#tyrell!oc

Elinor Tyrell had spent the entirety of the carriage ride reciting the many expectations upon her young daughter, who had never seen the reddish towers of the Red Keep before that day. Daphne nodded along attentively to each reminder that was supplied to her, eager to prove to her mother that she could play the part of a perfect little lady before the Queen. She had already dazzled their House’s attending lords and ladies at Highgarden – excelling at greeting guests graciously with her mother when Highgarden welcomed company, with presenting the delicate patterns she cross-stitched in her embroidery hoops, always smiling and fluttering her fan before her face and being perfectly silent unless spoken to first.  

Daphne had been presented before Alicent, offering the deepest, straightest curtsy that she could manage, allowing the Queen to study her. When Alicent had taken her chin in her hand delicately, commenting upon Daphne’s beauty and exquisite manners, it was all the girl could do to remain composed and emotionless at such high praise. Yet she knew she was expected to present herself with only the most polite and demure grace, and so she had simply murmured how honored she was and returned to performing the role of the darling doll: her mother’s elegant, silent accessory.

Alicent, but a year or two her mother’s elder, had known Elinor since long before talks of her engagement to Lord Viktor Tyrell had even been proposed, back when the Lady of Highgarden had still retained the surname of Florent. Brightwater Keep was not far from Oldtown, the two cities situated upon the banks of the glittering, cerulean waters of the Honeywine, and both women had been raised as daughters of prominent Houses of the Reach. A companionship blossoming in the morbid garden of shared misery had sprung forth from ashen dirt, pollinated by mirrored expressions of obedient resignment and stoic acceptance of their identical duties. Their fates had run parallel, both women marrying a man many years their elder, and it was through the continuation of their friendship via a consistent exchange of penned letters sent upon dark wings that resulted in the longstanding betrothal between Elinor Tyrell’s eldest daughter and Alicent Hightower’s youngest son.

Visits to the capital were frequent in the days of her youth, awaited during long stretches of time spent gazing wistfully out of a gilded carriage’s window as they bumped along the dirt road that would lead them to the Red Keep. It had continued as such until Daphne had been officially named one of Helaena’s ladies in waiting, and had made the journey on what had seemed, at the time, to be the final day she would consider Highgarden home instead of King’s Landing. Alicent had never spared Daphne extensive attention – primarily because there was no great need to, especially not when the Queen had a plethora of critical challenges to concern herself with.

But they had disagreed there, at the end of it all, and their final conversation following Helaena’s death had been far from amiable, although this was predominantly the fault of Daphne and the rage in her mutilated heart. The words Daphne had spoken that night were so quiet that they were scarcely above a whisper; but no more venomous words have ever been expressed by her, nor does she imagine any will ever hold a candle to the vituperative poison imbued into each scathing one.

To speak that way to the Dowager Queen was a nightmare that the mere concept of would have rendered Daphne faint once upon a time. Many years spent toiling away for the crafting of perfect royal perception smashed messily over the stone floors of a moonlit night, another casualty of a war that no one had won.

It is this memory, not any other, that leaves the lady hovering outside of the grand doors to the Dowager Queen’s apartments despite the approval she received from Lord Cregan Stark to enter and discuss the matter of Jaehaera’s betrothal to the young Rickon Stark. There is no possibility of Daphne maintaining the façade of poised elegance that she had practiced before Alicent for so many years, no world in which her act of thoroughly rehearsed theater does not fall apart before this royal audience of one. It is the inevitable outcome, when the wound upon her most fragile organ will be dug into messily, reopening it to draw forth fresh blood. Yet with Jaehaera’s future hanging so precariously between imprisonment and freedom, there is nothing she will not do.

Her hand pushes open the door carefully, listening to the unsettling creaking of the ancient wood. The windows of the Dowager Queen’s apartments have their silken curtains drawn despite the bright hour of the early morning, shielding the enclosed darkness from the sunlight gliding down over the spires of the castle. A cold air has embedded itself into every corner and crevice of the space, into the very stone of the walls and the threads of the hanging woven tapestries. A seven-pointed star stares in burning judgement at Daphne as she closes the door behind her, its golden strands looming with threatening stature and significance over the dim, shadowy chamber and the young woman before it. Her chin raises in marginal defiance. Daphne Tyrell has nothing to prove to gods who did nothing in the face of such wicked violence.

The Queen Dowager sits before her unlit hearth, a book held tightly in her grasp as she hears the door squeaking. Alicent turns with empty eyes that offer no evident reaction to the appearance of Daphne, who does not venture in any further than the immediate doorway. The two women appraise each other for a long while before Alicent elects to speak.

”I did not imagine you would remain here.” Her voice is weary. An exhaustion that sinks beneath her skin and through her bones, into their very marrow.

“I had little choice in the matter,” Daphne casts her eyes away from the older woman and to the rug upon the floor beneath the skirt of her gown, the tassels of it silvery and blue. The once shimmering threads appear lackluster in the cool darkness. “Likely as much choice as you.”

Another weighted silence sinks in with knowing pressure.  A whispering unease creeps across Daphne’s skin and she bites her lip, digging her teeth sharply into the soft flesh.

“It is Jaehaera I wish to discuss with you,” When words are finally spoken, they press forth into the silence free of beautiful act. Playing pretend will not amount to anything, not after their previous exchange. It is best that she bares the truth of her intent to Alicent in any case – despite their parting words, they both love the girl. Daphne has to believe it so, even should Alicent have encouraged Jaehaera to poison her cousin when the Queen Dowager last saw her granddaughter. “I believe that I have devised a plan for her to have a chance at a peaceful life.”

The older woman beholds her without expression, merely staring neutrally forth with clouded eyes. Her arms rest atop her stomach, the black of her gown stark against the paling color of her skin. “There is no possibility for that. You know her blood.”

Daphne had, in childhood, retained a great fascination for the tales of Old Valyria, with Shrubbery, Being a History on the Flora of the Valyrian Freehold remaining one of her favorite compilations on the flora of the lost civilization. The silk grasses that arose from the warm soil, a violet fruit that was said to pass moral judgement upon those who consumed it. Whisperings of magic, of curses and witchcraft and fate, often went overlooked. Only through her knowing of Helaena’s strange dreams and their curious manifestations did Daphne come to understand that there is truly an element of the fantastical embedded into each drop of Targaryen blood, exhibiting itself at varying levels, no matter how commonly crimson and viscous it appears when it is spilled.

“It does not need to be her fate,” The lady presents the proposition delicately, understanding well the scornful dismissal that gnaws at the edges of Alicent’s tired gaze. When such horror has fallen upon the House of the dragon, the prospect of one of its daughters avoiding tragedy does not seem entirely plausible. “Not if she is raised far from here, far from crown and throne.”

Alicent shakes her head at this, her chestnut hair hanging in dull curls about her face. Her eyes dart to the empty fireplace in apparent disbelief, before she places the book in her hands down upon the round table beside her. “You wish to ship her off to some distant land and hope that strangers might care for her? You might very well slit her throat to spare her the torture she would surely face.”

“I shall do no such thing,” It is with immense difficulty that Daphne manages to simmer the annoyance that bubbles in a hot spring within her chest at the irrational insinuation, nor Alicent’s speaking so offhandedly of such a thing befalling Jaehaera. Daphne has to turn for a moment, her nails finding their place in the crescent circles always decorating her palm. She presses them into the shapes tightly, before continuing. “I am to marry Lord Cregan Stark and return with him to Winterfell following the conclusion of the trials and executions. As Prince Jacaerys swore that Lord Stark’s eldest son Rickon shall marry a Targaryen princess in exchange for his alliance, he has agreed that Jaehaera’s betrothal to the boy would fulfill the pact and that she might accompany me to Winterfell and remain there as a ward.”

A rustling can be heard from the corner of the room. There is a small squeaking, and a flurry of grey fur and tiny scampering claws tap across the wooden floorboards. As the mouse disappears underneath the thick sapphire curtains before the window, both Alicent Hightower and Daphne Tyrell stare at it. The Dowager Queen appraises Daphne with another shrouded expression a moment later, staring with brazen, uncaring scrutiny at the younger woman.

“That is your strategy then?” When Alicent finally answers the proposal that Daphne has set forth, it is with mild irritation and disappointment. Daphne’s already flat gaze becomes impossibly drier, her chin lowering as she presses her lips together into a tight line before fixing the woman with a tired look. “To sell yourself off to that bellicose lord so the two of you might spend your days in a frozen wasteland amongst barbarians?”

“That is hardly the situation,” Daphne cannot help the edge of guarded testiness that rises in her tone, nor the way she folds her arms across her chest in a protective frustration. The stirring of such a reaction over a simple commentary irks her nearly as much as the statement itself. “This marriage was not decided out of desperate necessity.”

The Queen Dowager’s face contorts into explicit disbelief, augmenting the strength of her disdain by scoffing lightly as she walks briskly to the table nearest to the closed window, pouring herself a cup of tea. No steam can be seen rising from the cup, indicating the considerable duration of time the teapot has been lingering upon the wooden surface untouched. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that you have developed a sudden affection for a Northerner. You, who have never cared for any of the nobles at court, resident or visiting.”

Daphne’s distaste for the general court is known to Alicent, who never much cared for it herself and had watched the girl for long enough to catch whispered comments and exchanged glances of childish annoyance between a younger Daphne and her own children.

“Lord Stark is not much like the lords at court.” This murmuring in markedly tempered, soothed and shushed and squeezed down into Daphne’s chest. It cannot be helped; the very utterance of his name threatens her steadily maintained and preferred indifference. Managing the compulsion to defend his character proves a more difficult endeavor than desired.

“No, I imagine not,” The teacup held gingerly in Alicent’s hand is lowered back into its saucer, the glazed ceramics clinking brightly at each point they met. Her eyes turn to the leather-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and the faded golden shape upon its aging cover. The words have begun to disappear, the gilded lettering peeling into oblivion. “A heathen lord who ignores the Seven —”

“Oh, I retain not the stomach for pious lectures any longer,” The prayer tables of Seven have seen the last of the Lady Daphne Tyrell. And so rarely are their names invoked by any who genuinely follow the doctrine that is loftily preached. It flashes in her eyes then, the brightness of a star fallen, painting the dull night sky of her gaze with brilliant, glowing light. “Lord Stark has been truer and more honorable than any of the bumbling fools who occasionally remember to offer prayers when they require something.”

Alicent is far from ignorant to the significance of such plain praise from the woman before her, unaccompanied by splendid embellishment or decorated compositions of poetic advocation. Silence falls between them again, and the lady casts her gaze away, disliking the deconstruction of her person being carried out by woman’s lifeless eyes.

“You truly do care for him,” If it was disbelief before, it is absolute incredulity that the Dowager Queen appraises Daphne with now. She presses her open palm to the cover of the book before her. Yet her voice remains monotonous and quiet as she looks away, deep in disturbed thought. “Madness, it must be.”

A tiny breath of annoyance flits forth from Daphne’s lips and her expression only grows more sour. She purses her lips before she folds her hands tightly atop the corset of her gown and quite nearly scowls. “Is now truly the time for melodrama? I trust Lord Stark. Enough to know that Jaehaera will be awarded every freedom in the North she deserves.”

Yet Alicent is already shaking her head in refusal, the mere thought of the occurrence apparently unacceptable. “I do not wish to see my only surviving grandchild banished to the edge of the world.”

“You would rather see her married to her cousin then?” Daphne asks briskly, eyes wide and serious as she stares Alicent down from across the room. Her head tilts in an indicative, sarcastic gesture. “The very one whose mother Jaehaera’s father killed?”

Alicent flinches visibly, retreating even further into her corner of the room. There is not room for guilt in Daphne’s mind, not when it is all for the princess, but she does give the older woman a moment to piece together her thoughts upon the alternative without rushing.

“…No,” Alicent’s hand has risen to rest upon her lips as she considers. The beds of her nails are torn and bloody. It reminds Daphne pointedly of the white scars upon her own hand, carved into the tender flesh of her palm in a path of nervous habit. “No. She will never be safe around that boy, upon that we agree.”

Although it is a small victory, this tiny agreement settles some of Daphne’s agitated nerves. Taking a long, steadying breath, her shoulders release some of their tension and lower. As does the aggression in her voice.

“I can either leave her here at his mercy or take her with me and raise her at Winterfell,” Daphne murmurs, gazing down at the floor, the helplessness she has been saddled with since Jaehaera returned from Storm’s End finally dissipated now that this door has been opened for the girl. She wishes to assure Alicent of the care the girl will receive, her lips parting. It is a naïve mistake. Her mouth closes as memories descend upon her like a flock of carrion birds to a dying carcass, tearing into her flesh with sharpened talons. Daphne can hardly force the following words out. “You know that I love her.”

When Alicent looks upon her then, Daphne knows it is not a young woman that she sees within her chambers. But a girl, the girl she had been once, the girl who had followed her daughter around like a pastel shadow. And what Daphne is asking, to take the last vestige of Helaena from her side forever: it is not something she lightly dismisses the significance nor pain of.

“She should remain here, with me.” A faint whisper, a misunderstanding of what was once uncontestable truth. Daphne closes her eyes.

“You will never be free to raise her,” The court will not allow it, not after what happened the last time the Dowager Queen saw the child. And even in the absence of that incident, they will fear the influence Alicent could have on a princess of House Targaryen who retains a claim to the Iron Throne. “I know you must understand that.”

When the lady lifts her gaze, she watches as Alicent attempts to grasp at anything that might stand as testimony against the girl’s leaving. “This is the only home Jaehaera has ever known.”

Jaehaera, only five years old. How much will she remember of the walls that had witnessed her birth? The breaths she had taken but moments before her brother, shuddering and labored in her tiny body. There had been a heartbeat before the baby girl had been handed to Helaena that Daphne wondered silently if the child would continue to breathe. Jaehaerys had been stronger, crying at once. It was as if Jaehaera’s body rejected the world it was transferred into, the suffocating, poisonous air of a beautiful cage.

“If the day comes when she one day wishes to return to King’s Landing, I shall see it done,” It is a tired promise, one Daphne can only begin to understand in her mind, The future is not something she dwells on often; it is difficult to picture it. She wanders absentmindedly over towards the hearth, staring down into the empty place where the logs should be. “But she should have a chance to grow before she decides.”

“She is a princess, not a prisoner,” Alicent’s voice trembles with something, but Daphne cannot define it as any clear emotion. A grotesque mixture of sorrow and desperation and anger. “She should be Queen – ”

“Do not dare speak that curse before me,” Daphne’s lower lip shakes with the weight of her words. With the childish anguish that has clawed its way up her lungs and rendered her weak at its arrival. Her breath is too shallow, leaving her lightheaded and on uneven footing. She wavers a soft sway as she glares with illogical petulance when she whips around to scowl, eyes stinging. Accusatory in no uncertain manner, regardless of what she understands within her rational mind. “It is already decided. I would like your approval, as you share her blood, but I will die before I allow that innocent child to be damned this inescapable hell.”

Daphne gives a small shake of her head. When she opens her mouth to speak again, her voice cracks and she swallows it back. It is poison on her tongue. Her eyes jump to a spot on the wall in a desperate and pointless attempt to regain some semblance of composure. A fragment of what she has always clung to so desperately, the perfect lady she has designed tirelessly since she had any conception of the truth of their world. Each stitching of herself that she has sewn into the linings of her character, until she cannot always differentiate what was originally there from what she has made. It whirls by her in a carnival of light and sound, of surreal, distinct emotions played out to an eerie tune. Ever since the war started, she has begun to unravel. As Daphne Tyrell haunts the halls of the castle she has been confined to for years now, she leaves a golden thread in a sad trail behind each step.

Though the violence and harrowing nature of the war and of Aemond’s slippery descent into a vicious stranger had battered and bruised her heart, it does not sting nearly as much as the gaping loss. The nightmarish fugue of days of uncertainty, of the threat not quelled because of her own treacherous weakness. It had all seemed so impossibly insurmountable while in the midst of it.

Helaena’s laugh echoes in her mind.

Anger is unbefitting of a lady. Yet it must be rage she feels, just beyond the weepy grief that has steered her into hazy sleepless nights with tears tangling mats into her damp hair and hollow staring into a looking glass that reflects a face she does not recognize. It does not fit neatly into her frame, always crawling beneath her skin as if a thousand spiders have settled under it and now wish to return to the external world. Daphne has no means of expressing it materially, save for the shattering of fragile objects under the guise of careless accidents. Nor does she have an exact target to aim it at, the arrow of her rage lacking any significant place to land. In the darkest parts of her mind, she pictures the damned halls of the Red Keep lit up in a blaze of fire so potent it would melt the sturdiest of stone and brick. The dreadful, dying screams of anyone who had decided that a chair and a crown were worth so much. But even this cruelty would not change anything. It would not change a single wretched thing.

Despite her wishes, her lip curls with that violent, trembling anger. Daphne knows well that she cannot truly say she is impartial and just in her judgement. She has attempted both thoughtful practicality and empathetic reasoning over the immense difficulty of Alicent’s station and the pressing fear she long retained for herself and her children, their blood all fire and ash and prophesized ruin. Does she not know it well, the doomed misfortune of being born a woman? Does she not empathize so deeply with its sacrifice?

There is no one to blame; there is an endless list. Helaena might not have been pushed from her windowsill during that fateful hour, but there are a dozen pairs of hands that Daphne curses in her most resentful moments. Targaryens and Hightowers alike: Viserys, Daemon, Rhaenyra, Aegon, Otto, Alicent – not even the long late Jaehaerys the Conciliator, dead from the moment Daphne took her first breath, is spared her muttered loathing, her condemning eyes. It is a childish, selfish tantrum. She has not puzzled out how to harbor less hatred. As she fails to choke on her venomous words, the stinging tears in her eyes drip heavily down her cheeks.

“I should not even ask. I hate you,” It is spoken with contempt so bitter she all but spits it forth. And then her cracking voice splinters like wood into something younger, more desperate. “I hate you.”

Alicent’s expression wavers a nearly imperceptible amount. And when it shifts to something akin to pity, rather than anger, it only makes Daphne’s own melt into hopeless, despondent sorrow. Her vision blurs into a soft fog, shape and color merging before her in a bizarre disfiguration of sight. She gasps as her throat began to close, a miserable and raw breath that bites as much as the burning of the skin on her face, affronted by the salt of her tears. Daphne does not wish to be pitied. She wishes for Helaena back.

Her body, weak and cursed, shakes as she slowly felt her legs giving way. Stumbling back until she falls into the chair behind her, the sobs that are ripped from her chest are not delicate. They are not reserved nor palatable nor sweet. Her head falls to be buried in her hands as she chokes on her tears, pressing the salt back into her raw cheeks as her shoulders heavy.

Alicent is silent, but she does not move either towards Daphne or away. The gradual crawling of time echoes in the quiet moving of clock hands, the only other sound save for her tired crying. Only after many minutes is she able to stifle the gasping breaths back into her lungs, her hand pressing firmly to her chest as if to physically suppress it. Dull eyes blink lifelessly down at the carpet, befitting the husk of the specter the lady has distorted into. All the tears she has shed could carve a new river into the landscape beyond the city walls. She should have known this is how the conversation would end. It never fades; it only rearranges and emerges when she weakens.

The women linger in the silence for a long while, an unspoken resonance of shared sorrow between them.

“…You must not let Jaehaera forget.” The words rouse Daphne from the unconscious haze that she has drifted into. Wide eyes rise slowly to stare up at Alicent blankly, exhausted and unfocused. The older woman has summoned a ferocious and stubborn strength as she closes the distance between them at once, hauling Daphne upwards by the arm as she pulls the young woman up from the chair. The lady stumbles gracelessly yet relents to this jarring upheaval of her fatigued body, allowing Alicent to hold her up by either arm. The Queen Dowager’s fingertips have turned white with the strength of her grip, her eyes burning as she gazes with invigored intensity into Daphne’s own. “You must not forget.”

The further away Daphne Tyrell finds herself from the last time she had spoken to Helaena Targaryen, the more she scrambles to hang on to all that Helaena had been. The end had been violent and cruel and unimaginable, and Daphne will never not harbor the grief of it in her ravaged heart. Yet before that, it had been the blissful dream of the kind of friendship that could only blossom in the incandescent florescence of childhood innocence. Sparkling waters of a bay that led to anywhere they could imagine, conjuring up fantasies of foolish whims that had both girls laughing until their cheeks hurt with the stretch of skin. Gentle hands cupped around the smallest of creatures, curious eyes and thoughtful observations under open skies and splendid sunlight. Dreams recounted in beautiful detail, compiled as marvelous narratives that had captivated hours of attention. Whispers of promises to hold secrets shared under the darkness of night, never once broken. Patience and kindness and brilliance and the quiet softness of home. Helaena had not been violent. She had not been cruel.

Daphne’s cracked lips part, voice hoarse and low. “I could not.”

A council is to be gathered before noon, where Cregan Stark, the Hand of the King, shall make his final decision upon the sentencing of Lord Corlys Velaryon. Daphne hardly has time to rush back to her chambers so that Adelin might fix the disaster that has befallen her face, the rims of her eyes the color of ripened strawberries, her cheeks raw and her skin dry. The young woman says nothing to her lady when Daphne comes through the door. A wordless understanding transpires at once, and Daphne is led to the chair in front of her vanity mirror before Adelin begins to rummage through the wooden drawers for cosmetics that might contribute to the creation of a lady made of pale puffs of powder and pretty pink porcelain.

Daphne’s eyes drift up to the ceiling above her as Adelin hides the circles below her eyes skillfully, her attention fixed as giggles from the corridor float in faintly through the door. The handmaiden has long since perfected her craft, when her lady suffers from such consistently poor sleep, the redness easily smoothed away by a few practiced techniques with a powder made from the ground root of a lily. It is applied with a gentle wash of rose water, that stings against the sensitive skin of her face. Not a complaint nor wince is heard from Daphne.

Further dried and ground flower leaves have been whipped into vibrant colored stains for her cheeks and her lips, redistributing the redness upon her face to places that are far more pleasing to an observer than beneath her exhausted eyes. Adelin’s fingers are gentle upon Daphne’s face, smoothing the pinkish pigment onto her mouth with attentive care. When she is finished, the handmaiden turns her lady so that Daphne might catch a glimpse of her reflection in the polished looking glass. She blinks softly.

“Do I look dutifully acquiescent?” The question falls from the lady’s mouth in dull wondering, tilting her chin down before she attempts to bring a glitter of delicate submission to her countenance. Adelin watches the tiny, private performance with knowing eyes before she rests her head atop the hands she has placed on Daphne’s shoulder. Daphne’s head falls to lean against Adelin’s as she stares at herself tiredly.

“Perfectly elegant and resigned.” Adelin whispers back, and Daphne’s gaze meets hers in the mirror with genuine gratitude. As the handmaiden turns to lift a glittering necklace of flowers resembling snowdrops, their petite petals made of freshwater pearls from one of the rivers of the Reach, her door is opened by one of the guards who had arrived with the Tyrell travelling party stationed outside her chambers. She had dismissed them the night before, assuring them she did not need any more security than that which is provided by Ser Leo and Ser Tomas when she summons them, but her mother had sent the men right back when the sun rose.

Daphne holds not the desire to squabble with her mother over such a petty matter, especially given the grand disappointment she shall deliver this very afternoon. She brightens at once, as if the sun has risen past a darkened cloud, her voice light and dainty as she gazes expectantly to the open door. “Yes, Ser Fredrik?”

“Lord Cregan Stark, my lady.” It is the only notice Daphne is given before Cregan appears beneath her doorframe. Ser Fredrik is evidently disgruntled by this brash intrusion, yet Cregan is the Hand of the King and little is to be done to prevent him from acting as he pleases. As Adelin adjusts the jewelry upon her collarbone, the lady provides a sweet smile of dismissal to the knight.

“Thank you, Ser.” A small raise of her hand is provided in accompaniment, a plain sign of her acceptance of the visit. The knight casts a brief mistrustful glance towards Cregan and waits in disapproving silence for Adelin to finish her task and withdraw through the door before he closes it.

The morning is well underway, the chirping of birds drifting in through her open window since the sun broke hours ago. Their presence – primarily Cregan’s, as the one conducting the gathering of the summoned nobles – is expected at the former small council chamber in near time. Daphne gazes across the room at Cregan with a questioning look, one that is bestowed back upon her after he approaches where she is sitting and falls to one knee before her.

It has become a habit she recognized the last time he had done this. When the two of them are free from the prying eyes of the court, and Daphne sat before him, the lord kneels before her without question nor comment. He does not urge her to rise in his presence, nor does he tower over her seated form when addressing her in their private moments. A minor detail, one that endears itself to Daphne’s heart for the darling simplicity of the thoughtfulness.

“You look weary.” The murmur is rumbled in a ponderous manner, his brow creasing as he gazes into her eyes. Daphne frowns at this, one hand reaching up instinctively to hover over her cheek before she turns to stare into her mirror again, turning her head slowly as she examines her face.

“Do I?” A grimace appears on her visage as she studies it in closer detail. Cregan watches the practiced, intimate ritual of observation and obscuring with quiet patience. “Adelin has just attempted to rectify it. Shall I ask her to try it once more?”

The lord reaches out to gently pull her hand away from her face before she can press the pads of her fingers into the powder that has been applied to it. Prompted wordlessly to face him again, Daphne turns atop the plush velvet cushioning of the chair, her frown dispersing into a softer, waiting expression as she sits before him.

“You look beautiful,” The correction is smooth and instantaneous, not presented as anything but plain fact. Her eyes hold Cregan’s grey ones, her concern assuaged by the comfort such straightforward words bring about. His thumb is tender upon her skin as it rubs against the flesh of her palm, overtop the half circles littering it. “I only know because, as I have admitted to you, I cannot help but take note of every detail upon your face.”

Daphne feels her chin lowering at this, her lashes fluttering as she casts her gaze down to their joined hands instead of the ardent honesty within Cregan Stark’s intense eyes. The ease with which he speaks the truth of his heart renders her flustered and marginally jealous; such concepts do not take shape so easily within her mind or upon her tongue. It had taken all of the courage she could muster to admit that the emotions bursting from her chest were indeed mirroring the ones that Cregan had expressed to her before they had shared her bed, and the small candors she had offered him whilst bargaining for Lord Corlys Velaryon’s freedom. Daphne knows it shall be most difficult for it to occur again, even with the evident fondness and trust she has come to harbor for him. The certainty with which Cregan acts and feels and expresses delights and baffles and vexes her all in equal measure.

When she catches sight of the amused grin playing about the edges of his lips, she furrows her brow in inquisitive wondering. Cregan shrugs lightly in response, his weighty shoulders rolling back as he gazes upon her fondly. The morning has been one arduous task after the next, and neither had looked forward to the difficult conversations required before their agreement proceeded. Even so, the combined effort had made the matter of speaking to Lord Corlys Velaryon far less painful, despite the unpleasant memories that stirred again from their light slumber. Their joined handling of the errands awards Cregan a glimpse into the near future; their shared management of their castle and issues handled as Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

“You avert your gaze at my calling you fair, but you were hardly shy in my chambers the night before last.” The whisper is teasing, and he reaches forth to draw her hand into both of his, concealing it with them. She exhales a dramatic breath, her pinched expression lightly scandalized as she shakes her head. A loose curl tumbles playfully beside her face, framing her cheek.

“It is different.” Daphne mutters, her eyes returning to Cregan’s as she provides a knowing look. There is that light smile upon his usually stoic and stony countenance, that nearly boyish mischief that enchants her wholly each time she is graced with its presence. Her visage melts at once, fragile ice thawing to a sweet spring brook. Wisps of lashes are batted unconsciously, her pink lips parted as she stares at him, unguarded.

“Aye,” The Lord of Winterfell has reached up to brush one hand against the piece of hair that has been left free of the elaborate updo atop her head. He twirls the silken strands between his fingers, pleased as she tilts her head to rest it against his open palm. Her eyes are wide, and wholly defenseless. He inhales an awed breath silently. “It is quite different.”

Love, he had affirmed it to her aloud, bathed within the gentle golden candlelight illuminating the Tower of the Hand. She had not meant to insinuate it was her that Cregan loves, it had just been an observation of his character after many days of studying both it and his history so devotedly. Every action he has taken before her has only ever served to strengthen that belief. Yet she had not fashioned an audible confirmation of the confession in return. It leaps onto her tongue then, with sudden yearning desperation. So sudden, that she coughs softly, bringing a hand to her chest and tucking the words carefully beneath satin bed coverings rather than carrying them into the brilliant light of day.

“We shall be late,” Daphne reminds Cregan gently. Her posture has shifted from the poised straightness presented when Ser Fredrik had opened the door. Her shoulders have dropped, her back resting against the cushion of her chair behind her as she allows her knees to draw together and fall to the side. A glimmer of matching amusement nestles itself comfortably into her gaze and she raises her brows. “It is hardly befitting the Hand of the King to be tardy to a council he called.”

“Yes, we ought to go,” His smile widens at her sarcastic urging, nodding in faux solemnity while she bites her lips to ward off the brightening of her own. Her hand is held so gently in his, his calloused palm reverent in its care. “I only wished to ensure that your meeting with the Queen Dowager went smoothly.”

“Smoothly is hardly the description I would ascribe to the conversation,” Daphne’s gaze is askance to the gilded containers of pigment and powder upon her vanity’s cherry wood with a light wince. Yet the thoughtful attentiveness Cregan awards her so consistently does not go unappreciated. Her other hand moves forward to join the one that he has drawn forth, and he cradles both gently. Her translucent curtains flutter inwards with the morning breeze. “But Alicent has given her blessing.”

“Good,” A low hum of rolling approval is given, warm and resounding in Cregan’s chest. “It shall be no great battle to convince the rest of the assembly then. And Lord Corlys has been given my terms privately. All were accepted.”

Daphne offers a small nod at this, but her thoughts have wandered elsewhere. To the inevitable disappointment she is sure to bring about, to the selfishness of her decision – not made solely for the benefit of the young princess she loves so, but for additionally for herself, greedy and gluttonous in her wanting. Her deserving over such a thing, a match made from love and trust and a bond she has had the rare chance of fostering on her own timeline and terms, is weighed upon the scales in her mind. Her steadfast duty, a quality herself that she had usually valued for its strength, has faltered. To her mother, to Cassia, to their House.

Another instance of her accursed weakness is recalled to her then. What the illusion of love had nearly cost her. Might it yet still be possible that time passes in a mocking, cruel circle? Yet Daphne Tyrell cannot believe that Cregan Stark would be so callous or violent with her heart.

“You do not appear as pleased as I believed you might, given our good fortune and the imminent success of your plan.” Her distant, silent musing is caught at once by the man who attends to her so unfailingly. The Lord of Winterfell studies the contours of her visage: the creasing at the corners of her lips and her downturned eyes, cast to the floorboards beneath the chair she sits within. Freshly cut flowers that rest in the ornate container upon her vanity table waft a sweet aroma forth from their fragrant white petals. The ones that Cregan selected for her remain across the room, upon her bedside table. Crystal clear water sits within their vase of polished glass, and they occupy an optimal spot before the bright sunlight and fresh air streaming in through the open window. Beside them sits the accompanying note that he had written, the edges of the paper crinkled to suggest how often Daphne had reread the three simple words.

“I am relieved that our dealings this morning went as such. And, of course, this opportunity for Jaehaera,” She does not catch the way his eyes have wandered towards the canopied bed, her own still lowered as she contemplates the nature of her worry. Guilt chews with blunt yet insistent teeth against her weary bones. “But opposing my mother’s wishes before this council – surprising her with this betrothal, ignoring what she has asked of me…”

Cregan’s eyes return to Daphne’s countenance with a wondering urgency, scanning her as a muted flash of apprehension strikes his chest. Her dedication to her family is something he understands well, and he is aware of the difficulty such a decisions brings about, such a blatant defiance and opposition. A crack appears in his determination, chipped into the thick glass by the knife wielded by his conscience.

“I know you care for her greatly,” Swallowing thickly, he attempts to portray nothing but stoic sympathy, resigned and understanding. Pressing onwards with summoned courage, trying not to hold onto her hand tightly, Cregan continues. “If you do not wish to – ”

“I wish to,” There is no world in which Daphne does not. Her decision, damning as it might be to her eternal soul, is interwoven into the composition of her being through the patterns of the strings of her heart. She has chosen him. “I shall not rescind my word nor do I want to. I want – ”

The words remain withheld but instead manifest physically across her face, eyes soft and vulnerable as she gazes between his. Cregan studies Daphne’s face for some time. Finally, he gives a heavy nod, before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it gently.

Daphne is sent ahead to arrive before Cregan makes his appearance at the gathered assembly. She wonders briefly after the benefit of the delayed advents, once profitable due to the prevention of notice of their familiar association. The time to shield his favoring of her from public view has departed. The flimsy rouse will cascade to the stone within the small council chambers with a magnificent shattering that afternoon, the remnants left to stir up the dust that floats aimlessly past the hazy sunlight drifting in through thick and blurred circular windows. Her place by her mother’s side is taken with persisting guilt.

While Elinor Tyrell smiles gracefully and crafts gentle small talk about the dress Daphne has chosen and the arrangement of her hair, her mind could not be farther from the present moment. Perhaps it has drifted out the door and down the hallways, passing through an open corridor and rising up above the parapets, soaring out over the darkened bay and into the sparkling water of the open sea. Or it might have journeyed instinctively down the familiar dirt roads that lead to gently sloping hills and endless plains of emerald grass, the baby pink roses upon Highgarden’s castle fading in and out of the edges of her vision.

Wherever it has gone, it is not within the room her body stands in. Gathered near the central wooden table are the faces she has grown familiar with seeing around its rectangular shape. The young Lords Tully are engaged in an animated conversation with Lord Benjicot Blackwood, who has gone rather red in the cheeks, his hand waving desperately to ward off some comment that has Lord Oscar’s smile teasing and spirited. Lady Arryn is commenting upon a rumor she heard last night to Lady Alysanne Blackwood, yet the older woman additionally observes the happenings of the space, her eyes pointedly drawn to a hushed discussion to her right between Lord Corwyn Corbray and Princess Rhaena Targaryen, the latter of whom appears despondently worried and in dire need of proper rest. Her sister, the Princess Baela, seems equally as troubled, but hides it beneath a layer of reserved stoicism that her more tender-hearted sister does not possess. Lord Leowyn Corbray has elected to take his seat prior to the Hand’s arrival. His eyes are closed as he snores rather uncouthly through wet and nasally breaths.

Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, the Hand of the King, silences the room at once with his announced arrival by the knights stationed outside the doors. With him, he brings the man whose fate shall be decided during the haphazardly amassed council: Lord Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake is not bound in any way, but Cregan bears the greatsword Ice upon his back and Lord Osric Cerwyn, following close behind, is armed thoroughly as well. Daphne is stirred from her absentminded musings, compelled to compose herself with the measure of poise and dignity expected of her. There shall be no shortage of eyes boring holes into her person once the proceedings commence. Let her ready herself for the performance of dutiful compliance that just might convince the entire room save the woman that bore her, and perhaps the sensibly perceptive Lady Jeyne Arryn. The Princesses’ eyes alight at the sight of their beloved grandfather, Rhaena eager to rush to his side and whisper something in a concerned hurry. The elder man pats the princess’s arm gently, while he turns his attention to Cregan, who bestows upon him a slow dipping of his chin.

Even Lord Leowyn has been woken with a start and convinced to stand to sharp attention by the entrance of the Hand, all of the gathered nobles gazing to him as he calls for the assembly to sit. Daphne takes her seat with a demure dropping of her chin as she lowers herself elegantly into the wooden chair. Their plan has been executed with such meticulous attention to loose ends and specific confirmations and details that she does not worry over its success. Yet anxiety fills her veins nonetheless, an instinctive reaction to Jaehaera’s future depending on the bargain agreed upon and ratified by this council of both Northern and Southern lords and ladies. A rapid glance to her mother’s veiled, neutral expression does little to settle her disquieted nerves.

“I have heard all of your petitions for the sparing of Lord Corlys Velaryon’s life despite his involvement in Aegon Targaryen’s poisoning,” There is an air of concrete authority that buries itself in each word spoken by Cregan Stark. There is not malice in his tone, nor does he raise his volume to anything booming. His quiet, definitive manner of speaking is forceful enough, accompanied by the icy certainty in his grey eyes and his imposing stature. A languid ray of sunlight glimmers off of Ice’s pommel, shining atop the Valyrian steel. Lord Cerwyn stands behind his chair. “As have I acknowledged the edict made by the young Prince Aegon.”

The boy king has not been summoned to the council, still not instated in his position officially, nor is he old enough nor prepared enough to truly engage in the political happenings of his court. He had not been raised as heir to anything, after all, a fourth son in actuality, despite the father he did not share with his elder brothers. As an official regent has not been chosen to rule in his stead while the kingdom awaits his sixteenth nameday, there stands no person to represent his wishes. His half-sisters appear the closest people to filling this role, and their presence there is the clearest indicator as to the Hand’s consideration of this troublesome fact.

There is a moment of silence where Cregan casts his gaze across the table to where the Lord of the Tides sits, and he appraises the man with a weighty stare. Daphne remains uncertain about the nature of their conversation; she had not inquired as to the specifics that had been discussed that morning in Lord Corlys’ cell in the dungeons. Her trust in Cregan allows her a certain degree of surety that it went as planned, but the details remain unknown to her. After an unhurried pause, the Hand continues. “Despite my own firm belief in the necessity of justice to secure a peaceful transfer of power, your pleas and reasonings have not gone ignored. As such, I have presented Lord Corlys Velaryon with my terms for the securing of his release, and I shall present them before you all now.”

There is a small, relieved gasp from Princess Rhaena at the proposition of her grandfather evading the death that he had been decisively sentenced with in the Throne Room. Baela’s shoulders sag and she sinks lower into her chair, as if some great weight has been lifted from them and she can, at last, take a deep breath of the stuffy air within the council chambers. Before that moment, not a soul in the room save for Daphne Tyrell, Cregan Stark, and Corlys Velaryon had known that the Lord of Winterfell, fiercely resolute in his determined quest for justice, would waver upon his stance.

His small Northern council appears surprised at the revelation as well, with the younger of the lords blinking at Cregan with stunned expressions. Most of all Lord Kermit Tully, who had previously argued upon the matter of the trials yet acquiesced to Cregan’s staunch insistence. The young man’s eyes are wide as he gazes down the long table, while the older nobles shift in their seats, ruffled by the sudden change of heart they are perceiving as uncharacteristic. It might only be Lord Osric Cerwyn and Daphne amongst those gathered who understand the truth of this decision’s alignment with his heart and person. Cregan gives the room a moment to settle before he casts his gaze to her. Her hand closes into a fist beneath the table, preparing herself for the immediate storm about to bluster into the room and her life in a ferocious tempest.

When Daphne lowers her chin in the slightest motion, Cregan’s attention returns to the gathered crowed as he addresses them. Her shoulders stiffen and then the tension is released, and a doll of beautiful and lovely agreeability is animated with a breath released from parted rosy lips.

“In exchange for the sparing of Lord Corlys’ Velaryon’s life, two marriages will be secured. I shall take the Lady Daphne Tyrell to wife, to become the Lady Stark of Winterfell. The Targaryen Princess Jaehaera will additionally be betrothed to my son and heir, Rickon, and they shall be married when they both come of age, as was promised to me by the late Prince Jacaerys. To ensure this transpires, the princess will return with myself and Lady Daphne to Winterfell, where she will be raised as a ward until such time as the marriage occurs.”  When Cregan Stark finishes with his demands, the silence in the room is of such a heavy quality that not even the sound of breathing can be heard. Daphne can feel the eyes of every person within the chamber turn upon her at once, to her delicately downturned chin and the wisps of her lashes that brush against the rounding of her cheeks as she looks down at the wood of the table. Her mother’s gaze burns as if the Lady of Highgarden has taken a heated poker from a blazing fire and pressed it to the side of Daphne’s face. Yet she knows her mother shall reveal nothing of her shock upon her face. Elinor excels at crafting a perfect mask, even more skilled than her eldest daughter.

