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@aftersunsz
welcome! my name is mazzy :)
hi, i am new to writing on tumblr (i started writing on wattpad) so i do apologize if there’s any mistakes!
i am also bilingual (my native language is Spanish) and i am the daughter of immigrant parents so if you support the current President and his administration, this is not the place for you!!
requests are open!!
may taurus and a horror movie lover
masterlist
dallas stars are officially moving to plano in 2031 so that means i’m going to be so annoying about it
come get your hockey tweets of the week 😛
CREGAN STARK ♱ 𝒯HE ℰND
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ KING VISERYS HOSTS a tourney and feast after the birth of his seventh grandchild, though you’d rather hide yourself in your books, dreaming of your own prince charming. fortunately for you he comes in the form of a muscular, brooding northerner named cregan stark.
𝒫AIRING. . . cregan stark x fem!velaryon!reader
𝒲ORDCOUNT. . . 11.4 k
𝒢ENRE. . . lots of romance, fluff, angsty ending, no dance of the dragon au, love at first sight, kinda grumpy x sunshine but not really.
𝒲ARNINGS. . . profanity, ooc cregan?, unrealistic relationships, death in childbirth, mention of decapitation, targcest (not reader tho), reader has white hair and violet eyes but her father isn’t explicitly described, pregnancy, nudity, birth, mention of sex, blood, aegon, not proofread, uhhh i think that’s it??
ℐOAEZZ. . . this has been in my drafts for a while but i was too lazy to publish it… anyways it was supposed to be a small drabble but turned out much longer than i had expected.
ℬooks had always been your form of escapism. The fairytales kept the harsh reality off your mind even if for only a couple of hours. Your brothers never understood your love for it as they preferred to fly around on their dragons. Your mother found this passion of yours endearing and wasn't surprised to discover that you weren't as opposed to marriage as she had been when she was younger.
The tales in your books spoke of true love. Both passionate and gentle, which you couldn't help but crave to have one day. Although the couples that surrounded you weren't as sincere as you would have liked for yourself, you still held out some hope that you would find your own Prince Charming.
He came in the form of Lord Cregan Stark. A brooding, muscular man from the North who hadn't even given marriage a thought until his council forced it upon him. He needed heirs they had said and so with much protest, he began scouring for a wife that could take on the title 'Lady of Winterfell'. He had never dared to even consider you, who was the princess of the realm, believing that both your status and blood would not be fit for the brutal winters in the North.
Yet when he met you for the very first time at a tournament in King's Landing to celebrate the birth of Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena's second child, he couldn't imagine having anyone else as his wife. He could still vividly remember the way your pastel pink dress hugged your form as you sat beside your younger brothers, a book in your grasp as you entirely ignored the cries of a knight who had been decapitated. As much as he tried, he was unable to rip his eyes off you as a remote smile graced your lips at something that must have occurred in your book.
During the feast that followed you were seated at the extensive table in the front, between your uncle Aemond and brother Jacaerys as some form of barrier to separate the Greens from the Blacks. Music was played beautifully and people danced joyfully, yet you remained invested in the happenings of your book. Cregan cast a look at the Maester he had brought with him before moving to stand. The people around him watched on in curiosity, the Lord of Winterfell didn't exactly seem like the dancing type. He made his way towards your table, bowing his head at the King and Queen as well as to your mother, who was just as inquisitive as everyone else.
He shifted to stand in front of you, not that you noticed as you turned another page of your book. Cregan didn't mind your oblivion, waiting patiently for you to notice him which could have taken much longer if not for Prince Daemon who nudged you softly. You looked up at your step-father with questioning eyes before turning to face the Lord who your father motioned to. A blush spread across your face as you ultimately caught sight of the handsome man in front of you who watched on in amusement.
“I apologize for not noticing you earlier Lord Stark,” your voice was sweeter than any honey he had ever tasted, which made his heart throb beneath the layers of fur. “It is I who must apologize for distracting you, princess. I take it is an entertaining story you were reading?” the words caused Aemond to scoff as he quietly listened on but neither of you took notice of it.
Your eyes shone brightly at the mention of your book, exhilarated at the prospect of sharing something so dear to you, “it certainly is one of my preferred books. I could lend it to you if you wish?” Your offer entertained Cregan as he'd never even considered reading something that hadn't been for studies, but he nodded nonetheless.
“Perhaps you could tell me more about it whilst we share a dance,” his offer was sly, Rhaenyra had to give it to him, but she was pleased as long as her daughter was. Heat rose to your cheeks as you shyly nodded, not used to such kind Lords who were truly interested in you. You rose to your feet, placing your beloved book on your chair before stepping around the table. He offered his arm which you gratefully took only to be stunned by his muscles which were hidden underneath the layers of clothing. Cregan had quickly taken notice of your astonishment and felt a sense of satisfaction fill him as his lips scarcely tugged upwards.
He led you towards the dance floor as people got out of your way, but your gaze remained on the man beside you. His dark eyes met your violet ones, which sent your heart racing as you offered him a nervous smile. You fell into the rhythm of the music, dancing with such a grace that left Cregan speechless, but he had to snap out of his daze if he wished to impress you.
“I like your accent,” the words escaped your lips so easily which startled him. His eyes dilated, his eyebrow raised as a rare grin rose on his handsome face. “Thank you, princess. I find yours entrancing as well,” his low voice sent flutters through your stomach as you smiled at him. “I must admit, I have never seen anyone so enraptured by a mere book.” The excitement rose in you once more at the turn in conversation, speaking with much vigor, which Cregan appreciated more than anything.
Your evening was spent with the Warden of the North, never straying too far from him as conversation flew between you, never faltering. Your family had witnessed this as well, deeming it unusual behavior from you but not unwelcome. After all, it had been time for you to get married, which Rhaenyra attempted to put off for as long as possible in the hopes that you would find a husband on your own.
“Is this Cregan Stark still available?” Your mother questioned as the King glanced at his wife with much excitement, which she didn't reciprocate.
“Yes, he has yet to marry. I heard he is in search of a wife,” Viserys expressed his elation effortlessly which made his eldest son envious of his niece as the King hadn't even been half as delighted during his marriage, not even for the birth of his grandchildren. The following day most Lords and Ladies began returning towards their own regions, which included Cregan Stark.
The man felt disappointment within him that he would be parting from you so soon, but you had promised him the evening before to come bid him farewell in the morning. A profound frown was etched upon his face, which perished at the sight of you approaching him in a simple yet exquisite red dress. The rather sad expression you wore tugged at his heartstrings as he took quick steps to reach you. His hands enveloped your soft ones, and he pressed a gentle kiss on them which made you smile bashfully.
“I shall miss our banter, Lord Stark,” you mumbled, heart heavy, but the man attempted to soothe you despite his own heartache. “There are no words to describe how much I will as well my princess.” A reassuring smile tugged at his lips, streaks of his hair flying around at a sudden soft breeze of wind. Your eyes softened, and you glanced around to make sure there were no eyes pointed towards you before quickly engulfing him in a hug that took him by surprise. While he knew it would be frowned upon, he couldn't resist wrapping his arms around you to relish in your touch.
You stayed like that for a couple more moments before you had to let go. However before you got another chance to say anything, a hand abruptly fell upon your shoulder. You jolted slightly, taken by surprise only to relax once you saw it was your father. Cregan narrowed his eyes at the sight of the Rogue Prince but respectfully bowed his head, which amused Daemon.
“The King has requested your presence,” his words were laced with what you could only call mirth as Cregan furrowed his brows in puzzlement but nodded nonetheless. The two men walked beside one another, their presence demanding respect, as you were left to follow them with a much softer grace.
The three of you entered the throne hall where your grandsire was seated, the Queen by his side whilst your mother stood on his left with a reassuring smile on her face. "Your Grace," Cregan bowed deeply, his form tense as he awaited what Viserys had wished to discuss.
"I propose a betrothal," the words were straightforward and surprised the both of you. Your fingers clenched behind your back as you remained impassive, keeping your shoulders wide and chin high, "my daughter has brought the notion to my attention to betroth you to my firstborn granddaughter, princess Y/n Velaryon as I heard you were in search for a wife." Your eyes widened and jaw slackened as you glanced between your family who were watching you with a keen eye. You then turned your gaze towards Cregan who met your eyes with much vigor. His eyes were questioning whether you wished for this as well and at the quirk of the corners of your mouth he smiled in return, relief falling upon him as he realised you would remain by his side.
