “We share this blame, Jace. It is not all on you.”

Your mother stroked both of your faces, frowning at the tears streaming down your cheeks. “No, my sweets, it was not your fault.”

The three of you stood holding each other as you cried for your loss. Your heart felt heavy with the knowledge that there was no turning back now. The drums of war had begun to beat, and soon the realm would be consumed by fire and blood.

The air in Dragonstone crackled with tension and purpose as preparations for war escalated. Soldiers trained relentlessly, and ravens flew in every direction to gather allies. Yet amidst the looming conflict, one piece of business could not be ignored—your impending union with Lord Cregan Stark. After the devastating news of Lucerys’ death, celebrating anything felt out of place, but alliances were forged in both battle and marriage, and the bond between the Targaryens and Starks was crucial.

Queen Rhaenyra, though consumed with grief, recognized the importance of the wedding. It would solidify the North’s loyalty, and Cregan Stark was already proving to be a valuable ally. One afternoon, you and Jace were summoned to the hall. Your mother sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by councilors and key advisors. Cregan was there as well, standing tall and resolute, his northern attire a stark contrast to the more elaborate garb of the Dragonstone court.

“My children,” Rhaenyra began, her voice steady but marked by the strain of recent events, “we must continue planning for the war, but we cannot neglect the importance of this marriage. The alliance with Winterfell strengthens our position, and Lord Stark has been gracious enough to expedite the preparations despite the tumultuous times.”

You exchanged a glance with Jace, who gave you a small nod of encouragement. It wasn’t lost on you that your marriage to Cregan was not just a personal matter but a political necessity. Still, as you looked at Cregan, standing steadfast and serious, you felt that this union was more than a mere contract between houses.

“I understand, Mother,” you replied, your voice measured. “Lord Stark and I are prepared to proceed as soon as arrangements are made.”

Cregan’s voice cut through the room with a deep, respectful tone. “I know the timing is difficult, Your Grace, but I assure you that the North stands ready to honor this alliance and to aid in the coming war. The wedding will only solidify our loyalty to your cause.”

Rhaenyra regarded him with a measured look. Despite her loss, she remained sharp and resolute. “You’ve proven yourself a true ally, Lord Stark. Your father’s oath is strong, but your personal commitment has only strengthened it.”

Cregan nodded, his grey eyes meeting the queen’s. “The North does not forget its oaths, Your Grace. We will fight alongside you.”

The queen turned to her council. “We will organize the wedding as swiftly as possible. Winterfell must see their lord married before the battle begins, and our enemies must witness the unity between the North and the Targaryens.”

The decision to hold the wedding in Winterfell surprised many. Dragonstone had seemed the obvious choice, closer to the center of conflict, but Cregan insisted that the North needed to see the union firsthand, to feel the strength of their lord’s bond with House Targaryen. Rhaenyra agreed, though it meant sending you away, far from Dragonstone, just as the war was brewing.

Preparations for the journey north began at once. You had expected a grand procession, but the looming war meant the wedding would be swift and without the usual fanfare. A small retinue traveled ahead of you and Jace to Winterfell, alongside Cregan, who had gone ahead to prepare for the wedding. Meanwhile, your mother and the rest of her forces remained focused on preparing for the battles to come.

Winterfell loomed on the horizon, its towering grey walls shrouded in mist and snow. The journey had been long, but the sight of the Stark stronghold filled you with a strange sense of anticipation. This was the heart of the North, the seat of the man who would be your husband. As you entered the gates, the people of Winterfell gathered to greet their lord’s bride. There were no extravagant festivities—just the solemn acknowledgment of the importance of this union.

The cold winds bit at your skin as you dismounted, but the warmth of the great hall beckoned. Cregan was waiting inside, standing beside his sister, Lady Sara Snow, who had taken on the task of preparing Winterfell for the arrival of her brother’s bride. The hall was austere but grand in its simplicity, the smell of burning wood and pine filling the air.

When you saw Cregan, his eyes met yours with that same steady intensity you had come to rely on. There was no need for words—his presence was enough to reassure you. He approached, his fur-lined cloak brushing the stone floor, and took your hand.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Princess,” Cregan said, his voice a deep rumble that echoed in the hall.

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” you replied, your voice softer but no less certain.

The wedding was held in the Godswood, beneath the ancient weirwood tree, its red leaves stark against the snow-covered ground. The ceremony was simple, as was the northern way, but powerful in its meaning. You and Cregan exchanged vows before the old gods, your hands bound together with a strip of cloth as a symbol of your union. The cold air bit at your skin, but the warmth of Cregan’s hand in yours kept you steady. This was not the grand spectacle expected in King’s Landing or Dragonstone, but it felt right, grounded in the traditions of the North.

As you spoke your vows, you felt the weight of the moment—not just the personal bond you were forging with Cregan, but the political alliance this marriage represented. The North and House Targaryen were now bound by blood and honor.

After the ceremony, you returned to the great hall for a modest feast. The lords of the North, gathered for the wedding, spoke of war and loyalty. Cregan, ever the leader, reassured them of his commitment to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause.

“The North will not forget its promises,” Cregan said, raising his cup. “We stand with the true queen, and with the strength of our alliance, we will see her seated upon the Iron Throne.”

The men cheered, their voices echoing through the stone walls of Winterfell. You felt a surge of pride as you looked at your husband, now bound to you in both marriage and war.

Later, as the fires burned low and the hall emptied, you stood with Cregan by one of the tall windows, gazing out at the snow-covered courtyard.

“The North is ready,” Cregan said quietly, his breath visible in the cold air. “When the time comes, we will march south.”

“And I will be by your side,” you replied firmly, meeting his gaze.

Cregan’s hand tightened around yours, but he shook his head. “I need you to remain here.”

You scoffed and pulled your hand away, narrowing your eyes at him. “No, I will do no such thing.”

His voice softened as he reached for you again. “Princess, please—”

“I’ve been married to you for less than a day, and you’re already trying to order me around?” You glared at him, your voice sharp. “I am fire and blood. I have a dragon. I will help my mother defend her birthright.”

Cregan sighed, his expression conflicted, but after a pause, he nodded. He spoke carefully, choosing his words. “I do not mean to control you. I know you are capable, fierce, and brave. I only wish to protect you. As long as you allow me by your side, to fulfill my duty as your husband, then I will be content.”

Your face softened at his words. After a moment, you leaned in and kissed his cheek gently. “Very well, my lord. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”