It is the Lord Leowyn Corbray who pipes up to offer an answer first, after a long and tense quiet, and the lady is profoundly grateful for the portly lord’s lack of tact or ability to read a room in that moment.

“While it is known that you made a pact with Prince Jacaerys, my lord, I do wonder if the little princess’s relatives might stir up a fuss over this betrothal,” The pondering is not argument but merely faintly concerned, accompanied with a thoughtful stroking of his beard as he leans back in his chair. Daphne is astonished at the coherence of the worry pieced together by the man, and his ability to produce it so suddenly while the rest of the room reels in stunned silence. She might have underestimated the head of House Corbray after all. “It would seem they wish her to be Queen, married to her cousin. Targaryen custom, I suppose.”

Lord Leowyn’s eyes wander as his voice trails off at this, seemingly not too comfortable with the rituals of Targaryen royal marriages. His brother, Lord Corwyn, has torn his eyes from the Princess Rhaena Targaryen for long enough to evaluate Leowyn’s worry and find his reasoning sound. He tilts his head in agreement, a frown crossing his face. “The Hightowers might wish to see her upon the throne as consolation for their losses. Granted, their association with the girl is rumored to be little. I do not believe Lord Lyonel Hightower has ever even met the child.”

“Her grandmother is another issue entirely,” This musing is brought up by Lady Arryn, raising her brows in brash and disapproving acknowledgement of Alicent Hightower’s relationship with the young princess. The Queen Dowager’s suggestion that the five-year-old girl poison her elder cousin had not been well received by the Northern nobles. “While I do not believe she ought to have any further contact with Princess Jaehaera, she is her closet remaining blood.”

Daphne is relieved that the attention has shifted away from her and to the issue presented by Jaehaera’s betrothal to Rickon. It gives her a moment to ensure her performance is maintained properly, regardless of her mother’s presence in the chair beside hers. She is excruciatingly aware of the frustration and disappointment she has caused – something foreign to her, for the majority of her life. Some little part of her, that tiny girl who spent hours learning the perfect curtsy, trembles at the knowledge that she has failed her lady mother. Cregan listens to the concerns brought forth by his retainers, but readily hands them the answer that he has prepared.

“I hear Lord Lyonel Hightower worries far more over his own marriage than that of his distant cousin’s,” The known scandal brings about murmurs of agreement throughout the room. Gossip has a habit of proving delightfully useful, even during official political convenings, when spread thoroughly and accompanied with semi-decent evidence. Lady Samantha’s supposed influence over Lord Lyonel’s decisions has long since reached the ears of those within King’s Landing. “And the Queen Dowager expressed to Lady Daphne she holds no desire for her granddaughter to wed Prince Aegon.”

At the affirming of her complicit actions, curious eyes peer towards Daphne once again. Her eyes are lifted now, facing the questioning stares with poised elegance. She is spared their wondering again when Cregan continues on.

“As Prince Jacaerys can no longer fulfill his oath, it shall be instead be carried out by his grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon.” The argument is sound. As Jacaerys’ grandsire, the obligation to honor an arranged engagement falls to the Lord of the Tides, who seems more than willing to secure his life by handing over the little princess he holds no great fondness for, having rarely seen the girl himself. The rumors of Jacaerys’ bastard parentage are not given audible form in the room, not before Lord Corlys and Princess Baela, who cherished the boy so dearly, nor before Cregan, who holds the fallen prince in such high esteem.

“Prince Jacaerys confirmed the agreement before a council prior to his passing. And Lord Stark has indeed fulfilled his end of the deal,” When Lord Corlys speaks, Daphne’s eyes drift to his figure. Despite his precarious position, the lord carries himself with all the dignity befitting his station and experience. His violet eyes are steady and sure. “As Jaehaera is the only eligible princess to fulfill the pact, it is only right that it should be done. It is a matter of honor.”

A silent frustration wells up in Daphne’s chest over the way Jaehaera’s future is being discussed. The easy way her marriage is reviewed around the table by those who think not upon the consequences these diplomatic actions will have upon a child who has been the victim of politics since she first drew shaky breath. They do not know how Jaehaera cries for her mother at night, nor how she wondered for weeks where her brothers had gone. They do not know that she wakes in the night from terrible dreams, haunted and terrified and traumatized. Neither do they know that she can recite poetry in both the common tongue and in High Valyrian, or that she cares so attentively to tiny creatures, as her mother had. Yet what Daphne knows is that the situation cannot be avoided. Born a daughter, this is predestined. Even for those not of cursed blood and smoldering bones.

“I believe it would be good for Jaehaera to remain with Lady Daphne,” It is Princess Rhaena who chimes in this time, her eyes cast with a warm appreciation to Daphne. Surprise echoes in the depths of the lady’s eyes at the unexpected support for her plan. Rhaena gives a soft smile, her violet eyes meeting Daphne’s own. “As she was so close with the princess’s mother.”

A matching warmth alights in her chest at the thoughtfulness of the comment, simple in nature yet unique in consideration. The grateful look Daphne exchanges with Rhaena is not anything of fabricated pretend. The guilt she had felt in the gardens that had contributed to her willingness to argue for the freedom of Lord Velaryon feels assuaged then, weightless and drifting away like a feather in a stray gust of wind. Their shared losses, their great grief – none of it might be remedied, yet perhaps both girls can cling onto the loved ones that had survived.

“And what say you of this arrangement, Lady Daphne?” A firm interjection from Jeyne Arryn stirs Daphne to return her attention away from Rhaena and out to the gathered nobles. The older woman’s eyes are fixed upon her meaningfully, her gaze indicating she truly desires to hear the lady’s opinion on the matter. What warmth has sparked in her chest at the support from the princess only grows more incandescent at this genuine expression of consideration. How fond she has grown of the Northern nobles of Cregan’s makeshift court, perhaps the Lady Arryn most of all.

A gentle batting of lashes accompanies the way her gaze lowers demurely to the table for a moment, before she parts her lips to speak with delicate, careful cadence. Daphne’s sweet indifference carries forth softly. “If it is what Lord Stark truly wishes and would aid in bringing peace to the Realm – I would be honored.”

She catches note of the way Cregan gives her a measured nod of approval, his gaze anchored intensely to her as she speaks. When Elinor Tyrell shifts gracefully in her chair, her hands coming together atop the wood, Daphne feels her body stiffen as if a spell has been cast through elaborate witchcraft to turn her to shining marble.

“While the prospect of such an illustrious match is a great honor for our House, Lord Stark,” Elinor’s voice is the epitome of practiced refinement, regal and eloquent and melodious. Daphne’s gaze falls to her lap to hide in the safety of the skirt of her gown. The languid lighting of the space seems to grow colder as remorse returns with a determined vengeance to her organs. “I am afraid my eldest daughter is to be betrothed to Alyn Velaryon.”

Cregan Stark does not reply verbally but instead casts an expectant look in no hurried manner across the room to Lord Corlys Velaryon. The elder man inhales a long breath, before he bequeaths a rueful look to Elinor Tyrell, resigned and knowing.

“Forgive me, my lady,” A heavy brow raises with reconciled apology as the Sea Snake shakes his head with deliberate slowness. For his part, the man genuinely seems to be trapped within the arrangement proposed by Cregan as it is his very life that lingers in uncertainty. “I do not easily dismiss our previous discussions, but I am in no position to refuse the Hand.”

The remaining portion of the sentence goes unsaid, yet not unheard: and so are you.

While it might be that an army could be raised by gathering the banners of the Reach to oppose this union and Corlys Velaryon’s sentence, it would do little to prevent the executions that are taking place the following morning, the moment the sun yawns over the eastern sea. The castle is still occupied by the Northern forces, and the small host allowed to enter past the gates of the Red Keep are not nearly enough to win any sort of conflict. Lady Elinor’s arrival has awarded her a degree of influence that is befitting her position, especially given the opportunity to be involved in these crucial decisions, yet it has additionally made her and her two daughters hostages, the same as all the other Southern nobles. This reminder is prominent in Cregan’s wolfish gaze as it gradually descends upon Elinor Tyrell.

This is not the thoughtful gentleman who shared Daphne’s bed or wrapped her wounds tenderly, not the kind lord who attends to her so devotedly behind a closed door. There sits a warlord who had fought for his position against kin: The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, who had seized the Red Keep without spilling any more blood and held it since. Oath keeper, liege lord, harbinger of justice. The unwavering hold of his storm-colored eyes heralds absolute submission and certain finality.

His appointment as Hand of the King only served to confirm what everyone already knows. The Seven Kingdoms are ruled not by a little dragon prince, but a wolf. Cregan Stark remains the unquestionable and incontestable sovereign at King’s Landing, regardless of surviving royal blood and one dragon hatchling. His words, including his demands, are law.

Even given the magnitude of his power and station, Elinor Tyrell meets his sharp stare with one of peaceful regarding. Calling her banners to war over what is, upon paper in dark ink, an equal and honorable match, would not be possible. She considers him in an amiable silence, before she lowers her chin in demure acknowledgement.

“The joining of our great Houses would be cause for celebration in this troubling times,” A sigh imbued with gentle remorse falls from Elinor’s reddened lips as she shakes her head gingerly, a faint embarrassment settling like the dust of faeries atop her cheeks. “I must unfortunately admit, however, as previously discussed with Lord Velaryon, the gold spent by House Tyrell during the course of the war has left our treasury far less full than it once was. The matter of my daughters’ dowries has been troubling me greatly, and I confess it might not be what is imagined.”

The lie is a magnificent one. Only Daphne and Alicent Hightower know the truth of House Tyrell’s careful avoidance of true involvement in the war; everyone else privy to this information is either under her mother’s thumb or dead and buried. Bannermen fought upon both sides of the succession conflict, so the perception of their partaking is far different than what occurred in actuality. Given such short notice of the proposal, Elinor Tyrell has crafted a splendid excuse to avoid the wedding of her eldest daughter. It might have been sufficient if Cregan were pursuing a match for profit, as Elinor herself does.

Cregan Stark leans forth in his chair, shoulders rolling forward as his hands fold together while he appraises the Lady of Highgarden with an intensity that could topple an ancient oak if it took the form of a great storm.

“There is no price that I would demand. I would wish for her hand if you had nothing to give me at all. I would wish for it if you requested that I provide the dowry myself,” Each word is pointedly deliberate, enunciated clearly in the lowness of his rumbling Northern tone. “There is nothing else I want but her.”

Daphne has lifted her eyes slowly as Cregan speaks, unable to do anything but stare at him. Cracks appear in the edges of her porcelain mask: a faint longing swirling in her eyes, a light pull at the corners of her mouth into a soft disbelief. When his gaze moves with intention over to her, he falls silent. There is a moment where she recognizes the gesture as an asking, a silent seeking of her permission for the continuation of his declaration. Obscured confusion flickers across her visage as she sorts the request out in her mind, before she understands at once. Never has she enjoyed displays of honesty or vulnerability, electing time and time again to refrain from participating in such things before the public. Authenticity and truth are not cloaks she dons before a crowd, and he is giving her the opportunity to prevent him from speaking the truth of his emotion further. One part of her longs to deny him. The other, weaker and softer and so damningly endeared by the way he has learned her and loves her still, cannot.

The gathered nobles notice the exchange with curious looks as the lady dips her chin hesitantly. Cregan returns the gesture before he casts his eyes around the table.

“I love her,” It is stated in the same manner one might validate the blueness of a summer sky. Certain and absolute, nothing elaborate nor ornate, only the simplicity of undeniable fact. When Cregan’s eyes return to hold her own, it is as if they are the only two people in the room. The only two people in the entire kingdom, for all the way that Daphne cannot form another thought aside from how she loves him so ardently that it requires the entirety of her effort to prevent it from appearing upon her face. Cregan does not hold such intentions. “Let it be known by this council and by the entirety of the Realm.”

Nothing else registers in Daphne’s consciousness aside from his presence. Not the boyish grins exchanged between the younger lords, nor the knowing glimmer in Lady Arryn’s eyes as she raises her brows. Not the sweet smile upon Princess Rhaena’s countenance, nor the perfect stillness of her mother’s amiable expression.

“My daughter is quite fortunate to be cared for so,” Sensing the indomitable resolve of the Northern lord, and having no further time to devise a counterstrategy, Lady Elinor Tyrell acquiesces with all the gentle gratitude that might be expected. “I have little choice but to accept such a heartfelt proposal, my lord.”

Lord Cregan Stark observes the gathered nobles one final time, searching for any further opposition to the terms he has put forth. When a few moments of silence pass in indication that the matter has been settled, he rises from his chair slowly.

“Others may have begun this war, but I shall end it. And I shall do so upon this day,” After the brutality and violence that has swept like a fatal plague out from the walls of the Red Keep, seeping into the roots and minds of the surrounding lands, scorching the trees and grasses and poisoning the water and soil, Cregan Stark shall do what he intended from the moment he set out from Winterfell – bring the conflict to closure. The frozen tempests of his eyes still the entirety of the room as he observes each of the gathered lords and ladies. “These are my terms. Let any who wish to speak against me do so now, but they shall face the full force of my Northern army and mine own sword.”

No tongue is raised in foolish argument, no eyes wander with vexed frustration. The obedience commanded by the Hand of King is delivered promptly and with deferential respect, regardless of past disagreements or present disruptions. Cregan not need unsheathe his sword from its ancient scabbard. There is no doubt that he shall adhere to each word of his promise should opposition arise from those assembled or those outside the capital. After ensuring his demands have been ratified by those gathered as witnesses of noble blood, his eyes return to Daphne, burning with ravenous longing despite their icy sheen.

“Then it is done. This council is dismissed.”

The gardens of the Red Keep are so expansive and twisting in their mazelike conduits that one could escape into the towering hedges and wander for hours without crossing the path of another. Daphne Tyrell had once endeavored to map out the optimal routes for such desired avoidance, developing a unique sense for the exact pattern of footsteps through pearl-colored pebbles that could be taken to slip into an illusory existence. A halfway sort of in between where she is neither present nor absent, diluted to a transparent ghost that flickers through the green leaves, saturated in the daylight of late spring or early summer. Sometimes she can distinctly hear the echoes of a fading laugh, and she peers around the corners of the hedges, wandering if she might find the lucent figure of a girl much like herself who had disappeared into the gardens and never returned to the realm of substantiality.

As the sun finishes falling from the sky, her shadow dances lithely atop the leaves beside her, restless and fluid in the dying light. Fingers brush against the satiny foliage as Daphne ventures further into the winding labyrinth constructed before her, away from the composed arrangements of blooming flowers that line the straight pathways nearest to the fountains, the water bubbling and bright as it turns amber and golden in the sunset glow. She does not want to linger out in such open space, does not wish to chance any further perception of her face or figure or feelings. If the shrubberies around her were to reach out their branches to wrap around her limbs, dragging her into their emerald bodies for the remainder of eternity, she does not believe it would be such a terrible end. If only it were not for Cassia, or Jaehaera, or for Cregan Stark, whose visage is cradled in the most delicate part of her mind’s eye with such devoted reverence one might think it constructed from fragile glass. She polishes it with such gentle care every few minutes, ensuring it shines brightly, and then returns it gingerly to the cushion it rests upon.

Love has such a curious manner of persisting. Dandelions in the dying garden of her heart, regrowing with envigored strength each time she gets on her knees in the dirt and rips them out, root and stem. While everything else withers around her, trees and florals crumbling to dusty grey ash and fluttering away in the wind, the tiny, buttery petals gaze up at her still.

Daphne finds herself sitting down in the grass as the last rays of the sun wander off to rest while the moon leaps giddily into the starlit heavens. She lies upon her back, staring up at the stars, dreaming with her conscious mind about how she used to believe so wholeheartedly that if a wish was car upon one then it would certainly come true. How foolish she had been as a child – yet she misses it, in a forlorn, foolish way. The way the world looked before she truly knew it. Darling pink silk and soil on her hands and the sun above her. She shifts the vision slightly – woolen baby blue fabric, soft powdered snow, a clear grey sky. It does not sound so terrible, not when she pictures Jaehaera seeing the snowflakes for the first time.

She is wondering over the differences between the North and the South when footsteps draw near. A surprised expression flits across her features as Daphne sits up at once, half frighted as she unexpecting to be bothered in such a secluded corner at such a late hour. Yet she should have known, when she sees his figure down the pathway. They are tethered after all, in a manner that she does not wholly understand, even then. There is a pull that is inextricable – although that might be want, intuitive and plain. There is no magic in desire, in that which is natural and ordinary. What might constitute as decidedly supernatural is the steadfast nature of the choices Cregan Stark continues to make. Searching for her for the better part of an hour is one he does not much mind, not when she scrunches her nose as she hauls herself up off of the ground. There is dirt all over her gown.

“Quite the hiding spot you have acquired. I wondered if I might never find you,” Cregan has stilled a ways down the corridor constructed by the rows of tall shrubbery as he calls out to her in a quiet tone. He observes the way her hair is loose and free to cascade about her shoulders, her face neutral and tired and unrestrained by anything saccharine. His heavy brow raises good-naturedly. “Though I must wonder if it is from your lady mother or from myself.”

Daphne offers a rueful glance in return, before casting her eyes downwards and brushing some soil off of the sage satin of her skirts. The dark dirt gets stuck under her nails, but she does not care at all. “I would not hide from you.”

“I would not blame you if you wished to,” He does not move to cross the space between them. The section of the gardens she has disappeared into is visited with such infrequency that even the hedges are not managed as they should be, overgrowing into the path while vines of ivy cover the entire stone bodies of the statues nearly consumed by leaves. There is no one to eavesdrop nor spin fanciful tales of gossip over sugary morning tea. “You shall be seeing much of me for the rest of our lives, I would understand if you did not want it to begin right at this moment.”

The reminder returns Daphne to her previous musings for a moment, of the drastic change in scenery that will compose her world following her marriage to the man before her. Her eyes narrow at the suggestion Cregan provides, a faint glitter of disbelief occupying her eyes.

“If you were someone I needed escape from, I would not be so reckless and so selfish as to risk my mother’s wrath to marry you.” Her arms are drawn across her chest out of anxious habit, the edges of her voice sharp like the crackling of a fire as the anxiety briefly wears the cloak of something prickly. It is dispelled a moment later as she lowers her shoulders and her chin, lashes fluttering as she grounds herself in the serene solitude of the secluded space. Cregan provides a look of equal yet tempered disbelief.

“Even if it still guaranteed Jaehaera’s freedom?” The inquiry is practical and blunt, and the straightforwardness of the observation startles her for a moment, even after all the time she has spent growing accustomed to Northern mannerisms. But, as it so often is, it is not the candor that catches her off guard – it is the accuracy of his reading of her. Daphne Tyrell has never been paid such close attention in her entire life. It is far easier to perform a convincing piece of theater when an audience does not bother to examine the composition of the props and the painting of the set and the sewing of the costumes. Cregan wishes to see each and every detail. Daphne bites the inside of her cheek before speaking.

”You have been doing that for the entirety of the day,” It is muttered at the exact point in the crossroads where vexation and wistfulness intersect. Her arms tighten over her chest. The chirping of tiny crickets has begun to fill the air like the starting of a soft symphony. It had not ruffled her so much prior to the exposure of their upcoming union before the council that afternoon. Daphne’s anxiety has only grown at the premise of so many eyes seeing the great weakness of her beating heart. “You see far too much of me, I am utterly exposed.”

Cregan narrows his gaze in return, studying her with those piercing eyes. And then a slow grin spreads to the corners of his face.

“Forgive me, my lady,” The Lord of Winterfell clears his throat, his voice lowering to a sultry roll as he diverts his gaze away from her figure. “Shall I close my eyes then?”

The breath that leaves Daphne’s parted lips when Cregan raises a hand to cover his eyes is exasperated and embarrassingly fond. Her face crumples into a sweet frown, a ridiculous look upon her visage as she watches him take one step forward carefully, and then another. The tiny rocks beneath his dark boots rotate atop each other with a quiet clacking. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all, yet when he finally stops inches before her, her arms uncross and she reaches up to draw his hand away from his face.

Cregan’s fingers intertwine with her own as he gazes down at her, eyes half-lidded and pleased. Daphne casts her own down to their hands, her head tilting over her shoulder as she shakes her head.

“Do not call me my lady,” A quiet murmur floats from her lips, her thumb smoothing a slow, indecipherable pattern into the skin on the back of his hand. The lord before her is delighted at the correction, at the gentle frown that tugs at her lips as she blinks down. “Call me Daphne, as you have been.”

She does not wish it to be an occurrence that happens only during moments of intense emotion or physical intimacy; Daphne longs for the easy familiarity in even the most mundane of situations. It establishes her personhood in such a simple way, separating her from title or expectation or role. And her given name is so enchanting in the rolling warmth of his Northern tongue. She could listen to it for the rest of her days and never tire of its low melody.

“My apologies, Daphne,” Even then, with the sparkle of something teasing alighted in his eyes of polished steel, it sends her heart fluttering. “I shall amend it at once.”

Redirecting her mind to the original wondering proposed by the lord before her, Daphne bites her lip before gazing up at Cregan with a look of unquestionable, still certainty upon her face. The evening breeze rustles the foliage around them as the welcoming party for a midnight storm parades through the air, bringing forth the smell of cool rain.

“It is as I said,” In her free hand, Daphne buries her nails into her palm lightly. Catching sight of it at once, Cregan does not verbalize any thought upon her habit but shifts his other hand forward to take her worried one into his own. The lady raises her brows to emphasize her previous point about his astute perception. He does nothing but further embrace the ghost of a smile that plays at his lips. Daphne is not so bold as to speak the word upon her mind directly, the way Cregan had before the council, but she calls back her previous declaration, vulnerable and honest. “There is no one else in all of Westeros I would wish to marry except for you.”

“But perhaps across the Narrow Sea?” Cregan ponders, his chin lowering slightly as Daphne huffs out another rushed breath of amused exasperation. Her brow crinkles.

“No one anywhere,” To imagine such a thing would be wholly ridiculous. Yet his tone, playful despite its low rumbling nature, lifts an endeared smile to her face as her eyes flick between his own. Her voice drops to a quieter murmuring once more, decidedly satisfied and wondering. “You seem quite happy this evening.”

“Of course I am happy,” One of the lord’s hands is raised to cup her cheek with tender affection. He shakes his head slowly, staring down at her with an expression both serious and enamored. “You are to be my wife.”

Cregan Stark’s beauty renders Daphne Tyrell wordless. Breathless, thoughtless, completely in awe. The great blaze of it eclipses the candle of fascination and lust that had flickered faintly in her chest when they had first met. Each day that passes in his presence only serves to add kindling to the massive pyre. But it does not threaten her fragile flesh; it burns beside her steadily and keeps her warm.

“The Lady Stark of Winterfell.” The repetition of the words he had spoken before the council takes tentative shape upon her tongue. Eyes downcast to the pebbles beneath them, Daphne misses the flash of instinctive hunger that crashes through the clouds in his eyes like the lightning certain to light up the night sky above their heads. His hand tightens around hers for a moment before he speaks, his voice lowering.

“Aye,” Cregan is a patient man, yet the longer he is tempted with her permission and presence, the thinner that noble patience grows. It is a precarious cliff he sits atop, her hands in his and her willingness to give herself to him made plain twice before. He inhales deeply through his nose. “It shall be sworn before gods and men in the sept before long.”

Daphne’s nose wrinkles and her eyes flick up to meet his.

“Surely not,” Distaste has cascaded in a curtain upon her delicate features, her lips curling as she shakes her head in firm disapproval. There is a moment where Cregan’s stomach drops and he is taken aback at the vehemence with which she opposes his statement, but it is quelled by her continuing. Her attention flickers up to the heavens above, to the twinkling celestial happenings.

“I do not wish our marriage to be blessed by the Seven. I once believed they heard me,” Daphne’s eyes darken, a veiled bitterness filling them as she stares upwards. It is not as if she had been staunchly devout in her practice, but Helaena had been raised in the faith by her mother. Daphne had accompanied her to the Great Sept of Baelor on many afternoons to pray and light candles for the souls of those both living and dead. It had felt symbolic, poetically intimate and tinged with a hint of a supernatural beauty that was undeniable. Little good it had done, in the end. “But I cannot any longer. I cannot offer them prayers, not when they allowed such cruelty. And if it was that they could not stop it, why would I continue to seek their blessings?”

The words are sour upon her tongue. Pain tugs at her lips and tightens her jaw as the stars swim in the pools of sorrow flooding her eyes. Cregan’s thumb presses with grounding touch into the roundness of her cheek. Her eyes descend to meet his. There is such exhaustion written into them that he cannot help but reach forward, drawing Daphne into his arms. The breath she lets out is shuddering, skeletal as vanishes into the night. Her eyes close tightly before she opens them, her head resting against his chest.

“Let us instead be married in the tradition of your House,” It is whispered into his tunic. Cregan nods his head at once, eager to do anything that might lift that awful pain from her heart. One of his hands strokes her hair, desperate to soothe her in even the smallest manner. If she wishes their ceremony to occur before a weirwood tree, as his own parents’ wedding had, he certainly shall not deny her. The asking fills him with a swell of protective affection. There is a small part of him that had wondered if he might suggest it to her, yet he had imagined she would want to marry in the faith she had been raised within before departing from these lands to reside in the North. A tiny, more stable breath escapes her lips then. “Perhaps I shall have better fortune with the blessings of your gods.”

A memory comes to her then, fleeting and fabricated from flimsy flickering. Her eyes upon the weirwood in the castle gardens, gazing up in wonder at the scarlet red of the shining leaves no matter the season. The tree had always retained the most peculiar quality, a strange sensation evoked in her chest as she reached her hand forth to brush against the whitened bark. It did not sing like the trees near the Mander, nor did it whistle like the others in the capital. The weirwood did not spin melodies or tunes, it did not reflect or mirror: it whispered. Yet that chilly, bright afternoon, it had drawn her in with such insistence even the girl who had been raised to attune herself to the language of flora had been surprised. Daphne wonders over this imagined conjuring of her younger self, sat in the grass before the tree. Perhaps a younger Cregan had once done the same, upon the same day.

“You would honor me by marrying in the custom of my people,” Cregan presses his lips to the crown of Daphne’s head, against the softness of her hair. When he leans back, both of his hands cradle her face as his brow furrows with heavy sincerity. Daphne might yet be crushed by the weight of such a gaze. “And I will protect you regardless of the wishes of the gods. Yours or mine or any of them. I swear it to you, Daphne.”

It is a binding, burdensome promise. She leans her head into the palm of his hand, rough from years of swordsmanship and archery and riding. The smallest shaking of her head is given at this, her voice quieting to something uncertain and soft as she blinks up at him. “I could not bear the thought of you risking the wrath of the divine, no matter my tenuous belief.”

This earns her the melting of his stern countenance. His brow furrows in light wondering at the way his heart clenches at the sight of her, at the concern in her voice and the tenderness with which she gazes upon him.

“It is a risk well worth it,” There is not a thread of doubt in the tapestry of words he weaves for her plainly. “I could not bear the thought of something befalling you.”

“I despise the idea of you placing yourself into harm’s way for me.” The frown upon her face is weary and troubled. He is a commander of men and a force upon the battlefield, fearsome and absolute even without his weapons as he had proven that afternoon, yet flesh and bone and blood the same as anyone. Imagining Cregan Stark with a sword pointed at his chest makes Daphne uneasy – yet it becomes sickening nausea when the reasoning would be herself.

“That will be my duty as your husband.” Cregan reminds her patiently, her face still cupped between his large hands. And he intends to see it through until the final breath that enters his lungs. The lady bites her lip for a moment, stress appearing upon her brow as she considers this.

“That does not mean it will not unsettle me so,” There is an element of helplessness to the resigned admittance. Her eyes hold his with a brightness of quiet intensity. “I cannot do anything but. I – …”

It is there upon her tongue again. Daphne can almost form the words, her lips parting as she stares up at Cregan then. Her brow furrows and she attempts to will it out from her mind and into the material world. At her hesitation, a soft questioning dances in his eyes as they narrow, before they open in realization and he regards her tenderly. After another moment of patient waiting is awarded to her, her attempts coming to naught, Cregan leans forth to capture her lips gently with his own. He does not need it verbalized – he already knows.

The kiss is not the hungry, messy wanting that has appeared in the space between their lips before. It is slow in its sensuality, tempered by the certainty promised by a lifetime of this moment, replicated time and time again. Daphne’s eyes have closed, allowing her remaining senses to immortalize each aspect of the lord before her in permanent memory. The taste of his mouth, the touch of his hands upon her face, the sound of the quiet breath he inhales as their lips part, the smell of amber and pine from his skin. His being is all she is aware of. If the old gods had truly created such a man, layering the stones that compose his quiet strength and his kind heart, Daphne Tyrell might have to spend the rest of her days upon her knees in the snow expressing her most sincere gratitude.

Delicate droplets of rain begin to fall from the inky sky above them, decorating their skin in gentle splashes. No sooner does Daphne lean back to whisper of it onto his lips than it changes from a dripping to a downpour. A breathless gasp of disbelief leaves her mouth at once and she lifts her shoulders before dropping them. Her gown is drenched at once, her hair soaking wet as Cregan lifts his arm in fruitless attempt to shield her from some of the deluge.

Daphne shakes her head at this with a smile, water flying from her hair as he gives her a rueful grin and concedes to her waving off of the pointless act. Her hand is slipped into his as the pair of them begin to trudge back through the rows of shrubbery, commenting upon the misfortune of their timing with matching grins of amusement as thunder booms overhead. When Daphne’s sweet laughter reaches Cregan’s ears, delighted by the nonsense brought upon by the storm despite how it has undone all of the effort committed to the arrangement of her appearance, he finds he could be drowned in sudden rains for the rest of his days if it means she will beam up at him with such light happiness.  

The girl in the vanity mirror gazes back at her with a delicately downturned chin and round doe eyes that look up underneath delicate wisps of long lashes. She gives the practiced look another attempt, pressing her lips together slightly to give her a darling pout as she opens a small pot of rouge. The color comes from an ornate box that is covered in gilded roses and twisting thorned vines. Her fingernails tap gently on the edge of the metal as she opens the container with a resounding click. Taking one of her fingers, she presses into the coloring only the slightest bit to pull some onto her skin.

Her plump lips are parted carefully as she raises her hand to dab the color to her mouth, leaning forward in her plush seat. Some of her loose curls sway softly with the motion, and she rests her elbow against the edge of the vanity table. Once Daphne has finished, she reaches down to open a drawer and produces a white lace handkerchief that is embroidered with the sigil of House Tyrell: a beautiful rose in shimmering golden silk. When she wipes her finger against the fabric, a light stain of pink is left behind.

Daphne revisits her earlier judgement, regarding the young lord she is set to meet with that afternoon. Cregan Stark is heavy on her mind that day, as he has been since the day first set foot in the capital city.

It was not too long ago that the host of Riverlanders had arrived in King’s Landing. Soon after followed the Northmen and their liege lord, the illustrious and formidable Warden of the North, to whom the rivermen and valemen had deferred to with haste and without complaint. With little opposition and the sizeable combined force, the Lord of Winterfell had seized control of the entire city in a very short period of time. And it would seem the young lord had every intention of continuing the war that had consumed the noble houses, much to the concern of House Tyrell.

The House is headed by a woman at present. Daphne thinks of her mother briefly, and of her little brother Lyonel who is only three years of age. She knows that her mother does not wish for the war to continue. Lady Elinor Tyrell had specifically told her daughter that while this Northern lord maintains a firm hold on King’s Landing, it is Daphne’s responsibility to do what she does best: win him over for their benefit.

There was hardly opportunity to complain when the request was delivered to her with obvious finality. On the contrary, Daphne had already predicted the wishes of her mother and had ensured she was in the throne room the moment Cregan Stark had first pushed those large doors open, grey eyes as sharp as the sword still in his hand as he led his bannermen in. It is with perfect clarity that she can recall the moment his head lifted to the balcony of the grand space, meeting her gaze for the first time.

She can additionally recall each and every following occurrence of the prolonged glance they exchange whenever they happen to cross paths. After a few instances of this, heavy looks where the Northern lord would hold her stare as if he had no intention of ever looking elsewhere again, she found his eyes began to wander. To the lady’s lace she occasionally wove into her elaborate hairstyles, to the tiny freshwater pearls that spilled in a wave over her collarbones, and then down further to the way the embroidery at the top of her gowns would sweep across her breasts that were pushed upward by the suffocating tightness of her whalebone corsets.

Once the foundation of an adequate trap had been laid, the rose of the court had swept in with angelic grace and poise to introduce herself to him. It had gone as smoothly as she could have expected – save for the way she had found Cregan Stark was a touch smarter than she had expected. The perceptive shine in his eyes when she had spoken let her know that this Northern lord would not fall prey to her so easily.

Nevertheless, he called upon her that morning, requesting to speak with her. Which is the reason she is spending a rather grey day dabbing the subtlest of pink onto her lips and cheeks before smoothing her delicately arranged hair into place and informing her maid she is ready to depart.

They are to meet in the castle’s gardens, as per Daphne’s polite request. She has spent quite some time in the gardens during her years at King’s Landing, and finds men are much more likely to deem a conservation held there pleasant, as it reflects her scents of rose water and jasmine oil and fresh honey.

Daphne catches sight of him as she makes her way down one of the garden pathways made of little rocks, her elegant heels tapping on the small, pearl-colored pebbles as she approaches. Lord Stark is facing away from her, his hands clasped behind his back. He is still dressed in dark colors, but has opted against the heavy furs that had adorned his broad shoulders the first time she had seen him. His hair is a striking shade of red that, when caught by sunlight on a fairer afternoon, shines almost golden about the edges. But this day, the sky is overcast and gloomy, with gusts of wind and the faint smell of rain that foretells an incoming summer storm.

Cregan Stark turns as he hears her drawing nearer, his chin raising slightly as his stern gaze falls upon the Lady Daphne Tyrell.

She has chosen to assume a hurried step, the heavy skirts of her elaborate sage dress clutched in her hands as she rushes up to him rather quickly, bringing a natural red flush to her already pink cheeks. As if she has been quite fretful over the idea of making him wait for even a moment. Her maid trails behind, grasping at the fluttering of her headdress that the wind plucks at gleefully in flurries. The maid is providing her with a small amount of distance as she stops to catch her breath in front of Cregan.

“I do hope I have not kept you waiting, Lord Stark,” Daphne begins, her shoulders rolling back elegantly as she speaks. The action draws further attention to the prominence of her exposed collarbone and chest, over which a thin necklace of gold lays. Her eyebrows raise and draw closer as she presents Cregan with a honeyed and apologetic smile. The color of her lips is that of the blooming rose bushes around them.

Cregan finds there are no shortages of places to look when it comes to her. And yet there is no safe place to rest his eyes upon, no part of her that has not been subtly enhanced or maneuvered to make her look as comely as might be possible. It is no wonder that she has enchanted half of his bannermen as if by way of some magical spell, leaving longing eyes and craning necks in her wake as she glides about the court.

And he cannot truthfully declare he is wholly resistant to her beauty. The only reason he has noticed so much regarding her is that he has been staring, all dry swallows and heavy-lidded eyes, at her since arriving. The way she makes his blood rush hot in his veins instinctually, her face and figure more than pleasing. She needn’t say a word to draw any man’s eye.

He settles for looking into her own eyes, although they are perhaps the most disarming feature on her dollish face.

“No, you have not, Lady Tyrell.” There is a depth to his tone that she is not used to, even after a week of hearing Northern accents echoing down the halls of King’s Landing. He pronounces both her name and title by enunciating all syllables with a low timbre. She takes silent note of the way he intentionally keeps his gaze to her face, his brows neutral and his features even. A proper Northern lord, but that is yet to be truly proven. She will figure him out for herself soon enough.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Daphne breathes the first word as a sigh of sweet relief, pausing for a moment to catch her breath since she has hurried so worriedly over to him. A hand comes to her chest, sliding over the top of her full breasts as she presses down to soothe her aching lungs.

Cregan’s eyes flick down.

“I would hate to be late. I know how busy you must be, what with all of your responsibilities here at King’s Landing,” There is that caring smile again, breaking across her face like the sun through the baby blue satin of the sky in the early hours of the morning. When she folds her hands gracefully across her front, her cleavage comes together impossibly tighter as her arms press to her sides.

Cregan looks back up to her face, hand clenching lightly.

“Aye, I have been quite busy. Handling the remnants of Aegon’s supporters has proven a demanding task.” His eyes are light, reflective of the overcast sky above their heads. They narrow a bit as he speaks, his expression stern and his voice gruff. Daphne wonders sardonically over how seriously he must take himself.

“A difficult yet vital task, verily.” The young woman’s eyelashes flutter lightly. She dips her head as if to acknowledge the severity and importance of his work at the capital.

He beholds her for a heartbeat, the slightest twitch of his heavy brows when she speaks with a tone that implies the most agreeable and sweet countenance. It is the perfect thing to reply with, a simple sentence that does not ally herself with either faction of the war. An easy compliment given to him like a confection to a fussing child. Here is a woman who has learned to play the games of the court.

And before Cregan can push the subject further to see if he might glimpse a hint of her true opinion on the matter, Daphne is already turning towards the path. He waits a moment while she begins to walk, observing the way she steps with effortless grace. Letting out a small sigh, his wide shoulders drop and he takes a few heavy steps to catch up with her.

The maid trails behind them, and Cregan wonders for a moment if she needs anything from her lady. As he glances over his shoulder, the girl catches his inquiring gaze and beams, sugary and pleasant.

“How has the capital treated you, my lord? Aside from your important work, that is,” Her chin raises as she looks at him sideways. It is a fair way she has to gaze up, with the considerable height he has on her. She has never been considered tall, yet even so, Cregan’s stature is quite imposing.

The lord considers her words for a moment. The gardens are quiet, most of the lords and ladies inside the walls of the Keep to avoid the low clouds that hang precariously above them.

“The South is not much like the North,” He meets her eyes with a heavy gaze as he speaks. There is a heaviness about him in general – exceptionally stern and disciplined. “I came for the war and find there’s one in every corner of your court.”

Daphne keeps her eyes to the ground for a moment, her expression cool and pleasing. So, it would seem after all that Cregan Stark is truly not altogether empty-headed and boorish.

“Life at court can be quite turbulent at times, it is true,” A honey-tongued and breezy concession, smooth as river water over rocks. “But your steadfast devotion to bringing justice is a refreshing presence. Others of your idealism have long since left these walls.”

At first glance, it is a compliment of the silkiest praise. But Cregan is not foolish enough to take her words for their literal meaning. No, what the lord hears instead is an unimpressed warning of what happens to those who come to King’s Landing with honorable intentions.

“I swore an oath and intend to keep it,” His brow creases in a serious frown. “Even should those I made that oath to no longer draw breath.”

“How very honorable,” Swift and candied, the words fall from her rosy lips as she walks gracefully at his side, finding herself with a flash of annoyance as she has to increase her pace to keep up with his wide steps. It is supposed to be a leisurely stroll, and yet every step he takes has the length and intent of someone walking towards a particular destination. “It is good to know that the stories of Northern loyalty ring true.”

Cregan feels his jaw tighten slightly, his eyes on her face as she upturns her chin to meet his gaze once more. The look on her visage implies she is impressed, but the Lord of Winterfell has an eye for falsehoods and this girl is covered in them, no matter how coquettishly smoothed they are.

A deeper frown of contemplation folds onto his stern face. “It is our nature, my lady.”