"I heartily agree with this proposal," his voice was low yet clear, and it sent shivers down your spine as you watched your betrothed with adoration despite only knowing him for a day.
The king smiled widely, "This is absolutely wonderful news!" He cheered loudly. Alicent cast her gaze down, a trembling sigh leaving her lips as she thought about what this meant, "Though it does bring us to the complication of agreements." Cregan dutifully nodded his head as a thoughtful look appeared on his face while you watched on in worry that he might retract his previous statement due to you being Rhaenyra's heir.
"As Princess Y/n is Princess Rhaenyra's heir she shall inherit the throne one day, and you will have to become her King-consort," Cregan had realised this as well and nodded along, figuring it would be long from now that this would happen, and he would have an heir of his own to become Warden of the North, "Your firstborn child will be set to inherit the Iron Throne and your second-born will inherit Winterfell."
Your breath hitched as you awaited Cregan's reply, hoping he would agree, "I see no issue with this, your grace," a wide smile spread across your face. Your feet itched to move closer to your betrothed who couldn't stand to be away from you either, but he had a final proposition to make, "Though I have one request." Your mother raised her brow in anticipation, wondering what he might have to say, while your grandsire nodded.
"I wish for the wedding to take place in Winterfell, in the way of the Old Gods," Alicent was quick to protest but Viserys hushed her as he pondered about it. He cast a glance at his daughter who didn't seem to be against it, she knew her daughter wasn't exceptionally religious.
"Very well, you shall travel back to Winterfell and within six moons we will follow for the marriage," the King agreed. Cregan nodded, bowing a final time before turning to leave with a pleased expression on his face. On his way out, he intertwined his hand with yours which sent your heart fluttering as you followed him outside.
"I am sorry you didn't have a say in this-" but before Cregan could finish his sentence, you wrapped your arms around his neck, much more intimate than the modest hug that you had shared earlier. "Do not apologise. I could not have been happier with this betrothal," you mumbled into his ear, his face pressed into your neck as he smiled widely, which was so unlike his usual brooding expression.
The months passed by far too slowly in your opinion. Winter washed over, and your grandfather ensured that supplies were sent to Winterfell so they could survive this winter more easily. Some on the council had protested as they had never done such a thing before, but the King declared it final as Winterfell was about to become your home. Cregan was grateful for the supplies which greatly helped his people, but a lingering bitterness remained at the fact that so many lives could have been spared if the King had done this sooner.
The preparations for your wedding were larger than the one of your uncle and aunt, the entire realm was eager for the marriage of the woman that would become their Queen one day. The people in the North were delighted to be able to host such an extensive event, as it took their minds off the dreary weather. The wedding would take place in the middle of the summer during the warmest days of the North, but snow would still cover everything in sight.
You exchanged letters with Cregan through ravens, who was always delighted to receive them as you told him everything that had happened since your last letter. It took the young Lord a while to come up with his own anecdotes as he was a man of few words, but he made an effort for you as he knew how much joy the letters brought you. He had given you the charge of most things like flower arrangements, cake, and guests as he wished for you to have your dream wedding like within your stories while he handled the more tedious aspects.
When the week of the wedding finally approached you couldn't wipe the smile off your face, much to your family's pleasure. They listened on and on about your dear Cregan who had sent you new books. Your brothers had the tendency to whine about it, but your stepsisters quickly shut them up with a kick to the shin as they admired how you radiated contentment.
By the time you and your family would be departing from Dragonstone on dragon back, most of the Kingdom had already reached Winterfell. They stayed in the most luxurious inns the North had to offer, which wasn't quite a lot while suffering from the cold.
You climbed upon Vermithor, who seemed glad to see you, and you could only pray he wouldn't mind the cold too much. You and your family left Dragonstone together, everyone flying on their respective dragon, joyful to be spending time together before you would be separated from them. Your uncles and aunt had wished to travel by dragon as well, even willing to fly with your family, but their mother had refused, ordering them to ride in the carriage with her and their father.
It took you a couple of days to reach Winterfell and you had to admit it was colder than you had expected, but you didn't mind it as much as Lucerys who was shaking in his boots. You admired the white snow that covered every surface when people started shouting from beneath, announcing your presence. Cregan stood at the clearing they had prepared for the dragons with his half-sister somewhere behind him, watching on in amazement as the large creatures landed.
His eyes were filled with marvel as he saw the different sizes and colors of the dragons, recalling all the things you wrote about your beloved Vermithor. His gaze searched for you atop your dragon and once he finally found you his heart leaped in his throat, his hands itching to touch you after such a long time apart. Caraxes screeched loudly as people all flocked around, in an attempt to see their future Lady for the first time. Daemon was the first one to descend his dragon, followed by Rhaenyra and Rhaenys.
Lucerys all but clumsily fell off Arrax, his teeth chattering as Rhaena caught him with a hearty laugh after having climbed off Meleys. You chuckled at the sight, patting Vermithor as he attempted to acclimatize to the cold weather. He bowed down for you to descend him and Cregan's breath was caught in his throat as he all but wished to wrap you within his arms, but he knew better than to approach you with so many dragons around. Once you noticed your betrothed, a smile appeared on your face, and you dismissed the whispers around you as the people of Winterfell gawked at you.
Although everything within you screamed to jump into his arms as you had yearned to for months, you stepped closer to your family as it was your duty. "My princess," Cregan's eyes were filled with adoration, an uncommon sight for the people around him as Sara had to contain a very unladylike snort. Your eyes shimmered with what most people could only describe as tenderness as you gazed upon your betrothed. He greeted your family members respectfully and much to your delight they seemed to accept him quicker than you would have thought. It wasn't too far-fetched as they knew of how an honorable man he truly was and your continuous tales of how sweet he was certainly helped to get used to the thought of accepting him as your husband.
He stretched out his arm which you took happily, glad to hold him once more before he led you towards the hall where a feast would be held. Your grandfather and remaining family had shown up as well as the most notorious Lords such as Jason and Tyland Lannister and Otto Hightower. You took a seat at the head of the table, beside your betrothed with your cousin Baela on your other side as she squeezed your hand in support, a giddy smile on her face.
The meal was enjoyable as you conversed with Cregan and his half-sister, already quickly falling in place within the North. Your uncle Aegon had been drowning himself in his cups and once the time came for toasts you nervously fiddled with your rings. Cregan instantly took notice of this and encased them within his own calloused ones, you moved to sit closer to him, which he didn't oppose to. He gave you a loving smile that felt way more intimate than you had expected.
Viserys moved to stand, his cup raised as the table turned quiet, "A tribute to my dear granddaughter who is to be married to the honorable Cregan Stark. I wish your marriage good prosperity and demand that you visit your poor grandsire," he jested lightly, and a smile cracked on your face as you nodded at him, stroking your betrothed's hand underneath the table.
He placed a brisk kiss on your delicate hand before standing as well raising his glass, "Thank you, your Grace. I am incredibly honored to be the husband of my princess Y/n and shall vie to appease her every wish during our marriage. To my princess Y/n." Everyone at the table took a sip of their beverage, and you blushed under Cregan's gaze as a teasing grin tugged at his lips, his hand resting on your thigh.
"I wish to raise my cup to my cousin, princess Y/n," Baela declared. She glanced towards you, her eyes sparkling underneath the fires that illuminated the room before she spoke, "Although we haven't grown up together as children, I feel as though we are sisters. She has been the greatest comfort of mine when my late mother passed, and I believe there is not a finer woman in the Seven Kingdoms. To princess Y/n," you took a sip from your goblet, sending your cousin an appreciative look.
Sara hesitated for a second, as she technically wasn't supposed to be at the feast with her being commonly known as a bastard but upon seeing your reassuring smile she gathered the courage to stand, "I would like to toast to my half-brother, Lord Cregan," your betrothed seemed visibly surprised but remained quiet as he listened to what she had to say. "As many of you may know, he is an honorable man. Stern and oftentimes grim as he fulfills his duties to take care of his people. Though ever since he met princess Y/n all those moons ago, he has become more loving, and I have no doubt in mind that she has melted the cold ice that surrounded his heart, which I heartily thank her for."