“So it is.” A saccharine smile and the glitter of wide eyes follow. The garden’s flowers are in full bloom, upturned to the sky to catch the rain that will certainly occur in the later evening. The petals facing the clouds, waiting, watching. Leaning towards the water they require to continue living. A small flutter of wings can be heard as a butterfly brushes by. “To be true to one’s nature, you will find, is not a common occurrence here at court. If it is Northern custom to be honest and straightforward, it is Southern custom to be prudent and waiting.”

There is an eloquent way of describing the venomous snake pit that is the capital. Most of the men there came for their own personal interest or gain, clawing to the top of the food chain through underhanded tactics and broken oaths and cruel lies. Most men work their entire lives for a fragment of what Lord Cregan Stark had come to King’s Landing and taken in one single day.

“Therefore, you must imagine why you are so fascinating to many of us here at court.” Daphne explains in a tone of light and airy amiableness, meeting his gaze as if admitting why she has been staring after him so often since his arrival at King’s Landing. This is not exclusively a lie – she has been sizing him up, the same as every other noble who cares enough to keep an eye on the larger game at play.

“And you have lived here at court long?” Cregan’s question is reserved and polite.

“A couple of years now,” Daphne looks out in front of her again while they walk, surveying the gardens around them thoughtfully as if she had not seen them a thousand times before. “I served as a lady in waiting to Queen Helaena. The Hightowers are bannermen of House Tyrell and I had been betrothed to her younger brother, the Prince Daeron, from his birth. We had been set to marry this year, however…”

Daphne could not care less about her betrothal to Daeron Targaryen. It had served her well, allowing her more time to live unmarried as Daeron was much younger than her and the two had never met. And then he had died, and she found herself lacking the safety and security of a royal and wealthy betrothed who was miles away. She wishes she could say she had mourned him – but she had not known him at all.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady Tyrell.” There is an almost warm quality to his voice as Cregan offers his sincere condolences. Daphne gazes down, as she knows she should. Many have bequeathed her similar sentiments in regard to the loss of her betrothed, but she does not find herself shedding a single tear for the fallen prince. It is not that there had been no love between them: it is that there had been nothing between them at all. Daeron had never so much as written her a single letter in an attempt to know her. But his sister haunts all of her desolate thoughts.

Helaena had been her dearest friend, a companion, a confidant. It was Helaena who had offered the girl company in that first frightening year at court, who had been unfaltering honest and direct with her. There were no court games or schemes at play with Helaena, no power struggles or competition or backstabbing. Daphne had been more than devastated to lose the Queen. Much more so than a stranger she had never even laid eyes upon. Daeron was a figment of imagination from the mind of her childhood self; Helaena had been flesh and blood and dreams and understanding.

She is glad her eyes are downcast; she can feel the glassy haze falling over them and the way her expression lacks any forged warmth. After a moment, Daphne forces a happier smile back upon her lips and dips her head slightly.

“I thank you, Lord Stark. It has been difficult in the face of such a loss, but I do hope to persevere.” The brightness of her voice lowers to a softer tone. She is well used to pretending to mourn her late betrothed. It is not hard when she simply examines her feelings over Helaena, but such raw and angry grief is not befitting of a lady. No one wishes to see her scream and tear at her hair over the pain that rakes carved, hollow cavities into her chest. They wish for a light dab at a stray tear, a quiet, palatable sadness they can soothe with promises of future love and happiness.

Cregan does not know what to make of her reaction, unable to see her face as it is turned away. Her words are even, practiced.

“I have only spent my time between the capital and Highgarden. There is much of the world I have yet to see,” Daphne guides the conversation back to Cregan’s original question with ease and experience. She catches his stormy eyes gazing intensely at her once more, and sucks in a gentle breath that she wishes she could say is done on purpose to feign interest.

“I imagine I might fair poorly in the North,” She continues hurriedly, eyelashes batting as she regains control over her composure, eyes cast to the sky as she presents a sheepish breath of laughter. “With the cold and what not.”

Cregan’s lips twitch faintly at her admission, his head tilting a little as he gazes down at her. It is an amusing thought, this delicate rose in her pastel fabrics and shining jewelry among the ice and snow. He rather wishes to see it, he finds.

“Aye, I fear even our summers would prove challenging for those raised in such fair climate.” The amusement reaches his eyes and she finds herself watching as Cregan looks down, doing his best to remain a gentleman and fighting off the smile that seems to be threatening to break out at the corners of his lips. She comprehends what his words truthfully mean: he views the Southerners as weaker, used to warm sunshine and easy days.

Does he fancy himself better because he has spent all his life in nightmarish weather, buried under pelts and furs and smelling of sweat and snow? She is eager to see how he’d fare in court without the large army he had brought with him.

“Oh, I simply could not bear it,” Daphne sighs deeply, as if even the thought of such bitter cold is too worrying a predicament to bear in her delicate mind. “I am afraid you shall not be seeing me in the North anytime soon, Lord Stark.”

“A pity, my lady,” There is still a measure of serious composure in his face, but Cregan’s eyes shimmer with something else as he watches her bring her hand to her chest again, smoothing down the expensive fabrics and then up over the soft flesh of her chest again. An action that feigns worry and concern and draws his attention. She has a way of leading the eye about in a subtle manner. “The North offers a great beauty for those who choose to brave it.”

Her eyes flick to his and there is a moment where Cregan can almost see her mind discerning whether his comment is a challenge or a jab or merely an observation. It fascinates him, yet his face betrays nothing of the thought.

“Perhaps I should amend my previous statement,” The soft, embarrassed laugh that escapes her lips and the sweetness of her expression makes Cregan wonder if he has imagined something. “If my lord was so kind as to offer me an invitation to Winterfell, I would, of course, be honored beyond words.”

Cregan wonders then if it might be possible to truly discern her intentions. Daphne intrigues him, much more than she should. It is her alone of all the Southern ladies who has approached him directly, introducing herself and offering  words of welcome. He knows it is not from the goodness of her heart. She can fool his bannerman with her wide gaze and lovely smiles, but the lord is attuned to lies, no matter how beautifully they are spun. Attuned, yet perhaps not fully immune to their crafter.

It is likely she seeks marriage, given that her betrothed has fallen in battle. Given his newfound power, an alliance could aid her in securing a match. But he cannot be sure, not when she’s blinking up at him with such sweet and thoughtful eyes. Her weapons are great and her skill with them is more so. Before Cregan can open his mouth to mention that he would in fact, wish to see her with reddened cheeks bitten from the cold and snowflakes in her soft hair, she casts her eyes to the sky, frowning thoughtfully.

“It would seem that the evening storm is rolling in sooner that anticipated,” Daphne muses, sighing a little, as if she is truly saddened their promenade is coming to an end. Yet they have almost walked to the edge of the gardens. “I shall excuse myself, if you do not mind, Lord Stark.”

Cregan lowers his head in easy understanding, his eyes meeting hers as he lifts his chin. He holds the stare for longer than needed. “Go ahead, my lady. I would hate to see you caught in the rain. You might melt.”

She blinks twice, that delightful smile upon her lips but not quite mirroring in her eyes as she feels her jaw tightening slightly. It is a charming phrase, said as if to signify he has not fallen for a single thing she has said or done in the last hour. Daphne imagines he finds it remarkably amusing.

“How kind of you, my lord.” She offers him with the same practiced grace, her right eye twitching a little as she gives a deep curtsy that once again showcases just how fortunately she is blessed in the bosom. Cregan finds his mouth dry, his shoulders rolling back slightly despite himself. “Do not hesitate to call upon me should you need anything at court. I hear it can be quite challenging for those raised in such fair company.”

When Daphne draws herself up, she gives him one last smile, glossed with beguiling charm, before she turns to collect her maid and disappears into the rows of emerald hedges.

Cregan hears his previous words shot back at him with the most amiable and honeyed cadence, but realizes the subtle blow a moment too late. He runs a hand through his red hair and then down over his face as he sighs. He finds himself shaking his head, gazing in the direction she has vanished into for a long moment in silence.

Even the dreams bring upon a dull and weary heartache, thrumming in the space behind her eyes as she recalls scenes she can make no sense of. Helaena used to illustrate her dreams as a spider spins a web, into complex and twisted riddles and marvels the lady could spend all afternoon pondering over. She would lay in the gardens, her hair spread out beneath her head like a halo in the soft grass, as Helaena would sit by her side and interweave the contents of her dreams with the observations of different insects she would find. Daphne would gladly listen to either for hours – hailing from a homeland where flora holds such prominence, she has never been frightened of bugs as other ladies are. No, for all her shimmering dainty jewelry and delicately adorned gowns, she is still a girl from Highgarden whose earliest memories are of running barefoot through the emerald seas of grasses, through the marble-colored stone pathways of the spiraling hedge mazes that lead to rows of carnations and dahlias and delphiniums, their saturated petals sparkling with morning dew. The lady had held many a caterpillar and ladybug in her youth, the warm buzz of honeybees as comforting a sound as a childhood lullaby. When Helaena asked her to hold one of the little ones she had discovered, Daphne would hold her hand out without a second thought while imploring the other girl tell her of her dreams one more time.

But Daphne’s own dreams are dull and pointless, nonsensical reflections of her plagued and desolate state of mind. To wake without any memory of the night is a gift she did not know she was in need of, hazy eyes blinking open to an uncertainty that is welcomed with somnolent bliss. The sun has only just ascended, casting the first hazy rays of whitish light over the capital and through her window, drifting in with the tide far below in the bay and a cool whisper of saltwater air through sheer curtains. Faded echoes of the cries of gulls pull her from her silent and undisturbed rest, the softness of her goose-feather pillows and soft silk sheets brushing against the warmth of her bare skin. It is heliotrope that she catches the faintest smell of, the open window carrying over from her desk notes of sweet vanilla upon the salty breeze it ushers lazily into her quiet chambers. Her canopy billows gracefully at this, the translucent fabric loose and shimmering almost whimsically in the bleariness of her first waking moments.

There is a warmth around her, the unfamiliar sensation of skin upon her own, of a steady hand that brushes gently upon the curve of her back, of the sweetness of a kiss pressing softly to the top of her head. Daphne is quick to recall the events of the night prior, not even a moment of startled surprise to send her heartbeat off with an icy jump. It is with smooth ease that she accepts the presence of Cregan Stark within the softness of her feathered bed, his scent of amber and pine wood and a hint of leather soothing her senses. Familiar and grounding, it lulls her body into a serene languor, the effects as potent as a goblet of a sweet red wine from the Arbor. As he pulls his lips from her forehead, the lady shifts within his arms so that she might blink up at the Lord of Winterfell with a sweet drowsiness.

“Did you rest well, Daphne?” His voice is impossibly lower, rough and rumbling from the effects of sleep. Daphne had not believed such a thing could be achieved, not when his rich northern manner of speaking already reaches such warm depths. The words roll over her skin as a summer wave upon a Dornish shore, inviting in a pleasant shiver atop her skin as they recede. Another morning wind off the Blackwater dances lithely through the open window, setting all manner of delicate fabric in her chambers aflutter gingerly.

“Yes,” It is truth Cregan gets from her soft lips at the early hour, her mind not yet aware enough to conjure up any sort of scheme or design or thought at all. All she can do is feel. Each point where his skin meets her own, the roughness of the pads of his fingers and the contrastingly gentle way they trace indiscernible shapes into the expanse of her body. Her own voice is dull and lower as well, conveying the immediate reflections of her mind in quiet and straightforward musing. “A rarity for me, these days.”

A twinge of softness falls upon Cregan’s face as he studies her, his eyes mapping the path between her risen brows, the curl of her wispy lashes, the glassy look in her eyes and the slight parting of her lips. If he held any artistic talent, he might endeavor to translate the observations to paper, preserving the moment in ink and paints eternally so he might gaze upon her whenever he pleased. His hand finds the rounding of her hip, resting with a gentle firmness upon the plush of the curve. Another shiver skates hastily overtop her skin. “Aye, as it is for myself. I did not wake until but an hour ago, when the sun broke.”

Daphne rolls over languidly, Cregan’s muscular arm allowing her this space yet still looped firmly over her hip. She meets his heavy gaze with an unarmed one of her own, a soft neutrality that is the clearest indication of her trust in him. “An early riser then, Lord Stark?”

The Lord of Winterfell tilts his chin down at this, turned upon his side so that she may see the small knitting of his thick brows as his eyes descend upon her lips, and the delicate way they form his title. If she would be so daring, Daphne might hesitantly deem it a lightning glimpse of petulance upon his enduringly stoic countenance.

“Cregan, if it pleases you.” He corrects her in that gentle rumble, wishing to hear her refer to him by the name his parents had gifted him rather than with all the propriety he is well used to receiving from those who both serve and loathe him alike. The way she had last night, in that sweet and breathy tone that had left the great Wolf of the North completely at her whim.

There is a soft inhalation of cool morning air from her at the request, her gaze anchoring itself upon her curtains rather than the waiting intensity of Cregan’s grey eyes. While the rational part of her brain knows that lying together in her bed with her bare skin pressed to his is a far more intimate prospect, his request only serves to remind the lady just how vulnerable of a position she is in. Just how unlike herself she has acted ever since she came to know this Northern lord. To put herself in such a compromising circumstance is antithetical to her code and yet here she lies. Swallowing gently, she raises her eyebrows as she redirects her attention to the soft silks that cover their bodies.

“…Cregan.” Daphne amends carefully, gingerly, as If afraid the word is a binding contract instead of a name. If she had raised her eyes to meet his, she might have seen the change in his visage, like snow meeting a warm dawn, melting pleased approval from his eyes to the curve of the corners of his lips. The pad of his thumb presses softly into her thigh, gentle circles smoothed against her skin. Cregan casts his gaze to the canopy of her bed, closing his eyes to prevent the smile threatening to break across his face from forming fully. Instead, he takes a slow breath as he looks upwards, unable to fully hide his fond expression.

“I would say so,” The Northern lord muses quietly in answer to her question. When in Winterfell, Cregan rises later than he does at the capital, but early still. The sun’s rays are blinding off the glistening snows during the brightest of days, and his chambers in Winterfell face the east. “Each day brings much to be done and the earlier the start, the sooner the work can be finished. And you?”

“I used to rise easily with the sun,” Daphne recalls with the gaze of one reflecting upon the simplicity of a life she no longer knows. Early mornings spent in the gardens, basking in the solitude of the quiet hours before the rest of the castle awoke. Accepting yet wistful, she props herself up upon her elbows to gaze down at him, her hand resting briefly upon Cregan’s arm. The absentminded trailing of her nails sends an aching want within his chest and lower. “But I have found sleep evading me as of late. As such, the mornings often come difficult to me.”

Cregan brings his hand to her cheek, taking solemn and careful note of how warily her eyes track his reach, and then flick up to his face. Searching for his reasoning, even then, even after he had lain with her and spoken his thoughts upon her so plainly. His normally stoic gaze is warmed by his raised brow and the devoted attentiveness in his eyes. As the lady’s chin lowers, her own eyes widening as they dart back and forth between his, Cregan smooths his thumb tenderly under the curve of her lower lashes. His lips part slowly before he speaks in a rumbling murmur. “I had thought your eyes looked more tired in the mornings, but I did not wish to pry into a lady’s affairs.”

While Daphne is clearly analyzing him still, Cregan is wholeheartedly delighted to watch the way her wary countenance becomes one of amused indignation. Her nose scrunches wryly as she appraises him over the tip of it, sweetly vexed by his noticing.

“Can you truly tell?” Her voice is tinged with lighthearted annoyance at the revelation that a performance of hers has not been as convincing as she might have believed. The morning breeze from the open window rustles her hair back gently. “I apply powders below my eyes each morning as to hide the circles.”

He offers her a playful, languid shrug of his broad shoulders in return, fully turning onto his side so that he might look upon her with perfect clarity. The steadfast attentiveness in his gaze does not waver as he cups her cheek, leaning in to consider her eyes at a closer distance. After sweeping his eyes across the subtle darkness below her own, Cregan looks up to meet her staring with a tenderness that makes the Daphne feel as if her plush bed has disappeared beneath her, and she has plummeted down to the floor below.

“You have caught me, my lady,” Cregan’s voice is a mountain stream, low and rough, rolling quietly in the space between their lips. Space that has grown lesser than Daphne had realized, sending the fluttering of butterfly wings about her stomach as she hears his words at such close distance. There comes that distinctly Northern candor that always startles her, she who hides her thoughts with careful preparation, even after so many hours spent in such company as of late. “I spend far too much time gazing to them, then.”

A swallow as thick and heavy as spiced honey is stuck in her throat, and she feels her breath stumble upon it before she can force it down. How aware she is of her state of dress, or lack thereof. Of the warm and sturdy expanse of Cregan’s muscular figure, perhaps out of place in the delicate and feminine silks and satins of her pearl sheets and pillows. Burning heat like the lighting of a torch flickers from her chest down to the curve of her thighs.

When her breath catches, Cregan’s eyes fall upon her throat, to all the spots where he pressed his lips to but hours before. There is the sudden and striking urge to do so once more, to remedy his aching want by closing the minuscule distance between them and taking her into his arms and upon his mouth again. But as his desire takes physical form, Cregan is all the more glad for the superfluous amount of fabric upon her bed to hide it. For he knows that if he acts upon his wishes, he will not have the fortitude to deny Daphne once again what she had asked so sweetly of him the night prior. Summoning every drop of restraint he can muster, Cregan slowly draws back, pressing the conversation onward if only to give his lips something else to do.

“I have heard the nobles here at the capital use essence of nightshade to aid with trouble sleeping,” Cregan tells the lady as she too pulls away from him, a mutual understanding of the precarious edge they walk upon now that they are both fully awake. Pulling one of the sheets up from the bed, Daphne wraps it delicately around her body as she sits upright. Her canopy gives a timid waving from a stray wind.

“I had thought to try it, once,” She replies in a soft breath, the warmth in her body subsiding as her attention is diverted to his commentary. How bitterly she wishes for the constant comfort of a continuous night’s rest, as she had just experienced with Cregan by her side. But each one of the defining horrors in her life had transpired in the darkest hours and her fear of another tragedy occurring runs deep. After a weighted silence accompanied by Cregan’s seemingly unending patience for her, she endeavors in an uncertain voice to partake in the honest exchanging of thoughts and feelings with Cregan she has come to treasure. “I fear if something awful happens once more when the moon is high, I will be too deep in sleep to wake.”

Three times was she woken from her sleep by her ladies’ maids, three times did she find herself upon her knees in front of the body of one she loved. The first had damned her, but the second had sealed her fate. And upon that third night, when the panicked whisperings of the maids and Adelin’s shaking hands had ripped her from her slumber, Daphne had known exactly what had been lost. She had not even had to ask. But at least, that very first night when Jaehaerys had been murdered, she had been able to rush to Helaena’s side and hold her.

Cregan never lets his storm-cloud eyes stray from her face, not while he waits for her words nor while he hears them. A different need settles in his chest now, a solemn and staunch wanting. The gripping desire to remain by her side through the night as he had this night, to ferry her north to Winterfell and fortify his castle so thoroughly that she would never fear as she did now. But for all the power at his command, he cannot vanquish the threat of death completely. His thick brow furrows with contemplation as he rises from where he lies, leaning forward to press his lips to the crown of her head once more.

“You have suffered much to harbor such a fear,” Cregan murmurs quietly, his lips still resting against her hairline. She takes a slow breath, the closeness a comfort rather than a sparking, as it had been but a moment ago. Her gaze is cast down to her hands. “Would that I could take it from you.”

Her lashes are set aflutter by his words, her eyes closing for a moment as she allows him to comfort her. How much more sound would she sleep with him at her side each night? The solitude of the late hours stretches endlessly on the most painful of nights, even for her, who would hate any to see her in such a vulnerable state. Any but Cregan, who has seen it from her already and not yet leveled it against her. Daphne speaks quietly. “I have grown accustomed to it.”

“That does little to soothe my worries.” Is the gentle sigh Cregan breathes in return, one hand reaching up to press into the silk she has wrapped around her body, drawing her closer for but a moment. She feels a sudden rush of foolishness then, for lamenting over her own troubles when Cregan has so many of his own from his losses and certainly now that he presides over the capital.

“I would not have you trouble yourself over my poor sleep, Cregan.” Daphne whispers back, the softness in her voice like a secret only the two of them know. Her arm reaches out, her hand coming to steady herself upon his sturdy bicep, soothing gentle circles into his skin. A weary smile touches his mouth as her gaze lifts to hold his.

“It cannot be helped, I am afraid,” Cregan admits with a sigh, rendered all but helpless to the yearning of his heart. To the love that comes with knowing, with seeing, with feeling. With being wholly and completely captivated by her being through their constant exchange of foreign and familiar customs and cares and concerns. “Not when the thought of you graces my mind so often.”

After a moment, and with sharp breath, Daphne rises from her bed. She is unable to stomach the closeness a moment longer. It is as suffocating as it is intoxicating, that which she has always longed for in secret but never had for herself. Her own selfishness haunts her in equal amount, knowing that she chose to lie with Cregan while still harboring such uncertainty over her sister’s marriage. She pushes past the canopy of her bed, the fabric cool on her fingertips and allows the sheet covering her body to slide off of her shoulders and down her back before she grasps hastily for a robe upon a nearby chair to cover her figure with.

Cregan watches her all the while, sitting up in her bed while she busies herself searching for her hairpins.

“I cannot help but feel undeserving of such concern from you.” Are the delicate words murmured under her breath, accompanied by a furrowed brow and a tight pressing together of her lips. Her mother’s cold voice echoes through her mind – would Elinor Tyrell not be beside herself with glee, seeing the most powerful man in the Realm at present caring over her daughter’s whims and woes. But Daphne realizes with a deep unsettling rolling of her stomach that it has been some time since she genuinely wished to manipulate the Lord of Winterfell.

“I do not see it that way,” Cregan calls after her plainly, lowering his chin as he studies her. The manner in which she seems to wage a war with herself over how much closeness she can handle from moment to moment makes him realize just how little experience she must have with such dealings. Or perhaps, what experience she had left her wary and unsure. He will certainly not push her upon the matter, not when they had already taken their relations so far. “ But I can refrain from such familiarity, if you would wish it.”

As she finds what she was searching for, her fingers skimming over the smoothness of the pearl hairpins, Daphne takes a moment of quiet stillness to try and sort out her thoughts. Turning slowly, the fabric of her robe fluttering with the movement, she pads slowly back to her bed as Cregan rises, finding his clothes. Averting her gaze while he dresses, mostly out of habit as she realizes with dry amusement that there is little point in it now, she waits for him. And when he is dressed and casts his weighty look to her once more, she shakes her head slowly.

“No,” Daphne begins, forcing the truth of her feelings up her throat no matter how desperately the words want to remain trapped within her mind. Where they are safe and secret and no one might set them back upon her like hounds. After so much time spent appreciating and admiring the Northern custom of straightforwardness, the lady will give a valiant attempt of what is opposite to her nature. “No, I am – grateful for it, do not mistake me.”

Her hands press together in nervous habit, her fingers digging into each other as she continues in a steady yet weary tone. Daphne gives a soft sigh, eyes downcast as she lets her shoulders drop. “Forgive me, such intimacy is something I am not familiar with.”

Cregan shakes his head in return, frowning with all the severity he can muster as he observes her calmly.

“There is nothing to forgive,” The lord insists with such stern assurance that despite her own hesitation, the lady is almost inclined to believe him. He has given her much space as he stands paces in front of her, but when he looks upon her so ardently, it feels like he is not a breath away.

And while he does not wish to overwhelm her, as he is sure all of these developments have, Cregan Stark must again give voice to what he had finally confessed to her. “Yet I meant every word I spoke to you. Of my affections for you and … my desire to make you my wife, if you would have me.”

As Daphne stands in front of him, eyes widening as Cregan affirms that he spoke truly, he experiences a sudden trepidation of his own. That he has misread her, that she had only lied with him because she had been caught in a moment of passion. The thought of her turning him away now, of hearing from those soft lips that spoke his name so gently tell him that she will marry Alyn Velaryon as her mother asked is painful enough to leave him reeling. Cregan is certain that he shall spend all his time dreaming of nothing but the shining of her eyes if he is not fortunate enough to be met with them each morning he wakes. But the surety with which he confessed to her has disappeared from his heart at the sound of her silence, leaving him unusually hesitant.

His jaw tightens, a rigid clenching as his wide shoulders tense, and he inhales a slow breath. When no answer comes from the woman before him, his confidence slips from his chest as a wisp of an evening cloud blown away by the salty winds sweeping in through her open window. Grasping desperately at his honor and propriety, what little remains in this particular happenstance, Cregan forces out the words he knows ought to be spoken.

“You did not express your opinions upon the matter last night and I … I would never wish you to do so out of necessity,” The words are not as steady as he might have wished, too gruff and jagged like the breaking of the sea upon so many icy rocks. But he presses on, as a gentleman should, despite the growing splinters that are lodging themselves into the linings of his heart. “I swear to you, not a soul shall know of what happened here.”

As Daphne hears this, a crescendo of desperate affection swells so magnificently within her chest that she is certain it is written all over her face in a messy script. The truth of it spilling forth like raven ink from the well of her heart into the knitting of her brows and the melting of her eyes and the rosy flush of her cheeks. Any chance she might have had at braving the tempest ahead of her, of steeling herself to be locked away in a stormy castle over an endless sea is swept away with the tide of his affirmation.

No compass could point truer than her own heart. That which lies beneath the brightest star, through winter winds and summer snows.

“I would have you,” Daphne speaks with a quiet yet certain murmur, each word sure as she forces herself to lower her hands apart from each other, indents from her fingers visible in the action’s wake. She will not hide behind her habits as she tells him finally of her affection for him, not when his strength and honesty has inspired her so truly. Drawing her shoulders back with a breath, she bares the truth of her heart to Cregan Stark without armor, selfish and wanting and afraid. It is an oath she tells him then; a promise she knows will be kept until her blood ceases to flow through her veins and her body has grown grey and cold. “You have turned a prospect that was frightening and damning into a hope, a promise of a partnership instead of a prison. Never have I been left in such honest admiration and wanting. I know you are real for I could not have dreamt you, not when I held no belief that there was any goodness to be found amongst noble lords until you arrived. I am awed by you, every moment I am gifted with your presence, and if I marry another I shall spend the rest of my days thinking of nothing but you until I am buried in the ground.”

As soon as the words fall from her lips, Cregan crosses the space between them with the urgency of a man starved, his rough hands cradling her face with reverent devotion that would put even the most pious of septons to shame.

“I am already yours,” He breathes, holding her gaze with a desperate need for her to understand the depth of his affection for her. This is not a promise made in passing, words spoken out of careless passion. Starks are no oathbreakers. The Lord of Winterfell takes every word uttered as the most solemn of vows to the lady who has ensnared him, heart and soul. “From this day until my last day.”

The words are chased with a kiss that leaves Daphne without thought or breath. Not as ravenous as his needing conquest of her mouth the night prior, but ardent and steadfast enough to swallow any lingering fears or doubts she might yet retain through the passion with which he brings his lips to her own. For all his icy northern temperament, his fervent capturing of her lips burns like dragonfire. From the warmth of his mouth through her own, blooming underneath her skin as his hands cradle her face in tender worship. Given a taste of her sweetness once more, it is only with the greatest difficulty that Cregan summons the strength not to chase his desire further. When a breathless gasp escapes her reddening lips at the absence of his own, a silent prayer is sent to both the old gods and the new for the lord to remain resolute in his restraint.

As his forehead rests against hers, Cregan revels in the sanctity of the intimate silence, of Daphne leaning to him like a sunflower turns upwards. While he might have been convinced with utmost ease to linger in that moment eternally, their bodies reminiscent of the marble statues within the gardens of the Keep, he knows well the scope of work awaiting him before the trials and sentencing.

“I must go, thought it pains me greatly,” The Lord of Winterfell laments quietly, as her hands steady herself upon his chest. Leaning back so she can look upon him clearly, Daphne dips her head slowly as Cregan takes one of her hands in his larger one. With an unfaltering gaze that sets her body alight with heat once more, he brings it to his mouth where his lips press warmly to her skin. Her breath stutters in her chest. “I shall seek you out tomorrow, if you would indulge my wishes to see you.”

Daphne nods wordlessly as Cregan releases her hand.

“Did you get the flowers?”

Cassia’s eager inquisition brightens the gardens, her smile more dazzling than the golden rays soaking the flowers and shrubbery in their light. Looping her arm through her elder sister’s, the girl beams up with the glimmer of one enchanted by the idea of love. By the fairy tale romances captured in novels, the holy scripture of a highborn teenage girl. Daphne squints in dry amusement, unable to suppress the quirk of a smile upon her rose-colored lips.

“Yes, they arrived this morning.” She informs Cassia as they pass by a gaggle of whispering ladies, fans aflutter and silk scarfs waving in the wind like so many pastel flags. The skirts of the bustled gowns brushing against the pebbles lining the paths, their eyes cast curiously to the lady as they pass. Gossip is her trade and currency, a language she speaks with the fluency of a native tongue. As the girls giggle and exchange delectable morsels of hearsay and theory, Daphne muses with pleased and sardonic amusement that the castle might be set ablaze if it knew of the downright scandalous entanglement she had engaged in with the Lord of Winterfell last night. And another language quite familiar to her had delighted her before her descent to the gardens that morning.

Not long after said lord had slipped from her chambers through the secret passageway, disappearing into the gloom of the cracked stone covered in mosses and vines, a gift appeared at her door. In the arms of a page was a large bouquet of freshly picked flowers of her favorite shades of pinks and creams and blues. Daphne had blinked softly as the huge gathering of florals was placed into her arms, and her handmaidens had gushed and giggled over the romantic display. As she carried them over to the window, the wind blowing the curtains back as she gazed down at them in the brilliant sunlight, her eyes lit up with an enchanted realization. It was not some random assortment of picturesque petals, but a careful arrangement of blooms that played a comprehensible melody, as clear as notes upon parchment score. Her attention danced from one flower to the next, reading with perfect clarity the affection and devotion they whispered to her the whimsical tones of floriography.

Snowdrops with dainty white bulbs preluded with the soft intention of a truthful hope, dangling delicately like tiny lanterns. Next came apple blossoms, for preference, which was likely the intention when the bouquet had been selected the day before. But they amused her due to the subtle implication of temptation, which had already been indulged. The roses, of baby pink, were an established declaration of love – yet what truly drew her attention was the deliberate removal of each thorn upon the stems. Lesser known, certainly to those raised outside of Highgarden, was the implication that a rose with leaves and thorns signified the footnoted presence of both hope and fear. With the exclusion of the thorns came the discarding of the pessimistic annotation, a quiet detail that would have been practical to another but delightfully charming to Daphne. The bouquet was wrapped in fervid affirmation by the forget-me-nots, perennial florals the shades of both the bluest sky and a delicate periwinkle, insisting upon a love that is true and shall be remembered everlastingly. These perhaps endear to her above all, for the promise of remembrance is so distinctly Northern in nature, echoing the words she has so often heard said.

A note was attached to the ribbon, a golden one that complemented the silks that embroidered the Tyrell rose upon many a flag and handkerchief, and she lifted it from the bouquet to read with a distinct fondness about her. It was simple, in that scrolling heavy script she has seen time and time again, yet the blooms had already said so much.

Yours, Lord Cregan Stark

Daphne casts her eyes to her sister, Cassia’s sweet laugh pulling her from her thoughts. The younger girl seems quite adjusted to the capital compared to her trepidation the day prior, and the lady is all the more grateful for it.

“He inquired as to which ones might be suitable yesterday, after you went to speak with mother,” Cassia informs Daphne readily, clearly having overcome any uncertainty surrounding Lord Stark after his asking for her assistance. “And accompanied me to the gardens so that I might help him select them. He is quite serious, I had thought he was angry – but when I asked after what it was he wished to say to you, he spoke plainly of his desire for your favor. Truly, I would not have expected it.”

The idea of the imposing Wolf of the North amongst the flowers, asking her little sister which blossoms to convey his intentions with is a singularly entertaining prospect that widens Daphne’s smile. Cassia is easy charmed, but the lady knows her preconceptions of the Northern men have led her to be wary. Cregan has certainly made an excellent impression by consulting the younger Tyrell girl upon one of her most beloved topics of conversation and devoting time to selecting the florals himself.

“It is a splendid bouquet, Cas, you have grown to be quite the floriographer.” Daphne gives the praise with a shake of her head, as they pass one of the elaborate garden fountains. The blue of the water looks inviting and cool in the warmth of the late morning, lily pads floating aimlessly upon the water’s surface. Marble statues of scantily clad women in leisurely poses decorate the far side, dappled sunlight and rivulets of water sliding down the curves of their bodies and into the pond below, where brightly colored fish are seen in flashes of dazzling scales.

“Do you love him?” Her sister’s hopeful question is met with a flash of stern yet sweet reprimand, before Daphne sighs and casts her gaze to the water. She has always warned Cassia of the dangers of the heart, yet her sister never seems to heed any of her cautions. Although Daphne herself has not always taken her own advice either, which led to lessons she is not keen to learn once more. She knew well what the roses had signified, and all the oaths Cregan Stark had sworn to her that morning and the night prior. The word love had not been uttered, but it need not have been, not when he had elaborated so eloquently upon the nature of his affections and desire for her to become his.

“Lord Stark has been good to me.” This is as much as Daphne will permit herself to verbalize upon the matter, even to Cassia who she knows has only the best intentions within her darling heart. One of the marble statues within the pond seems to meet her eyes then, a woman sat upon a rock, her gown only covering one of her breasts as the stone fabric silhouettes her body tightly to give a wettened effect. Daphne does not wish for the evidence of her affection to be seen even by rock and casts her gaze elsewhere. The look in her eyes is unquestionably damning.

“I think it is just darling,” Cassia’s sigh is tinged with wistfully dreaminess, and Daphne raises one brow in bemused question at her younger sister, the girl leaning into her while her arm remains looped with her own. “He is so very handsome. You simply must tell me all of the details of how this romance came to be.”

“It is not romance,” With a wave of her other hand, Daphne desperately attempts to chase off the notion. Hardly little point in denying it, but the shrubbery listens intently from time to time and she does not harbor desire for the rumors regarding her and Lord Stark to grow wilder like untamed marigolds.

“It is,” Her sister argues back with good-natured stubbornness, her bright eyes firm and set. “You should have heard what Lord Stark said of you. I have never heard anyone speak of you so plainly. He was not commenting upon your beauty or your elegance or anything so superficial.”

Daphne can hear it now. No frivolous commentary upon the fairness of her face nor the fullness of her figure nor the scent of roses in her hair. Nay, Cregan Stark would have approached the manner of sending flowers with unwavering practicality and straightforwardness to convey the thoughts upon his mind. The soft rustling of their gowns against the pearly pebbles draws her from her imagining.

“That is how just how Northerners converse, you shall learn it in time.” The lady dismisses it with a shake of her head. Let the bushes and vines not get any confirmation from her upon the matter at all. As the sisters round the corner of the fountain, up to the long stretch of a gentle downhill slope surrounded by tall hedging, Daphne catches a glimpse of Princess Rhaena Targaryen approaching. Her eyes narrow for a moment in subtle questioning, before she realizes that Rhaena seems intent on speaking with her. As she draws nearer, both Cassia and Daphne lower into elegant curtsies.

“Princess,” Daphne murmurs in soft acknowledgement, rising elegantly to meet the young woman’s gaze. Cassia casts a soft glance to her elder sister, who dips her head in gentle answer to her silent question. At this, the younger of the Tyrell girls gives Rhaena another curtsy, and begins back the way they had come, their maids accompanying her in a flurry of pastel skirts and parasols. The lady can hear whisperings from the group as they depart, but she provides the Princess Rhaena with her full attention.

Daphne has never known either of the princesses well, given how little time they had been present at the capital in their youth. She had seen their betrotheds, Jacaerys and Lucerys, on more frequent occasion due to her proximity to Helaena and her mother’s own desires for her daughter to be acquainted with royalty. When her mother had traveled to the capital with her, Daphne remembered walking within the castle alongside Helaena and crossing paths with the princes returning from the training yard as the girls headed out towards the gardens. Words were not often exchanged, but those that were had always been polite and formal. Jacaerys had returned a fallen handkerchief to her once, she recalled.

Yet before the war had begun, all of the Targaryens had returned to King’s Landing and the Daphne had seen them once more. She had harbored dislike for the princes by that time, festering from childhood rivalries and grudges that were not truly hers to bear, but had been quietly surprised at the kindness that the princes had displayed to Helaena. The night that Jacaerys had danced with her at a royal dinner, the princess had told Daphne how much she had enjoyed herself, and how pleased she was that her nephews had returned to the Red Keep for a time. The brilliant smile upon Helaena’s face had given Daphne such distinct pause that it was enough to call into question the many years of disdain.

She had also had the opportunity to speak with Rhaena briefly, who had joined her and Helaena in the gardens for tea and needlework during one particularly beautiful afternoon. Baela had chosen instead to train in the yard with Jacaerys, which had intrigued Daphne greatly at the time. Helaena had not been overly fond of the unsubstantial small talk noble ladies are expected to make, so Daphne had directed the conversation gently this way and that for the better part of three hours. Luckily, Rhaena had been easy to speak with, and even shared some rather intriguing stories of her time living in Pentos. The princess had sewn a beautiful dragon in golden and violet silk, with such delicate attention to detail that Daphne herself was sincerely impressed. A rarity, given her own honed prowess with the needle.

As the two young women begin to walk alongside each other, Daphne lowers her chin with demure intention and gazes unsuspectingly in front of them while Rhaena is quiet for a moment. Birds can be heard chirping and calling about the hedges, singing the sweet melodies of spring songs.

“I had wished to converse with you further yesterday, upon the matter of my grandfather, Lord Corlys,” Princess Rhaena begins slowly, her hands folded elegantly at her front, over the soft pink fabric of her gown. Of the two princesses, Rhaena appears to be more soft-spoken than her elder sister. Yet Daphne senses a strength and will within the girl that is not to be overlooked by the appearance of her colorful dresses nor the delicate arrangement of her ivory hair. She remains the sole Targaryen with a dragon, after all, no matter how small that dragon might be at present. Yet the small size of said beast has led to Rhaena approaching Daphne to converse rather than demanding Cregan Stark release her kin at once or risk dragonfire.

“I have asked Lady Arryn each day to reason with Lord Stark, but she has steadily insisted it is of no use.” The princess continues with a weariness to her voice, clearly quite concerned over the fate of the Sea Snake. Daphne does not blame her for worrying so – Cregan has continually insisted upon carrying out justice at the capital and has enough Northern stubbornness to do so in the face of begging or pleading. He does listen to his retainers, but when it comes to the matter of the poisoning, the lady imagines with a heavy heart that his own past emboldens his desire to do what he believes is just. “Until just this morning, when I spoke to her of it. She told me it is you who stands the best chance of convincing him, and not a soul else.”

A flare of annoyance flickers in her chest at this information – must Lady Arryn relay such truths to others? Yet the woman has grown quite fond of Rhaena, having received her as a ward during the war. The dragon Morning was hatched within the Vale, and Daphne had noticed with curious intrigue Rhaena speaking rather animatedly with Lord Corwyn Cobray on two separate occasions. She imagines Lady Arryn wishes to aid Rhaena in this matter, but finds it falling upon her lap a rather unfortunate happening. An irritation, but perhaps not a useless one. Here is House Velaryon, the very House she is hoping to avoid a marriage with, in need of something from her. Only, Daphne no longer wishes to manipulate Cregan Stark nor use him in her scheming. Love, she laments internally, is such a binding prospect.

“Lady Arryn honors me with her belief,” Daphne muses with a soft breath and a delicate aversion of her gaze. She raises her eyebrows in soft apology, her shoulders lifting gently before she tilts her head. “But Lord Stark and I have not spoken at length regarding the trials. I do not imagine I could sway his opinion upon their outcomes.”