You smiled widely at her words, turning to look at Cregan who was already watching you as if you had hung the stars in the sky. His face was free of any creases, an accomplishment in itself, and the warmth surrounding him seemed so inviting as you wished to be buried within his arms. At that moment, you conceded that you had truly found your own fairy tale. The feeling within you couldn't be described with mere words despite your wide vocabulary. The way that your beat for him was almost unorthodox, and you thought that if you could, you would truly have given the organ to him if he wished so.
"I raise my cup to my niece."
The words snapped you out of your daze as dread filled your senses. You quickly turned towards your uncle, Aegon who was shakily standing with the help of his mother after she had attempted to silence him. Your hand tightened around Cregan, the peaceful expression that graced his face long gone as he worried about you. He had heard rumors about your drunken uncle who bedded girls that weren't willing and ignored his poor sister-wife.
Rhaenyra let out a deep sigh, bringing a hand to rub her temple while Jace seethed from beside her. "I reminisce our years together with much fondness," he slurred, a hazy grin on his face as he gazed upon you. Cregan glared at him but remained silent, "I recall the day your mother had proposed our betrothal, and I was sad to learn that we would not be married. After all, I am sure that you will please your husband in various aspects though know that I am always ready to please you as well-" Alicent hissed at him, pulling him down while Viserys slammed his hand into the table angrily.
"Aegon!" You were absolutely mortified and Cregan had stood up, a vicious storm behind his eyes as he towered over the table. Your hand quickly reached for him, caressing his skin softly as you attempted to calm him with loving words. "It is alright, my love. Do not worry about me," you whispered to him, brushing his hair behind his ear. The remaining part of the meal went by smoothly though Cregan kept a close eye on your uncle and once the time came to return to your chambers he made sure no maids were anywhere near Aegon.
He walked you back to your chamber, placing a kiss on your cheek before you went to sleep. Come morn you awakened with much jitters, not having slept much as it was the morning of your wedding. Maids were rushing around you, opening the curtains to let the sun in, which, according to one of them was a sign of promising marriage. Your mother had entered your chamber not long after, expressing her wish to dress you herself, and you agreed with a smile.
You were sitting in a plush chair, already donning a deep red colored dress with black embroidered flowers. The sleeves dangled from your hands that rested upon the armrest while your mother stood behind you with her fingers in your hair, plaiting your silver hair delicately. You cast a glance towards the cloak that bore the Velaryon sigil, before returning your gaze to your reflection with a trembling sigh.
"Do not worry, sweet girl," your mother sent you a warm smile which always managed to soothe you whenever you were anxious. Her fingers skillfully braided the last loose strands, revealing an intricate Targaryen hairstyle that would represent your heritage partly. "Though I'm delighted to be marrying Cregan, I am sad that I will not see you as much mother," the words tumbled from your lips, so quiet that Rhaenyra had barely heard them. She let go of your hair, moving to stand in front of you before placing a warm hand on your cheek. Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she straightened your brows gently.
"We will visit as shall you," she promised, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your forehead as you closed your eyes. A knock echoed across the room, and you called for them to enter, only to reveal Jace, who would be the one to give you away. Since your father was dead, that duty passed onto him. "It is time," he declared, closing the door behind him as he decided to wait aside with a nod from Rhaenyra.
She offered you another motherly smile that you shakily returned before pulling yourself from the comfortable chair. The sleeves of your dress slipped into place as you smoothed the gown of any creases. You straightened as you noticed your mother holding the cloak you were to wear during the ceremony. She gently placed it upon your shoulders as its warmth engulfed you.
“You look beautiful,” the words lingered in your mind, and you gave your reflection one last glance before gradually turning to walk towards Jace. Your brother smiled at you, and you reciprocated the sentiment, wrapping your arm around his as he escorted you outside. The streets were barren as everyone had assembled by the Weirwood tree where the ceremony would take place. Your steps synchronized with your brother's while your mother had gone ahead.
“How are you feeling?” The inquiry made you look up from your feet, opening your mouth, yet no words came out, “Do not attempt to fool me, sister,” he grinned which loosened you up a bit. “I am happy, truly. I am a bit nervous, but I suppose anyone would be,” she hummed.
“Do you have any regrets about this union? If so, I will not hesitate to take you back to Dragonstone,” the statement brought a laugh out of you as you glanced at your brother. “I appreciate the offer but no, thank you.”
The walk had come to an end as you saw the mass of people awaiting your arrival. The two of you halted to let you ready yourself as Jace placed a kiss on the crown of your head. With a nod, you resumed the trek and people quieted down once they caught sight of you.
Cregan felt as though he might cry as he looked upon you.
You looked utterly heavenly. He could stare at you for hours on end without tiring of the sight, and suddenly the amount of people didn't matter anymore. The agonizing months he waited for you were all worth it. The unhurried steps you took towards him couldn't be any slower as he longed to hold you once more, to protect you from any harm that the world had to offer.
Your hand tightened around Jace's arm as you gazed at Cregan and you knew that you would never regret being with him. His dark hair was in his usual manner, but it fit him perfectly, and you longed to touch it. Once you reached the heart tree, you could only look at Cregan fearing that if you'd tear your eyes off him, you'll perish into a heap of nothingness.
“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Cregan had chosen his closest friend Lord Cerwyn as the officiator since he didn't have any male family left. “Y/n, of the House Velaryon and Targaryen, princess of the realm and heir to the Iron Throne, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, true-born and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Jace spoke the words he had been rehearsing the entire week faultlessly, which made a sense of pride fill you. Cregan stepped forward, his shoulders broad as he looked down at you, eyes filled with adoration, “Cregan, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Who gives her?”
If Daemon were to be truly honest he found the ceremony a bit bizarre but kept his mouth shut as he shot a glance at his wife who was watching on with watery eyes. “Jacaerys, of the House Velaryon and Targaryen, who is her brother.”
“Princess Y/n, do you take this man?” Your eyes spoke for themselves, and you didn't hesitate to speak the following words, “I take this man.” Cregan repressed the wide smile from spreading across his face, but you could simply tell how joyful he was by the shimmering in his darkened eyes. You gently unwind your arm from your brother's as you take a step forward, joining hands with Cregan who softly caressed your skin.
You two turn towards the Weirwood tree before kneeling. Your knee dug into the cold snow, and your skin lit on fire as you truly realised you were to be with your beloved Cregan for the rest of your days. You bowed your head as a token of submission, you think of a prayer but decided to keep it simple since you were still affiliated with the Valyrian believe. Prayers about the safety of your family were the first ones that came to mind, which were followed by prayers of a good marriage with healthy children. When time came you rose, not bothering to wipe the snow off your knees as you turned to face Cregan.
His hands move towards your shoulder, removing the cloak that held the Velaryon sigil before handing it to your brother who stood not too far from you. A shiver ran through your body at the loss of warmth, but it was quickly quelled by the fur coat that bore the sigil of House Stark. A deep breath escaped your tinted lips which caught Cregan's attention. His fingers rested under your chin as he tilted your face up gently before leaning down to capture your lips, sealing your life together.
Your fingers were nimbly holding his cloak, attempting to keep it as modest as possible. His lips were dry but soft, he breathed life into you as his nose pressed into your cheek. You wished to remain like this until your last days but retracted once you heard cheers from the crowd. When you separated, you could only describe yourself as breathless despite it being a timid kiss. The corners of Cregan's lips, which you had just kissed, tilted upwards at the sight of your mild pants. He glanced up at the abundance of people before returning his gaze to you with a teasing glint in his eyes. You furrowed your brows, a question hanging on the tip of your tongue, but before you ever got to ask anything he leaned down to carry you.
Your eyes widened as you hung in his arms, your knees dangling from his arm while his other one supported your back. Your arms had automatically wrapped around his neck, which moved your faces closer. His eyes held a warmth that never ceased around you as he looked up at you. “Have I told you yet how beautiful you look?” His brow raised as a teasing smirk graced his pretty features.