Rhaena casts her eyes to Daphne, a sigh escaping the princess’s lips as she considers this for a moment. The lady had said as much yesterday, but Rhaena seems to be approaching the conversion with renewed vigor.

“My grandfather has spoken of uniting our Houses through marriage,” The information is conveyed matter-of-factly, quiet and direct. Daphne does not wish to discuss marriage with Rhaena. Not when the thought fills her with faint guilt, at the remembrance of what had befallen Lucerys, whom she had loved so. A gentle breeze flutters her hair about her face, and she raises a hand delicately to smooth it away. “I know he would be forever in the debt of House Tyrell for your aid if you might speak to Lord Stark upon the matter of his freedom.”

Everything her mother wants is being offered to her upon a silver platter. An allegiance between House Velaryon and House Tyrell, unspoken promises of gold, of ships. But her mother has stockpiles of gold preserved from the war and Daphne cannot bring herself to cast aside her love for Cregan Stark over floating wood, no matter its value in battle. “The offer is kind, princess. My mother has raised the prospect to me and I…”

“You do not wish to marry Alyn?” Rhaena raises her brows at Daphne’s hesitation, searching the other girl’s face. But the lady has nothing but innocent uncertainty knitted into her eyes and the slight frown at her lips.

Daphne’s voice is tentative as she pieces together a neutral statement she can say to hide her true intentions while not agreeing to what Rhaena is proposing. “It is not that. I am sure he is an honorable man. There is much to consider regarding my betrothal. I had been engaged to Prince Daeron for so long, I never imagined such a time would come when I would be promised to another.”

Rhaena watches the lady silently for a moment, and she in turn is most displeased to find a heavy weight between them. No impartial words, no matter how sweetly spoken, might assuage the pain from what can never be undone. Her eyes remain drawn to the hedges before them, to the trees stretching towards the sky with their southern fruits, hanging like brightly colored jewels. It eats at her in gnawing insistence, as it has not in some time, now that she is alone with Rhaena. Guilt over an act she did not commit, yet feels some shame for nonetheless.

“I had wondered upon our last visit that you were betrothed to Daeron and not his brother. You seemed to hold his favor.” There it comes, striking swiftly into her chest as a violent blow. Rhaena says it with quiet detachment, but Daphne would not have felt any worse if the girl had screamed it at her. A passive observation or a subtle jab at her former allegiance, it matters not. The reminder washes over her as icy sea water poured onto open wounds, that which she banishes from her mind with resolute forcefulness. It is with every ounce of determination that she maintains the neutral gaze in her eyes.

Well known is it, where Rhaena draws her thoughts from. Daphne had once found Prince Aemond delightful, darling, a perfect prince like the ones from the stories Cassia adores so. What need had she for an engagement with a stranger far from her, when Aemond had spoken at great length with her about the history of the Realm, when he had sat with her while she completed her needlework, when he had exchanged secret smiles with her at dinners and balls. Compliments given from a kindred spirit, who caught on to her efforts to be the most perfect of ladies. The only person at court save Helaena to ever see her cry, who had wiped her tears so gently and promised valiantly to protect her, even before he had been good with a sword.

As they had grown, so had their shared distaste for many at court. For the people, for the culture, for it all. Yet Aemond came to despise it with far more vitriol than she. His words become laced with sharper venom, his eye colder. She had wondered about it, but her heart could not have been swayed then and it was never aimed in her direction. Long since had she come to love him, casting prayers upon her knees over a sea of candles that her betrothal to Daeron might be ended so that she could marry Aemond instead, even if he did not love her the way she loved him. But the descent had been quick after his killing of Lucerys.

Aemond Targaryen had once sworn that Daphne Tyrell was made of sunlight and the most delicate petals.

When he had dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her upper arm, nails breaking the supple skin and drawing forth droplets of crimson, he whispered with a scornful eye that her blood came from nothing but dirt.

What he had threatened at the end, the fear and desperation he had instilled in her heart, the venom in his words – it is not the worst part, not to her. The worst part is how kindly he had treated her for so many years, how no matter how much she wished to harbor nothing but hatred for him, the memories of sweeter days of innocence corrupt the grief and the rage.

“Once,” The word drifts from her lips as smoke from all those candles she used to pray over. A wisp of grey, barely audible as her dull eyes are dropped to the stones beneath their feet. “But not by the end.”

Rhaena is the last person within the entirety of the Realm she wishes to discuss Aemond Targaryen with. What Aemond had threatened to do to Daphne, he had in fact done to the princess instead. The one she loved, meeting death at the jaws of Vhagar. The lady had once hated Lucerys for what he had done to her dearest prince, but that did not mean she wished to boy to die as he had. Alone, above the sea, at the hands of kin. And she had learned her lesson about her misplaced loyalty, even if she did not pay the same price Rhaena did.

“I can raise the matter of Lord Velaryon to Lord Stark,” Daphne wonders if it is partially guilt that brings the words forth from her mouth, for it is not what she had been meaning to say in reply to Rhaena’s request. But she knows it is primarily selfishness. “But in return, if another betrothal is accepted from my House, I would ask that House Velaryon still send a small fleet to aid House Tyrell in a time of need. If I am to bargain for your grandfather’s life, I wish to know my brother shall still receive naval support in a dire hour, even if I am not Lady of the Tides.”

Rhaena’s violet eyes dance across Daphne’s face as she lifts her gaze to meet the princess’s, her voice soft yet steady. Laced with all the hesitancy and necessary concern of an elder sister concerned for her baby sibling. Perhaps her mother will not flay her living if she can negotiate this small promise. Not as enticing as having a Tyrell as the Lady of Driftmark, but some comfort still.

“Should you convince Lord Stark to free my grandfather, it shall never be forgotten so long as my sister and I live.” The princess says finally, and the Daphne nods delicately. Her hands are pressed together, fingers digging into her palms until crescent shapes are left in her skin. The center of the gardens are filled with groups of ladies now, quiet laughter and murmurings heard from gazebos where nobles have chosen to take an early afternoon tea amongst the flowers and shrubbery. Daphne is glad for all the distractions she might cast her eyes to, settling her nerves that had grown agitated due to the nature of the conversation. Rhaena presses her lips together gently before continuing.

“I suppose I should thank you already,” The girl tells Daphne with a tilt of her head, studying her with faint curiosity. She hates been scrutinized but maintains a pleasurable amiability upon her countenance. “It is only because of your attending to Princess Jaehaera that Lord Stark allowed Baela and I to see our younger brother. His lordship said he hoped it would bring the boy some comfort, as your presence had given the young princess.”

There is a genuine surprise in her chest at this, a quiet shock at what Rhaena reveals to her. She had held no notation that her visits with Jaehaera held any bearing upon the princesses’ reunion with Prince Aegon. The disbelief flickers briefly in her eyes before she returns her controlled gaze to Rhaena’s face. She is silent, her lips parting dryly, before she finds the words to speak.

“I am glad for it, princess. I am sure seeing both you and your sister has helped the prince in this difficult time.” The lady presents Rhaena with a delicate smile. She lowers her hands apart from each other, resting them upon the baby blue fabric of her dress. Sunlight reaches down in buttery flecks beneath the leaves of the fruit trees, brushing her gown and arms in gold. The air has grown warmer with the swift coming of the afternoon and the absence of the morning winds.

“I fear for him, in truth,” Rhaena murmurs, her voice quiet and gentler as she looks out upon the sea of flowers and gazebos and trees before them. The princess has a troubled look in her eyes, a weighty concern that the Daphne has extensive familiarity with. “Since the death of his mother, he has grown silent and withdrawn. He was always quiet but not … not like this.”

Daphne glances at Rhaena momentarily, before taking a soft breath and casting her eyes up to the castle. The stone walls of the Red Keep loom over the gardens. Even the beautiful peace of a sunbathed afternoon could not overshadow the imposing threats that they whisper to the lady, promises of entrapment in lies and greed and blood. If all the blood shed over the cursed structure appeared at once, it would sweep in a grand tidal wave and drown everyone within its walls. The youngest Targaryens had both witnessed the blood of their kin spilled within the halls. Doomed to a life there, she did not imagine Aegon would find peace soon.

“I pray the prince fares well as he prepares to ascend the throne.” It is a hollow offering but spoken with all the necessary kindness expected. Daphne knows all too well the future awaiting the boy, even if he does begin to return to the personality he had maintained prior to the war. Death had taken her chin in its hands and made her watch with unblinking eyes what becomes of those who seek out the ultimate title of power.

Rhaena nods somberly, the princess’s tone moderately forlorn as she gazes up at the clear blue sky. “Given what has befallen them both, I do hope they shall come to be of some comfort to each other once they are married.”

Daphne pauses. Time itself might have frozen then, for all the stillness she is overcome with. It is with perfect clarity that the realization seizes her heart into its icy grip, and in her moment of lucidity she can rationalize it with objective impartiality.

There is no surer way to signify the true end to a brutal war between kin than by uniting both sides with the bonds of matrimony. By wedding Jaehaera to the young prince, both Rhaenyra and Aegon would see their direct blood upon the Iron Throne, crowned King and Queen for all the Realm to bend the knee to. The bells tolling a happy end to such violent days, a feast thrown as the two young Targaryens are strung up upon the kingdom’s most dangerous stage by their elders. How foolish of the lady to not suspect such a matter would come to fruition, how pathetically naïve to imagine something better for Jaehaera than the fate her mother endured and was destroyed by.

Daphne had done Helaena’s hair for the coronation, her fingers elegantly weaving the strands of white into a braid like a crown atop her head. She had whispered of all the beautiful things that Helaena might experience as the queen: the balls that could be thrown, the freedom she would have. Helaena had looked ethereal in a dress the lady had selected, a delicate blue that made her look like a water nymph risen from the sea, as beautiful as the queens spoken of in poetry and song. As she had clasped the golden necklace upon Helaena’s neck, her nails brushing against the girl’s pale skin, she had looked up in the mirror to see the haunted look in the queen’s amethyst eyes. Never would she forgot that expression – Helaena had known what Daphne had not. She had seen in fragmented dreams the fear that awaited them.

Jaehaera would be led through the golden splendor of the sept like a lamb to certain slaughter, a crown with her mother’s drying blood to be placed upon her head.

As Rhaena turns, a soft questioning look upon her face, Daphne forces a saccharine smile and the gentle cadence of honied words that come out as a breath. “Yes. That would be lovely.”

The dawn will herald justice at last. Upon other matters, Cregan had conceded to the desires of his allies and the ravens that proclaimed a general wish for peace amongst the great Houses. Following the victory at Storm’s End, no further bloodshed nor war had been sought out, as some of his bannermen clamored for. But Cregan Stark will not allow those who committed regicide to walk free so long as he draws breath. It will be carried out, trial and punishment for this most high of treasons, under his command. It is only for this reason that he agreed to bear the title of Hand of the King, he who holds no desire to partake in the circus of political games he has no taste for. Nay, he will leave the spinning of deceits and falsehoods to those lords who wish to slither about the Red Keep’s halls long after he returns to the North.

Yet the voices that had silenced with the ferocity of his declarations have begun to whisper once more, holding opinions over this lord and that. The Southern lords are given little mind, but Cregan finds with growing irritation members of his own circle cautioning him against severely sentencing the more prominent of the lords. Lord Corlys Velaryon above all, seemingly having gathered many supporters throughout the court and some of the Northerners alongside. The Lord of Winterfell runs a hand over his face and closes his eyes, the weight of such issues a necessary burden but troublesome nonetheless. It is a matter for the system of justice, these accused poisoners, and he will oversee the trials while holding as much impartiality as he can in spite of his own experiences with such circumstances.

Tomorrow, it will all draw to a close. His oaths fulfilled, justice carried out with the sword of his ancestors, Cregan Stark will return to the halls he longs for. With, his heart whispers in quiet and sure wanting as his heavy footsteps carry him to Maegor’s Holdfast at the late hour, a wife.

Cregan nods to the men he has tasked with guarding this section of the castle heavily as he passes by, the torchlight shining off of their swords. He has trusted some of his most skilled and battle-hardened veterans to oversee the protection of the interior, which holds both Prince Aegon and Princess Jaehaera. While the curtains of war have been drawn, there is no certainty in safety for the two young Targaryens yet. None are allowed to enter without Cregan’s approval, although he has made arrangements for the children to have visitors. As he approaches the door of the Queen’s Chambers, a wave of exhaustion crests upon him and his wide shoulders drop.

He stands before the wooden door a moment, taking a slow breath. While the hour has grown late, Cregan knows Daphne will have visited the young princess before retiring to her chambers. It is usually with him that she would do so, but with all the work to be done before the trials occurring come the dawn, Cregan had ordered his guards to allow her to visit Jaehaera alone. Yet to his surprise, the flicker of a single candle can faintly be seen when he pushes open the door slowly.

Daphne sits at the side of Jaehaera’s bed. She has remained there since the girl fell asleep, staring down at her with tired eyes. Drowning in the magnitude of her own helplessness once again, the weight of a dynasty chained to her ankles as the water sweeps into her open mouth. From the moment Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion over the rolling hills of the continent, Jaehaera Targaryen was cursed. Blood of the dragon, daughter of a king. Last of a House that has consumed itself with its own flame. If Daphne had the time, perhaps she could teach the girl as Elinor had taught her.

To weaponize herself, to perform the necessary dances to keep oneself and House from ruin and death. To utilize that which dooms her to convince others to serve her, to adore her. The title of Queen is a sword for the merciless and a sword for the kind. It only matters which side one stands upon, and Jaehaera is her mother’s daughter. Ambition and ruthlessness do not come naturally to her, even if Daphne wishes it so at that moment. She wishes with all her heart that Jaehaera had been born greedy and selfish and cruel.

Let her survive it, the lady prays. Let her devour them all, as long as she lives.

But it would not be, and Daphne knows it well. Jaehaera, who always gave her toys to her brothers. Jaehaera, who had wiped her mother’s tears after her siblings had died. Jaehaera, who has never once screamed or shouted or thrown a fit despite all the horrors she has endured since the war began. A kindness that could not be taught burned in the child’s heart. A damning thing, for a girl. And the lady does not wish to twist Jaehaera’s nature, forcing her into a life that will be decidedly lonely given the destruction of her immediate family and the slaying of her dragon, Morghul. She has not the genuine allies needed, even if she musters the strength to be ferocious.

Jaehaera had survived the war because she had what many would deem the misfortune of being born a daughter. It will spare her no longer.

As the door opens with a soft creaking, Daphne turns sharply, eyes widening. A harsh jolt of fear seizes her limbs from the shock. She has not been expecting anyone, not when the Northmen standing guard had told her to visit Jaehaera alone and that Cregan would not be joining her. It takes a moment of registering that it is him before she can let out a soft breath. It is a quiet sound, yet not the reason Cregan’s brows knit in questioning concern.

The tear rolling down her cheek catches the torchlight from the hallway, shimmering gold upon her soft skin as her lips part with the force of the breath she takes. As Cregan closes the door with a renewed sense of urgency, all thoughts of tomorrow decidedly shoved to the wayside, he crosses the Queen’s Chambers with quick strides before he drops to one knee before the bed. His hand goes to Daphne’s face, as her chin downturns and her lashes flutter to blink away any further tears. It had fallen without her notice, too consumed by her thoughts and not expecting anyone to see.

“What is wrong?” Cregan whispers with urgent resolve, grey eyes scanning her face and then her body before turning to Jaehaera. The little princess is sleeping soundly, his eyes taking note of the peaceful look upon her visage and the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the silks. When he can find no immediate injuries upon either, his heavy gaze grows more questioning in nature, his jaw clenching. “Are you both alright?”

Daphne is momentarily mortified, her body flashing hot at the unacceptable happening of another seeing her shed genuine tears. This is the second time such a thing has occurred in front of Lord Stark, this weakness she ought to have control over. Just as vulnerable as sharing her bed, to her who values hiding one’s true emotions. As she blinks quickly, exceptionally aware of the tender way he raises his other palm to cradle her face within both of his hands, the lady shakes her head slowly.

“We are unharmed, there is no need for worry,” Her voice is unsteady for a moment, but she forces it out of her throat calmly. She swallows heavily, holding Cregan’s piercing gaze before her eyes are cast to Jaehaera and then to her lap. “I had not expected you would have a moment to spare this night.”

“There was much to be done,” Cregan murmurs to her in a soft rumble, never once looking away from her face as his thumb traces where the tear had been. “But I had wished to ensure you had come to see Jaehaera without trouble.”

Daphne nods again at this, her brows raising in soft deflection as she wishes to shade her weakness. Even from Cregan, who she has come to trust as much as she might trust another. The room is quite dark save for the single candle by Jaehaera’s bedside, gentle warm light flickering in the cool blue tones bathing the space. “There was no trouble at all. She fell asleep but an hour ago.”

Cregan sighs, pulling his hands from Daphne’s face slowly as he rises from his place in front of her. He sinks down onto the bed next to her with a heavy breath, that stoic and persistent concern brewing across his face as he watches the lady.

“If there was no trouble as you say, what has caused you such sadness?” The Lord of Winterfell implores, not at all moved to brush past the tear as the lady might desire. She casts a neutral look to him, eyes flickering between his willful ones. There is little point in trying to avoid discussing this as Cregan has decided they shall. Stubborn as she herself may be, Cregan has her undoubtedly beat in the category. As the candle reflects golden light onto her face, she gazes down at Jaehaera impartially.

“…How long have you known of this plot to marry Jaehaera to Prince Aegon?” Daphne maintains a calm and objective voice, but the coolness upon her features alerts Cregan immediately to her displeasure. Not even the warmth of the flame upon the oak nightstand can hide the twitch at the corner of her pink lips, the forced height of her raised brows. “I doubt it has not yet reached your ears.”

Cregan allows a tense silence to descend between them. The realization dawns upon him at once, and he closes his eyes heavily for a moment before he opens them and answers her. His body stiffens as he regards the icy walls she has built about her countenance once more, a far cry from the gentle glimpses of herself she had allowed him that morning. “Aye, I have heard it spoken of. It is said her father agreed to it before his death. I had hoped to discuss it with you following the trials.”

The lady does not turn at this, her eyes still downcast to where the princess lies sleeping upon her feathered pillows, but her brow twitches. It is news to her, but not altogether unbelievable that she might have missed this decision. The days following Helaena’s death are a bloodstained blur of hollow pain and a weakened body. She had been restrained to her chambers during much of it, until the Lads had taken the Red Keep.

“And when exactly did this occur? Not whilst her mother lived, I know.” Daphne replies slowly, her mind racing to make sense of the timeline. To piece together fragments of memories she can hardly stand to recall, searching her mind for any whisperings or rumors or gossip spoken to her on the matter. Yet none can be found. The silence of the Queen’s Chambers at the dark hour only serves to deepen her silent fear.

“Lord Larys Strong was the one who convinced Aegon of it, so his retainers say.” Cregan tells her, his voice soft yet as stern as ever. At this, Daphne lets out a breath of irritated disbelief and turns, the bed moving softly beneath the movement of her body, so that he might see the frustration dancing in her eyes. The light of the candle illuminates the edges of her hair as she fixes him with a deeply unsatisfied look.

“The same Larys Strong who stands firmly accused of poisoning Aegon? Why would his word or the word of his retainers upon the matter of Jaehaera’s betrothal hold any merit?” Her inquisition is tinged with sharp edge, yet she manages to withhold the true depth of her emotions, keeping them at bay with firm restraint. The strength with which she meets Cregan’s eyes pleases the lord despite the nature of the conversation. He does not wish her to hold back when she is cross or afraid, not if she is to marry him. Not when she has spent so much of her life hiding the truth of herself away in favor of playing a role. He dips his head in gentle acquiescence, agreeing silently with her before speaking.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon verifies that it was agreed upon. I spoke to him just this day.” This revelation comes as another surprise to Daphne. Her brow creases as she studies Cregan’s face, wondering wordlessly after the reasoning for this discussion. Cregan holds no great love for the Sea Snake, having imprisoned him following his descent upon the capital, even after his coming to know the princesses Baela and Rhaena. She had planned on discussing sparing the lord, as she had promised Rhaena, but had not seen Cregan at all since that morning. Still, the news of this verifying does not sit right with her either.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon also sits within the dungeons for his alleged role in the poisoning, does he not? A man who has perhaps killed her father and seen the girl all but two times in her life.” She murmurs with icy distaste, her eyes flashing as she casts her gaze away from Cregan swiftly. Even with the windows closed, a cold air has settled about the castle, rushing in through open corridors. A storm has swept in with the coming of night, the rain battering against the walls while lightning casts a bright glow throughout the dark room.

Conflict stirs within Cregan’s chest at her words. While the situation is not ideal, if it was decreed before his arrival at the capital then he finds it a difficult prospect to simply sweep aside. And despite his initial wanting for the war to continue, he no longer harbors that desire. The kingdom is upon the cusp of peace, the end of such widespread bloodshed. Yet he learned before that she will not have peace at the expense of one she loves. “If her late father wished it, I would believe it right to see it done. It would signify true peace, the reunification of a House divided.”

Weighted silence blankets the room once more, save for the booming of thunder heard from over the castle and Jaehaera’s quiet breathing. Something painful twists at the Daphne’s lips, curling bitterly as she digs her nails deeper into the skin of here hands.

“At what cost?” Her voice is a breaking whisper, before she summons her resolve and turns to meet Cregan’s gaze once more with thinly veiled distress. “You would take this little girl and toss her into the snake’s den without a second thought for the sake of appearances? The war ends regardless of her marrying the boy prince.”

Keenly aware is Cregan of the lady’s distaste for the capital, of her suspicions and fears despite the court darling she acts as. But the girl was born a princess, with a duty to fulfill. He keeps his eyes to hers, his own narrowing as he furrows his brow.

“Is it not a honor?” His hearty Northern voice is scarcely above a whisper, not wishing to wake the little girl lying in the bed. “She will become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daphne keeps her eyes to Cregan for but a moment. A curtain of shadow passes over her face before she turns her head to the window at the far side of the room.

Rising slowly, she pads across the room as if in a trance. One step after the other, her gaze focused upon the window. Her fingers ghost across the windowsill, tracing an idle path from one end to the other as she pulls the curtains back. A flash of lightning greets her, the glass hazy from the torrent of rain hammering against it mercilessly. She cannot even catch a glimpse of the moon in the starless sky, the dark cover of clouds preventing any light from shining through. If the silence had lasted any longer, Daphne might have washed away with the rain and the heaviness of her thoughts.

But there is Cregan Stark at her back, his hand brushing gently from the curve of her hip to her stomach. He turns her with such gentle ease, and in the faint light from the window she can make out every detail of his face. She would have him carved in marble, the center of gardens she curated herself. Amongst her favorite flowers and the sun and the chirping of songbirds. He stands as an ancient pine amongst the brutal winds of her fears, shielding her so. Keeping her there amongst the living.

Emotions well up in the base of her throat, burning and clamoring to escape through her lips like sinners from the eternal pyre.

“Helaena was Queen,” The lady begins, taking a slow breath as to not lose any more tears in front of this lord. “All the good it did her when men murdered her sons. It was a collar, that crown, and it tightened around her neck each day until it killed her and those little boys. Jaehaera is too young. Aegon will be no ally to her, not when her father killed his mother before his eyes. Each cursed relative of hers will try to dig their nails into her like a coveted doll, a child queen they can control as they wish. They will fight and betray and kill to have the most sway over her. And if she does not do what they wish, if she is too much of any one trait they dislike, she will be killed and replaced.”

The rain attacks the window behind her ceaselessly, winds howling as they ferry the storm over the capital and towards the ocean. Tears are stinging her eyes as she shakes her head slowly, but it is rage that boils hot beneath her skin. Anger most unbefitting of a lady, of the girl she’s made out of the lies she spins. If it could manifest physical form, she would burst into flame and fall in fire as so many Targaryens did. If Cregan had seen her cross with him before, when he had proposed that deceitful plot to marry Cassia, it does not hold a candle to the blaze she now carries within her face.

Her hands shake from the force of it.

“I would see King’s Landing burned to the ground before I let anyone lay a hand on her. I will not let them kill her. Not today, nor any day after.” Brows drawn tightly, her lip curled and trembling, Daphne sucks in a violent breath. Her voice breaks, but her eyes are unyielding. Ferocious as any soldier Cregan has seen upon the battlefield, this woman who has lifted a sword but once. He can see in her eyes that there is nothing she will not do to spare Jaehaera this fate. No more could she love the girl, he realizes then, than if she had carried the child in her womb herself. His heart aches.

Justice must be carried out and duty must be fulfilled. Cregan Stark has lived his entire life by this creed, upholding his honor with a steadfast determination as his father might have wished. While a signed betrothal might have been binding, all he has to be certain of the promise is the word of two lords he trusts not. In defense of the princess stands the lady before him, the woman he has come to love ardently. There is nothing but truth in her burning eyes. If he is to have children by her, perhaps now is the time to prove to her that he will protect them.

“…If you truly fear for her so, then I swear to you I will rectify this.”

Cregan holds Daphne’s gaze steadily, a firm and unyielding certainty in his eyes. After a moment of quiet, the echoes of the storm growing fainter as it drifts out over the bay, she appraises the amount of trust she has in him and finds it far greater than she realized. The lord lets a breath pass through his lips at the scrutiny in her glare and leans forward, pressing them softly to the crown of her head. Her hair smells like strawberries and jasmine.

Unused to comfort during such violent emotions, Daphne is frozen for a moment. As she gives in to her heart, her defenses failing at such kindness from the man she adores so desperately, she melts into his arms in weary exhaustion as the rain continues to fall.

Daphne believes it so, her eyes cast to the firelight as she settles herself upon the hard oak bench next to her sister. Packed within the stands like many sheep into a pen, the lady does her utmost not to grimace as the lord next to her brushes against her thigh whilst attempting to take his seat. Cassia is murmuring something indiscernible to their mother, who has a polite yet detached look upon her face as she gazes neutrally towards the throne. All through their preparations this morning, the younger of the Tyrell girls had asked with worried uncertainty after how the trials would proceed. Daphne herself had witnessed a few during her time living at King’s Landing, yet had forgotten it would be her sister’s very first. While braiding green satin ribbons into Cassia’s hair, the lady had soothed her sister’s concerns with practiced ease.

It had been a similar day at a similar time, clear skies as she had blinked sleep out of her eyes. Back when Helaena’s father had still lived, during a spell of two weeks when he had gone to visit his daughter Rhaenyra and her family at Dragonstone. Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, had sat upon the Iron Throne and proceeded over the trial involving a nobleman of a minor house accused of murder. Daphne had sat dutifully at Helaena’s side through the entirety of the dull affair, not finding nearly as much amusement from it as the other members of the crowd had. No gasps or murmurs escaped her lips as witnesses were brought to the stand and gave their dramatic testimony, save for a widening of her eyes when the man in question had threatened to stab one of the witnesses right there before the throne. Predictably, the lord had been condemned and then sentenced to die, and all the lords and ladies were brought to the Great Sept of Baelor as the executioner unceremoniously removed the man’s head. It was the first time Daphne had seen anyone die.

Her thoughts unsurprisingly wander to Cregan. As Hand of the King, it is his ancient duty to oversee the proceedings – yet she is especially aware of the personal nature of the case. A vestige from his own darkest hours, images of a fallen chalice in amber liquor and his father’s dying breaths. The weight of a dynasty descending swiftly onto his shoulders before he was yet a man grown. The lords and ladies whisper of his bloodthirst, of his heartlessness – Daphne fears silently that his heart is too much involved. Had she the opportunity, speaking to him this morning would have eased her concerns over him. Yet after he had escorted her to her chambers at the late hour the night before, he had murmured that he would not be able to see her until the trials had concluded.

When Lord Stark had brought her hand to his lips, she had paused before taking his face within her hands and holding it gently. His shoulders had sagged from exhaustion. 

“Will it be long now?” Cassia whispers with a fluttering of her lashes, her hand pressed to her chest in fretful anticipation. Daphne shakes her head, her elegant updo bouncing gently as she does. She leans over to smooth down a section of her sister’s hair that she had pinned that very morning, focusing upon the task while she speaks.

“No, it shall begin momentarily,” She tells the girl calmly, her fingers working nimbly to fix Cassia’s ribbons. As she leans back, she notices that Cassia’s eyes – while cast to the front of the throne room – rest not upon the witness stand nor the Iron Throne but upon one Lord Benjicot Blackwood. The lady instinctively gives her sister an exasperated look but cannot help but be smugly pleased that her prediction regarding her sister’s interest in the young lord was unequivocally correct.

“Is it the trial you concern yourself with, or perhaps one of the lords involved?” Daphne murmurs nonchalantly, in a tone scarcely louder than a whisper so their mother might not overhear. In a manner reminiscent of their younger days, Cassia whips her head back towards her elder sister, embarrassed indignation upon the girl’s face as she swats her sister playfully with her folded fan – earning her a raise of eyebrows from their mother.

Daphne grins girlishly, blinking innocently at her sister whose cheeks have grown pink. 

Her amusement is rather fleeting, interrupted swiftly by the synchronous silencing of the energetic whispers around them. All eyes of the seated nobility fall upon the uncrowned boy king, still a prince in title until his sixteenth nameday, beady and curious once more. As a great many lions might turn their attention upon a little lamb. No more vitality has been imbued into the prince since he was last presented to the court but two days prior. After Rhaena’s commentary regarding Aegon’s poor state of being, the lady realizes with a solemn melancholy that she can see the dark circles beneath the boy’s violet eyes, even at her distance. The golden finery adorning his garments does little to conceal the emptiness of his face. Golden chains are chains still, the lady muses with a tired bitterness.

Perhaps having Jaehaera as a wife might bring the boy comfort. They are the last remnants of a lineage, the only two in the entire world bearing the shared weight of an ancient name. Perhaps it would only serve to remind him of his mother’s gory demise. Given his poor reaction to Rhaena’s little dragon, the lady is inclined to suspect the latter. In any case, Daphne shall not risk Jaehaera’s safety and happiness over the possibility that her cousin might one day appreciate her company. Nay, she will have to leave the betterment of the boy-king’s mentality to his half-sisters. 

The proclamation is short. No sooner does Aegon III arrive than he is swept off, flanked by Northern guards as he disappears quietly out of the doors behind the throne. Given his brief appearances, the boy has grown reminiscent of a ghost within Daphne’s mind, with his somber eyes and his quiet, monotone voice. Although she imagines he is more haunted than haunting.

Gathered near the front are the Northern nobles, those of whom Cregan’s council is composed. The young lords Tully, despite their uncertainty over the trials, sit stoically and exchange glances after the prince’s announcement for the trials’ commencement. Lady Arryn has been seated next to the Lords Corbray, although Daphne cannot tell at first glance if Lord Leowyn Corbray is awake or asleep upon his oak chair. Lord Blackwood has taken his seat as well, and alongside him is his aunt, Lady Alysanne Blackwood. Daphne’s eyes linger for a moment upon the lady, but she does not dwell upon worry.

Lord Cregan Stark’s arrival is that of a mighty winter storm. Instead of the curious looks given to the little prince, the eyes of the court regard Cregan with hesitant yet unquestionable deference. It is not obsequious, as he is still an outsider, but it is wary reverence nonetheless. He commands the room without word or action, a formidable feat she had never seen either Viserys or Aegon II achieve, even though both men had held the title of King of the Realm. His prowess in battle has earned him the respect of the fighting men, and the nobles who had been playing the courtly games for decades had watched this young lord win it all in a matter of moments through his strength and the loyalty of his army. It mattered not what side of the war anyone had been upon – when the ashes of the dragonfire had settled, a wolf emerged, fierce and unyielding. 

Robed in his true Northern armor and with the greatsword Ice upon his person, his shadow extends to the farthest reaches of the vast throne room as his heavy boots carry him before the Iron Throne. The grey furs he wears widen his shoulders and the severity of his stoic gaze has grown more imposing as he appraises the great chair. Any remaining whispers within the stands have been silenced with his appearance, the air growing thick with apprehension, as if the entire room has chosen to hold its breath. 

Daphne’s heart gives a weak faltering at this, fear in electric form prickling over her skin at the thought of the man she loves sitting in such a cursed seat. She wishes not to see Cregan there, upon the object of her unending ire. Let him not bear its curse, she hopes silently. Whatever malaise has rotted through the iron of the damned swords, let it not infect him too.

A breath of relief narrowly glides past her lips as Lord Stark instead sits upon the plain wooden bench before the throne. An average piece of furniture, nothing of great ornamentation or carving. It is not even something that might reside within the Tower of the Hand, one of the many decadent chairs or benches that gather dust when left for but a day. It is commonplace little slab of simple wood. There is a stirring of the lords and ladies at this unusual break from tradition, confusion echoing in hushed murmurs around her. It must inspire considerable perplexity amongst the nobles who have been devising fantastical narratives about a bellicose lord, godless and greedy, intent on spilling blood and obtaining both crown and kingdom for himself. There is no evidence now of self-aggrandizement, no subtle seizing of an opportunity to sit upon a chair that noblemen spend their lives fighting to merely orbit. And so, fracturing the wild imaginings conjured in frightened rumor of a wild and craven warlord, Lord Cregan Stark, the Hand of the King, begins to hold trial.

The hearings proceed for the better part of the morning and afternoon. Amongst the over thirty men who had been arrested during Lord Stark’s initial arrival at King’s Landing, many are those who had been in service to Aegon II prior to his poisoning. Yet there are also those who hold considerably greater eminence, whose faces and voices Daphne is vaguely familiar with. Septon Eustace, for one, who was responsible for crowning Aegon and Helaena at the coronation that had been held in the Dragonpit. He had assumed the role of the High Septon, as the elderly man had not the strength to travel the long journey from Oldtown. Even so, Eustace had served the royal family from the time of Viserys’ reign – and had been well informed of the previous king’s intentions to have his firstborn daughter sit the throne after his death. Whilst Lord Stark declares the man innocent of the crime of poisoning Aegon II, the septon’s hands trembling as he hears the words spoken, Daphne wonders after the nature of his oathbreaking and the dishonoring of his former monarch’s proclamations. As the man is led from the throne room, to be released from his imprisonment, her eyes follow him until the grand doors slam shut with an echo.

Grand Maester Orwyle is brought up to the stand momentarily, quick to stammer protests of his distance from the crime itself. Yet, undoubtedly, he had been the one who had supplied the poison to Larys Strong. The confession had occurred under torture, yet Daphne imagines it is truth. The maester had wavered upon the crowning of Aegon as king and taken a number of audiences with him to plead for peace between the rival Targaryen siblings. His beseeching for a ceasefire did not end until both monarchs lay dead. As Cregan raises his chin to stare down at the accused man with icy grey eyes, the Northern lord’s low voice charges him with compliance and delivers the verdict: he shall be put to death.

A ripple of reaction echoes through the throne room as the Grand Maester is led away, still protesting his innocence with renewed panic. Cassia takes her sister’s hand, concern upon her face as she watches in stunned silence. Daphne squeezes the girl’s hand in unspoken reassurance, if only out of habit. She had held no doubts that Cregan would sentence plainly, his straightforward interpretation of justice shaped by his Northern upbringing. Yet to watch death summoned coldly from the lips that had kissed her with such warmth is discordant. Still, she knows his duty is his life and never would her admiration for him change at the sight of it. 

Ser Gyles Belgrave and Ser Perkin are brought before the Hand in swift succession, Lord Stark’s icy demeanor only growing colder at the protests from the knights who had taken binding oaths to protect the King with their lives. The Northern lord reads aloud both the words spoken by the Kingsguard and the men of the City Watch and proclaims them both in gross violation of their codes. Ser Belgrave accepts the sentence with a bowed head. Ser Perkin is not so gracious – blubbering and sputtering insistence that he need not pay for any of the crimes he is accused of. Lord Stark takes little interest in his protests as the knight is dragged with great fuss from the hall by three guards.

To Daphne’s great relief, Lord Martyn Redwyne, whose arrest she had witnessed, is found innocent of any involvement in the poisoning. She exchanges a glance with her mother, whose expression is unreadable as the lord is led away from the stand. To have a lord belonging to a House of their bannermen condemned to death by Lord Stark would have been a problem the lady herself would have had to bargain to rectify. And enough bargaining shall likely ensure as is.

All those in Aegon’s service are found either complicit or guilty, falling down like a standing deck of cards as one after the other is brought before the throne, sentenced, and summarily removed. It does little for Daphne’s wellness to ruminate over Aegon’s death as the hours extend at a steady crawl. 

While never attaining anything resembling closeness, an understanding had certainly been reached between the two of them, even though their relationship existed solely in proportion to his proximity to Helaena. The first and only time the lady had weaponized the Queen against Aegon, intent on stopping his flirtations as she had still been engaged to his brother Daeron at the time, she had been shocked at the force with which Aegon had been struck in castigation. Not one to dwell upon the nature of a victory, the concern she had harbored caused the little lady great surprise. With an icy sigh that had escaped her gritted teeth, she had sought Aegon out and sat beside him upon stone stairs as he drowned himself in burgundy liquor and lamented at great length over the lack of love he received from either of his parents. She had whispered into the cool night air of her own father’s ignoring of her, a trouble she rarely spoke of to anyone at all. Either due to his mother’s reprimanding or in acknowledgement of their shared misfortune of not being the child that was desired, Aegon never hassled Daphne further.

Pressing a hand to her temple, she pulls herself from thoughts of the past by anchoring her gaze upon the Northern lord sat beneath the throne. His eyes remain steadfast and impassive as the doors open once more, but the sight of his visage purges all other thought from her head and reminds her decisively what point in time she currently resides in. 

There is a brief interruption from Princess Baela, who takes to her feet and unsheathes her sword in defense of the men who had freed her from her temporary imprisonment. After raising a hand to still the Northmen whose hands fly to their swords in response and silencing the nobles in the stands who clamor eagerly amongst each other at the dramatic scene unfolding, Lord Stark agrees to allow the princess to vouch for the character and actions of those who had rescued her.  Baela gives a hearty nod at this and returns to her seat next to her sister with her sword once again put away.

Daphne decides at once she does not appreciate the way Lord Larys Strong looks upon Cregan. The disdain within his eyes is clearer than any other brought before the Hand and her own narrow as she glares rather icily at him from her place within the stands. Ever the listener, not often one to speak, the former Master of Whispers remains a slippery character. A gatherer of information, yet lacking the amiability that one needs to truly thrive within the court. Since his arrival, not one true friend has been made and a man without allies in the court is a man marooned on an uninhabitable island. The sharp exchange of words between the two men does little to soften the lady’s distaste for Lord Strong, who insists quietly that it is futile to defend himself rationally before a wild wolf. Daphne rolls her eyes and fans herself with a sharp flick of her wrist at this. As if Cregan’s concession to Baela had not, but seconds ago, proven otherwise. And while no confession is provided, many a witness and accused declare him the guiltiest party and the sentence is passed. 

The most awaited trial is reserved for the final one of the day, as the afternoon sun shines bright within the sky above the Red Keep. Many of the lords and ladies have excused themselves at various points to take breaks and refreshment in the designated rooms beside the throne room, yet all return to their seats at the end as they have been uncertainly anticipating the presence of Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark. Far from the entertaining theater of the trials of knights and lesser lords and second sons, an unsettling reflection is unwillingly seen in the hearing of this noble lord who has headed his House for generations. 

Cregan harbors no fondness for the man, unlike many of Corlys’ supporters at court who sympathize with his plight as one of their own. There is no melodramatic case raised, nor hostile back-and-forth. Lord Corlys admits his guilt from the first. The man swears upon his ancestors that he believes his actions were for the betterment of the Realm, and that he is a servant of the people. As a heavy silence seizes the air in the room, Lord Cregan Stark stares down the Sea Snake standing at the wooden stand for but a moment before declaring calmly that he is to be charged with both high treason and regicide – and is to be put to death. 