You wordlessly shook your head, still in some after-shock which only made him chuckle, “We are surrounded by so much beauty but nothing could ever compare to you.” The words made you giggle softly, hiding your face in the furs of his cloak in an attempt to hide your growing blush. Cregan couldn't express the pure love he held for you in that simple moment, so he resorted to placing a soft kiss to the side of your face.
“Are you two going to stay here forever?” Baela teased after most guests had moved towards the hall where a feast would be held. Lucerys was one of the first people to leave, nearly running to escape the harsh wind outside. Your husband nodded before carefully carrying you back towards your home.
The feast was a joyous event, spent by your family's side and opening gifts. You let out a gasp at the sight of a stack of books that were presented by Lady Arryn. “I do hope you enjoy these books that we had shipped from Dorne. They differ from ours greatly, so I reckoned that you have yet to read tales like these,” you thanked the woman earnestly, already reaching for one to show to your husband who nodded along, listening with much pleasure to the sound of your voice.
“I have a gift for you as well, my love,” he announced which made you perk up in your seat beside him. Sara quickly nodded, hurrying off to fetch your supposed gift as you questioned Cregan insistently which made him chuckle while caressing your hair gently. Your sister-in-law returned not long after, and the sight had you jumping out of your seat to meet her halfway. Your husband quickly followed, keeping a hand on the small of your back as he eyed your reaction carefully.
A tiny direwolf was placed into your arms that made you coo softly. You looked up at Cregan, your eyes sparkling with gratitude, before you leaned up to place a kiss on his lips. “Cregan, thank you so much. I wish I could give you a dragon in return, but unfortunately…" you trailed off with a sheepish smile which made him chuckle, moving to wrap his arms around your waist and rest his chin on your shoulder while looking down at the white wolf in your arms. The animal had quickly settled in your arms, content with the warmth you provided.
“Have you decided on its name yet?” He inquired as his breath tickled your skin in a delightful manner. You pondered for a moment, “Perhaps I should call him Laenor.” Cregan offered you a soft smile, kissing your cheek as a form of comfort.
“I see you have completely integrated already, dear cousin,” Rhaena jested, glancing at the direwolf curiously, which made you giggle. “I think it is time we retreat to our chamber, do you not Lady-wife?” Cregan's voice was low as he whispered the words into your ear, eager to get away from everyone to be with you in solitude. You blinked owlishly, nodding slowly before glancing back at your parents, who were already watching you with tender smiles. You returned the gesture, waving as best as you could with your direwolf in your arms before moving to leave with your husband.
The halls were mainly empty sans for the maids and guards, but you didn't pay them any mind as Cregan led you towards your shared chambers. Once you entered the large room you noticed that the fireplace had been lit in advance, but you didn't get the chance to explore your new apartments as Cregan tugged you towards the bed. You quickly paused to gently place Laenor on the rug that was placed in front of the hearth before returning to your husband's side. He was sitting on the side of the extensive bed that was piled with furs and covers which you already knew would feel heavenly.
You stood in front of your husband as he placed his hands on your waist before he lifted you to sit on his lap with your legs thrown on either side of him. “I could get used to this sight,” he chuckled, his hands moving across your back as you leaned down with a grin, “could you now, Lord-husband?”
He hummed, nose pressed against your neck as he placed kisses anywhere he could reach. A deep sigh left your nose as you closed your eyes, leaning your head back to give him more space to work with, which made him chuckle. Your fingers tangled between his hair as you had wished to do all day. Suddenly, you felt him scrape his teeth against the sensitive skin of your neck which nearly made you moan.
Your grip on his hair tightened, a resonant groan escaping his lips before he gently twisted for you to lay on the bed with him hovering above you. He gazed intensely into your eyes before leaning up to get rid of the clothing that was donned upon his upper body. Your fingers traced the muscles on his stomach softly before you leaned up to place kisses against his chest. “I cannot take this torture any longer, my love. I must know whether you want this as much as I do?” He gripped your head firmly, resting his forehead on yours while his nose bumped into yours.
“I do Cregan,” you swore, he let go of any restraint that he had left in him and passionately pressed his lips against yours. His tongue slipped into your mouth as you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. A low moan escaped his lips, right into your mouth as you accidentally pressed your knee against his bulge that had formed beneath the layer of clothing.
And that night you discovered that there was no sound on earth that you loved more than his.
Years had flown by, and you remained with your husband, the love you two shared for one another never diminished. While you enjoyed your life greatly, you couldn't say that it was all easy. The winters were harsh, and you missed your family incredibly as you only managed to visit one another a handful of times.
The thing that was bothering you the most though was the fact that you still hadn't become pregnant. It certainly wasn't for lack of trying, as you couldn't remember a time when you hadn't been bedded for more than three days. Cregan wasn't too bothered by it, but you could tell that it was something that some people gossiped about. After all, you had to have at the very least two children, one for you as heir and one for Cregan. Your husband insisted that it didn't matter and that he was happy with you either way, but you couldn't stop the doubt from seeping in, especially not with the council hovering around you every second of the day.
“Perhaps she is infertile,” the Maester had suggested, which sent them into an uproar, asking what of the heir that was needed. Cregan quickly silenced them by slamming his fists into the table, a seething expression on his face as he defended his wife. “You shall not discuss this matter as if it involves any of you. You asked me to marry three years ago, and I did now stay out of my marriage.” This quickly shut their mouths, but it didn't manage to stop the whispers from spreading. While most didn't mean any harm, it didn't help with you to quell your worries as you sat in the bath motionlessly.
“My love?” Cregan called from the entrance, entering upon hearing your hum. His expression softened at the sight of your discouraged form, ridding himself of his clothes to join you. You moved forward so he could settle behind you before leaning back into his firm chest. He wrapped one of his arms around your waist whilst the other played with your silver hair lovingly. You simply chose to relish in the affections he provided you with.
“Do not worry, my love,” he mumbled, his words echoing in the empty room as you mindlessly nodded with your head resting on his shoulder. “I promise you I will put a child into you if that is what you truly wish for,” he swore, willing to do anything to please you, which made you smile gently. Your eyes sparkled with the pure adoration you held for your husband.
“I love you Cregan,” the usually solemn man softened, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek before returning the sentiment, “I love you as well, princess.” Your eyes flickered to meet his before you moved to sit in his lap, turning to face him while he watched with a raised brow.
As he had promised that night, you were pregnant, much to your elation.
The first thing you did when you found out was rush towards the dining hall where Cregan was eating, Laenor following you swiftly. Your husband looked up at the sound of your pants and fastened footsteps, putting his fork down as he slid his chair back. You all but leaped into his arms, a wide smile gracing your features as he watched on in disarray, but before he got the chance to question your odd behavior you cut him off.
“I am with child,” the words made him widen his eyes as he was truly shocked for once in his life, before a giant smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling from joy as he threw his arms around you. He got up from his chair, holding you up with ease as he kissed you with much vigor. You smiled into the kiss, tears of bliss slid down your cheeks that transferred onto his face, not that he minded.
Cregan gently placed you back down to your feet, his hand immediately reaching for your stomach, even though there wasn't anything visible yet. “Aye, I promised you didn't I,” he grinned which made you roll your eyes before you leaned up to place another kiss on his lips.
That evening you wrote to your family, joyful to announce the news of your pregnancy, while Cregan spread the word to his council and friends. You truly couldn't be happier at that moment. Once news of your pregnancy reached both King's Landing and Dragonstone your mother insisted on coming, wishing to be there for the birth of her first grandchild. You and Cregan were glad to welcome her back, along with Jacaerys and Baela who had wanted to come as well. Daemon had expressed his wish to be there with you, but someone had to stay back on Dragonstone. Lucerys had preferred to stay home as well as he couldn't stand the cold and Rhaena chose to remain by her betrothed's side, but they made you promise to visit with your child as soon as you recovered.
At first, the pregnancy went by fine, you had expected the morning sickness as your mother had described. It was only after the first three months that your bump finally began to show, much to Cregan's delight. He had often found his place directly behind you with his hands resting on your stomach, to protect you and your unborn child from any harm.
Though after the first trimester had passed, had you begun to feel worse. You were frequently challenged by abdominal pains and high temperatures which baffled your mother as she had never gotten such symptoms so early on which in turn sent Cregan spiraling up to the point that you were appointed to bed six months into your pregnancy. The Maester had claimed that everything was fine, that you were simply having slightly different symptoms than most women, but it didn't quell your family's concerns.