The chaos erupts within the stands at once, clamoring voices raised over top of one another, hurriedly expressing their opinion on the matter. As Lord Corlys is led past the spectators and out through the ornate wooden doors of the throne room, Daphne witnesses the twin princesses jump to their feet, clearly determined to have a word with Lord Stark, who is already dismissing the court and making his way out of the doors that flank the steps upon which the Iron Throne sits. Listening to the cries of disapproval brewing about her, Daphne gives a soft sigh as her hands are clutched tightly in her lap. 

The matter of Lord Corlys Velaryon’s sentencing rouses those on all sides of the succession conflict. Those who had allied themselves with Rhaenyra murmur of Lord Velaryon and his late wife, the Princess Rhaenys, of their aid and sacrifice and the deaths of their grandsons. For the majority of the conflict, House Velaryon had fought and shed blood for the Queen and her heirs. The admiration and respect for the man extends to his former enemies as well, those who know of his bids for peace in the days following Aegon II’s death. The ravens sent to the winds by the Sea Snake had brought back hopeful tidings, a new dawn breaking after the long night of war. 

Her own mother expresses frustrated concern over it as she paces in front of the unlit hearth in the temporary chambers provided. Daphne has sunk into a plush armchair, fanning herself with a weary look upon her face as Elinor Tyrell shakes her head. Cassia sits next to her sister, writing something with a plume feather quill silently as their mother fixes her attention upon her eldest child. 

“You must speak to Lord Stark at once,” Elinor’s voice is firm as she looks upon her daughter. “If you are to marry Alyn Velaryon, he shall need the aid of his sire before taking up the mantle of Lord of the Tides as he was not raised by him. And he shall surely march to war if Lord Stark kills his father.”

Daphne holds her mother’s gaze for a moment, before the woman returns to her pacing. A long, sideways glance is exchanged with Cassia, who looks up from the letter she is writing just long enough to offer a pitying look. Their mother will not take kindly to the news of the betrothal, nor of her daughter’s ignoring of her command. A match with the Lord of Winterfell is illustrious and envious on paper but rather impractical in actuality. With the distance the North resides at, little help can be sent in times of need. This much has been illustrated quite clearly over the course of the succession war – Lord Stark is honorable and would keep promises made to his wife’s family, but a Northern army can only cover a small amount of ground a day.

A Southern conflict would likely begin and end before aid passed through the Riverlands. Even a marriage with House Velaryon is risky, but her mother is clearly willing to chance it for the impressive fleet held by the House at present.

“I do not believe Lord Stark will offer a bargain that would please you, mother.” Daphne murmurs in quiet reply, running her finger across the iridescent nacre that composes the sticks and guards of her fan. It will not be long now that she shall have to face the consequences of her choice, but she has already decided. To spare Cassia from marrying either Alyn Velaryon or Lyonel Hightower shall prove difficult given the irate mood her mother is likely to be in, but the lady will have to persevere. 

“See you attempt to reason with him anyhow,” Elinor pauses in her pacing once more, her brows lowering as she studies her daughter’s face, her gaze cast disinterestedly to her fan. Daphne has not been away for so long that the woman cannot tell when something is afoot, but she cares not to wrestle the truth from the girl. Her eldest has inherited both Elinor’s wit and the late Lord Tyrell’s stubbornness. “For at this rate, there shall be another war.”

“Yes, mother.” Her eyes remain impassive as she lifts them to meet her mother’s gaze again. Elinor Tyrell stares at the girl for a moment, before she presses her hand to her temple and shakes her head.

In truth, Daphne has plans to bargain with Cregan already. Although not for the reasons given by her mother, nor for the request for aid from Princess Rhaena. While she understands her mother’s worries – if she were to marry Alyn Velaryon, she would hate to have to teach the man the ins and outs of court culture as he was not brought up as an heir – and has some sympathy for the princess, her own motives differ. Another war would be devasting to the regions that had already suffered from the previous one, although the lady doubts her mother would see the betrothal through if Alyn Velaryon might get himself killed before an heir could be birthed. The matter certainly warrants the frenzy of worry it has whipped up in the halls of the Red Keep.

Cassia’s pen scratches delicately against the paper as silence overcomes the chambers, the curtains swaying atop the balcony as the afternoon winds swirl about the castle. Daphne looks to her sister, before she closes her eyes and sinks further into her chair and her thoughts. 

It is not until later in the day that Daphne dresses herself and ventures towards the Tower of the Hand. Cassia has brought a great many gowns from Highgarden, made in the style that the lady prefers, and she is pleased to take one to wear that evening. The court fashion remains on the conservative side in comparison to the popular styles within the Reach, especially at its seat, with its warmer weather and the proximity to Dorne. While Daphne does opt to have her gowns made reminiscent of those common in the capital, she has always requested her dresses be made with elements of the fashion of her homeland. The brighter pastel colors of spring florals, spun rosettes of refined silk, plunging necklines and delicate beading. 

She is certainly far from the only person with the idea to speak to Lord Stark that evening. The entrance to the Tower of the Hand is quite crowded by the time Daphne arrives, even though the sun has since absconded from the heavens with haste. A hazy moon hangs ominously in the darkening sky, not a star visible as the rains have once again swept into the capital. Her footsteps echo down the stone halls but are quickly swallowed up by the sounds of arguing. A gathering of notable personages – Northern and Southern lords and ladies alike – have flocked to the base of the grand spiral staircase to seek an audience with the Hand of the King. 

Princess Rhaena catches sight of Daphne first, turning with urgency to greet the lady as her sister argues with a Northern lord over his refusal to allow her to pass. The younger of the twin dragons presses her lips together in a tight line before they part with heavy concern. “He shall not take an audience until the morrow. Yet Aegon has decreed our grandfather to be pardoned, and for the reinstatement of his offices and titles.”

This news has since reached Daphne’s ears, undoubtedly done so at the imploring of the boy-king’s elder half-sisters. A meaningful movement, yet not a decisive one. While his royal name and title do bear some weight amongst the court, neither yet serve as law. Lord Stark shall have the option to heed this request or ignore it, as Hand of a king still uncrowned.

“I imagine he is deliberating over the matter at present, then.” Daphne murmurs back softly, her brow knitting at the revelation that Cregan is not seeking the opinion of his council or comrades over the matter. Lady Arryn and Lord Corbray are amongst those who have assembled, likely also due to the influence of Princess Rhaena. Despite her absence from the capital for most of her life, she has gained valuable allies in the form of the lords and ladies of the Vale. The torchlight casts dark shadows upon the cracked stone, a stray wind from an open window setting the flames flickering violently. 

“Shall he not hear it?” Princess Rhaena’s asking is a desperate plea, her plum eyes tired and despairing as she beholds Daphne as if her face is a crystal ball that might conjure forth an appropriate answer. The lady blinks rapidly, her gaze falling to the door instead of the girl in front of her. Her fingers skim atop the embellished fabric of her pink gown, soothing herself with the texture of the satin roses and smooth beading. “His prince has asked this of him, yet he has given no response.”

“Lord Stark shall consider the edict seriously, of that I am sure.” Daphne offers in meek solace, yet Rhaena’s pleading gaze is burning and insisting. The girl shakes her head and wraps her arms across her chest, turning her attention back towards her elder sister. Daphne’s eyes follow along as the girls stand in uncomfortable silence, watching the exchange between the heated Princess Baela and the obstinate Northerner at the door. She recognizes him as Lord Cerwyn, a close confidant of Lord Stark’s whom the lord has often tasked with guarding Maegor’s Holdfast. Only the briefest of greetings had ever been exchanged, yet certainly enough for him to know her name and face. 

When Lord Cerwyn’s eyes meet Daphne Tyrell’s, she is at once excruciatingly aware of what is about to transpire even before his lips part.

Out of desperate denial for the inevitable scene that is sure to ensue, she begins to step back, nearly tripping on her gown in effort. She begins to shake her head softly, locking wide eyes with man to silently beg he does not say what he intends to, but he either does not notice or care. No sooner has one heeled shoe reached the floor, than Lord Cerwyn has called her name in clear summoning. Princess Baela turns at once, gazing down the hall to see the lady who has been frozen in place with a tiny, forced smile upon her face. Lord Corwyn and Lady Arryn then cast their attention to her, alongside every other lord and lady who has gathered in the hall. A thick silence has descended.

Under the watchful eyes of all, Daphne gives Princess Rhaena a soft dip of her head and slowly walks to the door. Painfully conscious is she of each step and breath she takes under such scrutiny, of the way her shoulders are lowered and her face is arranged to the exact degree of amiable uncertainty that will be deemed appropriate. Of the way her hands fall upon her skirts, of the exact number of blinks taken in the time it takes to cross from where she was standing to the wooden door. Her blood is hot beneath her skin, displeased and distressed at this attention she did not orchestrate herself. If she were so daring, she might stomp atop Lord Cerwyn’s boot instead of curtsying before him for his insolent lack of tact.

“Lord Cerwyn,” She elects to murmur instead, her head lowering demurely before she raises herself elegantly. As her eyes remain cast to the floor courteously, she is certain one twitches with aggravation. Her intentionally unassuming gaze meets his after a moment, expectant. To his credit – and her utter, exasperated annoyance – Lord Cerwyn does then lean in and soften his voice to a quieter whisper.

“Lord Stark has said he shall see you if you should wish, my lady.” The words are spoken as she stares dully at the wood of the door behind the Northern lord. Little purpose is there in whispering now, when everyone’s attention is raptly captured by the pair of them. Even so, if the words had been spoken any louder a riot might have broken out at the unfairness of the exception. While Lady Arryn is certain to be unfazed, all the others gathered watch the interaction in both surprise and silent accusing. “If you will venture below the Tower, a messenger shall escort you.” 

Daphne dips her head in acknowledgement and begrudgingly forces a small smile upon her face, before she gathers herself upright and departs swiftly, eager to be rid of the prying eyes and questioningly looks. Rhaena reaches out to touch her arm momentarily as she passes, and the lady gives her what is hopefully a heartening glance.

It is not so simple as allowing her to pass into the Tower of the Hand directly, this Daphne knows well as she stalks down the stone stairs that descend to the tunnels in the lower level, her skirts clutched tightly in her fists. Candles illuminate the darker portions of the staircase, tucked in stone alcoves to prevent a drunken fool from tumbling down into a murky nothingness. At least some thought has been spared for her propriety, as an unmarried lady of a paramount House seeking a solitary audience with any lord would set her reputation alight. This ulterior method proves far safer, yet the blatant summoning of her by Lord Cerwyn is sure to fuel the flames of rumors already circling. Daphne Tyrell does not enjoy being scrutinized. 

When she reaches the foot of the staircase and proceeds into the winding tunnels, she catches sight of the page sent to fetch her, a sturdy young lad who must have traveled south alongside the Northerners. Daphne gestures silently for him to lead the way. Upwards they climb, a great deal of stairs to maneuver and even with her light slip of a gown, and she is left to catch her breath against the doorframe as they enter the Tower of the Hand through a side passage that opens far within the complex. The page approaches her with concern but she is quick to wave him off, electing to find her own way through Cregan’s newly appointed chambers. 

At the end of the long hall, firelight can be seen beneath a closed door. The darkness is cold yet not unsettling as she gradually approaches the entrance, her gown rustling softly against the cold floor beneath her shoes. One hand is pressed to the thick wood as she nimbly undoes the latch’s configuration and allows the door to drift open with an unhurried creaking. Revealed to her is the expanse of the Hand’s private chambers, bathed in the soft firelight of a hearth and lit candles, dripping ivory wax. 

Cregan Stark sits, lost in deep contemplation, behind the large desk that is littered with parchment and quills and inkwells. At the movement of his door, his grey eyes flick up in irritation at the intrusion. They are softened fractionally by the revelation of her figure from the dark shadows of the hall. He tilts his head back languidly as Daphne closes the door behind her, pausing momentarily to rest against the wood. She meets his gaze, reveling in the familiarity within the exchange, before her eyes drift to the candles melting messily atop discarded parchment scrolls on his desk.

“Further discretion might have been advised,” Daphne reaches up to deftly undo the pins holding her hair into place. She sticks one between her lips while she undoes another, before pulling it from her mouth. “Lord Cerwyn summoned me in front of the crowd gathering at your door. Now your favoring of me is plain for all to see, even though none saw me enter.”

A frown is given in reply, weighty and unusually strict. Cregan sweeps his gaze across her form, a soft scowl upon his lips as he watches the way her hair cascades down from her head tantalizingly. He clenches a tight fist yet maintains his stern expression.

“All shall see plainly my favoring of you when I make you my wife,” Lord Stark’s response is a shade darker than usual, even for one so straightforward. It catches her attention, this incongruous tone and the rolling of thunderous storm clouds in his eyes. As she finishes freeing her hair of its confines, her eyes flicker with brief misunderstanding. After a moment of silence, Cregan presses forward, folding his hands in front of him as he leans forward over the desk. “Are you ashamed you are giving me your hand?”

At this, her brows give a soft twitch and she tilts her chin. Daphne hovers like a spirit in his doorway before she crosses the Hand’s chambers with determined resolve. Her fingers dance lithely atop the dark cherry of the desk as she circles it, pausing but a breath in front of him. Studying Cregan silently, she slowly reaches her hand to his face. No sooner than her soft palm graces his skin, a thawing seems to occur, and the lord closes his eyes for a moment before turning his head so that his lips might brush tenderly against her skin. Eclipsing her hand with his own calloused one, he presses it to his cheek as he lets out a slow breath. 

“How could I be ashamed when all you do fills me with such ardent admiration?” Daphne’s voice floats alongside the sweet smell of the melting candles. When Cregan catches her own scent of honey and rosewater, something in his chest is assuaged. With a slow raising of his head, he meets her eyes and finds no trace of delicate performance or convincing saccharinity, only the tired yet honest expression he has come to crave.  Her presence, her promises – they signal a ceasefire in the bitter war he is waging within his head and heart.

“Yet you have come to bargain, as they all would.” Cregan cannot help the petulance that snakes in his low murmur, his lashes lowering as his gaze falls upon her mouth. While it is true he holds little desire to be reasoned with at present, the reasoning cannot be all that bad when it falls from such soft and delightful lips. Her gaze is unwavering yet melts into a soft acceptance at this, accompanied with a languid drop of her shoulders and a raise of her brows.

“You have known what I am from the moment you caught sight of me atop that balcony, Cregan Stark,” Daphne reminds him with practical calm, his hand warm overtop of her own as it remains pressed against his cheek. She tilts her head. “You have known it, yet you still allow me to venture into your chambers this night.”

Lord Stark casts his gaze away at this. The room is only dimly lit by the flickering candles and firelight, shining faintly across the expansive canopy bed and the ornate wardrobes and chests that hail from a distant land across an endless sea. His own trunks, the only furniture made from the familiar craftsmanship of the North, have been piled haphazardly in the corner after they had been lugged unceremoniously up the massive staircase but days ago following his appointment. 

It is truth that falls from her lips. Would she not seek to bargain with him over the matter of the Sea Snake’s sentencing, Cregan would worry she had fallen ill. The rose of the court, the delicate Southern beauty who had wanted something from him the moment he had marched down the stone hallways of the Red Keep. Enchanting his bannerman with the eyes of a doe and the body of a siren from sapphire waters, she had intended on luring Cregan into a trap from the first. Despite the honesty that she believes she has been plagued by, the Lord of Winterfell might yet still have fallen prey. 

“The day I deny you at my door is the day I meet my lord father once more,” The Northern lord ruminates in a low rumble, reaching forward with his other hand to grab her hip and tug her closer to his chair. Daphne allows this with a watchful gaze as he holds her tightly before him, his wanting eyes slowly lifting to meet her own impassive expression. “Never shall I turn you away. I will not. I cannot.”

The severity of his gaze renders her unable to hold it with her own and she casts her eyes instead to the ceiling, leaving his to hungrily drink in the expanse of her neck and the way the thin gold necklace shimmers in the firelight, adorning her collarbone and leading four tiny saltwater pearls down to where her breasts swell together. His hand digs further into the thin pastel fabric at her waist and she sucks a breath in, blinking rapidly before she lowers her chin in the gentlest of frustrations at her own reaction. “Charming, even when you are cross with me.”

“I am not cross with you,” Cregan’s correction is instantaneous yet markedly softer than his previous tone. The words are accompanied by him leaning forward fully in his chair, his fingers curling against her hip and beseeching she return her gaze to him. The candlelight glows golden along the edge of his jaw and the tip of his nose. Irritated is he, but not with her. Yet he knows it seeps into his words and eyes, the weight of sworn duty, personal in nature and bloody in practice. “My retainers and enemies alike have flocked to my door to ask that justice is not carried out. Their pity blinds them to the danger posed to the Realm by allowing such a craven man to escape retribution for his confessed crimes.”

Daphne watches silently as Cregan’s fingers trace the embroidered rosettes that rest over her hip bone. Brushing hair back from her face, she retains a neutral expression. “And what of the command of the boy king you fight for? He has ordered Lord Velaryon spared, shall you not heed his directive?”

Cregan scoffs lightly at this, head leaning back with a slow roll of his shoulders as he appraises the look upon her face. “He acts only at the behest of his half-sisters. Too young is he to know of the dangers that this serpent will pose to him, a traitor who committed the highest of treasons.”

“Lord Velaryon killed the man who fed his mother to a dragon,” Daphne is resigned to recall the instance, finding the cruelty of the situation to a degree she cannot quite reconcile in her mind. Jaehaera had not seen her twin brother’s death, Helaena had told her in the quiet hours of the early morning following. Nor had the girl seen her younger brother or mother or father perish, despite losing them all in rapid succession. Aegon had gone too far, but it was hardly a surprise. Once the war had begun, madness had swept like a deadly plague through the castle and the Targaryen bloodline. “And his half-sisters remain the only true allies the child has left. If he denies their pleas, he risks alienating himself from his only powerful kin. The Velaryons remain the most formidable and uncontestable sea power in the kingdom, since the Greyjoys are occupied with fighting the Lannisters.”

The Northern lord considers this wordlessly while he lowers his hand from his face, releasing hers and watching it fall to her side gracefully. She turns then, moving to sit atop the opened scrolls upon his desk. His hand trails down from her hip, mapping a trail in the light cloth, and then resting on top of her thigh as she sits before him. “So he has appeased them. But I shall not let his edict stand.”

“Then the flames of war shall be fanned once again and all that has been done for peace shall be rendered meaningless,” Her voice is a knife, swift and practical as she appraises the situation with quiet words. Bright eyes are narrowed as they flick between Cregan’s own. “Many of the ravens that heralded such peace were penned by Lord Corlys himself. He desires unity in the Realm. I hold no love for the man, but I do not think he shall make a swift grab for the throne in the coming years. His granddaughters adore the boy.” 

“You would hedge your bets upon the love he has for the princesses?” Lord Stark inquires with a raise of his brows, his thumb rubbing soft circles into the fabric draping lazily over her thigh as she brushes her ankle gently against his leg. It agitates him, the thought of allowing such a horrid injustice to stand. Lord Velaryon should pay for his crimes with steel and blood. “There is no security in the promises of kin. Only in permanence can safety be found.”

Daphne’s eyes are impartial as she regards him. A long silence falls between them as Cregan stares at his sword, resting atop a trunk with his House’s sigil carved into the pine wood.

“I do not know if the boy is as strong as you are,” She murmurs finally. Lord Stark’s eyes flash as they snap back to her, a lightning strike of vulnerability not often visible in the silvery depths. Daphne continues as she leans her weight back onto her hands, her shoulders lowering. “I believe he will need aid swiftly, and no greater allies will he find.”

“A snake whose skin has been shed is a snake still.” Cregan insists in a low rumble. The Hand’s chambers are warm, the crackling fire combating any stray gusts of cool wind from open windows and balconies down the hall. He lifts his hand to the cutout of fabric at her back, finding the heat from her soft skin warms his own blood with a rush. She lifts her head to gaze upwards again, letting her hair tumble down her back as she sighs. The action spurs a clenching in his stomach.

“Even snakes have their uses,” Daphne shivers as his hand slips lower, beneath the soft gown. It is a thin, soft dress, baby pink and airy, with tiny rosettes stitched at the hips and the low neckline. “The petitions for peace he sent were answered propitiously. The favor he has gained throughout the Realm would serve the young king well, especially these early years.”

At this, the Northern lord pauses and studies her carefully. Daphne holds no allegiance to the young king, nor to Corlys Velaryon, as she is refusing to marry his son in favor of becoming his wife instead. Her concern for the wellbeing of the kingdom is second to her concern for those she loves – yet here she petitions so determinedly for the sparring of the Sea Snake. Cregan’s grey eyes flicker as his brow lowers. 

“And how is he useful to you, my lady, that you would sit before me and plead for his life?” His hand has drifted to the small of her back, his rough fingers brushing against the bare skin below her dress. The ghost of a smile teases tantalizingly at the corners of her rosy lips, something electric flashing between their eyes as the intimacy of seeing and being seenricochets from his body to hers. Yet as she considers his words, a far more serious contemplation appears on her face and she lowers her gaze. 

“Sparring his life demonstrates the extent of your benevolence. It paints you as a just and merciful man whose quality of character few can deny,” Regarding the matter of perception, few have shrewder insight than she. From the moment she realized the outcome of the trials, her mind had been made up. Parting her lips slowly, Daphne continues. “If you were then to declare a betrothal between your heir and Princess Jaehaera, little could be said of it. Even if you take her with you to Winterfell as your ward.”

Cregan is still.

Realization floods his eyes, pooling slowly as his brows lift. As he hears plainly what she is asking him, Lord Stark shakes his head slowly. He had wished for a Targaryen princess as a bride for Rickon to ensure a pact between the Starks and the throne, and for his great fondness for Prince Jacaerys. It had been promised to him, and as he is presented with her scheme, he realizes that if he were to demand the little princess to fulfill the promise it might stand. It might stand, should he do what his lady is urging and spare the Sea Snake’s life. Cregan lifts a hand, running it slowing over his face as he stares at the hearth on the far side of his chambers. The flames dance elegantly overtop the thick logs.

“You ask of me that which is against my nature.” The words break the silence, and he frowns as he returns his attention to the woman sitting upon his desk. Beautiful as a winter wind, fierce and unyielding despite her delicate features and elegant poise. Bathed in warm firelight and covered in cascading pink silk, she appears before him as the personification of her House sigil, lovely petals and the danger beneath. But Cregan Stark shall have her, thorns and all, regardless of risk to hands or heart. 

“I do not believe an act done for love is against your nature.” Daphne believes it wholly. His steadfast devotion to duty and justice does not make him a marble statue, unwillingly to hear or compromise. A man who married for love rather than duty once and is doing so again does not indicate a man so stubborn he cannot be reasoned with.

Cregan’s jaw tightens and he closes his eyes for a moment while he considers her words. The war in his heart begins anew, invigored by her plea and the reasoning for it. Unlike the others who will plead upon the nature of Corlys Velaryon’s character, Daphne has brought him a bargain that coexists with another promise he swore to her just the night before. It is hardly a fair fight. He finds himself pinned down. 

“I do love you,” As the words fall from his lips, her eyes widen a fraction and her lashes are set fluttering. To hear it put plainly is disarming. His hand rests firmly against her back, his arm around her hip as he sits but a breath away. “And for that, for you, for the promises I have spoken to you, I shall hear this out.”

Her steady gaze melts and Daphne appraises Lord Stark with a vulnerable fondness that renders her weaker than she might wish. She shifts upon his desk, moving about the papers beneath her, ink smudged in dark streaks atop the palms of her hands. “There is nowhere else she can go. Even if she does not marry Aegon, she shall be trapped here without allies. The Dowager Queen has already urged her to kill the boy, so she shall not prove a trustworthy guardian. Her relatives in Oldtown have only met her but once and Lord Lyonel is not known for his kindness nor patience. But if you kill Lord Velaryon and whisk the princess away, Alyn Velaryon will use that as a rallying cry for armies to join him in his quest for vengeance.”

His hold on her tightens as she explains her analysis, finding no faults in what she has concluded. It is the clearest path to freeing the princess from an engagement to her cousin and a lifetime spent within the walls of this haunted castle and the vipers slithering about the dragon’s den. Yet it would mean allowing this man to escape the punishment justice demands.

Far too late had he been to save the prince he had promised his loyalty to, or the monarch he had bent the knee before. All he can do is establish a stable beginning for an already bloodstained reign. Lord Velaryon has tainted the boy’s legacy by poisoning his predecessor, no matter if that king was rightfully anointed or not. Allowing him to live would be an affront to righteousness. “I would fight to defend her. As I would fight to defend mine own son or any children we shall have.”

This, Daphne is warmed by. To have another protect Jaehaera steadfastly is all she might wish for. As Cregan reaches forward, his sturdier hands lifting her from the desk and placing her in his lap. She can feel the physical form of his arousal as her legs fall to either side of his hips, the thin fabric of her gown bunching up overtop her thighs and in the space between their bodies. Her stomach twists in a pulsing knot. 

“I know that you would,” She breathes. Her eyes are half-lidded, her mind hazy at the imprint of him against her smallclothes, as it had been when he had nearly taken her in her bed. Focusing on the conversation is suddenly an endeavors that requires all the effort she can muster, and from the way the bulge of his trousers is pressing into her folds, Cregan is suffering from a similar predicament. “But her life has been defined by bloodshed. Let us change that.”

Her presence overwhelms him. The scent of her hair, the softness of her skin, the way her lips move when she speaks. The thin slip she has the audacity to call a gown, that plunges decadently between her plush breasts which are pressed together shamelessly. Cregan can see her nipples peaking through the thin fabric and remembers with perfect clarity how it felt to suckle from her chest, his tongue running over the standing buds. But what hardens him fastest is the speed at which she weaponized the matter of the trials in order to protect Jaehaera. Her natural instinct to defend the girl makes Cregan Stark desperate to give Daphne a whole litter of pups she can fuss over. 

“You truly wish for me to spare him?” It is a husk of a whisper, low and rumbling as his hands hold her hips gently, trying not to squeeze into the softness of her flesh like he wishes to do. He gives her an opportunity to get up, to push him away, to deny him. Daphne presses a hand flat against his chest instead. 

“I am no manifestation of the Mother’s mercy. I am no saint,” She matches his volume, a breath of voice signaling the toll of the physical and emotional vulnerability upon her. “I am a selfish woman. Let that old man live but a few years more so Jaehaera might have peaceful decades and I shall be grateful forever.”

The plea is swallowed by Cregan’s own lips, hungrily capturing hers in a wordless sealing of the agreement. It’s messy with desire, his mouth sliding against hers as he leans forward, hands digging into her hips as her arms reach to wrap around his neck. The soft strands of his reddish hair are gentle against her skin and a dizzying juxtaposition to the steady passion that he kisses her with.

Daphne whines softly against his mouth and Cregan groans in response to the gentle sound and the wetness gathering at the point where his cock is surging against her undergarments. No effort is required upon her part to seduce him when he is predisposed to her being, to all that composes her. The heat burns through his body as he kisses her, as she returns every capturing of her lips with an open-mouthed kiss of her own, his tongue slipping between their soft parting to taste her fully. 

The room is a dreamy blur, faded to a glow of warm dim lighting and darkness. An overwhelming need has consumed them both, searing with fervent heat, casting all remnants of doubt to the wayside. Her hands lift to tangle in his hair, fingers curling against his scalp as he lets out another low noise, indulging in the sweetness of her mouth. No pliant stillness is found in her response, even given her lesser experience in the joining of flesh. Every time she kisses him back with equal hunger, her tongue contesting for space rather than allowing his complete control, Cregan is overcome with the urge to draw back and praise her. If only he she did not taste so intoxicating upon his lips, if only he did not wish to indulge in her ambrosial flavor for all eternity. 

His heart is a wayward drum in his chest, slamming against his ribcage and his lungs as if to escape and meld into her own, tired heartstrings tying each other into unbreakable knots. There is hardly any use in weakened calls for propriety, given their previous tryst in her satin bedsheets, but the stuttering of his clothed length against the wet center of smallclothes stirs feelings of desperate and almost shameful lust he has not felt since he was a virgin. Cregan cannot help the way his hips roll forward, earning him a soft gasp as she feels him pressing into her further.

Daphne’s eyes roll back with a slow breath, her back arching as Cregan’s hands guide her hips to roll against him. Her body melts into his own, understanding and desire present in equal measure, at every point that they meet. His hands forge a journey lower, past the fabric that has gathered at her hips and down the expanse of her bare thighs. Fingers digging needily into the plush flesh, lifting one of her legs up as he runs his rough palm down the underside of her calf. 

Each breath passed between them is a sacred exchange of air and promise, yet Cregan longs to provide her with a pledge of unarguable permanence. The thought of his seed in her womb, sealing their union as will be his duty, drives him to rut against her again. Scrolls and letters lay in messy disarray on the dark wood of the desk, some already cascading to the floor in lazy loops. With one brush of his hand, Lord Stark could easily rid the surface of any parchment and take her there, bent over the wood as he fills her, gown lifted up for he could not wait to rid her of her clothing. The feeling of her cunt, even through cloth, is more inebriating than any liquor. It would not be beneath him, he realizes with a hot pulsing of his length, to forgo a surface or bed altogether and fuck her on the furs by the fireplace like he is an animal. Were she not such a lady, a paragon of grace and elegance that dazzles illustriously with coy poise, he might give voice and form to the fantasy. 

Pleasure spins around in a giddy dance through insistent conquest waged upon each other’s lips, and Daphne circles her hips again overtop of Cregan’s lap. As he trails a hand down her soft leg once more, she leans back and he is given ample space to reach his other hand between the curves of her thighs to run down the seam of her folds, still covered by her smallclothes yet more than damp with her arousal. Rubbing circles into her skillfully with the pads of his fingers, each noise coaxed from her mouth is a victory that sparks further wanting in his chest. 

As his fingers work to pleasure her through her undergarments, his lips embroider a pattern of rose-colored kisses down her throat, his teeth stopping only short of leaving any markings as he might desire to after their marriage. As he noses beneath the fabric of her gown to press his lips to the voluminous softness of her breasts, Daphne wonders with distant concern if Cregan shall tear the thin material open to have clearer access to her chest as he had done with her nightgown before. The matter of how she might make her way back to her chambers with a torn gown flickers briefly in her mind before it is dispelled by the descent of stars upon her mind with the insistence of his thumb upon her.

She is unraveled like spools of colored silk atop his hand, hips rolling like warm summer waves against him as the hot bliss curls through her veins. Yet as the lady begins to find a sinful rhythm to move in tune with, Cregan is pulling his lips from her chest and murmuring her given name in soft pleading. Her chin tilts down and her eyes snap to his, searching for the reason his hand has pulled away from her. There is a moment of quiet, the only sound aside from the crackling of the hearth the shared catching of breath. 

Cregan Stark is an honorable man, but perhaps not as pious as one ought to be. If he had fallen to his knees to offer prayer to the Old Gods on more frequent occasion in his youth, perhaps he would not be tortured so by this beautiful woman who he longs to bed and who longs, it would seem from the remnants of her upon his fingers, to be bedded by him. The lord closes his eyes for a moment, pressing his fingers once more to her smallclothes.

“I do not wish you to bargain with this,” Cregan whispers, as he cradles her face with his other hand. A vision in his lap, swollen and reddened lips shining with the results of their passion, eyes glassy and pupils blown. “I would ask you only give it when you desire it truly.”

Daphne frowns, vaguely petulant and vexed by his ceasing of their engagement, before she trails her hands down from his hair to rest atop his shoulders. She leans back, observing him with thinly concealed desire before her voice slips out in a low purr. “I was under the impression we had finished bargaining.” 

This earns her a rare grin, Cregan’s grey eyes bright with amusement and lust. Upon this matter she is correct. Given what he swore to her and the reasonability of her request, since it is within his power he shall grant her this boon. This sweet, brilliant, calculating lady who will be his wife, who has not only given him her heart but a future he had been too scared to want again. 

“We have,” He acquiesces, leaning forward to kiss the crown of her head before gazing down at her eyes once more. “But even so, this is a formal negotiation, is it not?”

Her eyes are rolled with spoiled dramatics up to the ornate ceiling. A sweet ache is still lingering between her thighs, yet she takes a slow breath to settle herself. “I once prayed I would marry an honorable man, but your steadfast honorability is beginning to leave me wishing you were only slightly more indulgent.” 

The Northern lord’s grin becomes slightly more wicked at this, and he seals another kiss to her lips before pulling back and smiling against them. “Do not mistake me. I desire you far more than I could ever say. I shall show the extent to you, upon the eve of our wedding.”

A pleased smile matches his own and the pair delight in the closeness, the silence, the knowing. But in his acceptance of her proposal, Cregan Stark has shown Daphne Tyrell far more than the extent of his passion. To set aside this matter is no small act for him, this she knows well. It is a testament to his devotion to her, to the love he spoke aloud, love reaffirmed with every action taken. Not only through what is easy, but through what instigates challenge and conflict, that which is solved by compromise and care.  An even exchange shall be made. A life for a life.

Her hands skim down the front of her dress in a nervous habit, aching to appear as presentable as humanly possible. The fabric is a dark blue, inky and soft beneath her fingers, decorated with the golden embroidery of flowers that grow within the gardens of the castle she was raised in. A gift from her mother, sent for her most recent birthday with an assortment of teardrop pearls and letters adorned with curved words imploring her to hold out against the tumultuous wartime tide and wait for an advantageous time to act. The roses blooming upon her body, spun in shining silk, bind her and remind her pointedly of her where her loyalties ought to lie. During the war, her attention had been given solely to surviving and attending to Helaena and the children – there was little time to devote to any sort of scheming, save for what her mother deemed absolutely necessary to protect their House.

As of late, Daphne’s heart has been swayed to those of House Targaryen and House Stark. Her eyes close as she imagines what her mother might say, finding the daughter she raised to be ambitious and cutthroat behind deceptively fluttery lashes instead harboring love and affection for those of other Houses. Fingers dig tightly into the soft fabric of her heavy skirts, a sudden wave of suffocation washing across her body as the weighty dress seems to grow heavier. With a soft breath, Daphne returns her attention to the head of the throne room. Many Northern guards are present, alongside what remains of the Kingsguard. Despite the exhaustion and ruffled expressions throughout the room at the early hour of the gathering, there is a hum of expectation about the hall. The coveted and damned chair of swords shall not be claimed by Rhaenyra nor Aegon II. A child shall sit it instead, only ten years of age.

Daphne does not much care who is cursed by the crown of the Realm any longer. She has seen firsthand what unimaginable horrors and suffering it brings about. Let the nobles squabble for it like crows over a poisoned carcass.

Yet as she looks upon the child at last, all eyes within the room locking upon the boy hungrily or with poorly concealed interest, a sense of resigned sorrow fills her chest. Doomed is he, through the blood of both mother and father and chained to a skeletal and haunted existence within these walls. It is already apparent in his face, the hollowness of his eyes as they rest sunken into his youthful countenance. With all of the division sowed during the war, she has almost forgotten that this child is not a stranger of some unknown lineage, but Helaena’s own nephew, Jaehaera’s cousin. The resemblance nearly frightens her, when her eyes meet Aegon’s across the room. Has Helaena not looked upon her with those same violet eyes, that same sense of dread, of finality?

Daphne’s gaze is violently torn away, a sharp breath clawing its way past her tongue and teeth and lips. She shall never know peace so long as she remains here within this castle. Ghosts haunt her every breath, and while one of them is always welcomed with open arms and a gentle falling to her knees, others she does not wish to see. The amount of Targaryen spirits lingering about, wide eyes still cast to the throne and the child sacrificed to it, is far too many for Daphne. All she can hope to do is take Jaehaera away from here and ask the dead for forgiveness or at least to be ignored. But the soon-to-be boy king breathes still. Is it haunting if the figure’s blood thrums beneath taut skin, veins as purple as the eyes that unknowingly condemn? Is it haunting if the guilt from turning away rips her internal organs out with bone hands, wrapping her intestines around her neck and forcing her to look at the child whose fate she is feigning ignorance to?

By the prince’s side stand his two elder half-sisters, whom Daphne quietly hopes are supporting the child during this impossible time. As with Jaehaera, the prince has primarily been confined to his chambers whilst the North has held power at court. She has never had the chance to converse at length with either Baela or Rhaena, given that she had been betrothed to Daeron and decidedly upon the other side of the war despite her own House’s neutrality. Cregan remains a few feet away, but his presence is far more commanding than anyone else’s upon the stairs. Remembering what he had told her of his own past, she watches quietly as Aegon begins to speak.

“The trials for those who betrayed the crown and forsook their honor will be held overmorrow,” The prince’s voice rings out clear and solemn, echoing the dullness of his amethyst eyes. It is clear that someone his elder has written the words for him to speak, and Daphne wonders if the presence of the princesses at Aegon’s side indicates that Cregan has made some sort of agreement with them. If they truly care for Aegon, the lady does not imagine it will be hard for the three to come to an arrangement that suits all of their desires for the betterment of the Realm and for the future of boy. “Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, shall preside over the trials as Hand of the King.”

If Daphne is shocked by this announcement, she is joined by nearly every noble within the throne room. The young prince is quick to depart following the brief words, the guards following him closely as he exits through one of the arched hallways at the sides of the staircase by the head of the hall. Rhaena and Baela linger within the hall for a moment to speak to Lady Alysanne Blackwood, as the rest of the lords and ladies turn to each other to whisper their opinions upon this appointing quite fiercely, everyone seemingly eager to get their thoughts out at once. Many of them still regard Cregan with obvious distrust, seeing him as a foreign presence unfamiliar to their Southern customs and traditions. Daphne need not cast him long looks, wondering upon whether he might plunge the capital into chaos or refuse to leave. The skirts of her gown brush delicately against the grey stone flooring as she nears the steps, caring little for the eyes that are drawn to her boldness.

It matters not when he is already searching the room for her, storm cloud eyes sparking as he catches sight of her approaching. The slight softening of his gaze does not go unnoticed by her, although it shall not be dwelled upon when she is sure her own eyes melt slightly as he crosses the space between them to meet her. Hushed voices murmur around them, the raising of brows at the pair of them. What might have been excused as courtesy before is now blatantly seen as it is – favoring. For formality’s sake, despite what little good it will truly do given how her public closeness with the Lord of Winterfell shall surely spread in wild rumor throughout the castle halls that night, Daphne scoops fabric of her gown into her hands and gives Cregan a low curtsy.

“I wish to offer you my congratulations, Lord Stark,” Her chin remains tucked towards her chest, her eyes modestly lowered as she slowly rises up, shoulders pulling back gently. There is a light flutter to her lashes as she blinks up at Cregan, gazing into his eyes for a moment before a soft amusement tugs at the corners of her lips with the knowledge that many of the nobles present shall fret over how long the Warden of the North will remain and power and what anarchy he might cause. The volume of her speech decreases with a twinkle in her eyes, her head tilting slightly as she holds his gaze. “It is only a temporary position, I am sure, but I offer you felicitations nonetheless.”

Only the glimmer in her stare, scarcely more visible than a lighthouse in a midnight tempest, gives any hint at the teasing quality to her words. Cregan seems to find amusement in them, reflected in shrouded subtlety within his own eyes as he looks down at her. “So eager to be rid of me, my lady?”

The tilt of her head deepens at this, a soft breath through her nose escaping as her eyes briefly cast their gaze sideways in an attempt to conceal the delight dancing across her countenance at his low and rolling timbre and the peaking of his Northern humor. While the other nobles at court might view her as bashful and shy in the presence of the imposing lord, Cregan alone catches the humor within their exchange, the affection in her expression that softens her lips and her stance. It is exhilarating, reading her as one might a tome in the restricted section of a vast library. Giving another quiet breath, Daphne’s voice adopts a sweeter quality reminiscent of their earliest conversations. “Oh, but how dreadfully boring it should be without you here, my lord.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow in almost playful scorn at this, only a fraction of an inch but enough that she can sense a teasing retort sharp on his tongue. Yet no time is spared for further conversation, as one of the Northern lords is standing so close to the Lord of Winterfell that he is practically breathing down Cregan’s neck and clearly has a pressing matter to discuss. Daphne dips her head in a demure excusing of herself, her attention drawn to the twin princesses once more as Cregan’s deep voice is heard softly behind her. Perhaps it is far past time she makes an attempt to speak to them, regardless of her hatred of their father. It is hardly their fault, nor should she allow personal feelings to interfere with a potential alliance. Her mother might have her head if she did so.

The conversation goes as well as Daphne might hope, given the initial uncomfortable tension that stems from lingering feelings from the war. Both Baela and Rhaena seem weary from their efforts to reason with Cregan over the imprisonment of their grandfather Corlys. It appears that the Sea Snake has indeed been in contact with the lady’s mother, for the princesses mention that their families now share similar goals of bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Yet at the remarking upon the favor she has gained with the Lord of Winterfell, all Daphne Tyrell can do is merely nod and brush the inquisitive questions aside, not wishing to speak upon the matter at length when Lady Blackwood is rather close. She still cannot pinpoint the nature of Alysanne Blackwood’s relationship with Cregan, but her spies brought rather comforting rumors of a romance with Lady Sabitha Frey, who additionally fought in the battles during the war. If Daphne truly wishes to be amiable, she might invite the ladies all to tea in the gardens prior to their imminent departure, but she cannot surmise if Lady Blackwood would find it worth her time and does not wish to offend.

A page hovering rather obviously to her right catches her attention, the young boy’s eyes widening in order to alert her of a message over which he fidgets with an anxious need to deliver. A caving pit begins to form in her stomach, sinking as if grains of sand in an hourglass that has run out of minutes, has her quite certain she is already aware of what it is he has come to tell her. Offering the princesses a soft smile and an apologetic excuse for taking her leave of the conversation, Daphne straightens her posture and attempts to forge a steady peace within her mind before addressing the boy. Giving her a deep yet clumsy bow, the messenger looks up at her with brown eyes, straw-colored hair turning golden in the morning light streaming in from the windows.

“The Tyrell traveling party has entered the city, my lady.” The page’s voice is rather high-pitched, echoing the sharp twinge of her heart that rings in her ears like the plucking of a poorly tuned lute. Rather than allow this to show upon her face, Daphne pinches her lips together in a tight smile, eyes lackluster as she nods in measured acknowledgement.

“I see. Thank you for informing me.” It is all she can force herself to say, her mind racing too hurriedly through the realization that her family has finally returned to King’s Landing after three long years. The boy is already scrambling to convey the news to others it is pertinent to, leaving her to clench her fists tightly as she begins to make her way towards the doors. The lords and ladies still lingering within the throne room are occupied with conversation over the trials, and the sudden appointment of a new Hand of the King, but she has banished every thought from her mind rather than how she might handle the impending betrothals her mother is certain to bring upon her today. For her sake, for her sister’s sake – she must have her wits all about her. Everything else in the throne room becomes a muffled, distant blur and murmur.

The sharp echoes of her steps are snuffed out by the ruffle of her skirts overtop, her attention solely focused on her worry and not at all upon Cregan, who takes notice of her rapid exit and draws out of his conversation quietly before the page can approach him. His arm reaches forth to catch her softly as she passes him, the touch startling her out of her thoughts. After a brief flash of panic, unsure of who has grabbed her, Daphne exhales a sharp breath that has the lord furrowing his brows deeply over his concerned eyes.

There is no need for him to speak his worry aloud upon his tongue, it reads as clear as a voice within his grey eyes. The depth of his frown, a tightening jaw, the soft brush of his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve. Her own expression, guarded yet yielding only to him, only at his waiting gaze, is undoubtedly legible to him as well. Lips part with practiced ease, the habit of brushing her worry aside to prevent any from seeing and weaponizing her own fear against her a hard one to break. It bends for Lord of Winterfell. The soft dip of her brow as she allows a flicker of concern to dance across her visage indicates all Daphne wishes to convey. And hardly is there need to explain with further words when he knows her troubles already.

“My mother is arriving.” Her chin lifts defiantly as she speaks, yet she knows well her tendency to yield to the Lady of Highgarden. Cregan does not release Daphne’s arm from his hold as she might have expected, but instead tightens his fingers around her slightly. As if he does not wish to let her go. After a moment of silence, the lord nods heavily, taking a slow breath.

“Let us greet her, then.”

The Tyrell banners fluttering delicately within the salty sea breeze from the bay embeds a compelling nostalgia like a polished stone into her chest. Olive fabric decorated with roses of the purest gold, the same flags that used to fly high above the whimsical days of garden girlhood, a dreamlike haze of giggles and flowers in her hair. When she had emerged from her carriage all those years ago, the very one currently wobbling up the cobblestone streets to the gates of the castle, she had still retained the wide-eyed innocence of her youth. It had ended then, so Daphne believes, when the soft satin slippers of a baby blue shade had touched the rocks in the gated courtyard. And her days had been filled with challenge after challenge, shaping and molding her into the woman she has now become, not out of a desire to ascend the power chain of the capital but out of a primal need to survive. But it was not strife that had turned her into a woman; it was death. The loss of Helaena was the end of innocence and childhood and dreams.

Survival is intertwined in all of House Tyrell, binding ancestral words that are less about power and more about permanence. Incessant and persistent, tangled in the history of the soil as much as the roots of ancient trees. The growth is everlasting, ever-changing, weathering the various seasons as the woods do. While many Houses suffered great losses during the war, House Tyrell remained as they were before, watching and waiting until the ideal time to involve themselves would be. As the carriage draws near, the white horses tossing their golden manes in the brilliant sunlight beaming down upon the courtyard, Daphne Tyrell straightens her shoulders with poise and intention, a slow breath inhaled like syrup into her lungs. So tightly clasped together are her hands atop her gown, she wonders if she might break a nail off accidentally.

At her side stands the Lord of Winterfell, ever the sturdy presence she might rely upon. He had offered his arm for her to steady herself upon, but she cannot accept for fear that her mother might see the genuineness with which the lady attends to Cregan. It would be a poor start to what shall likely be a stressful few days even with the absence of any additional issues. The lord does not press the matter further, eyes lingering heavily upon her visage. Even in the earliest days of their knowing each other, when he had only seen the glass figurine of a lady she had presented to him, never has Cregan seen Daphne so uncertain. Every muscle of her body seems to be drawn tight and strained, her eyes as sharp and watchful as a bird of prey. All of this appears to leave her figure in a sudden melting as the carriage door opens and a young lady can be seen stepping out gently, a footman by the open door to hold the girl’s hand as she descends the stairs.

Any concept of rigidity abandons her, the shimmering skirts of her dress bunched up in her fists as she all but runs to the carriage. As the girl finally steps solidly onto the ground, Daphne’s skirts are released hurriedly to fall about her feet as she throws her arms around the young lady, who gasps in soft excitement and returns the hug just as tightly.

“Sister!” It is a bright squeal, girlish and sweet with sincere delight. Cregan could have surmised as such without the word being spoken – the younger lady looks so much like Daphne that he finds it almost amusing. The same hair, arranged in a similar manner, the same color of her eyes. A dress in a soft shade of pastel green that the lord knows he has seen Daphne wear upon at least one occasion. The lord watches with gentle patience, eyes soft as he witnesses the loving reunion.

“Oh, Cassia.” The breath Daphne responds with is one of complete relief and gladness, her eyes closing as she holds her sister tightly in her arms. After a moment she pulls away, her gaze pleased and mirthful as she beholds her sister’s face. In the three years since they last saw each other, Cassia has indeed grown into her beauty as their mother spoke of in her letters. The little girl who would race after her, always trying her utmost to keep up in the flowering fields outside the castle walls, has become quite the comely young lady. This reminds Daphne pointedly about the unavoidable fate of an upcoming marriage for both of them, a thorny reminder that nestles itself into her troubled chest.

“I had not known if you would meet us right away,” Cassia begins, her smile brilliant and delighted as she gives her sister another tight hug. A soft laugh escapes her lips, the excitement of being reunited after such long years apart evident upon her pleased visage. Daphne gives a soft hum at this, unable to prevent the easy way that her younger sister brings out the gentler side of her which she normally hides behind parapets of threatening briars.

“How could I not be here to greet you? I have missed you so.” The reply is a breeze of spring air, as Daphne smiles in a warm manner she rarely bestows upon others. She reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, her mind instantly eased by the girl’s voice and presence. No more at home could she have felt if she had returned back to Highgarden, amidst the roses and fountains and string quartets playing elegant songs about the terraces. Cassia gives a nod at this, her eyes briefly wandering to the courtyard. Cregan seems to catch her attention first, and the girl hesitates, her gaze lingering upon the Lord of Winterfell with a soft worry. But the girl shall not stare – it is unbecoming of a lady to do so – and quickly returns her attention to her elder sister.

“I know,” Cassia speaks with a sweet cadence, reminiscent of Daphne’s when she is presenting herself to others, but with a twinge of hesitation. “It is only that mother was unsure of…”

As the girl trails off softly, her eyes once again flickering to gaze at the Warden of the North in silent concern, Daphne cannot help but smile knowingly. She is certain her mother has retained her belief of the Northerners, deeming a majority of them as violent savages who have brutally seized the castle and intend to behead all of those imprisoned. Cassia has never met anyone from the North, and likely has deferred to their mother’s opinions. Her heart aches at the thought of her sister worrying over her, evident by the way Cassia takes her hand and squeezes it softly, unsure if the lady is treated poorly by the Northern forces.

If only Daphne could tell Cassia that cannot be further from the truth.

Her attention is quickly drawn to their mother, the sunlight glittering off the pearls woven into Elinor Tyrell’s hair and the golden circlet that adorns her brow as she descends the steps of the carriage. A soft undulation of edelweiss and hyacinth swirls delicately about the air, catching like dew droplets amongst the salty gusts of wind from the Blackwater. Daphne releases her younger sister’s hand gently, instead taking her gown into her own hands and dipping her head low as her body sinks into a practiced curtsy of the utmost grace. Her eyes remain cast to the pebbles that are scattered haphazardly throughout the courtyard, her lower lashes brushing demurely against the curve of her cheeks. The slight squeaking of the carriage steps, the light creaking of wood, and the soft rustling of pebbles all inform her that her mother is standing before her.

“Rise, and allow me to see my eldest child’s face.” Her mother’s voice is a lullaby from a distant memory, the comfort of stories told when tucked into a feathered bed, the remnants of a midnight dessert sweet upon her tongue. For all her fear over the fate of her betrothal, nothing can surmount the nostalgia over days when her mother was her entire world and the woman who stood guard between her and the monsters curling in shadowy tendrils beneath her bedframe. And who is Daphne besides a mirrored reflection of the light from her mother’s shining glow, bound by blood and womanhood, made evident beneath the brightness of each full moon.

Her eyes are raised slowly, alongside her body, fluttering lashes indicating a hesitation and vulnerability in Daphne’s countenance. The sight of her mother’s face invokes a soft yearning in her bruised and broken heart, the organ giving a weak fluttering at the familiarity that trickles like a cooling stream through tired veins. How exhausted the lady has become, putting up each fight so fiercely for her survival over the duration of the past three years. A desire for a simpler time, for suns under which she would run with sparkling teardrops to her mother’s skirts and have all her pains and fears soothed, nestles its way beneath her skin. Her voice lodges itself into the sides of Daphne’s throat before she is able to compel it out of her mouth quietly. “I am pleased to welcome you to the Red Keep again after so long, mother.”

Elinor Tyrell beholds her daughter’s visage with eyes that betray nothing of her thoughts, a soft ambiguity resting upon her high cheekbones and daintily arched brows. The Lady of Highgarden is a vision herself in a gown of a delicate shade of gold that reflects within her eyes. There is a youthful beauty to her despite her age, perhaps from the graceful manner in which she carries herself. “You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you.”

At the soft murmur, Daphne gives another dip of her head, pleased to at least have presented herself in a manner deserving of her mother’s praise. Any further thought is skillfully hidden at the approach of the Lord of Winterfell, Elinor Tyrell’s attention turning subtlety to the man as he makes his way across the courtyard. He gives a respectful nod, standing by Daphne as Cassia regards him with slight worry and her mother with quiet intrigue. Cregan’s presence at her side is that of a beacon upon a moonlit hill, ever-grounding and drawing her towards him as if they belong in each other’s orbit.

“I am honored to welcome House Tyrell to the Red Keep, Lady Elinor, Lady Cassia,” His rumbling voice retains a noble quality as he extends his formal greeting, met with a gentle nod from the lady’s mother and a soft curtsy from her sister. The sun has begun to shift towards the height of the sky, illuminating rays descending from the clear blue expanse. Daphne’s attention is intentionally kept away from Cregan, not wishing her mother to catch a glimpse of the warmth he extends to her reflected in her own eyes. “I am Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. If there is anything I might do to assist during your stay, do inform me at once.”

“That is quite kind of you, Lord Stark.” A voice as fresh and lovely as field grown flowers, yet Cregan cannot say he underestimates the Lady of Highgarden to any degree. The drifting of voices from the courtyard as the remainder of the traveling party dismounts their tired horses and begins to stretch after the long journey distracts Daphne momentarily, before she brings a soft and saccharine smile to her lips and gazes up at Cregan pointedly.

“Perhaps you might accompany my sister about the halls whilst I show my mother to her chambers?” It is a delicate question, referencing an earlier conversation they had in which the lady had asked for a quiet moment alone with her mother prior to anything else that is to occur that day. Cregan holds Daphne’s gaze, seemingly searching for the truth upon her state of mind, but readily accepts her request. His arm is extended to Cassia, who blinks in soft concern and casts her eyes to her elder sister.

“Lord Stark shall be a perfect host, I assure you.” Daphne consoles the girl in a hushed tone, her hand reaching forth to take Cassia’s comfortingly. “You must be aching to stretch your legs after so long in the confines of the carriage. Go ahead.”

After a moment of gentle hesitation, Cassia agrees with a delicate nod. Her hand wavers slightly in the air but she takes Cregan’s arm as gingerly as she can and offers him a wary yet grateful smile. Both the lady and her mother watch Cregan lead Cassia towards the archways of the inner doors, his deep voice floating through the air behind them as they walk.

“There is someone I wish to introduce you to, my lady…” Attempting to not smile softly at Cregan’s leading of her sister over to the young Lord Blackwood, whose face has gone quite red at the sight of the girl approaching, Daphne returns her attention to her mother who is staring after Cregan with a thoughtful look upon her face. With a soft breath, she looks down and does her best to conceal any traces of true affection from her mother’s watchful observation. Yet there is no need to hide physical indicators of the truth of her feelings, not when she has written the depth of her trust for Cregan all over the rocks and pillars of the courtyard in messy script by entrusting him with her sister.

The exchange of words between the two women during their walk to the guest chambers of the castle is pleasant and easy, most of it revolving around the young Lyonel Hightower who will soon be turning four years old. The lady is filled with a soft melancholy to hear of the milestones her brother has been meeting in her absence, a flickering of regret over missing nearly all of his young life burning tightly in her chest. There had been no way to escape to Highgarden during the war, not when it meant abandoning Helaena and her children, and thus she had been unable to return to her younger siblings. Only once has she seen the little boy – with a sickening sadness she realizes that the child will likely not recognize her the next time they meet.

As they enter the guest chambers, the door closing behind them with the softest clicking of the metal latch, Daphne lets out a slow breath. Her back remains pressed to the deep oak of the door as she watches her mother survey the chambers with a neutral expression, the woman’s hands folded delicately at her front in the very same manner that Daphne always does. Waiting eyes track each step her mother takes, studying the way she carries herself as if the lady has not done so more than a thousand times in her life. Her shoulders instinctively lower to mimic the Lady of Highgarden as the woman stops to select a single white rose from a porcelain vase, twisting the stem elegantly within her hands. Each thorn is skillfully avoided.

“You have tamed the Northern wolf rather well.” Any sweetness from Elinor Tyrell’s voice has faded away, slipping from her mouth like dripping honey down the bark of a tree. Instead, Daphne is met with low and quiet observation, certain and deliberate. As her mother’s eyes remain cast to the rose, the lady lets out a quiet huff of breath. There is an understanding of necessary practicality between them, yet Daphne cannot say she has been nearly as practical as she ought to be given the precariousness of the power balance at court.

“I would hardly say so.” She breathes back in response, her gaze dropping to stare at the wooden floorboards that had been polished that morning for the arrival of guests. They shine with such pristineness that the lady finds them almost mocking as her own distorted reflection is whispered back to her. Her plan to manipulate Cregan had all but imploded, leaving in her a vulnerable situation with the Lord of Winterfell that her mother will certainly have an opinion upon. While Daphne trusts him, the Lady of Highgarden will want insurance regarding this trust being rightfully placed and the lady cannot offer much save for his kindness to her and her own instinct.

“Nonsense, child,” Elinor Tyrell muses coolly, setting the rose down gently among the others in the pearl vase. The woman’s gaze returns to assessing the room she shall be residing in during her stay at the castle. “I must admit I am surprised at your success in the matter. I had read your reports and yet the situation appears far better than I could have imagined.”

It is a compliment, as clear as she might hope to receive from her mother regarding the issue. Elaboration does not need to be made upon the failing of her initial plan, and so she merely taps her fingers in soft rhythm against the wood of the door she rests her back upon. While she wishes to seek after Elinor Tyrell’s opinion upon Cregan Stark, it is a matter that holds little importance when the setting sun of her maidenhood draws lower in the sky. If only her mother held more hope for Cregan, perhaps she might set her attention to a marriage pact that Daphne would genuinely wish for herself. But she knows well where the Lady of Highgarden has set her sights.

Sea rather than snow.

“But that is not what you wish for me, is it mother?” A quiet phrase, spoken through heavy lips and accompanied with gloomy eyes. Her mother turns at this, a spark of amusement in her gaze at the sharpness retained in her daughter’s mind over the larger game at play. The woman observes Daphne calmly, taking careful note of the dullness of her daughter’s expression regarding the line of questioning. It is no surprise to Elinor – while most young ladies would have been ecstatic to be engaged to a prince, her child had never seemed to care much for her match to Daeron Targaryen. Another Targaryen had long ensnared the innocence of her young heart, but Elinor had hoped the revelation of the boy’s true character had woken Daphne from childish notions of romance and love within a marriage.

“You wish to know of my plans for your betrothal then.” The Lady of Highgarden purses her lips softly before she lets out a long sigh, shaking her head at her daughter. It is marginally more difficult to convince a daughter who has since reached twenty years of age to marry as her parents see fit – Elinor had been considerably annoyed when Prince Daeron had died and broken off a sixteen-year-long engagement.

“It has been on my mind as of late.” Daphne does not need to possess any fantastical ability to know her mother finds her having an opinion upon the matter of her own marriage rather tiresome. It is tradition, longstanding and binding, for ladies to have their husbands selected by their parents. The intense glare her mother fixes her with only serves to agitate her further, and she remains drawn against the door.

“If you must know,” Her mother begins with another shake of her head, exasperation written as if in stone upon her face. “I believe you shall marry Lord Corlys Velaryon’s heir. A bastard, in truth, but he has been legitimized and will be the next Lord of the Tides. Being the Lady of Driftmark would suit you, and Lord Alyn’s fleet would be an excellent ally to possess.”

Repressing a sardonic breath that threatens to escape her lips at the confirmation of her suspicions, Daphne feels her nails digging into the wooden door. After a moment of composing herself, gaze remaining downcast to the floor, she speaks in a measured tone. “Have you arranged it already?”

“The matter has been proposed to Lord Corlys, but the betrothal will be solidified once he is freed.” It is said with such certainty that a heaviness pools about her stomach, her eyes closing briefly as she attempts to reason with herself over the marriage. It could be far worse – she had briefly wondered if her mother mind demand she marry Lord Corlys himself, despite the man being over seventy years of age. She knows little of Lord Alyn, save him not being a trueborn son of the Sea Snake nor a dragon rider. And while she is frustrated at this decision, her true worry is for another.

“And Cassia?” Her eyes finally meet her mother’s with a stubborn glint as the question leaves her lips, searching to find if yet another of her hunches shall prove true.

“Lord Lyonel Hightower is in need of a wife, so it would seem.” Upon this matter, Daphne cannot prevent the disapproving click that bounces from her tongue, fixing her mother with a glare of equal ferocity. She is nothing if not Elinor’s daughter after all. As she crosses the room towards the other woman, the reasoning she has spent many long nights sorting out is finally given voice.

“The Hightowers are already your bannermen. You need not vie for more power in their House, not when you have reminded them of the true strength of Highgarden,” After the realization that Garmund Hightower’s position as a ward of the Tyrells places the Hightowers in a delicate situation, Daphne doubts any rebellions shall be happening in the coming years. Not when Lord Lyonel is still quite young and wholly inexperienced in battle. Additionally occupied with seducing his stepmother, whom he is rumored to be terribly obsessed with, and being altogether horrid to his serving staff. Surely, her mother cannot be eager to send Cassia to such a horrendous fate. Not when there might be more to be gained elsewhere. “If you use this rare opportunity to secure an alliance with a House in the Riverlands, it will extend our influence.”

Elinor gives a scoff at this, her stare hardening as her daughter’s stubbornness is presented to her once again. While Daphne rarely argued upon orders given directly to her, she is so very insistent regarding Cassia. As it has always been, the Lady of Highgarden is both impressed and annoyed by the fierceness with which her eldest child is devoted to her baby sister. “Cassia does not possess the skill needed to manipulate and manage so far from Highgarden.”

“She is young, she will learn.” DAphne reasons with a soft shrugging of her shoulders, her frown deepening as she attempts to persuade her mother against such a decision. As they had taken their leave of the courtyard, the lady had noticed the gentle way Lord Blackwood had lifted her sister’s hand to his lips, and the soft delight upon Cassia’s face at the meeting. After years of searching for an acceptable match for the girl, Daphne will be damned if her mother sentences her only sister to life at the mercy of an ill-tempered and spoiled lordling.

“You were fully prepared to manipulate those in court at her age.” With a look of disbelief cast coldly to her daughter, the Lady of Highgarden squares her shoulders and tilts her head in a manner the implies she does not mean to be argued with upon the topic. Given usual circumstances, Daphne would then have lowered her eyes and her voice and deferred to her mother’s wishes. But after witnessing Helaena’s marriage, and the marriages of other ladies within the castle, she knows all too well that it is not only Cassia’s heart that is in danger. The physical suffering resulting from matches made with cruel and violent men shall last the entirety of the union. Still, blatant attitude will not convince her mother of anything. The lady’s voice simmers to a softer note.

“Cassia is…she is less like you and I, mother.” There is a fondness in Daphne’s voice she cannot hide, but fear decorates the edges of her words like lace stitching. The lady cannot lose another. It would surely kill her, if she is not already dying slowly from the grief that snaps heartstring after heartstring, plucking her damaged heart like a harp. Let her bear the burden of being born a daughter, so that her sister shall not.

“She is naive.” Elinor dismisses with a wave of her hand, eyes closing with weary ache as she thinks after her more tenderhearted daughter. How she birthed two girls who are so very different from herself, she could never understand.

“I will speak to her.” Daphne’s brows have drawn together, her lips pressed together tightly as her hands are folded in front of her skirts with elegant poise. Yet her gaze remains stubbornly set, insistent and certain as carved marble. “I simply believe it to be in the best interest of our House.”

“Of our House, or of your beloved sister?” The question is wielded as sharply as a dagger, burrowing up to the hilt in Daphne’s mind as her mother regards her with thinly veiled disappointment. There is a heavy silence that falls within the air of the room as the women regard each other with equally intense stares. Long gone are the days when Daphne would hide at the sight of her mother’s cold glare, her heart plummeting at the very thought of letting down the only parent who paid her any mind. For so long has she obeyed every order to the utmost, earning her place as her mother’s darling and trusted spy at court. But the war has shown Daphne what is truly frightening in this world, and no amount of lingering childhood guilt can convince her to abandon her sister to the hands of a senselessly violent man.

“Both can be true, can they not?” She speaks finally, a quiet reaffirming of her stance. Elinor’s shrouded gaze remains cast to her daughter, repressing the urge to remind Daphne that their House only remains standing because of the effort Elinor has put in to keep it from falling. Instead, she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly.

“Do not forget what a crucial time this is. I would hate to see your emotions stand in the way of our ambition.” Elinor’s voice is reminiscent of the rattle of a snake slipping through tall grasses, fangs withdrawn but always present. Venom that has been used before, to keep House Tyrell alive and strong.

“…Yes, mother.”

The warning is as clear as any.

The matter of an imminent betrothal weighs as heavily upon Cregan Stark’s mind as it does on the Lady Daphne Tyrell’s. Despite the flurry of tasks he is swept up in as the newly appointed Hand, the concern lingering in the corners of his thoughts does not cease nor waver. It is with no surprise that after he has finally concluded the last issue of the day, his steps carry him with a heavy quickness to her chamber door. So familiar has he become with the carvings of the wood upon it, with the cool touch of the metal latch. With the way his knocks resound in hollow bursts through the thickness of it, and the soft adjusting of metal as Daphne pulls the door inwards to herself. Each time she gazes upon him with such soft surprise, even if she should not expect anyone else when the crescent moon is so high in the inky darkness of the night sky.

But as she opens the door to greet him, Daphne is given momentary pause by the intensity of his eyes, gazing down into hers with such needing questioning that she is left silent for a second after she catches sight of his stoic visage. Unsure of what has him in such an agitated state, the lady blinks up at him with a quiet wondering. Cregan could give a breath of relief at the sight of her, not already swept up into the arms of some lord who might not take note of the way she adds three sugars to her morning tea or the glimmer in her eyes when she finds something amusing yet does not wish to show it. It burns within his chest like a raging wildfire then, the crux of weeks of learning her person and finding himself taken by each detail he has seen.

“I apologize for the lateness of the hour,” Cregan murmurs, the depth of his voice sending her stomach rolling about softly. There is a certain hum to the manner he speaks when it is only them alone that she cannot quite place, but the physical effects of it have only grown stronger in the hours spent in only each other’s company. “I had wished to come earlier but there were a number of pressing matters and time soon slipped away from me.”

Lingering in the torchlit hallway, Daphne cannot help but allow her eyes to soften at the way the edges of his noble silhouette turn gentle and golden in the warm glow. Her lips melt into the smallest ghost of a smile, her lids lowering as she gazes up at him with knowing eyes. She too has been hoping for his company, having grown used to receiving it several times a day.

“You need not worry. Being Hand of the King is an involved position, I am sure.” Easy does the speech flow from her lips, rich and sweet as dessert wine when she presses one hand to her doorframe. Her lithe fingers curl about the wood delicately, and the crackling of the hearth can be heard from inside her ambiently lit chambers. A nightgown of ivory coloring adorns her body once again, scarcely obscuring anything from Cregan’s wandering eyes. She does little to hide herself, the hauntings of a smile widening in delighted amusement when a thick swallow is forced down his throat at the sight of her chest draped in such delicate silks. When his eyes flick up to hers again, she casts her gaze down so he might not see.

“It is,” He acquiesces, seeming rather weary from such a long day. But no amount of exhaustion or concern over the trials occurring tomorrow can keep Cregan from her doorstep, not when she might be betrothed at any moment. “And yet I still wished to see you, my lady.”

Her heart is sticky candle wax beneath a wick that has been set aflame, dripping into the cavity of her chest warmly. The Northern practicality that others might view as brashly straightforward heats her body as no other words can. There is little she can do to stop her smile from blooming fully upon her face as she steps back slowly, her eyes holding his with a quiet reflection of his own desires that she is sure he does not miss.

“You may come in, Lord Stark.” It is a hushed murmur, spoken to him before her back is turned and he is left to stare after her retreating figure once more. Taking a slow breath, Cregan finds himself closing the door as he has before. But this evening, there is a crackling of electricity in the air as there has not been during other evening meetings. An understanding seems to be on the precipice of being reached, yet Cregan cannot help but wonder if Daphne knows the depth of his affection.

Slowly, he makes his way into her chambers. She has returned to the task she was attending to before Cregan had arrived – fixing her hair for bed in front of a full mirror the shape of an oval. With some hesitation, he follows her to the far side of the room and sinks slowly into the edge of her bed, watching the gentle movements she makes with half-lidded eyes. His gaze meet hers within the mirror, and he lowers his chin quietly as he speaks.

“Has your mother arranged a match for you yet, my lady?” It is as direct as Daphne expects him to be, and yet an amused breath is taken through her nose as she breaks her eyes away from his. Her hands make their way through her hair as a soft, tired smile finds its way to her mouth. The firelight from across her chambers casts the room in a warm yet dim glow.

“She has her sights on Lord Alyn Velaryon,” The lady informs Cregan with a pointed resignation, attempting not to sound too annoyed or frustrated by her mother’s decision. Her fingers slow in their movements as she attempts to imagine a life at Driftmark, by the sea and sand. She has sent her spies out to learn more about Alyn, yet she does not imagine she shall receive information about his character until far later in the week. Whether for Cregan’s sake or her own, she attempts to reason out the circumstance. “It could be far worse. He – is of my age and has a good title.”

“Do you wish to marry him?” The quickness of the serious reply has her closing her eyes for a moment. Daphne has half a mind to turn upon Cregan and ask if he imagines she wishes to marry a stranger she has never met nor has any concept of at her age, but it is not his fault nor is it fair of her to take out such frustrations upon him, he who is so very kind to her and has enchanted her so.

“Not particularly, no,” Daphne begins truthfully, unable to stop the honest words from fleeing her chest. Cregan has a way of rendering her all but incapable of lying when he has gotten her alone, which is both refreshing and concerning. “But I have evaded my fate for far too long. I must fulfill my duty to my family.”

Cregan cannot tear his attention from her, his heart striving with sharp pull in his chest as he watches her quietly accept that which she herself has said she does not wish for. Her chin tilts down, her hands running softly through her hair to arrange it delicately atop the silk of her evening slip. Gazing at herself softly, Daphne cannot help but smooth down a portion of the fabric, her hand running across the silks that cascade over her breasts and down to her stomach, fingers embedding a slow trail down the map of her body. His jaw tightens, his lips twitching slightly as he stares at her figure, her back turned to him as she busies herself with her hair. The fierce spirit he has seen her wield to fight for Cassia and Jaehaera – will she truly not utilize it for herself? Cregan Stark is sure in this instance he is not a fool. Surely, Daphne must know as well.

“And your duty to your heart?” His eyes do not waver. There is not need to elaborate further, not when he is sat there upon the edge of her bed, not when he has been allowed into her chambers at this hour before. As he has been allowed past the thorny towers of her heart, as he has been allowed the soft trust she has placed in him. He shall ignore it no longer. The lady’s body goes rigid, her lips parting dryly as she stares down at the curved foot of the mirror with wide, unblinking eyes. While she too has grown keenly aware of this fire they share, she had not imagined he would speak so brazenly of it. But Cregan is of Northern blood and custom, to his last.

Cursed heart, flickering to life only to be put to the sword once again.

“It is but a dream.” The edges of Daphne’s voice break upon her lips, glass and a ghostly whisper that lingers in the space in front of her as it falls from her tongue. Her heartbeat has become a steady thrumming in her ears, pulsing wildly beneath the skin of her wrists and beneath her collarbone. Her chin is softly lifted to meet Cregan’s stare through the mirror, and her breath is taken from her lungs by the intensity of his eyes. He shakes his head slowly, never breaking their shared gaze. An almost painful need to speak has lodged its way into his chest.

“If it is a dream then I do not wish to be woken from it. I cannot no longer hide what your discerning mind surely already knows when you look upon me.” The last word is spoken as a deep breath, as if he cannot fight with his own self-control for a moment longer. His brows draw lower, furrowing to show the weight of the longing and aching within his body that he cannot rid himself of. Daphne can do little but stare at him, lips parted, a sweet wariness melting in desperate uncertainty upon her face as he continues.

“Your being consumes my every thought, my every breath. It is your eyes I search for in every room, your presence I long for at my side, you who has captured my heart and my soul wholly and without question. I came to this castle as a conqueror and instead find myself subdued completely by you, at your mercy and willingly upon my knees,” His eyes are anchored to her visage as a ship in a storm seeks a lighthouse, every word spoken with careful intent and heavy honesty. There is nowhere else he can look to, not even in a hall of thousands. It cannot be undone. “For but the chance that you consider another for your husband.”

A soft exhale of breath puffs through her parted lips, the flicker of firelight tracing the curves of her hips and thighs, nearly visible through the sheer gown. Burning fear and want has pooled in her eyes like golden starlight as a timid whisper is barely heard in the silence of the room. “Please do not jest.”

“I am not.” The words are low and instantaneous, rolling off his tongue like thunder from a long-brewing storm, clouds low and grey as the hues of his lidded eyes. Heat has spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, settling warm and aching between his thighs as his intense gaze tracks her every movement, her every breath. Each rise of her chest is watched hungrily, earning him an expression similar to that of a wolf who can no longer hide its raw and heady desire. One of his tightly closed fists is flexed slowly, fingers extending by the digit as he attempts to maintain what little control he has left. It is not enough to prevent him from rising from her bed, the plush feathered mattress indented in his wake, his steps heavy and intentional as he crosses to stand at her back. Daphne can see his reflection in the mirror, his chin lowered as his eyes rake across her figure with such evident need that a soft heat pools between the curves of her thighs. A large hand finds its place upon her lower back, sliding itself into the slot where her hips begin to curve as she turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide and waiting.

Cregan’s fingers curl softly into the silk, bunching up the pearl fabric within his hold as he presses his hand more firmly into her back, drawing her attention completely. Heat rises to her cheeks at the possessiveness of the action, despite the clear manner in which he is giving her room to draw away. His presence is imposing behind her, broad shoulders looming over her frame, but he does not corner her. The gesture is an asking, a sacred offering, a holy promise of the reverence he will use if he continues to hold her body beneath his hands. So hot is his touch, Daphne expects to see a burn like a brand when he pulls his hand away next. But she does not wish him to. Caution curls in hesitant tendrils within her hollow chest, but they are waved away as mere wisps of smoke. If he gazes down at her with any more softness, his expression might melt beside the flames flickering in the fireplace. It is then that she realizes she has never been looked upon with such obvious love and devotion, by someone whose every action serves to reinforce this certainty. His voice breaks upon the whispered repetition of his own words, as if he is almost afraid of the need he betrays by speaking once more. “I am not.”

Her own palms are hesitant as they reach forth cautiously, wanting yet wary, head against heart. Curling into the softness of his clothing, she presses her hands to the swell of his chest as she turns, her back to the mirror as she faces him fully. Fear has been dissipated, scattered to the delicate night breeze slipping in through the crack in her window. Cool and fresh, laced with the salt from the sea. No sooner than when her fingers bend to take tentative hold of the fabric of his tunic, her eyes flooding with approval as Daphne dips her head – yes, I want this, I want you – does he kiss her.

His mouth parts her wanting lips with a desperate yet constrained hunger, emboldened by the soft gasp against him and the tightening of fingers into his clothing rather than pushing him away. Her brows furrow sweetly as she allows Cregan to press his lips against her own in open-mouthed kisses, deep and messy with the overflowing from weeks of repressed desire, dispelling any sense of propriety and sensibility. As his other arm wraps tightly around her back, he solidifies his hold upon her waist by grabbing firmly at her hips, allowing her figure to melt against his as he holds her upright. As the curves of her breasts meld into his chest, a resonant hum escapes the back of his throat and lowers into a growl when he coaxes her lips further apart, sliding his tongue hotly overtop of them before it slips into the plush softness of her waiting mouth. This earns him another whine, sweet and breathless, that has Cregan hardening faster than he might care to admit. To soothe her, one of his hands pulls Daphne in closer to him, briefly pausing the conquest upon her lips to lift her up into his arms.

It is with utter ease that he raises her from the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing as he leans in to kiss her hungrily once more. Her legs wrap naturally atop his hips as he settles her there, barely preventing them both from stumbling backwards and shattering her mirror, yet still bumping the dark wooden armoire and sending the trinkets atop it shaking. As she begins to meet his eagerness, discovering how she might endeavor to match the passion which with he moves his mouth against her own, neither one seems too occupied with the state of the furniture. His hands have settled into the plush skin of her upper thighs, grasping handfuls of fabric and flesh as he kneads deeply into her warmth. Her hands reach up to tangle in his locks of reddish hair, running through his soft strands and twisting themselves thoroughly. So long has Daphne wished to touch, to brush, to hold. Cregan gives a small groan at the sensation of her fingers pulling his head back, momentarily ceasing his conquest once more to gaze into her eyes, lidded and with pupils blown wide from newly released lust. Her own eyes melt at the sight, at the beauty of him, at the depth of the affection and desire within her heart. One hand trails down to caress his cheek, cupping it tenderly in her hold as their eyes search each other’s for confirmation of the mutual desire for continuation. When Cregan is certain that Daphne’s need matches his own, he is quick to shift her weight in his arms, crossing back to her bed in a few large strides.

As he bends his knees to kneel upon the end of her mattress, one hand reaches up to cradle her head gently as he lays her down before him, hair spread out beneath her and her cheeks rosy from the exertion of kissing him. Her chest heaves in labored breath, nightgown skewed upon her figure as she gazes up at the Lord of Winterfell with blossoming desire. Never able to deny her, she who blooms within his world as a rose amongst the snowiest peaks, Cregan lowers his body overtop of hers as his lips find her mouth once again.

The glowing fire burns low in the hearth, casting golden light upon their joining bodies in the soft satins of her poster-framed bed. The sheer silk canopy does little to hide the sounds of sweet and aching desire released from her lips as Cregan shifts his weight up onto his arms, trailing his lips and nipping teeth along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. At this, she tilts her head to further expose herself to his ardent kisses. The feeling of a mouth upon her skin is new, yet Daphne feels far less anxiety than she might have expected. So long as it is Cregan Stark whose hands and mouth forge untaken paths onto the expanse of her body, lips pressing against sensitive pressure points as her pulse thrums beneath in hot pools, there shall be no fear in her heart.

Just as it had been before, her given name unburdened by title is a sacrosanct promise birthed upon his reddening lips. She breathes his in return, wholly as sacred, reverent and reminiscent of a vow.

Daphne’s hands once more find their way into his hair, raking fistfuls of soft locks into her grasp and tugging just so, earning her another delicious groan from his chest and a stuttered rocking of his hips against air. The action spurs him on further, as he pushes himself up by straightening his elbows and shifting back onto his knees. With his now free hands, he curls his fingers into the thin silk of her evening slip. The fabric gives way pliantly in his strong grasp. Another gasp falls from her open lips as the clothing tears, her breasts dipping slightly as they are exposed to the warm air of her bedchamber. Cregan does not give her a moment to consider embarrassment or worry as he immediately lowers his head, capturing one of her nipples with a deep kiss around the peaking bud. His eyes close at the taste of her upon his tongue, the other breast attended to with his hand as he kneads and pulls at the soft flesh with a feeling of near relief.

On many an occasion his eyes have been drawn to the lowness of her neckline, plunging precariously atop her breasts that bounce as she walks and turns to speak to him. Finally, he can lick his tongue across the rounded nipples as he has been desiring to, his cheeks blown as his head lowers and raises from the intensity with which he sucks at her. Her back arches at the feeling of his warm mouth over her sensitive chest, suckling from her as he pulls her body closer. The ache between her thighs is a demanding flutter that grows bolder with each movement of his tongue, echoing in yielding moans and whines.