It was around the seventh month that Rhaenyra, Baela, and Jacaerys remained permanently glued to your side as you suffered the painful aches. They wished to assist you ease the pain in any way they could but once you passed the safe amount of Milk of the Poppy, you couldn't take any other medicine if you did not want to harm your child. Jacaerys had pressed on, stating that it was better that you took the medicine, but you refused which frustrated Cregan. Your husband had desired to be by your side as much as your family members, but he still had to rule over Winterfell.
Your water broke a month too early. You had been lying in front of the hearth on the sofa with Laenor resting his head on your legs when the contractions started. A cry left your lips, quickly alerting your mother who was sitting not too far from you while embroidering a blanket for her future grandchild. She shot up, her eyes furrowed as she lifted your dress only to see dried blood coating it.
Her eyes widened in terror, glancing over to Baela and Jace, “Call for the midwives and Cregan! Y/n has started her labors!” She then shooed your direwolf away, which made him scowl, but he listened when you softly ordered him to make place for your mother. Jace nodded, his eyes broad in panic before rushing outside while Baela hurried to Rhaenyra's side as they attempted to help you sit up properly. “How can this be? She is supposed to give birth in one moon!” Rhaenyra couldn't find a reply as she attempted to hush your worries.
“It seems that she has started her early labor,” the older woman muttered, caressing your cheek comfortingly as sweat started to form on your forehead. “Where the fuck is Jace?” Baela hissed, already sitting beside you to hold you tightly.
The prince was running around, much to the confusion of the people around him, but he couldn't register anything as he searched for your husband. He had already called for a maid to get the midwives before starting his search for the Lord of Winterfell. Eventually, he managed to find the solemn man outside, training knights in the courtyard with his sword. “Lord Stark!” Jace's shouts startled the surrounding men, but he set his sights on your husband, who watched on in confusion as your brother rushed towards him.
“Prince Jacaerys what-” “Y/n has started her labors!” Cregan's eyes widened as his breath hitched. He didn't waste a second as he pushed past his brother-in-law, running quickly to reach your side faster. When he burst into the room, he noticed that you had been moved towards your shared bed while midwives were scurrying around. Your mother was seated by your side, attempting to calm you while Baela was arguing with the Maester for some Gods-forsaken reason.
Cregan discarded his cloak and sword on the rug, kneeling by your bedside, while you looked up at him with a fatigued smile. “You came,” the words came out more hoarse than you had wanted, but your husband simply brushed some straying hairs from your sticky forehead, placing a quick kiss on the side of your head. “Of course I came,” his eyes were drowning in concern as he looked around, trying to find an answer as to why you were forced to give birth so early on.
He clasped his hand around yours, squeezing it tightly to give you some form of comfort. Jace had returned as well by now and decided to join the argument between Baela and the Maester despite not having a clue what it was about. A chuckle left you at the sight before a pained whine escaped your lips. Cregan grabbed a piece of cloth, moistening it before gently dabbing it on your face, only hoping that it relieved you in some kind of way.
Hours were spent that way and no one had wanted to leave your side, refusing when the Maester had said it could take a couple of hours, even days at most. Cregan had simply snapped at him, ignoring the ache in his knees as he remained seated by your side. During those hours, you had changed positions numerous times, but eventually, you returned to rest on your back once the substantial pain had started.
Your breathe fastened even more than it already had, and your grip on Cregan tightened. Your eyes turned towards your mother as you opened your mouth to speak for the first time in a while, “I need to push.” The words sent the room into a frenzy as midwives positioned themselves between your legs.
“You have to hold back, Princess!” One of them called, to which you let out a loud groan. “Everything will be fine, my love. You can do this,” your husband mumbled. Tears left your eyes as you prayed for this pain to end already. “Have you thought of names yet?” Baela questioned in an attempt to distract you for a while longer. You glanced at your husband, and he nodded reassuringly before you turned back to face your cousin with a wavering smile, “Rhaenor for a boy and Daenara for a girl.”
“A Targaryen name?” Rhaenyra smiled warmly as Cregan nodded, “We thought it would only be appropriate for the future heir.” Your family sat around you which warmed your heart, but the feeling quickly vanished at a particularly agonizing contraction.
“Push!” The midwife called, your hand tightened around Cregan's as you screamed out. It seemed like there would never be an end to it as the cries ripped from your throat. “You are doing incredible, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra tried, but you completely ignored her as you sobbed. “Get it out! Fuck!” Your nails sunk into Cregan's hand, but he remained steady as he whispered sweet words into your ear. You would have thought that after almost an hour of endless screaming your voice would have become hoarse, but it seemed like it only turned louder.
“I can see the head!” Baela was assisting the midwife as you wailed. “Just get it fucking out of me!” You shouted angrily and with one last push, the baby fell into your cousin's awaiting arms. “You did. You've done so well, my love,” Cregan placed kisses upon your sweaty forehead as you let a weak smile appear on your face. Leaning into your husband's arms while Baela helped the midwives clean your baby.
“I am so proud of you, sweet girl,” your mother grasped your hand softly, and you nodded thankfully at her, choosing to remain in Cregan's muscular arms. “It is a boy, sister,” Jace announced with much excitement, as a wide smile appeared on your face. Cregan couldn't contain his delight as he pressed yet another kiss against your lips. “Rhaenor,” you mumbled already wishing to hold your son when a familiar pain abruptly hit you again.
You threw your head back against your husband's chest as a cry left your lips. Rhaenyra immediately jumped up while the midwife attempted to reassure you all by clarifying that it was most likely the placenta, but you shook your head. “I feel like I must push again,” you managed to get out before another scream ripped from your throat. Your husband watched on in disarray but refused to even step away from you as he hugged you closer, your arms wrapped around his as you tried to stabilise yourself.
A gasp made you look up with worry only to find Baela smiling, “Another babe.” Cregan's eyes widened while you smiled feebly, genuinely ecstatic that you would have twins. Your mother returned to your side, holding your hand as you sobbed into your husband's chest.
Fortunately, this time it went by a lot quicker and not long after you were already pushing out another baby. Your cousin was once more ready to catch your second child whilst Jace held Rhaenor in his arms, attempting to soothe his nephew lovingly. As you made the final push a sigh of relief left your lips before looking over at Baela, eyes curious to see your second child.
“Another boy,” you pressed a kiss to Cregan's throat, melting into his hold as you attempted to stay awake to see your sons. “What will you name him?” Jace questioned, an expression of pure joy spread across his face whilst you pondered for a second. You glanced up at your husband who was staring lovingly at you before you decided, “Ned.”
Rhaenyra raised a brow as well as Cregan. “Ned you say?” Her mother tried out the name which made you giggle quietly, “Short for Eddard.” Your husband tilted your face to look up at him, and you grinned at his astonished expression, kissing his cheek sweetly while he caressed your face, “A Northern name? I quite like it,” Jace grinned, glancing over at Ned in Baela's arms whilst he held Rhaenor, waiting for you to properly unwind. “Thank you, my love,” Cregan's reply to it all made you laugh softly, but you kissed him nonetheless mumbling something against his lips, only for his ears to hear.
The midwife smiled at the cheerful family and moved your dress to prepare you for the placenta that was yet to come when a frown appeared on her face. “What is it?” Rhaenyra inquired as she noticed the worrisome expression that the woman wore. She ushered your mother towards her quietly but Cregan had caught sight of yet another issue. Rhaenyra approached, fear settling in her gut as she could only pray nothing was wrong with you.
“Why is there so much blood?” She whispered, her eyes wide at the gruesome sight in front of her. “I believe she suffers a hemorrhage,” the words sent fear spiking into Rhaenyra as she could only remember her own mother before she turned to the midwife, a frantic look in her eyes. “Will- will she survive?” The words were barely able to leave her lips when yet another whine escaped your lips.
Cregan looked around with wide eyes, wondering what was transpiring around him as he tried to soothe you while glancing at your mother. She panicked and looked back under your dress along with the midwife who gasped loudly which caught the attention of everyone else. “What now?” An angry groan made its way out of you as your fingers clenched around your husband's hand that held you tightly. “I believe you are to have a third child!”
Your eyes widened, and your mouth fell slack at the news, rapidly looking up at Cregan who was just as dumbfounded, but he attempted to pull himself together for your sake, “It is alright, my love. You can do this.” Baela and Jace helplessly stood beside the bed, holding your children while you screamed relentlessly, pushing a third child out.
“What is wrong with you? Putting three fucking children into me at once!” You angrily yelled at your husband who only chuckled, nodding along while remaining oblivious to what was happening. “What will this mean for her?” Rhaenyra hissed, continuously glancing up to check on you while the midwife shook her head. “We cannot know but at this moment anything is a high risk.”
“Can we stop this birth then? Will it benefit her?” Your mother was desperate now, willing to do anything to keep you as the older woman beside her shook her head. “There is nothing we can do now.” The words absolutely mortified Rhaenyra and when your third child finally left your body she had quickly handed it to another maid before rushing to your side.
“Mother-?” The woman quickly shushed you, caressing your soaked hair with trembling hands as tears gathered in her eyes. You turned fearful at her odd behavior and Cregan tightened his hold on you. “What is it?” He hissed, your cousin and brother approaching with confusion lacing their expressions, but Rhaenyra disregarded them all as she kept her grasp on you, “You have done so well. I love you, sweet girl.” You glanced down, eyes wide in horror as you finally noticed the amount of blood. Cregan held in his tears as a lump rose in his throat, his hold only tightening around you as he attempted to convince himself that if he held you, you wouldn't be able to leave him. “What is the meaning of this?” Jace furiously asked while keeping his hold on his nephew gentle.
“Princess, you must push one last time. To get the placenta out. It is necessary,” you nodded shakily, closing your eyes as you collected all your strength to push yet again. Sobs raked your body violently until suddenly you felt dizzy, the world around you turning dark while sounds faded. A loud sob came from Rhaenyra as she hugged your body, praying for anyone to save her precious daughter, but it seemed like no God was interested in keeping you alive.
Cregan stared on in shock, his quivering hand moving to your neck only not to feel a pulse. He took your face into his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks as he shook your head. “Y/n? Wake up,” his voice cracked. Jace’s knees buckled as he fell onto the floor, his eyes bright red while he buried Rhaenor in his arms. His betrothed gasped, tears falling as she loudly cried at the sight of your limp, bloodied body that was held by your mother and husband.
The midwife felt her eyes brim with tears, but she swiftly turned to inform the Maester of the news. She opened the door and the old man looked on questioningly as he heard loud sobs emit from the room. “What is the matter?” He questioned as she closed the door behind her to let the family grieve the loss of the princess. “Princess Y/n has passed,” the words startled the man as he furrowed his brows, bowing his head in respect. “What of the child?” The question hung in the air for a while before the woman replied sorrowfully.
“Princess Y/n has given birth to two sons and a daughter,” the man's eyes widened, triplets were extremely rare and mothers barely ever made it out alive during those labors. He nodded absentmindedly, processing the news, “I shall inform the council.”
Letters were quickly written to spread the news across the realm before they announced the passing of their Princess to the residents of Winterfell with much despair and regret. The people cried out for their Lady, participating in their Lord's mourning, and made offerings to your dragon Vermithor who had been restless. The ravens reached their destinations swiftly and left an impact on the Lords and Ladies of the realm who had remembered you as a lively soul.
“An urgent letter has arrived from Winterfell, your grace,” Ser Erryk declared, as the King nodded motioning for him to read it out loud while he continued eating. He had been one of the people most overjoyed of the news of your pregnancy and couldn't wait to meet his great-grandchild. Alicent placed her utensils down, glancing at her father and children before turning to her husband, “It must be from Princess Y/n.”
“Is she not due for another month?” Otto wondered out loud which caught the attention of his grandchildren as they all watched on in wonder.
“With much pride we can announce that Princess Y/n has given birth to triplets,” Aegon choked on his wine while Aemond simply raised a brow. “That certainly explains the early labour,” Otto mumbled.
“Her firstborn is a son named Rhaenor Stark, her second born is yet another son named Eddard Stark and her third born is a daughter named Daenara Stark. Unfortunately, we must announce that our dear Princess Y/n has passed during her labours.” Ser Erryk's eyes widened at the last part but remained quiet as the news settled within the royal family.
Colour drained from the King's face as he abruptly stood up, his eyes moist with tears as he lost yet another woman in his life due to childbirth and stormed out of the dining hall. Alicent let out a shaky breath, quickly praying for her step-granddaughter while her father sighed deeply not heartless enough not to pity the poor girl. Helaena cried loudly before she too rushed out of the room to find comfort with her own children.
Aegon rubbed a hand over his face, as he recalled the last time he saw you. He grabbed the wine pitcher, not glancing back as he left to drown himself in his drinks with you in his memory. The younger prince watched on with furrowed brows, he wasn't fond of you, and yet, he felt a tug at his heartstrings at the thought of you. Perhaps somewhere deep down within him, he did care for you, the early days of your childhood you spent together instead of with your brothers who enjoyed teasing you for the lack of dragons.
The castle was glum that day, both the Royals and commoners mourning the loss of their dear princess.
The funeral preparations started early on with Daemon insisting that you should be buried like a Targaryen, while Cregan fought back, wishing for your body to remain in Winterfell.
“She is a Targaryen!” Daemon roared, his hair sticking to the back of his neck as he fought with the other men while Lucerys was weeping in his mother's arms. “She is my wife! I do not see the point of arguing over this with you,” Cregan seethed, his hair had grown out longer than he'd like, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. “She is also a Velaryon!” Corlys butted in, which made the two angrily turn to him. Viserys pinched his brows together, his head aching from all this screaming and arguing, “I have had enough of this! She shall have a Targaryen funeral in Winterfell.”
Daemon seemed pleased with this while Cregan clenched his fists together as he had wanted to bury you. He wished to have the ability for your children to visit your grave when they were older, but now they didn't even have that privilege. “Now, I want to see my great-grandchildren,” the King sighed, as the Northman hadn't shown anyone his children.
“Yes, I would like to see them as well,” Daemon agreed, moving to stand closer with his family which consisted of Rhaenyra, Jace, Luke, Baela and Rhaena. Cregan reluctantly nodded, his face unmoving as it had been for weeks before he departed the room to get his children, knowing his wife would have wanted for her family to meet them. As he entered their chamber, he let out a shaky breath, placing his hands on the back of a chair in support as he tried to keep his tears at bay. When knocks echoed through the room he quickly straightened and turned his face solemn only to see Jace. “I thought I could help carry them.”
Cregan simply nodded, walking over to the cradles where his three children laid. His eyes softened at the sight of them before reaching down to take Rhaenor into his arms. He was gentle with them which was so unlike him ever since you passed. Jace handed him his daughter into his free arm before reaching to hold Ned carefully. The babies gurgled, pulling at their father and uncle's hair as they sauntered back in silence.
The Targaryen and Velaryon family turned towards them as they entered the room, the King immediately reached for Rhaenor with a warm smile. “Who might this be?” He questioned, caressing the boy's cheek with his finger carefully while Alicent looked over his shoulder. She quickly took notice of his silver hair that resembled yours but raised her brow at his grey eyes which he got from his father along with all his other features. “That is Rhaenor,” Cregan reluctantly handed his daughter over to Daemon who had moved to grab her and chuckled at Daenara, placing a kiss on her chubby cheeks as she giggled. She had been born with your violet eyes and her father's dark hair.
“This must be little Ned,” Corlys grinned, as his wife held the baby. He was an odd case in their opinion, he ended up with violet eyes, but his hair was dark brown with streaks of silver hair. Cregan kept a close eye on all of them, making sure nothing happened to the babies, who were the only things left of you. “We must place dragon eggs in their cradles!” Viserys exclaimed, his eyes turning towards his daughter and cousin who both nodded.
“Luke, Rhaena would you like to pick them out?” Rhaenys questioned as Rhaenyra was quietly staring at her grandchildren with a heartbroken expression. The two nodded before hurrying off as Daemon glanced around, deciding whether to enrage the Northman or not. “Lord Stark does not know how to take care of a dragon. Especially not three. I suggest they come live with us for the time being,” Rhaenyra was silent as she reached to hold Daenara, holding her close as her eyes watered while Cregan glared harshly at the prince.