Cregan rolls his hips against hers tentatively – needing more yet wishing to be tender with her, wishing to treat her as devotedly as he can given the heat that has pulsated into his throbbing cock – as he switches to lavishing attention to her other breast. Daphne squirms beneath his touch, yet her own waist lifts to meet his as she feels the prominent outline of him straining against the material of his pants. The silks of her nightgown have bunched up about her hips, leaving her cunt covered only by the thin fabric of her small clothes akin to a flower whose petals have curled back to allow the sun to reach its depths. As he continues to map out each plane of her figure with his mouth, descending to the soft skin of her stomach after he rips at her slip further, his fingers slowly reach through the fabric to brush against her wet core. Her head falls back against the satin sheets, a sweet sound filling the air that only serves to encourage Cregan further.

“Cregan please,” Her whine is far more desperate than she wishes it to be, but the neediness causes Cregan’s cock to twitch within the constraints of his clothes. The dampness of his fingers, feeling the physical manifestation of her desire even through cloth, has him leaning back, wrestling to free himself of his pants and breeches. Daphne presses her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the aching throbbing that has been caused by him before reaching down to wiggle her hips and slide her small clothes down the smooth expanse of her legs. But he shall not leave her wanting, not when he can alleviate the pressure with his own fingers that resume their ministrations once he gently moves her thighs apart.

“As you wish, my lady.” An instantaneous agreement in a tone that rumbles with burning desire, pulled from his chest with no resistance. If she were his enemy, she would surely render him all but helpless – a knife to his neck at her mercy, if only to keep a tear from ever falling from her eyes, save the ones she sheds from the pleasure he might bring her. Her folds are wet and pliant as he massages his fingers into them softly, spurred on by the lovely sounds dripping from her lips as an ambrosial substance. His mouth returns to eagerly press kisses to each moan, tongue diving past her lips as he rubs small circles into her clit.

With each movement, she is willing to spread her legs further apart for him, hips fluttering to meet the calloused pads of his large fingers. The scent of him is in every breath – heavy musk and sweet pine, hints of leather and the distant memory of fresh fallen snow. As he draws back for air, she lifts her head to his neck, mimicking the hungry kisses he had lavished upon her collarbone. When her teeth sink into the juncture of his throat, his hips jerk sharply and he drops his head, hair falling over his face. Soothing a sweet kiss to his skin immediately after, Daphne presses her mouth repeatedly to the sensitive skin as Cregan slides his thick fingers across her wet pearl. Her hips roll as ocean waves against his touch, her mouth leaving reddening marks akin to bruises upon the skin of fresh fruit, laying claim to the Warden of the North as he has allowed her to. As she begins to feel flush across the entirety of her body, Cregan aligns his hips with hers to lower his cock to rub against the wetness of her cunt, sliding easily across her as she takes a sharp breath. His head hangs above hers, eyes longing to see every expression that flickers across her visage as he rubs himself against her, catching upon her pearl and dipping into the pliant folds only just so.

Never has Daphne been touched in such a way, but she is not ignorant of how the act is performed. Only, she had not believed it to be so pleasant nor so hot, burning as a raging wildfire within the lower realm of her stomach as Cregan groans from the feeling of his cock sliding against her wetness with such ease, a clear indicator of the pleasure she experiences from his touch. It had seemed like a chore, a burden forced upon ladies in order to create heirs. Even if she had not been instructed on the sequence of events during the process, she knows she would instinctively crave Cregan within her at the sensation of him rubbing with such strong and deep strokes against her. But he does not press inside of her, remaining atop her folds as his breathing grows labored.

“Please, I need you,” She breathes, hating the whine that escapes upon the last word, eyes nearly teary from the pulsing ache between her thighs where her body believes his cock should be. Cregan feels his self-control slipping off a precarious cliff at her insistence, struggling to deny Daphne anything when she asks in that lovely voice, coated in such genuine desire and passion. But he is an honorable man, who cares for her far too much to claim her maidenhead before he marries her. Inhaling a sharp breath, he continues to roll his cock against her wet cunt with long strokes. “I need more.”

Cregan might die within her bed. His voice breaks as he rasps over his words.

“I cannot,” It is meant to soothe her, spoken in a deep and gentle voice, but only elicits a soft whine of displeasure from her as she begins to move her hips to match his. Each time he rubs against her clit, or her aching entrance, her mind grows hazy and soft. “I wish to, truly, but I cannot.”

For all his flourishing desire, primal and raw as it may be, the love he has come to harbor for her within his heart and his adamant desire to protect her outweighs his natural instinct to take her, to lay claim to her, to have children by her as he so desires. He cannot besiege her cunt as if some cruel conqueror, not when he has made no promises to earn him that right. Cregan Stark shall do right by her, as soon as he might be able to, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes upon the truth of her soul. One hand reaches down to rest softly over the gentle curve of her stomach, his hips jerking in a sloppier rhythm against her as the idea of her carrying his heirs fills his mind once more. To make her Lady of Winterfell, to give her the family she spoke of wanting, to protect her until the end of his days within his ancestral homeland – the desires he has been harboring in secret can no longer be denied.

Daphne does not argue further upon the matter, wholly desiring to honor his wishes and make Cregan feel as comfortable as he has made her, but the distress must show upon her face for he leans down. Pressing a loving kiss to her temple, his lips murmur softly against her forehead to calm her tenderly. “I am sorry, Daphne. It is only that I wish to have you as my wife.”

Her eyes widen at his voice, at the slight pressure he applies to her stomach as he keeps his hand pressed firmly to her skin. It is not long after the words are spoken that he rocks his hips forward, angling them so that he might rub against her clit in heavier strokes. When he captures her lips once more into his, she feels him groaning into her mouth as liquid heat pools between her thighs with a sudden stutter of his hips, coating her folds in his seed. Her own release is hot as it washes over her, her entrance contracting in rapid flutters as a warm burst of pleasure flutters through her nerves.

As her pleasure simmers beneath her exhausted muscles, Daphne fears briefly that he may simply leave her there alone, as she has heard tale of men doing after seeking pleasure. But the Northern lord slowly rolls off of her body, eyes closing briefly as he presses a soft kiss to her lips and pulls her gently into his arms. His hand brushes hair out of her face, her cheeks shining with sweat from their passion, as he murmurs sweet praises into her hair until she feels sleep claim her.

Yet the vultures circle high above his head, close enough to hear the flapping of wings, only kept at bay by the army of Northern wolves. The Southern nobles bide their time, allowing him to retain power for now. But the more men that are arrested, the more fear begins to spread, festering in the Keep like an open wound. The glares he receives when he walks the halls are more venomous than ever.

His informational network has been firmly set into place. Sooner rather than late, the scorpions will be dealt with and justice brought to both Aegon II’s poisoners and the final remnants of those who might wish to see the young prince dead instead of upon the Iron Throne.

As Cregan sits in front of the hearth in his room, his jaw tenses. The storms of his eyes stare down into the flames as they splutter and jump atop the thick logs they burn upon. A poisoned leader and a young heir. Is it fate that has him once again in this circumstance? Only this time, he is not child. Justice will be carried out properly, and swiftly. One of his fists clenches tightly, his expression growing darker.

How deeply he longs to return north, to smell the pine and feel the crunch of snow beneath his boots. To breath freely, in clear air, rid of the stuffiness of the Red Keep and the general oppressiveness of the capital. The Lord of Winterfell is quite glad to have spent his time far from here, away from the choking toxicity that seeps through the walls and penetrates minds and bodies alike.

He rubs a hand over his chin as her visage flickers through his mind.

Perhaps it is no surprise to Cregan that Daphne Tyrell is the way she is when she has spent so much time here. She has roots planted firmly within the weeds and she blooms beautifully in the muddy and trampled wreckage left from the war. So much so that even when presented with lies and deception, two things Cregan has little taste for, she has ensnared his attention beyond what he can excuse as primal attraction.

It would be a lie to say that he does not find his eyes trailing her figure, absorbed by her lips and their fullness. Any man with eyes and a cock would do the same, Cregan thinks. No, it is the little flicker of truth that he sees from time to time, beneath the honeyed words. He cannot help his own curiosity, and the desire to see more burns in his chest brighter than the fire in front of him.

One of his arms comes to rest on the side of the plush armchair. Everything in the castle is so ornate that it is almost nauseating. Longing for the simplicity of Winterfell echoes about his body.

Daphne remains the sole noble who consistently seeks out his presence, regardless of rumor or what she witnesses. The woman is frighteningly persistent and quite smart; if she were not so determined to manipulate him to her whims, Cregan might want her as an ally. It would be a relief, to have one amongst the vipers who is not trying to sink their fangs into him with the intention of poisoning him. She certainly wants something from Cregan Stark, but at least she does not want him dead.

He believes it so, anyways.

With the twisting of a wry smile onto his lips, Cregan finds himself with the distinct thought that if the lady wished him dead, he might just be so already considering how much food and wine he has consumed in her presence. Still, the lack of clarity regarding her true intentions claws at the back of the lord’s mind. His hand comes to rest under his chin as he considers what he might do to shed light on the truth of the matter.

It is not an impossible task. While Daphne has forced their repeated proximity for her own interest, Cregan has learned more of her just as she has learned more of him. And she is not the only one who is accustomed to the intricacies of political power dynamics. Cregan’s eyes narrow, pupils reflecting the glowing firelight.

The hour draws rather late as Daphne flips through the pages of a thick tome within the castle library. Hair falls carelessly into her face but she cannot find herself bothered enough to brush it aside, her bottom lip bitten slightly as she focuses on the words. A single lantern rests on the long wooden table, illuminating the pages as she lifts her hand to turn yet another. Her brows draw together as she continues.

The library has remained rather empty since the war began. The delicious irony of this is far from lost on her. Yet it serves as a relatively untouched sanctuary in which one can gather their thoughts or simply have a moment of peace. The tall walls of books extend out in a vast hall of knowledge, the shelves turning into each other at different points to create soft pools of shadow one might easily hide themselves within to escape the world around. The long wooden tables are dotted with carefully covered candles, many of which remain unlit. The large windows have the thick fabric of their curtains drawn closed, as the sun has recently set.

Reading serves her in more ways than one; much is to be learned from the pages of history and so much of it is wholly ignored. Lessons that have already been learned throughout time, forgotten. Only to be learned again a hundred years later, and the same price paid. She is cautious to consume as many historical texts as might be possible, lest she fail to find valuable insight that might change her fortune. With a sigh, she lowers her chin onto her hand as her elbow rests on the cool wood of the table. There is no need to be proper when the only other visitors to the library are aging maesters who pay her little mind as they shuffle through books as dense as the one before her now.

This is why her back stiffens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots and a pressure to each intentional step that has her holding the edge of the cream page in her hand so tight it wrinkles beneath her fingers. The library does not seem so sacred any longer.

Daphne need not turn to know whose presence has interrupted her solitude. The steps come to a stop behind her chair and the lady is met with the scent of pine and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. With delicate fingers she releases the page crinkling in her grasp as the man behind her walks around to the other side of the table. He lacks hurriedness, languidly making his way to the chair across from her and pulling it out, a soft scraping sound echoing as he does.

Her face remains innocently neutral as he sinks down, all heavy limbs and a low tilt to his chin, into the chair like molten material in a blacksmith’s workshop. With a gentle touch, she brings together the worn pages of the wide book to close it, and one hand lingers delicately atop the cover. A sweet surprise catches in her eyes as her eyebrows raise.

“I cannot say I was expecting you, Lord Stark.” Slowly, Daphne opens the conversation with an amiable cadence and tender softness about her face. She wonders briefly how he knows where to find her, but before the thought can fully take form in her mind, Cregan dips his head.

“I was told by your handmaiden that I might find you here if I wished to speak with you, Lady Tyrell.” The Northern depth and slowness to his tone still sends chills down her spine. The library is far from cold. At his words, she blinks slowly, lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks. Her pause is not performative, but genuine surprise at the revelation that he was purposefully seeking her out – going so far as to knock on her chamber door to call upon her.

Adelin has been smart to send Cregan directly to Daphne, even without warning. This is hardly an opportunity she will pass up upon.

“And found me you have.” Delicately honeyed words fall between them with the parting of her lips. Her hands reach up to push lose hair from her face, before she takes a deep breath and settles further into her chair. She does attempt to keep the intrigued glimmer from the depths of her eyes; it is only that she has been pursuing him with such ardent fervor that it delights her to see this take a more interesting turn. How repetitive it can get, her faux gentle smiles and his polite Northern reservation. The heated looks down each other’s bodies go poignantly ignored in her head.

Cregan beholds her wordlessly, head tilted back and chin lifted to observe her coolly. There is a simplicity to her gown today as well, as it had been during their private dinner. The gentle swell of her breasts can be seen more prominently in this dress, even if the lord has found the other ones dangerous enough. “Aye, I have.”

Daphne knows well when something is wanted from her. And here sits the Lord of Winterfell, who she knows for certain has not sought her out for the darling pleasure of her company. Taking a breath through her nose, her shoulders rise, the low neckline of her gown drooping slightly further with the movement. “Might I be of some assistance, Lord Stark?”

Cregan’s grey eyes glimmer at the quickness of her saccharine reply, the direct yet demure way she demands his cards on the table immediately. There is no sound from the rest of the library, the castle’s inhabitants seem more occupied with other matters for the evening. His hands come together on the surface of the table and her eyes drift down, catching a glimpse of the veins on the back of them. “I have a matter which I would very much like your thoughts upon, my lady.”

Taking another slow breath, Daphne nods thoughtfully and her gaze falls to the single lantern upon the library table. A sheepish hesitance flutters across her face as if brought about by butterfly wings, and she presents him a tiny smile. “It would be my honor to offer my opinions, my lord, but I fear I know little of warfare or the ending of it.”

Round doe eyes cast themselves upon his face, decorated with the gentle glow of humility.

“It is you of all people who might offer insight,” Cregan’s hands tighten against each other slightly as they rest between them. His broad shoulders lower, his stern expression folding to become impossibly more serious. A moment of leisurely anticipation stretches between them in the pause he takes, his gaze seemingly searching hers. It is with utmost delicacy that she maintains her passive, pastel pleasantness. “It is a matter of a proposal.”

Her blood pounds in her ears. Tension spikes through her head, sharp behind her eyes and heavy on her shoulders. Cregan opens his mouth to explain his reasoning further, his eyes gazing slowly about the library as he speaks. But Daphne pays his following words little mind, frozen like a doll left out in the cold by a little girl who had been called in for supper. All slow blinks and that eerie, easy smile upon her lips.

“I have grown so keenly aware of my lack of allies at court…” His voice is a distant drone, she pays no attention to the heavy raise of his brows and the weary sigh that sinks his figure. While he continues, she finds herself lost in the maze of her own thoughts, spinning around lost and confused. The walls of her fears loom over her, draped in thorns and ivy, at the prospect.

It should not be as shocking as it is. They are the same age, both young and unmarried, both in need of something from the other. And yet – is this not the physical manifestation of all that she has been dreading since the passing of her betrothed? To be married off to some lord she barely knows, subjected to a life at the hands of a husband who is just as likely to treat her callously and cruelly as he is to respect her, no matter how handsome he might be? Her mother told her to win his favor, not marry him. But in truth, if this is what is takes for peace to be achieved, then she is wickedly selfish for considering a mad dash for the doors.

Her mouth has gone dry and her fingernails dig so sharply into the fragile skin of her hand that she fears she will draw blood and stain the book cover below it. Daphne continues to smile.

“Would it not serve our houses well?” Cregan’s voice drives a swift dagger through her turbulent thoughts, and she readjusts herself in her seat. Her hands fall to her lap and she agrees decorously, forcing her smile wider when she dips her chin.

“I cannot say it is not…a kind offer, Lord Stark,” Daphne murmurs with delicate, plucking cadence. She swallows, hoping to rid her tongue of its dry heaviness. The library, its calming atmosphere of scrolls and books and candles, has suddenly lost all of its usual comfort. The shelves about the hall loom ominously above her, trapping her beneath their massive structures. Cornering her here with this man and his propositions. “House Tyrell is honored by your consideration.”

Cregan watches her carefully. Studying her for a glimpse of masked pride and pleased simpering. This is what she wishes, is it not? Power and wealth through an ambitious match.

Daphne reaches up to twist a strand of hair out of her way with a purposeful breath, wisps of lashes aflutter once more. Her beating heart is a weighty stone inside of her chest. “If it is what you wish, I would hardly feel the need to present my opinion upon the matter, my lord.”

“It is only that you know your sister so much better than I,” Cregan tells Daphne with a raise of his thick brows, a hand coming to rest on his chin as he leans back in his chair. His gaze remains cast to a bookshelf, as if lost deeply in thought. “Perhaps you might have some insight upon the nature of such a union.”

There is a heartbeat where not a single thought occupies her mind. Daphne merely looks upon the man in front of her with empty, unblinking eyes. Her smile twitches at the corners, the edges of her cheeks rounding at the movement. It feels as if her hands are beginning to grow numb, as if an hour has passed before her dry lips part with disturbed slowness. “I beg your pardon?”

It is all that she can manage to breathe, giving her a moment to collect the wild frenzy of thoughts that burst forth. Where there had been silence only a moment ago, floodgates have been shattered to splinters as the torrent of words spill into her brain like the ocean itself has descended upon her mind. If she could sound alarms, she would. Their blares would better suit the panic in her heart than the silence of the castle library. The nonchalance of Cregan’s tone is not lost upon her.

“Your sister – the Lady Cassia. I have been told she is quite beautiful, and of a very agreeable disposition,” The Lord of Winterfell talks as if he is simply commenting upon the shade of blue in the sky or the taste of red wine at dinner. It has been some time since she has been this shellshocked. This utterly thrown by anyone, this completely caught vulnerable and off guard. She knows her smile no longer reaches her eyes; it barely remains upon her face at all.

The obvious question is to ask him why he would not simply wish to marry her – Daphne knows she has not imagined the way Cregan Stark rakes his eyes down her figure and about her face. Like a man starved. But far be it from her to understand the whims of men, Northern men even less so. She gives another slow blink. He is waiting for her to say something, she realizes. With a swallow, Daphne does at least attempt to carve something resembling pleasance onto her features.

“She is but five and ten, my lord.” Her lips hesitant around the words, betraying a slight nervousness that makes her blood spike with irritation and worry. Rapidly, she attempts to pull for excuses she can offer to prevent him from marrying Cassia. The task proves rather difficult given the quickness with which she must accomplish it. Daphne can feel fear dulling her senses, which only sets the feeling alight further. The jumping of the candleflame between them nearly makes her draw back.

“The age of marriage, is it not?” Cregan easily provides an answer with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. Daphne knows his words to be true, but it does not stop her eyes from darting about. She lowers her chin, trying to bring a semblance of composure to herself. There is too much to think of at once; she needs time to consider.

But in her head, she knows with a sinking feeling what her mother would say. Her eyes grow dull as she realizes that if Cregan follows through with this proposal, her mother will happily send Cassia off with this stranger if it means securing peace and the future of their House. His words cannot leave this room. The realization rises with a crushing swell in her chest.

“I do not believe she would be a suitable match, in truth.” There is a sharper edge to her saccharine tone than has ever been present, and she does not meet his eyes as she usually does. She imagines her sweet sister, who adores flowers and the fields of Highgarden and the sunshine, whisked away to a castle surrounded by snow and ice and dying trees. “Cassia is a delicate girl. I cannot imagine she would fare well in the North.”

Cregan finds it a refreshing change of pace to see her squirm for once, the delicate balance of her performance shattered by his words. Yet he still has not found the answer he is looking for.

“She would adjust, in time,” Cregan offers politely, his red hair shifting slightly to frame his face. Daphne does not notice. “If it is for the sake of peace. Especially if she is as agreeable as is suggested.” A slight smile spreads to his face.

Her eyes flick to his with the sharpness and severity of a sword.

And she holds his gaze like this for quite some time. For the first time since their meeting, she looks at him without performance. Daphne Tyrell meets him upon the battlefield of their game free of theatrics and fabrications and nauseatingly sweet illusion.

Her eyes are piercingly jagged, wider as they bore into his own, and her lips are parted. A loose strand of hair falls into her face, catching stray candlelight in a haunting glow. She is just as beautiful, Cregan realizes with a start, when she is staring him down as if she intends to have his head on a spike by the end of this conversation.

Daphne will have just that before Cregan Stark lays a hand on her sister. He will spend his final moments in agony if he believes he will take Cassia anywhere, if he thinks he can demand her. She will not be threatened by the prospect of war or the destruction of her House. The Lord of Winterfell will soon see just how many men she will let burn before she sacrifices her sister to be taken by a man who wants a quiet and submissive bride to use as he wishes.

“It would seem I misread you, Lord Stark,” It is chilling to hear her true voice after Cregan has grown so accustomed to the gentle manner in which she presents even the few biting words she has allowed pass her lips in his presence. There is a haunting emptiness to the phrase and in her eyes that takes him aback. “It does not happen often.”

Her brows lower darkly, a shadow passing over her gentle features. There is a barbarous sting in her tone that pulls to mind images of snakes, still yet poised to strike. Disgust curls at her lip, the look she gives Cregan as her eyes rinse over his figure dripping with poisonous distaste. “Here come the carrion birds, whispering of frost-bitten savages who will wet our gardens with blood. I watched and I waited and foolishly drew the conclusion that as great of an irritation as you are, you are not a conqueror. Not a man who would seek a young girl as a spoil of war.”

Daphne does not blink one time as she speaks. Eyes wide as saucers, thinly veiled anger simmering beneath her skin. “Do you think I will allow you to sit across from me and demand I hand my only sister to you because it will bring about peace? Because it will ensure the enduring security of my great House? I imagine you did.”

A huff of cold laughter twists its way past her lips. The pumping of her beating heart feels akin to nails being hammered into her chest. Anything else she would gladly sacrifice to fulfill her mother’s wishes and win Cregan Stark’s favor. But never this. “No, my lord. You shall not have my sister, nor peace.”

With the screech of a chair dragging against wooden paneling, Daphne pushes her chair back and draws herself upright, body as tight as her lace corsets. She glares down at Cregan with such ferocity that he briefly wonders if she might try to fight him then and there in the castle library. But she merely glowers at him, scoffing with repulsion as she sheaths her biting voice to an eerie whisper. “Find your submissive bride among the many Houses that will happily offer up their daughters as lambs to slaughter. You will not lay a hand on my sister in this lifetime.”

His eyes catch sight of the way her hands are trembling.

Daphne spins with such violence that her skirts billow out in an angry storm cloud about her, the heels of her shoes echoing furiously in the silent library. Never in her life has she been so utterly fucked, nor acted so desperately stupid and brash. Her shaking hands ball into fists as she stalks towards the library door. Fear prickles at every nerve in her body, the immediate regret washing over her in a chilling wave.

The sound of a chair tipping over makes her jump, her shoulders jerking and her hand hesitating on the gold doorhandle of the grand library. Daphne does not know whether to freeze or run, unsure if Cregan is getting up to strike her for her insolence, or to simply leave. It was fatal idiocy to speak to him as she did; she of all people knows this truth painfully. She turns her head over her shoulder, palms shining with sweat, catching a glimpse of him as he approaches.

Anxious helplessness claws its way up her throat, stifling her breath at the sight of his imposing figure drawing nearer. She does not have enough time to open the door – he will reach her before can leave. Neither can she imagine she has much time to scream. As breath evades her further, Daphne parts her lips to murmur a shaky apology over the thrumming of her rapid heartbeat. But his voice carries out into the space between them first.

“Please, my lady, a moment.” Cregan speaks the words quietly, his rich Northern tone softer than she has ever heard it. Her back presses into the great oak door as he draws nearer, stopping in front of her. She does little to hide the worry upon her face, her brows drawn together warily. There is a horrible guilt that has begun to spread in Cregan’s chest.

Confusion stirs in her gut as Daphne looks up to find only a stoic concern in his eyes, his lips parted slightly as he searches for the words he wishes to say. A part of him wants to reach out, to try and comfort her, but he imagines it would do little but set her off. “Lady Tyrell, I did not wish to frighten you.”

His voice is scarcely above a hum in his deep tone, the quiet and tender manner in which he presents it only serves to deepen her misunderstanding. Daphne gazes up at him with suspicious worry, examining his countenance for some sign of ploy or deception. A heavy sigh lowers Cregan’s shoulders, drooping his figure slightly. This is why he despises these ridiculous political games. “I have no intention to marry your sister, in truth. She shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

A shudder of a skeletal breath rattles its way out past her lips. Her eyes flicker, crinkling with confusion, as she regards him with wary unease. But there is nothing but seemingly genuine worry for her wellbeing as the Northern lord hovers hesitantly in front of her.

“I do not understand.” There is an almost petulant softness to her words as Daphne blinks up at him, clawing for an explanation so that she might regain a semblance of control as she remains pressed to the oak door, Cregan only a step in front of her. Gazing down upon her with such eyes.

The lord opens his mouth to speak but finds any explanation he can provide for his actions will only seem cruel. Cregan has been so blinded by the toxicity of the Red Keep and the politics played by the nobles that he has acted with prejudice against her, assuming her some power-hungry bird of prey, trying to sink her talons into him to raise her own status. But here in front of him is a lady who loves her sister, who would risk incurring his wrath to tell him directly that she would do anything to protect the girl. Cregan does not consider himself someone who toys with people’s feelings. Perhaps the capital has had worse influence on him than he realizes.

“I only wished to determine your intentions with me,” The man quite nearly winces from how stiffly aware he is of the callousness of his actions, and how terribly he is excusing them. He tilts his head, a pained expression flickering across his face like the lighting of a tea candle. “I had believed you wished to marry me yourself. I could not determine whether it was for your own gain or your House so I…”

Daphne sees it quite clearly now, even through the dense fog of her anxiety. It is a good plan; she can give him that compliment at the very least. Had he used anything aside from her sister, she might have caught on. It is Cassia above all that is her weakness, especially after the death of Helaena. She is foolishly and vulnerably blindsided when the girl is brought up. Cregan Stark likely does not even know to the full extent. Truly, a masterful scheme.

But the anger burns hot in her chest, fueled by her fear, the flames wildly licking and spitting about in her lungs.

Her wide eyes look up into his as the realization settles upon her face like an unforgiving dawn. A heavy silence falls between them and Cregan finds himself longing to fill it, to apologize further for behaving in a manner unbecoming of his character.

“You must think yourself very smart, Lord Stark.” The lady’s tone is dangerously low and airy. That sickly sweet smile peels its way onto her face, a disconcerting ghost of the look she has given him time and time again.

Cregan’s heart plummets in his chest. All he had wanted was to know the truth. He has seen it, clear as day, the depth of the love Daphne has for her younger sister. The bravery and ferocity with which she will meet him with in order to defend the girl, even in the face of the lady’s own apparent fear. His head tilts, his brows drawing together in desperate apology.

“Lady Tyrell, if you would please let me –” But Cregan Stark is not given the chance to do anything nor say anything. Daphne spins quickly, hand gripping the golden doorhandle to yank the library door open with such force that Cregan steps back. Her body slips through the partially open door. It closes with a violent slam and Cregan is left staring at the wood, alone in the vast and silent library.

When Daphne hears the muffled sound of a man’s footsteps behind her as she walks down the hall, she does not bother to turn around. The hour has grown late and most of the castle has drawn away to their bed chambers or to skulk in shadowy corners. She parts her lips to snap something rather barbarous about not wishing to be followed, but the words are lost in her mouth as she feels a hand grab her wrist.

After much heavy pacing, Cregan Stark finds his boots carrying him to Daphne Tyrell’s bedchambers. He simply cannot allow the night to pass without the deliverance of proper apology. Despite getting the answer he had been seeking – the truth behind the nature of her character – there is no satisfaction in his chest. Far be it from him to engage in such deceptions, and yet he has offended and frightened her in a manner that is so deeply against that for which he stands. The capital will not turn his heart rotten nor dispel the sacrosanct honor he strives to uphold.

Guards are stationed outside of her door as the lord rounds the corner, the Tyrell rose blooming in vibrant gold against the silver of their breastplates. Her personal guards, who had not been stationed there when Cregan had knocked upon her door earlier that evening. A deep unsettling wariness finds its way into his mind, and it only increases when the guards move to intercept him as he draws nearer. The flicker of torchlight upon the walls ripples across the shining armor as Cregan’s narrowed eyes flick between the two men.

Daphne can hear the muffled exchange of words through her thick door, her eyes jumping sharply to stare at the oak. Sharp anxiety shoots through her frayed nerves, but simmers to a hum at the deep rumble of a Northern tone. The fire in her hearth crackles as she sits on the floor in front of it, the plush rug beneath her partially balled up in one tightly closed fist. With an eerie stillness, she rises from her place upon the ground and steps slowly towards the echoes of voices, her bare feet soft against the cold wood.

When she draws the door inwards, opening it, all parties involved in the exchange turn their heads to meet her. She hovers at the edge of the frame, one hand curling delicately against the thick wood as the remainder of her body remains obscured. Her guards turn and the taller one, Leo, gives her a deep and apologetic dip of his head.

“I apologize for the disturbance, my lady, we were sending him away at once.” Leo assures her firmly, one hand resting atop the shining hilt of his golden sword. But her tired eyes fall upon Cregan Stark’s face instead. He is beholding her with faint surprise, his lips parted and brows low, his red hair loose about his face and falling down to brush the tops of his shoulders. His eyes rest on her lips – far from the first time such a thing has occurred, but it is not with half-lidded desire that he stares now. It is shock.

A ripening cut pulls at her lower lip, ruby against reddening and swollen skin. Her eyes reveal nothing as he finds a stern and questioning expression twisting its way onto his face as he takes a slow step back. One of the guards moves to further push Cregan away, but with an unreadable neutrality, Daphne shakes her head, loose hair spilling down about her face and over what little can be seen of her ivory nightgown.

“It is alright,” Her voice is hoarse, as if the act of speaking is foreign in her throat. Her grip tightens on the edge of the door before she draws it open further. “If Lord Stark wishes to speak with me, he may.”

There is no need to acquiesce to his wants, nor to prevent her guards from running him off. Performance is no longer required as Daphne has already destroyed all of the time spent crafting a bewitching fantasy to charm him with. But now that her heartrate is weak and exhausted, the veins connecting to her heart too tired to thrum with the rush of adrenaline and anxiety, she can see Cregan quite clearly. There is nothing false about the firm worry he extends silently to her, a demanding question barely bitten back upon his tongue.

“But Lady Daphne –” Leo begins with a start, concern in the man’s eyes for his lady. She shakes her head again, stepping back in an unspoken invitation for the Lord of Winterfell.

“I shall scream if need be. Do not go far.” It is a quiet order, a bitter amusement bubbling in her throat but stifled down by a rush of exhaustion yet again. The guards exchange a worried look but know better than to argue with her. Cregan stands as still as a stone statue, as Daphne turns her back to him to walk further into her room. His stormy eyes trail after her, uncertain if he should ask her if she truly wants him to follow her inside. Yet his feet carry him forward before his mouth can form words, accompanied by the closing of the door behind him. The sound echoes with a quiet tolling of finality that Cregan cannot identify.

Daphne’s chambers are expansive and comfortable, the large bed on the far side covered in satin and silk blankets and a mountain of fluffed pillows at its head. The warm oak posters of the bed spiral upwards, a sheer canopy of pink fabric shimmering softly in the firelight of the hearth. Two plush chairs stand before the hearth, near a thick rug that Daphne stands upon. There are shards of glass at the base of her bedside table, shining like small knives as they catch light, and interwoven into puddles. A bunch of dried roses rests upon the floor, scattered haphazardly, their crisp petals soaking up the water that had once been in their vase.

Cregan’s eyes cannot be torn from her figure, and he imagines that would be the case even if the castle around them began to collapse at that very moment. Her hair is completely loose, messy strands falling in front of her face and down her back, and her eyes are dull and red-rimmed from the remnants of shed tears. There is a gaunt look to her skin, only strengthened by the small wound on her soft lips.

Even though it was her own decision to invite him into her quarters, Daphne has to resist the urge to squirm under the heaviness of the Northern lord’s stare. It is too steady, too intense, and her eyes narrow in challenging response despite herself. When her lips open with a callous twist, her voice comes out dry and rather cold. “Have you come simply to stare at me, my lord?”

“What has happened?” The heavy lowness of the phrase morphs it into a demand rather than a question. Cregan’s hands are gripped in tight fists, his shoulders raised. The lord is always serious, but the severity of his tone has her remembering just who this man is – the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf from the North who has forced King’s Landing into submission and rules in all but title. Towering within her chambers, mandate weighty upon his lips. The storm clouds upon his face darken as she does not answer immediately. “I have only just seen you, but hours ago. Can I not take my eyes off of you for a moment?”

The growl in his normally politely resigned tone sends a chill down her spine. Daphne does not understand the rough urgency of his voice.

If she asks after it, she will discover Cregan does not understand it either.

Unconsciously, her fingers reach for her reddening wrists, her eyes lowering and gazing about the room while a syrupy swallow makes it way down her throat. Cregan’s eyes flick down, taking sharp note of the marks that blossom upon the skin of her arms. His anger burns hotter, and when he meets her avoidant gaze, it is clear that he wants an answer immediately.

Letting out a huff of breath, stopping just short of muttering something about brutish Northern impatience, she turns elegantly. Wrists wringing in her hands, she lowers her eyes and opens her mouth, shoulders drawn back gracefully even in the disheveled state of her appearance. “I do not know, to be perfectly honest, Lord Stark.”

Her eyes find their way to the fireplace, willing herself to still her hands and folding them over top of her stomach. She smooths a wrinkled portion of her nightgown before continuing, her back partially turned to him. “I was not paying much mind to where I was going, the hour was late. A hand came upon my wrist and when I pulled towards someone, I screamed. He smelled of wine and strong spirits and my shouting must have made him panic.”

A slight wobble of her damaged lower lip makes Cregan’s heart plummet further. This is not how he wishes to see her, eyes dim and thinly veiled anxiety covered with a cloak of indifference. He has grown used to the pleased glimmers in her pupils when she believes him to not be looking, that bright intelligence reading his every move and word. The sound of the crackling fire fills the pause.

“He struck me when footsteps could be heard and then ran. He did not say what he wanted from me. He did not need to.” The vacancy that occupies her stare is ghostly, and the burdening truth hangs between them weightily. Neither of them is a fool. Her chin lowers, lashes against the tips of her cheeks when she pulls her gaze to the floorboards. The rug atop them is soft upon her feet.

Cregan takes in her bruising wrists and the cut upon her mouth, before his attention turns to the fallen roses and shattered vase. When she catches this, a bitter smile cuts through her thoughts and she lifts her shoulders slightly, hands clasped together as she walks towards him.

“That was my own doing. Perhaps not very ladylike of me.” Daphne muses with tiredly cool sarcasm, her brows raising. Cregan turns as she draws near, looking down at her with a cross between concern and frustration at her breezy nonchalance.

There is a dimple between his brows due to the severity with which he is furrowing them. With little effort to conceal his anger, he shakes his head slowly. “Who did this?”

“I did not get a clear look at his face.” A rush of an answer, a breath she lets out while she begins pacing in small steps, the wood panels creaking slightly as she glides to and from.

The fists at his sides tighten, pressure squeezing his fingers as he stares at her, looking every ounce the fearsome Northern lord that he is rumored to be. “Then I shall drag the men of this castle before you so that you might point him out.”

“There is no need for theatrics, Lord Stark.” Daphne fixes him with a dry look, seemingly unimpressed by the severity upon his face and the intensity with which he speaks. His visage darkens thunderously at her easy dismissal of his words and he has to force back a sharper retort, attempting to be gentler with her instead.

“It is a matter of justice –” He begins, but she is quick to interrupt with a wave of her hand. A gust of cool air blows in through her open balcony, sending the sheer curtains blowing about.

“Oh, spare me your monologue on justice and duty and honor for one night,” The words drip from a curled lip with thin irritation as she casts him a rather scornful glance, drawing her arms across her chest protectively. The fabric of her nightgown is soft against her skin. “If I wished to be lectured upon righteousness, I would summon a septon instead.”

In exasperation, Daphne gazes to the balcony with a huff, eyes falling upon the moon and stars that dazzle brilliantly in the dark night. The sound of leaves can be heard outside of her window, plants growing on the outside wall blown about in the wind. A foghorn blares in echoed tones, drifting in from the harbor.

Cregan’s jaw clenches, tightening as he wrestles back the desire to meet her stubbornness with equal force. But as his eyes drop to her lip again, he remembers with a tightening chest that he had come here to apologize to her, not to bicker like children. Before he expresses this to her, his eyes soften. “I had come to apologize, Lady Tyrell. For my actions in the library earlier that were callous and frightened you.”

Although Daphne had been quick to direct her ire at him, the start of the quiet apology draws her pacing to a pause. It is the reason she had allowed him into her chambers in the first place, that genuine concern that he displays so openly upon his face, as he had in the library once he had seen the truth of her fear.

“I had believed you to be seeking power, to marry into my House for your own gain. Hoping to determine your intentions, I wished to know whether your loyalty was stronger to yourself or the strength of your own House.” Cregan does his utmost to explain himself in a quiet yet quick tone, lest she might decide to interrupt and throw him out at her whim. The look on his face captivates her attention. “But I was wrong to level your sister as a weapon against you. I did not know – how much you love her. I am truly sorry.”

Daphne’s eyes lose some of their harsh edge as she watches the rugged Northern lord express his regret so genuinely. Rare is it that she has been apologized to, rarer still that the apology is of such a truthful and straightforward nature. Cregan stands quite still as he anticipates her reply, the seriousness upon his face giving him the appearance of a man awaiting sentencing.

“Do you think I enjoy playing darling here at court?” It is a softly posed question, her hands tightening as she keeps them together in front of her. “That this is a hobby I do for my own amusement?”

Her voice is laced with a weary exhaustion that does not quite fit her age. Cregan has heard a similar tone leave his own lips many times before.

“The safety and security of my House – a House that has no male leader at present – rests on my ability to hold my own in this twisted, toxic den of vipers. I am weak, I cannot fight. But what I can do, I have honed my skills in. I will not claim to be a saint, but I am not scheming for the sake of seizing personal power if that is what you think.” Her voice quivers slightly but her eyes remain firm as she holds his gaze steadily.

“Yet you would risk the safety of your House for the safety of your sister.” Cregan points out quietly, his hand extending out as he speaks. Daphne gives a frustrated shrug, keenly aware of her own foolishness, and shoots him a withering gaze.

“We all have something we would sacrifice the world to protect. What your suffocating honor is for you, my sister is to me.” She has always been protective of the girl, who had been her only sibling until the recent birth of her younger brother. But since Helaena’s death, the paranoia and anxiety that gather her mind in their clutches are persistent and cruel. She fears, perhaps irrationally so, of all manner of terrible fates that might befall Cassia – waking from nightmares, clothes and blankets soaked in sweat and lungs burning as she gasps for ragged breath. Especially when the other young girl Daphne needs to protect is out of reach.

Cregan keeps his gaze upon Daphne, a deep sigh falling from his lips. For a lady which such a delicate frame, she seems to love with a strength rivaling any warrior and a determination that is as clear as the moon in the sky outside her balcony. It is obvious to him that she is willing to do whatever it might take to defend those in her heart, at the risk of her own safety or peace of mind.

Daphne stalks across the room, returning to the plush armchair by the hearth. Sinking into the soft red seat, she picks up the bandages that she had been attempting to wrap around her bruising wrist. The last thing she wishes for is for someone to see and ask questions. Adelin normally assists in such manners, but Daphne had been in such a state that she had demanded to be left alone.