“No.”
Alicent pondered over it for a while before she piped up as well, “Think about it, Lord Stark. You had only been prepared to take care of one babe, but now you have three. You have no previous experience, and you do not have your wife to assist you. Then there is the matter of the three dragons as well do you truly think it would be best for them to stay here? Perhaps they could stay with us for some time, one in Driftmark, one in King's Landing and one on Dragonstone?” Cregan wouldn't hear of it, shaking his head furiously and Rhaenys could truly sympathize with him, but it was clear that he would need assistance.
“My children will stay with me, in Winterfell. I will take care of them and if you worry so much about the dragons, then you may come and help with them. But that is final, they are staying here,” it was clear that there was no room for any discussion so they decided to indulge themselves in the babes for a while before Cregan would take them back.
The funeral took place two days later, near the snow covered forest. Cregan had hardened his face, holding Ned in his arms, while Daenara was with Rhaenyra and Rhaenor in Jace's arms. He wore black furs and numbly stared at your body that was placed further away. Vermithor roared loudly, distressed with yet another rider of his dying, but the Northman paid no mind to him. It had been decided that the bronze fury would remain in Winterfell, in case that one of your children's eggs wouldn't hatch they could try to claim Vermithor.
Jace cleared his throat, as he had been the one that was appointed to lead the ceremony. He took a final breath before saying the dreaded words, “Dracarys.”
Vermithor roared once more, hesitating for a moment before flames engulfed your body. Cregan closed his eyes, his heart aching at the sight and pulled his son closer to him. He promised you that he would take good care of your children so you could be proud of them.
Years blurred into one another and while it was hard for Cregan, he always tried for his children who loved him relentlessly. The four Starks often visited the crypts where Cregan had a statue build for you and even whenever Rhaenyra and her family visited they would always stop by the statue with sorrowful expressions.
Throughout the years Jace had been named heir which retracted Rhaenor's claim which meant that he would be Lord of Winterfell one day. The eldest boy didn't mind it, preferring to stay with his father as he was clearly a Northern by heart. His egg had hatched first revealing a surprisingly calm swarthy blue dragon. Daenara's egg came out as well but was slightly harder to control as it was a rather energetic white dragon. The only egg that hadn't come out was Ned's but once he was old enough he had managed to claim Vermithor.
The council had suggested numerous times that he remarry but they couldn't use the excuse of heirs anymore as he had plenty of them. Cregan adamantly refused, he didn't care for it and stated that he would remain faithful to his first and only wife and so he did, eventually passing with his children by his side and a lasting ache etched into his heart.
the end © ioaezz, 2024.
Can’t wait for your Hollywood series!!!
new hollywood au is out!! you can read it here!
thank you for the support!!🫶🏼🫶🏼
HOUSE TARGARYEN (NATHAN MACKINNON)
summary: a new generation of targaryens are introduced and nathan mackinnon just so happens to be dating the actress that portrays princess alyssa targaryen
an: and we’re back with my welcome to hollywood series!! so sorry for the sudden disappearance :( but we’re back!! you can probably tell i got a little carried away with the lore here but that’s what fanfiction is about 😝 might actually do a baelor fic with this targ lore idk yet but let me know if y’all would be down to read :)
warnings: targcest mentioned (yikes!!) small mention of a fictional character’s miscarriage (lmk if i missed anything else!!) SPOILERS for a knight of the seven kingdoms just letting you know if you plan on watching the series :)
welcome to hollywood series
—
Belfast
June 2024
Nathan watched as the makeup artist did the finishing touches on your makeup. You were already in full costume and had your signature Targaryen platinum blonde wig. Now you were filming the arrival of the Targaryens in Ashford.
“You look really good in that wig.” Nathan commented from his spot in your chair that had your name printed on the back.
“I’m not dyeing my hair if that’s what you’re suggesting,” you laugh along with the makeup artist. “I’m fine with my regular hair.”
“You’d look good with any hair color.” Nathan replied. Soon you were told filming would start in a minute. After saying goodbye to Nate and leaving with the makeup artist, you were now inside of a carriage with the child actor who was playing your daughter.
Nate watched from behind the camera as filming started. He payed close attention when it was your time to appear on the screen. In character, you approached Lord Ashford and stood next to your ‘husband’, keeping your ‘daughter’ close by. A thousand thoughts were running through Nate’s mind.
She looks so good. I can’t believe I’m dating her. She looks ethereal.
After finishing the scene, you immediately praised the little girl playing your daughter. She didn’t have that many lines, but you still celebrated her performance. “You’re crushing it, love.” You gave her a quick high five.
There was a small break since one of the cameras wasn’t working properly so you went back to Nate. As you approached him, he took a quick picture of you in your dress. When you noticed, you smiled at him then quickly got shy when he kept taking photos.
“Theres my princess.” Nathan wanted to give you a kiss real bad, but he didn’t want to mess up your makeup.
“Future Queen Alyssa Targaryen.” You clarified.
“Now I want to see that happen. Where the creator of the show? I need to have a talk with him. I need to see Queen Alyssa.” Nathan teased.
“Keep dreaming, my love. If you’ve read the book, Queen Alyssa dies of a broken heart. It’s tragic. First she lost her husband during the trial of seven, then remarries but she’s unhappy then she becomes a widow again and she couldn’t take the loss so she passes away,” You took a seat in your chair and used the fan provided by the makeup department. “If I had the chance to have her have a happy ending, I would take it. She deserved a good ending.”
“Not all of it was depressing. Didn’t she have that one on one moment with Maekar’s son who became king?” Nathan’s words caught you by surprise.
“What are you talking about?” You questioned.
“There’s a scene after Egg is crowned and he finds Alyssa in her room and he comforts her and if I remember correctly, Alyssa tells some sort of joke that gets her laughing so hard, she almost passes out from laughing. It’s the first time she’s laughed in years.” Nathan said as if it was common knowledge.
“Nate . . .” You couldn’t believe he remembered.
“What? I read,” He shrugged. “You’ve been talking about this role since you got the call to send in your audition so I ordered all the books and read them during flights. I know this character means a lot to you so I wanted to know what happens to her.”
In the background, you heard the producers call all the actors back on set. You quickly places a chaste kiss on Nate’s lips. “Have I ever told you that you’re the perfect man?”
“You’re really going to call me that and leave me here? Babe, you’re killing me here.”
—
—
January 2026
liked by mackinnon29, hbomax and others
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liked by nhl, drat_29 and others
mackinnon29 i heard the best princess in all of the seven kingdoms is in this
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—
February 2026
@xreader1989
Baby, I’m a Dog. I’m a Mutt [M]
Sandor Clegane X Velaryon Reader
Romance Trope - Fake Marriage (Happy Ending)
SUMMARY: Clegane is tired of the constant torture and ridicule from Joffrey, so he lies, he says that he betrothed to a beautiful lady. Only problem is… he isn’t.
WARNINGS: Nonexplicit Smut
Romantic Trope Series
⸻
The Red Keep’s great hall shimmered under candlelight, but there was little warmth in the air.
Wine flowed like blood. The court was in good spirits, or so it seemed on the surface—laughter crackled like lightning across the tables, nobles and knights crowded together, picking at meats and gossip alike. The King, Joffrey Baratheon, sat perched on the Iron Throne as if born to it, his legs spread arrogantly, a goblet clutched lazily in one hand.
Sandor Clegane stood at the edge of the feast, not seated, not speaking. Always the outsider.
He didn’t drink.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t belong.
The firelight played across his maimed face—one side scarred and melted, twisted and raw. His good eye glared through the shadows beneath his brow. He stood in his armor, as always. Guard, dog, monster. They never let him forget.
Nor would they tonight.
Lord Lannister’s cousin, some minor lordling fat on inherited power and richer wines, wiped grease from his chin and smirked across the room. “Tell me, does the Hound sit or sleep, or just lean against stone walls like a beast on watch?”
Chuckles followed. Another chimed in—one of the Reachmen. “He’s too big for the chairs. Wouldn’t want him breaking one and bringing the whole court down with him.”