“Your apology has been heard, Lord Stark. You may leave.” She murmurs quietly, the fireplace casting a warm light upon her face and her messy hair. Stretching the bandages in front of her, the lady bites back a curse as she fumbles with the white cloth. Cregan watches her for a moment before a heaving sigh moves his broad chest, and he crosses the room to her with large steps. Her eyes jump up to him, slight worry and fear flickering like fireflies, but when he drops to one knee before her chair, she finds there are no words upon her mouth.

“Allow me, my lady.” The sternness to his rumbling tone makes it seem more like an order than an offer, but it is said with such politeness that despite the way suspicion swims in her eyes, Daphne pauses. There they remain, the Lord of Winterfell on his knee in front of her armchair, the golden light from the fire bathing his features. As he looks up at her, she realizes that despite the rough, masculine stature of his imposing figure, the brightness of his eyes and the soft nature of his red hair give him a fairness that she hesitantly describes as beauty.

The sound of a clock fills the darkness of her chambers, tick after tick reverberating into the silence.

Wordlessly, Daphne hands him the roll of bandages. Cregan takes no time in gingerly reaching for her wrist, taking it into his much larger hand. He holds it tenderly, intentionally drawing his mind away from the softness of her skin and the way his hand can wrap around her entire arm. The faint smell of vanilla fills his nose, and he feels his stomach jolt at the tiny breath she takes as his thumb ghosts over the pressure point on her wrist. He reminds himself to breathe.

The ivory bandages are wrapped around her reddened wrist slowly, glowing in front of the firelight, the warmth carrying over to both of them. Yet Cregan’s body has already grown hot. Neither of them breathes a word, eyes cast down to the simmering points where their skin meets. When he finishes his work, Cregan’s hands jerk back slightly, as if he has been burned. Daphne’s lashes flutter slightly at the motion, and she draws her wrists to her with a small frown. He remains on his knee a moment longer, before rising to his feet and breaking the spell that has fallen between them. Cregan swallows thickly, his eyes cast to her wrist as she stares into the fire with an unreadable expression.

“Rest well, my lady.” He murmurs to her, before his heavy boots carry him with unnecessary quickness across the wooden floor panels and out of her door.

It is as splendid a morning as can be wished; soft sunlight extending out over the rooftops of the city below, a gentle breeze that smells faintly of the sea rustling the vines that climb along the arches that are adhered to the stone railing. A great spread of food has been prepared for them, and while Daphne cannot claim to enjoy the earliest hours of the day much, she is reminded then of how sincerely she appreciates what is often presented at morning meals. The flaky pastries topped with lightly whipped creams, thick-cut toasts drizzled in honey and topped with fresh fruits, sizzled bacon in long strips that smells faintly of sweet smoke, eggs with their golden yolks glistening and sprinkled with garden herbs and salts. Quite a delicious collection has been brought up at her request, courtesy of having long since formed good relations with the kitchen staff. It is quite a beneficial relationship to invest in, according to her own silent opinion.

With a look of calm pleasure, she begins helping herself to the various foods that sit upon ornamented plates and trays. The gentle serenity on her face while Daphne carefully selects her breakfast softens Cregan’s eyes – rare is it that she looks so genuinely peaceful. The wind picks up a strand of her loose hair, lifting it languidly about her cheeks, and the delicate slip of a gown she wears is a light and neutral shade. It is a picture of natural comfort that he imagines few are fortunate enough to bear witness to, and the quiet delight that pulls at her lips when a bite of puff pastry and cream enters her mouth is not one Cregan shall soon forget. With silent certainty, he resolves to provide an impressive selection of foods for her to break her fast with the next time they dine in the earlier hours.

As a drop of thick cream graces the edge of her rosy lips, it is impossible for the Lord of Winterfell to not notice because of how intently he is gazing after her. His eyes drop to his lap, and after a moment of serious consideration he produces an ivory handkerchief and shifts in his chair so that he might lean in closer to her. Daphne’s wide eyes flick up to him in soft question as he extends his arm courteously in a subtle motion towards her mouth. One hand is raised elegantly to her chin, as she herself realizes what he is implying, but before she can brush the sugary substance away Cregan clears his throat quietly.

“May I, my lady?” His brows are drawn low over his eyes, which narrow in thought as he speaks in that warm Northern timbre. Another breath of morning wind sweeps strands of red hair against his face, and Daphne’s hand stills before it can reach the corners of her lips. She stares back at him wary hesitation – a lowering of her chin, a twitch to her bright eyes as they study him carefully. Cregan waits with steady patience, arm still outreached as his handkerchief catches a soft gust, accepting of whatever her answer might be.

Not completely unfamiliar is the tightening of her chest at his words, causing her mind to race as her heartrate upsurges in abrupt uncertainty. A pulse that can be felt thrumming low and deep at the base of her neck and the bend of her wrist, a swallow that passes with some difficulty down her throat which has gone dry. With all the tentativeness of an alley cat allowing a stranger to approach, Daphne provides the smallest incline of her head to indicate he may proceed as he wishes. It is all Cregan can do to stop the edges of his mouth from twitching upwards.

With utmost seriousness and propriety, his eyes remain firmly drawn to her lips as he presses the soft fabric of his handkerchief to the side of her mouth. Daphne is keenly aware of the way her expression becomes more pliant, her eyes half-lidded and gentler as she allows him a physical closeness she does not usually give to others. His touch is tender; it is with one slow movement that he wipes the cream from her lips. As he leans forward to complete the motion, she once again catches sight of the dotting of warm freckles upon his face, reddish like his hair. When the lord draws away, it is out of habit that her tongue darts forth from her mouth gently to lick at where the sweet cream had been, her lips rolling over top of each other before she takes a quiet breath.

Cregan feels his mouth go dry at the sight of her tongue upon her lips, where his hand had just been only a moment ago.

Pointedly ignoring the coil of heat in his lower stomach at the action, he folds his handkerchief slowly and returns it to his pocket with an especially purposeful inhale through his nose. His hand flexes with tense, displaced energy before he returns his attention to the generous plates of food that have been set atop the white linen of the embroidered tablecloth. As he reaches for a thick strip of the juicy bacon, his eyes remain drawn to his task while he speaks.

“Have you written to your lady mother regarding the matter of the Hightower boy?” Cregan takes his polished silverware into his hands, the metal catching a slight shimmer of bright sunlight. As he slices an egg topped with the crispy meat, he flicks his eyes to meet hers as Daphne nods delicately.

“I sent the raven the day we first spoke of it. I imagine she has already received it and should be sending word in response sooner rather than late.” A hand is lifted to brush loose hair from her face – she has grown used to having it arranged when she dines with others. Much time has passed since she has taken such a casual meal with someone, certainly not in the early hours of the day. Cregan leans forward at this, expression growing warier as the situation fills his mind once more. The lush vines snaking up the stone pillars and archways whisper softly in a light breeze, and the faint murmur of raised voices can be heard, carried up from the castle and capital by the wind.

It is not that Cregan is mistrustful of Daphne’s mother, it is only that he does not know the woman. She must be quite capable, to be the acting head of House Tyrell and to have spared them from any amount of loss during the war, but the Lord of Winterfell does not know if this is a comfort or a concern just yet. And the matter of a Hightower hostage is a delicate situation, one even Cregan finds himself unsure upon the morality of. Garmund Hightower is barely older than Cregan’s own son, and yet is to be utilized as such a crucial piece in this securing of peace. “In your opinion, my lady, what will your mother think of such a plot? To weaponize a child in this manner…”

He does not wish to imply that the Lady of Highgarden would possess a gentle, dainty spirit that might prevent her from carrying out such a threat, but Lord Corwyn Corbray has expressed his concern upon the matter to Cregan in private. At his delicate questioning, Daphne lets out a soft snort of a breath, her eyes glancing up to the stone roofing above them. The ghost of a bitterly wry smile bites at the corners of her mouth, and she parts her lips for a moment, eyes narrowing sardonically as she searches for the words. “There is something to be said about the determination with which my mother leads our House. I would not let her neutrality during the war lead you to think she has no taste for bloodshed. It is pointless loss that she dislikes. She shall deliver the warning to Oldtown, you can be sure of it. Surer yet that she would carry out the promise if she is not obeyed.”

Cregan pauses, halfway through chewing his bacon, eyes meeting hers as she looks back to his face. With a curt nod, he presses his lips together and swallows, having gained a clearer picture of the woman he is dealing with at present. If the Lady of Highgarden is anything alike to her eldest daughter, the Lord of Winterfell feels it is in the Hightowers’ best interest to submit and stand down. “If a peace can be secured, the Realm will be all the more grateful to House Tyrell for it.”

“The Realm’s gratitude is often of unfortunately little value, my lord,” Daphne muses with a sparkle of amusement in her eyes as she uses her knife to smooth berry jam onto a flaky biscuit. The red strawberry puree glistens tantalizingly in the clear light of the morning. “Your gratitude, in contrast, has proven delightfully useful.”

In truth, Cregan’s request to dine had been delivered on the premise of discussing the raven sent by her to Highgarden. Yet there is not much to be said upon the matter – Daphne has sent her letter and awaits a response alongside the rest of the acting council. There is no need to sit for an entire meal over an issue that could have been asked after and answered about in a swift exchange. Yet neither of them seems too eager to point this out, nor to rush through the delicious breakfast and lovely morning weather upon the terrace. She watches as Cregan piles fried eggs onto his plate, careful not to break the yolks just yet.

Despite his previous irritation at the thought of being manipulated by her, Cregan finds himself nearly smiling at her words. When Daphne had asked for something in return for her assistance at his council meeting, he had been prepared to sacrifice something that might pain him. It was to his great surprise that she asked for something so genuine and pure in nature, and it has been his honest pleasure to continue to accommodate her over the past two days.

“Princess Jaehaera’s Septa informs me that she has been faring much better since your visiting began.” His remark is tinged with soft approval, the usual gruffness to his tone shifting into a rumbling, melted ease. Both yesterday and the day before, Cregan has been true to his word and brought Daphne by the Queen’s Chambers to see the princess and spend time with her. On their way out of the rooms last night, the Septa had taken Cregan by the arm, tears in the old woman’s eyes, and graciously thanked him for allowing Jaehaera to see Daphne. From the time spent watching Jaehaera and Daphne together, it is increasingly obvious just how much the two love each other. Cregan cannot help the guilt that fills his heart, knowing that he has been separating them since his arrival at the castle.

The softening on Daphne’s face comes with a sweet promptness upon hearing the girl’s name. She gives a gentle smile, her eyes dropping to the table as a rush of pride and love swells in a tender crescendo within the often-empty hollow of her chest. “She has always been a tender-hearted child. I cannot imagine how difficult this has been for her.”

With a pause, Daphne’s smile wavers with the weight of what the war has cost. She fights back the urge to worry her teeth into the skin of her mouth, instead raising her eyebrows and letting out a soft breath. It is far too early in the morning to allow such heaviness to sit upon her shoulders and her mind – lest she wish to spend the remainder of the day bedridden by the affliction of guilt and sorrow. Instead, she forces her thoughts to return to Jaehaera. “She is exceptionally bright. She learned to read before other children her age, in both the common tongue and Valyrian. I have never had the mind for it, but she took to it so quickly. There is much upon her thoughts, it is only that she is shy.”

It is with a devoted attention that Cregan listens, eyes fixated upon the way her countenance lightens as she speaks of the princess. Within the shadow of the shaded balcony, a spread of delicious morning foods and the sparkle of genuine fondness dancing about her eyes, the Lord of Winterfell experiences the closest thing to peace that has settled upon his weary heart since his arrival to the tumultuous viper’s den that is King’s Landing. Such a feeling is reflected upon his features – his brows raised gently, his jaw eased and loosened as he tilts his head to observe her further. “The princess seems quite comfortable in your presence, my lady. You have a way with her.”

A soft breath of mirth is exhaled from her mouth, her hand absentmindedly stirring a tiny spoon into her morning tea. The cloud of milk she poured disperses into the dark liquid slowly, turning it to a gently creamier shade. Scents of bergamot and floral notes waft up to her nose in dreamlike swirls. “I have known her since she was but a babe. Spending so much time with my own younger sister has helped, since Cassia and I are rather far apart in age. I was seven when she was born.”

“A rather large gap, for siblings of a noble house. Mine own brother was only two youngers my younger, and Sara is but three.” The remark is an easy musing, low and casual as Cregan attends once more to his breakfast. It is simple to get lost in conversation with her, more so now that it is not shrouded in deceit and performance. Daphne gives a small shrug at this, well aware of how odd it is to have so many years pass between her birth and those of her siblings. While Cassia is seven years her younger, her brother Lyonel is only three. Nineteen years had passed between Daphne’s birth, and the long-awaited birth of the heir of Highgarden.

“It is not for a lack of trying, by any account. My mother did very much wish to provide a son. It only took much longer than intended.” For years, Daphne had watched silently as her mother consulted with every maester she could find, hoping for some cure to whatever might be causing the seed to not take. As the years went by, it would seem her father’s age might be the problem, but few were willing to suggest this as it is much more commonly accepted to blame the woman. Highgarden had been overjoyed when a second pregnancy finally took, only to be given yet another daughter. Daphne had not minded in the slightest – a son would have been raised as the heir to House Tyrell and Cassia was instead given to her. A darling sister, the sibling she had always wanted. “My mother tried to shield me from it, afraid it would make me hesitant to have children of my own. But I have always longed for it, in truth. Daughters as much as sons, perhaps out of spite.”

The wry smile upon her lips widens at this, some faint amusement at her own stubbornness dazzling in her eyes before Daphne takes a sip of her tea. Heavy is the breath that falls from Cregan’s lips at her words, heavier yet the way his lids lower slightly over his eyes. It should not be surprising, given how good she is with Jaehaera, but the confirmation of her inclination only serves to strengthen the draw he is becoming increasingly aware of. His lips part – and close at once, despite himself, instead swallowing thickly. A twitch of his jaw is the only indication of anything amiss in his mind. It is with decided intention that he focuses his thoughts upon those better suited to propriety and civility.

“Your lord husband shall be quite fortunate, in that regard.” Is the most restrained phrase he can manage in return. With some great luck, Daphne does not seem to be paying his reaction much mind and is instead staring wistfully out over the city’s rooftops far below, the handle of her teacup held delicately between her fingers.

“Whomever the stranger shall be, I suppose. The prospect of having children with a man I do not know does not sit well with me, I must confess. Yet is it not the burden for all highborn ladies to bear? Complaining of it is for naught.” Daphne does not seem altogether thrilled at the prospect of a decidedly upcoming betrothal, a curl of her lip showcasing quite plainly how little she desires such a future. A slight sigh finds its way out of her mouth, and she rests her cup upon the palm of her hand, eyes still cast to the horizon. To a gull drifting lazily over the city, wings outstretched upon an ocean-bound wind.

“It is not the most ideal prospect, nay,” There is a gentleness to his tone, a consistent presence at their breakfast that morning that does not go completely unnoticed by her, nor commented upon. “Lucky am I, that mine own son was born of love that is true.”

Daphne’s eyes return to Cregan’s face at his words, studying it with a soft wistfulness as she notices his attention wander down to his hands. The tenderness with which he speaks of his late wife and young son give her pause, and she cannot help the tendrils of curiosity stirring within her. Such softness and devotion, from a man so stoic and steadfast. “Love.”

It is a quiet echo, floating gingerly between them as a hesitant question. Summoned back from softly nostalgic reminiscing, Cregan returns his attention to her. The wondering in her eyes has an innocent yet weary confusion to it, alighting something warmer within his chest. For all Daphne’s scheming and her wickedly brilliant mind, he can sense this has eluded her. With a slow blink, he hopes silently not to offend or overstep. “Have you ever been in love, my lady?”

An almost imperceptible breath. The digging of nails into palms, the drop of her eyes. A soft tap of her heeled shoe that is muffled by the light fabrics of her morning gown. A blink as measured as his, when she tilts her chin down and stares wordlessly into her tea. The molten heat of anger, the trickling of a tempered sadness which sizzles upon collision. It is much easier to forget and she is much more suited to banishing such thoughts from her head. A flap of a gull’s wings passes above and she speaks with a detached and observational cadence. “I thought I was, once. It turns out I am occasionally a terrible judge of character.”

This, Cregan is not expecting to hear. His brows furrow, drawn above his stormy eyes as a look of pensive confusion flickers briefly across his stern countenance. Calloused fingers brush the tip of the fork he holds within his hands, while he briefly considers the unreadable expression upon her face. For all her studying, all her carefully crafted productions, it would seem unlikely for a girl so cautious to be wrong upon such matters. “I do not imagine you misjudging a person.”

“Harboring affection for someone can leave one blind to their true nature. It is not a weakness I am quick to subject myself to. Akin to aiming a sword at my chest, I imagine.” Bitterness wins out amongst Daphne’s remaining emotions and pulls tightly at her lips and the corners of her eyes that crease with mordant amusement. A curl of her mouth as she sips her tea, allowing the pleasant bitterness to counteract her own sour discontent. “As if one needs more to fear, in such times.”

An offhanded note, said into a half-sipped teacup with a mild raise of her shoulders. But Cregan has seen the weight behind it, the truth of the matter on the few occasions he had seen any semblance of truth prior to that night in her chambers. The anxious way Daphne had gazed up at him, as if afraid he might harm her and there would be nothing she could do to defend herself. And there had been the attempted assault, which Cregan has far from forgotten about. The thought of her unable to protect herself is one that does not sit soundly with him.

“Less to fear if you are the one holding the sword, my lady.” The Lord of Winterfell’s quiet yet steady observation causes her eyes to flicker up to him questioningly as she sets her teacup down upon the saucer. The seriousness in his gaze is not lost upon her, and it is without clarification that she understands the literal sense of the phrase. Tilting her head, a quizzically amused expression flutters onto her face.

“I cannot wield a sword. I am too weak, I have not the build for it.” Daphne feels an ease at the shift of the conversation, at the ridiculousness of his proposal. Leaning back in her chair, she crosses her legs beneath the skirts of her gown and fixes him with an appraising gaze. The chatter of voices drifts slowly up to the balcony in a more insistent volume, signaling that most of the castle has arisen for the day regardless of debauchery engaged in the previous night. The toasts have gone rather cold, but she selects one for her plate nonetheless.

“You are weak because you have not practiced. The more you practice, the less weak you shall become.” It might have been a biting comment if it came from anyone else, but she knows well enough by now there is no point in searching for cruelly aimed jabs within his words. Only with direct practicality does he speak, and she sees the honest truth in it quite plainly. All Daphne can do is raise her eyebrows in quiet agreement, maneuvering her fork and knife gracefully to cut into her fluffy toast. Cregan watches silently for only a moment, before a smile quite nearly pulls at his lips. “That is something I can remedy, my lady.”

Boots echoing within the quiet passages that snake through the lower portions of the Red Keep, the Lord of Winterfell is mildly aware of the realization that he might starve if he allows himself to give each free moment of his time to Daphne Tyrell instead of taking meals. His chair had been pushed back as soon as the afternoon meeting concluded and the plans for that evening had been decided upon. The scratch of wood on stone, the click of shoes upon the floor, the unhinging of the lock – and then he had disappeared. A small glance was received from one of his retainers, yet no further commentary was made upon his great rush to the sunlit and silent halls that line the far side of the castle, golden in buttery afternoon sun that falls in warm swoops across the expansive stone. One might think him in a hurry to devour his lunch, with the quickness that his heavy steps carry him down the corridors. Nourishment is indeed what he seeks, albeit for a different organ and of a debatable degree of good for him.

It had been with little thought that he had promised Daphne time in these few moments of respite he savored during the afternoons, usually taken within the silence of his rooms. His dining hours the last two nights had been offered to her as well, so that he might take her to see the Princess Jaehaera. It quite nearly mystifies him, the ease with which he is willing to discard a meal if only to attend to her. It would have, save he swears he has felt the stirrings of this sensation before. Different, this time, but recognizable nonetheless. If only he is not so hesitant to name it, he might have a better grasp upon the situation.

And there it is again within the veins of his heart as he catches sight of Daphne, covered in the warm sun streaming in through the open window in front of her. As if the sun itself has delivered her down from the sky, the edges of her hair and the bow of her lip almost glowing under the golden rays. She, who at night is of starlight, takes so easily to the sun during the daytime hours. The image of her within the Queen’s Ballroom, shimmering silver and soft smiles as a crowd cheers for her, remains prominently painted as a primary reference of her brilliance in his mind. The delicate glow she possesses in the evening, alone or attending to Jaehaera, is the only picture he might think after more often.

She turns at the sound of his approach, eyes flickering to the wooden sword within his hand. In her mind, a debate upon the seriousness of his proposition earlier has been occurring. But as Cregan descends the staircase to meet her in the empty hall, Daphne finds he is indeed sincere after all. As if she should have expected anything less from him, all Northern stoicism and drawn brows. Her hands fold elegantly in front of her gown and she lowers her chin with a look of wary amusement that might be viewed as affectionate if she were not so mistrusting of others.

“Are you quite sure you wish to do this, my lord? I might be wholly unteachable.” Light and goading is the tone with which Daphne addresses him, standing before him with a delicate raise of one eyebrow. Cregan dips his head, his eyes running down her figure for a brief moment as he offers her the pretend sword with an outstretched arm. It is with slow allowance that she sees more of his shrouded Northern wit, those ghosting half-smiles that grace the edges of his mouth as he does his utmost to be a gentleman. Shaking his head, he feels the brushing of her fingers upon his palm as she takes the sword from him.

“You have the mind for warfare. It is only right that you engage in the physicality of it as well, my lady.” A quiet assurance, steady in the consistent manner he always is, his eyes shining in wordless approval as she appraises the wooden sword, her gaze running studiously up its length. It is not too heavy in her hand, designed to mimic a longsword rather than the greatsword occasionally worn upon Cregan’s back. The heirloom weapon of his great house, Ice, which she has only witnessed him bearing when holding court. Daphne’s hands slot themselves at the base of the hilt, while she attempts to familiarize herself with the weight of it within her grasp. Uncertainty curls in hazy flickers through her arms as she frowns, unsure of how to mirror the manner that she has seen men hold swords before. This earns her a soft breath of what she might hesitantly deem as amusement from the lord.

It is his natural instinct to correct her poor form, no fault of her own as she has not received instruction before. His figure draws behind her, his broad shoulders eclipsing her back as the scent of cedarwood and leather and the faintest hint of amber rise to her senses. Daphne’s grip tightens slightly upon the hilt and Cregan grows still as her shoulders rise, her chest tightening as she inhales a sharp breath. He shall not forget why he is instructing her at all.

“May I?” Heavy and whispered upon his lips. Although she cannot see his face, the breath of his quiet words brushes the top of her hair. It is with a moment of weighty silence that she considers and slowly accepts. There is no point in learning if she does so improperly.

“You may.” Her shoulders square and she raises her chin, loosing her grip upon the wood of the sword as Cregan reaches around her frame with a steady arm. His hand envelopes her much smaller one, encasing it fully as he guides her left hand down to the faux pommel, the wood round and smooth against her skin. Cregan’s hand is warm, calloused from his time spent training and upon the battlefield, yet cradles hers softly as he positions it as he pleases.

His other arm wraps around her body slowly, before he pauses once again. Daphne’s heartbeat quickens traitorously within her chest and at the pressure points of her wrists at the touch and proximity, her veins thrumming low with his steady presence so close to her. She does not dare to move, does not dare to risk brushing against him further. His right hand hovers above her own as he dips his head, the low cadence of his voice spoken as if a secret. “May I, my lady?”

Hushed repetition in a thick tone, met only with a silent nod this time. Her eyelashes flutter in near annoyance at the intensity of it all: surely, this is not the atmosphere in which men learn to wield their weapons. In that fleeting moment Daphne wonders if she ought to have someone else teach her, someone who does not evoke such an infuriating reaction beneath her warming skin. Cregan’s fingers close overtop of her right hand, leading it up to rest against the cross-guard. Her eyelids lower, watching the nearly tender manner in which his rough skin waits upon hers. A flicker of heat emanates – as if from a fire, if only in her affected state – from his nearness to her back.

With his step back, taken to better appraise the corrections he has made to her form, she can allow breath to flow freely through her body. Until he moves, she is unaware of the blockage that bottles the air in her lungs. Her eyes remain fixated pointedly on the wooden sword, maintaining the hold that Cregan adjusted.

“Swing it forth, as best you can. Lead with your left foot.” The Lord of Winterfell steps deliberately around her figure, grey eyes narrowing with serious assessment while he watches. His arms are folded sturdily across his chest. With a deep breath, she shifts her legs to maneuver as he instructs, the sword falling through the air with a gentle swish. As a soft wind is produced from the movement, Daphne is left to stare at the wood. How strange it is, to copy an action she has observed countless times and longed for in equal measure.

Violence is not what she desires, only the power to defend herself fairly. But if the former must be obtained to achieve the latter then she shall not lose sleep upon the matter.

Cregan gives a slow nod at the action, the draw of his brow signaling his approval at her attempt. His eyes rake across her figure, unabashed as he studies her form for areas to critique. Underneath his heavy gaze, her chin lifts unconsciously and her chest flutters with pressing breath. It is with few large strides that he reaches her again, eyes following the curves of her body as she returns to the stance she had been in prior to swinging the wooden sword.

Thus begins his returning correction of her positioning before each time she attempts to wield the sword appropriately. A rush of wind from the swiftness which with she cuts through the air and Cregan is behind her, a whispered asking after her allowance before every touch like a sacred mantra chanted heavy and reverent upon his lips. Each time Daphne forgoes speaking and instead dips her chin in acceptance, not trusting the strength of the words that might escape her mouth. Certainly not when he presses his large hands to the sides of her hips, calloused fingers slotting into the satin of the skirts of her gown as he rotates her lower body to face straight ahead instead of shifting when she moves.

“Nay, do not turn so.” His voice is a low rumble, and he indicates for her to swing again while his hand remain to her hips, the weight of it keeping her from turning as she swings the wood forth again. Daphne can feel the way her body instinctively desires to shift with the movement, but as her hips slide forward, Cregan tightens his hold and keeps her still. His chest is nearly pressed to her back, the curve of her brushing precariously against his lower body. There is the phantom of his breath upon the top of her head as her hips stutter beneath his hands. If she were to turn, his low-lidded eyes and blown pupils might indicate a thought most improper settling within his mind.

“Good, good, my lady.” With a press of his fingers further into the fabric at the words, so tight she might feel the imprint of his thumb into the small of her back, Cregan steps back to watch her once more. Little is to be done about the sweet ache beneath the heavy skirts of her dress, altogether not productive to the end of learning to better hold a sword. And in truth, Cregan does not need to pay such dutiful attention to the movement of her breasts, bound so tightly within her corset that they bounce slightly with each swing, rather than to her hands.

As Daphne grows more familiar with the weight of the wood and the motion of wielding it, the Lord of Winterfell guides her to step forward as she swings. To move her right foot and shift her weight to drift out of the way of any potential incoming attacks. It is not a motion easily done in such heavy clothing, but she shall make do as best she can given the trying circumstances. Indulgence does not suit her, but the heat pulsing insistently between her legs is disinclined to be ignored. It is wholly unfair, the press of his hands to her back as he readjusts her stance, the roughness of his fingers upon the skin of her wrists to guide the wooden sword through the space in front of her. The warmth from the golden sun shining upon the shadowed hall holds no candle to the warmth that blossoms beneath his every touch. He becomes a steady presence at her back.

When she turns her head to ask after the progress she has been making, her breath catches in a silent stumbling within her throat at how close he is. Her eyes drop to his lips – parted and patient – to the freckles upon his face, and only then to his own eyes. Intently and steadily gazing upon her, with such distinctly Northern weight. Daphne might simply be crushed beneath it this time, as the pressure swells within her chest and plummets.

Cregan is left wholly grateful for the thickness of the skirts that separate her back from the prominent physical manifestation of his own budding need. It is with such sweetness that her lips open, the pink of her tongue plush between them, a rose in every sense. Her bright eyes widen, blinking gently up at him, and the surge of want that courses through his veins at the sight is enough to make him swallow back a quiet noise in his throat. In a desperate, grasping attempt at propriety, at civility, at honor, he draws back slightly before he hears footsteps echoing down the hall.

Daphne tightens her grip upon the hilt of the sword as an approaching presence shatters whatever heaviness has fallen between them, and she gives him a small nod before extending her arm and returning the sword to Cregan quickly. It is not as if she wishes to be caught training with a weapon, decidedly not a ladylike endeavor, nor alone with a lord, decidedly an even less ladylike endeavor.

“I am grateful for your instruction, my lord.” It is a breath, a rush of words that are exhaled from her diaphragm, as she folds her hands tightly across her front. Squeezing her fingers far too forcefully, Daphne gives him a small dip of her head.

“You are a fast learner. It is no trouble at all.” The only indication of struggle within his voice is that it has somehow deepened as he turns away from her, not eager to show the effects that touching her has upon his body. Quick to depart before she is caught doing something she knows quite well she should not be, Daphne nods to express her gratitude and disappears down the hall in a swirl of soft hair and satin skirts. The scent of vanilla and honey left in her wake leaves Cregan closing his eyes and rubbing his temple.

A crowd gathers within the hall that evening, a hushed and tense murmur buzzing in the great room like a swarm of thousands of roused bees. The torches have been lit and flicker brightly, alongside the ornamental brazier that hangs gracefully from the ceiling, illuminating many a worried face as gossip spreads quick and speculative through the crowds of nobles assembled within the halls. Not as many as might be there for a royal event when lords and ladies throughout the Realm are called to journey to the massive throne room, but all those in the capital at present. So tense is the atmosphere these days, that when called to gather the nobles do so with haste and without question. Ladies turn to their husbands and place their hands worryingly upon their arms, a few of the younger handmaidens whisper behind raised fans to each other. Men exchange deep frowns, their rumbling whispers upon what might transpire low and concerned. The large window behind the throne extends a view to a cloudless night sky.

The twinkle of stars, the shimmer of a silver crescent moon. In front of this sits the object of Daphne’s great ire, shining coldly as it is backlit by the moonlight. If only she could, the lady would take it upon herself to find the dragon whose fire forged the damned monstrosity and use all one thousand swords to slay it. Never could a chair be worth the price that has been paid, not to her. Helaena had never longed for the power that came with it, and when it had been forced upon her it had driven her to madness and death.

To prevent herself from glaring at the throne with repulsed distaste, Daphne occupies herself by composing a discussion with the Lord Benjicot Blackwood. Although rather quiet, the young lord had peaked her attention upon their sole extended encounter within the council chamber. After sending her informational network to produce more knowledge of the lord, she finds him a rather suitable young man. His battle prowess has been echoed by many who witnessed him fight during the Dance, and yet he is known to behave with utmost decorum and respect when off of the field. In fact, he seems nearly shy when he lacks his armor, which Daphne finds perfectly preferable to arrongance.

Although Lord Blackwood seems rather flustered upon her beginning of the conversation, once she is able to bypass the initial awkwardness, they are able to converse rather pleasantly upon a selection of different topics while she studies him discreetly. The young lord is handsome enough, she decides objectively, and House Blackwood shall be in a position of favor with the young prince as they sided with his mother in the war. As he is already the Lord of Raventree Hall, any wife he takes shall immediately become the castle’s Lady. The Lady of a prominent house, in good standing with the new ruler, not lacking in funds nor men. Daphne does her best to not allow her eyes to glimmer as she questions politely about the lord’s intentions to marry and watches him stumble over his words, clearly lacking any plan. Her darling sister would adore him, this she knows for almost certain. And as the lord is only one year Cassia’s younger, the match would be perfectly ideal.

When the large oak doors swing open, the eyes of every nobleperson in the room turn to the incoming Northerners and voices drop to a hush. Lord Stark is accompanied by Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lord Corwyn Corbray, who follow behind him with neutral expressions as a pathway parts in the crowd to allow them to cross the room towards the staircase before the throne. It is with such ease that Cregan commands the attention and respect of a room, perhaps the loathing of one as well, despite not being of royal blood. As Lady Arryn pauses to speak to Lord Leowyn Corbray, it is Daphne’s eye that Cregan searches for among the throngs of nobles who have begun speaking amongst one another once again.

The Lord of Winterfell catches sight of her conversing with Lord Blackwood, the soft smile and flutter of her lashes signaling her public persona’s appearance for the convening that evening. As he makes his way to her, towards the head of the throne room, she turns as she grows increasingly aware of the wandering of eyes in her direction. Upon meeting his, Daphne realizes that it is becoming habit to speak to Cregan plainly. To do so in front of others would be foolish, but she finds she need not attempt to as Cregan gives Lord Blackwood a rather heavy look and the young lord scrambles off to find the other members of the Northern council. She is left rather alone with Cregan at the head of the room, keenly conscious of how many nobles are boring holes into the pair of them. The torches cast a decadent yet wary light about the room, still fraught with tension.

Yet within Cregan’s eyes, she sees only the silent shimmer of familiar questioning as he narrows them at her. His voice is as low as he can make it, barely a murmur that passes between their ears alone. “You look far too pleased with yourself, my lady.”

The comment quite nearly brings a smile to her lips, but she presses them together a moment longer to prevent it from fully blooming. Instead, she folds her hands together and blinks up at him with soft innocence. “Is it so unimaginable to think that I might simply enjoy a pleasant conversation, Lord Stark?”

“Of course, Lady Tyrell.” With courteous ease and the slow tempo of his tone, Cregan dips his head to indicate he means her no offense, as any gentleman might. Daphne takes a deep breath, her eyes flicking over to Lord Blackwood for a moment before she lowers her voice and tilts her head up at Cregan with an almost entertainingly solemn expression upon her delicate features.

“It is only that he seems to be lacking for a wife. And he is such a promising young lord, whose character I have studied and deemed appropriate.” As casually as a comment upon the clearness of the night sky outside the arched windows of the throne room, yet it is far more information than she would normally provide someone regarding her motives. The ghost of a smile once again challenges to grace her lips, but she forces it away, in an attempt to remain neutrally expressive in front of a crowd of so many.

It is clear to her then, fighting at the edges of his mouth as well, that Cregan finds himself facing a similar issue to her own. His eyes shine with the cloaked amusement of knowing, yet his face remains as impassive and stern as ever. Save for the twitch of his brows, and the shift of his jaw as he considers her. Leaning forward so that he might whisper quietly into her ear, his eyes are cast to the ceiling as he speaks. “I might ask you leave Lord Blackwood out of your schemes, my lady, but I can think of far worse fates than to be betrothed to your lady sister.”

The unspoken remainder of the sentence is heavy upon his tongue – if she is near as lovely as you are. Daphne’s eyes flick down to the floor as she attempts not to look pleased at his approval of her idea. A small tilt of her chin is given as she lets out a tiny, gentle sigh. “I would wish to gain her opinion of him first, but I am afraid I am running short on time.”

The Lady of Highgarden wishes to betroth both of her daughters as quickly as possible, and Daphne knows her mother well enough to know that a match with Oldtown is highly coveted. In marrying Cassia to Lord Lyonel Hightower, her mother would possess greater influence within House Hightower and could control them far easier. Yet Lyonel is foul-tempered and quick to anger, and if that were not enough to give Daphne cause to oppose the match, the young lord is unfalteringly infatuated with his father’s young widow. Daphne simply could not allow such a union to proceed, not when it would surely bring her sister such misery. Even if Raventree is further in distance from Highgarden and of a cooler climate, Cassia would be far better suited for a boy such as Lord Benjicot Blackwood.

“If it would please you, I could send Lord Blackwood to treat with House Tyrell on my behalf.” Cregan offers quietly, his eyes searching hers passively as he continues to speak in quiet whispers, to avoid the ears bending with poorly concealed interest in their direction. Her eyes soften, her brows drawing closer gently.

“It would please me, Lord Stark.” The lady murmurs, her eyes holding Cregan’s steadily as he gives a deep hum to indicate his agreement upon the matter. Their gazes remain locked upon each other for a moment longer before the Lord of Winterfell must make his way to the top of the staircase that stands before the Iron Throne. As she turns her attention back to the nobles around her, she discovers with some surprise that Lady Arryn is staring at her quite astutely. The other woman is too far away to have heard their conversation, and yet as she approaches, the lady cannot help but wonder if she somehow knows its nature. Lady Arryn stands beside Daphne without speaking, instead turning her attention to Cregan, whose presence at the head of the hall has brought the whispers to a hush.

Beneath the imposing throne of swords, his ancestral weapon heavy upon his back, even Daphne is left to stare at him wordlessly. The picture of strength, reminding every noble in the crowd who it was who forced King’s Landing into submission and rules it still. The ever-present sternness upon his face is far more serious as he addresses the lords and ladies, his deep voice echoing out into the massive hall. Speaking to the nobles as a man of true power, despite the young prince Aegon still maintaining claim to the crown and title. It is trials that the lord announces, much to the shock that ripples through the crowd like a stone upon water. Hushed, worried mutters from those gathered as they immediately begin to surmise the fate of those arrested by the Northerners. Her own concerns are still heavy upon her mind; she has yet to hear of how the Hightowers responded to her mother’s warning. War might still find House Tyrell yet.

Daphne catches a glimpse of the twin princesses Baela and Rhaena, their faces betraying their own grave concern for their grandfather, Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake remains imprisoned, and the lady is unsure as to what his fate shall be. She holds no allegiance to the man, but it would seem that her mother is rather keen to make an ally of him yet. This matter she would have to consult her mother upon further.

Noticing the direction in which her eyes are wandering, the Lady Arryn leans over as Cregan finishes his announcement. “The Lord of Winterfell shall be just in his trial proceedings.”

It is a slight surprise that the older woman addresses her directly, almost as much as Lady Arryn approaching her in the first place. Daphne blinks for a moment, before dipping her head elegantly, her eyes dropping to the stone floor. “I am sure he shall.”

A polite yet detached offering, given with a sweet smile and a demure posture. Lady Arryn hides nothing in her eyes as she scans Daphne with an impassive expression, cool eyes raking across her figure. The direct way that the woman carries herself is of great interest to Daphne, as it had been when she had seen Lady Arryn at the council meeting. Even so, she does her utmost to gaze gently back while waiting patiently for the other woman to finish her assessment.

“It is tradition for those of House Stark to carry out the sentences themselves.” Lady Arryn informs her with calm neutrality, expression sharp as she searches for a reaction to this information upon the younger woman’s face.

Daphne pauses, yet ensures that a saccharine smile remains pleasantly painted onto her lips. Her eyes flicker to Cregan, descending the staircase with heavy steps, and to the greatsword he carries upon his back. Ice is an intimidating size, quite heavy to wield by most standards. She finds she can conjure up an image of him utilizing it with ease, the rippling of his muscular arms and chest as he wields it in battle. And yet the idea of him condemning someone and beheading them himself, rather than deferring to the Southern custom of bequeathing the duty to an executioner, creates a sense of unease in her chest. It is not that she disapproves, if she thinks upon the matter further she will surely find it a rather honorable and accountable action, it is just foreign to her. Daphne remembers then with perfect clarity that despite the North existing as a part of the Realm, it is a place wholly unknown to her and vastly different than the Reach and the capital.

She gives a small breath and nods softly, declining to comment additionally upon the matter as it requires more contemplating. Lady Arryn’s hawkish eyes have not looked away from her visage since Cregan finished speaking, but as Daphne notices Cregan’s own gaze fixed firmly upon her, it would seem that Lady Arryn does as well. The older woman gives a sigh, her eyes flicking between the two of them for a moment, before she lowers her voice. “It is a shame winter approaches so quickly. I imagine it difficult to adjust to the North in such a time.”

The other woman slips off into the crowd of nobles as they begin to trickle out into the halls, their faces creased with worry and, darker yet, a glimmer of excitement at something new finally happening in the castle they are all but trapped in. Daphne does not have the opportunity to answer, nor to wonder what Lady Arryn might mean.