“And the smell,” said Ser Hobber Redwyne, fanning his face dramatically. “Gods, no wonder his horse has a temper.”
A louder laugh broke free. Even a few of the small council members smiled behind raised goblets. Ser Meryn Trant chuckled, lips red with wine.
Sandor didn’t move. But his fingers twitched at his side.
“I think the Hound needs a wife,” Joffrey said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a dagger coated in honey. “Every beast needs a handler, does he not?”
Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”
Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.
Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.
Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.
Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.
“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”
The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.
The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”
That silenced some.
But not Joffrey.
“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”
Sandor’s eye narrowed.
“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”
The word hung there. Grotesque.
No one defended him.
Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.
He was alone in it—as he always had been.
A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.
Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.
Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”
Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”
Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”
The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.
And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.
His boots struck stone, hard and fast.
But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.
With rage.
He had endured worse. He would endure more.
But tonight, something inside him cracked.
And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.
The night stank.
Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.
No. That was a lie.
He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.
Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.
And not a single one would touch him.
He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”
That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.
He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.
A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.
She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”
Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.
He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—
“Marry me.”
The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.
Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”
He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”
She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”
Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”
“Proposing?”
“Talking.”
She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”
“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”
Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”
“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”
“And if I say no?”
He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”
A silence stretched between them.
Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”
He did.
Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You may have my hand.”
Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.
She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”
He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”
Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”
He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.
Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”
He blinked again. “A lady.”
“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”
He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”
She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.
And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.
“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.
Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.
He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.
But she said yes.
And that was enough—for now.
It had been thirty agonizing minutes.
The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.
He had never felt smaller.
The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.
“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.
“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.
Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”
“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”
A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.
Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”
“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”
Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.
Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”
“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”
Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.
The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.
He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?
Then—
The great doors creaked open.
Every head turned.
Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.
A herald’s voice rang out:
“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”
There was a pause. Audible surprise.
The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.
Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.
“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”
No one answered. No one could.
Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.
Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.
And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.
The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.
But she commanded their silence all the same.
At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.
“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.
No one spoke.
Then she turned toward the shadows.
Toward him.
Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.
Instead, she smiled.
Soft, amused. Real.
She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.
When she reached him, she looked up.
And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”
The court gasped.
She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.
“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”
He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.
And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.
A laugh.
Rough and brief—but real.
He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.
“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”
The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”
Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.
But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.
“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”
He froze.
Gasps again. Whispers.
Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.
“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”
The room went dead still.
Cersei looked mildly intrigued.
Tyrion groaned under his breath.
But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”
Her voice didn’t waver.
Gasps erupted.
Tyrion stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite enough.”
But she wasn’t done.
“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”
The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.
But Sandor?
He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.
And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.
The chambers were smaller than hers at home.
That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.
She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.
At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.
The door creaked open.
She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.
Sandor.
His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.
“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.
“I prefer it,” she replied.
There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.
“You’re a stupid girl.”
She turned now.
He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”
She stepped toward him.
Elegant. Calm.
“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.
He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.
“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”
“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”
He didn’t answer.
She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”
His lips parted.
His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.
When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
Not softly.
She yanked him to her.
And he broke.
Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.
But she didn’t.
She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.
They stood there, breathless.
He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.
She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.
“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”
She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.
And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.
He didn’t say good night.
But he watched the whole time.
And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.
The bell only rang once.
Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.
Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.
The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.
His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.
He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.
What he did not expect was honor.
The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.
At their head walked her father.
Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.
When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.
Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.
“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”
Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.
A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”
And then she arrived.
The entire Sept seemed to still.
She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.
Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.
She did not stop at Joffrey.
She did not bow.
Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.
He couldn’t breathe.
She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.
“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”
He felt the words in his bones.
The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.
“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”
But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.
“I do,” she said clearly.
Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”
Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.
It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.
“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.
Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”
They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.
But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.
The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.
He didn’t look at her
Not at first.
His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.
He didn’t want her to see.
When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.
He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.
“Stop.” Her voice was stern.
Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.
He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.
But it wasn’t there.
Only stillness. Power. Patience.
And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.
“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”
Something in him unraveled then.
Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.
She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”
She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.
He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”
Her smile curled into his mouth.
“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”
“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”
“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”
He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.
“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”
And he lost himself.
He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.
She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”
He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.
The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.
Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”
A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.
“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”
Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”
“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.
The room went still.
He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”
Silence.
Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.
Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.
Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.
Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.
The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.
The doors creaked open.
She walked in alone.
No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.
Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.
She was far too calm.
Far too lovely.
Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.
“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”
Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”
“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”
She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”
He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”
“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”
The throne room froze.
Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.
Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.
Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”
But she didn’t flinch.
Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.
“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”
Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”
The words hung, suspended.
“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.
And they turned to leave.
Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.
Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.
The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.
The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.
His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.
“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”
Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.
She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.
She turned slowly.
The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”
“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”
Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.
Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.
Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.
Her eyes dropped to it.
“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”
His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.
“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.
Her chest ached.
She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.
Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.
“Sandor,” she whispered.
He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.
She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.
“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”
He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.
“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”
His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely
She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.
“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”
He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.
Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
“You’re mine.”
hockey tweets of the week!!
one of the major reasons why I love being able to attend a stars game at AAC is because the dart literally drops you off in front of the arena and now they want to take that away from me??
*animal crossing noises*
She posted some stuff about the dogg on her dog’s account lmao
i just went down a rabbit hole 😭 oh my god
https://www.tumblr.com/aftersunsz/817839796634468352/who-was-going-to-tell-me-that-natemac-and-vanessa
Oh that’s nooooothingggg, have you seen the aftermath of their breakup? 💀💀
This is the second time I’ve heard about their breakup!! Is it THAT bad? I only started watching hockey in like 2021 😭
Nate and Vanessa is a known thing lmao wait until you hear about what she posted after they broke up😂😂😂 natedogg is freakyyyy
I’m listening 👀
SUPER SWEET SIXTEEN
summary: it’s ophelia’s sixteenth birthday!!
an: middle child crosby is 16 today 😝 p.s if the avs were still in the playoffs, phee would’ve been celebrating her birthday with them :/
across the universe series
anais and ophelia’s version
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liked by bmarch63, sofiacoppola and others
viviengcrosby 16 years of my beautiful ophelia ✨🤍 happy birthday my love!
bmarch63 what! the old man’s baby is not a baby anymore?!
opheliamaec let me borrow 20 dollars it’s my birthday be nice to me
bmarch63 i liked you better when you were a baby
opheliamaec i liked you better in boston 😛
crosbypucks when i show up to the florida panthers number one hater competition but ophelia crosby is already there
opheliamaec i live there
anais.gc crazy how 16 years ago i woke up an only child but ended the day as a sister
opheliamaec best day of your life perchance?
anais.gc no the best day of my life was meeting stevie nicks
opheliamaec ok valid
opheliamaec thank you my beautiful, gorgeous, talented, wonderful, amazing, mother!! did i mention you’re so talented and amazing?
viviengcrosby no you cannot go to the bar with macklin and sam
opheliamaec mackcelebrini bro do something
mackcelebrini MRS CROSBY I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR DAUGHTER WANTING TO GO TO A BAR PLEASE BELIEVE ME
opheliamaec this is why will is my favorite shark
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liked by opheliamaec, fraserminten and others
anais.gc the greatest plot twist of my life arrived sixteen years ago today. you’re my first best friend, my roommate, my better half <3 i love you more than you’ll ever know ❤️
happy 16th birthday to my favorite surprise! i love you mouse!
opheliamaec YOURE NOT SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME CRY ON MY BIRTHDAY YOU LOSER!!
opheliamaec love you bug 🥲🫶🏼
e.malkin71geno labubu !
opheliamaec ok received
fraserminten wait i know her
opheliaemaec please no autographs right now
pou29 happy birthday ophelia!
opheliamaec thank you!! say hi to Walter for me 😝
habscup ophelia crosby future montreal victoire player?
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opheliamaec and she’s 16!
goldengoalsid the concept of surprise baby crosby already being 16 years old
emptynetters_ wait i’m new to hockey why does everyone say stuff that she was a surprise 😭
goldengoalsid vivien’s pregnancy was one of those cryptic ones so she didn’t know she was pregnant until she gave birth
opheliamaec some scary stuff indeed but at least she got me 😛
mackinnon29 happy birthday phee!! love you and thanks for being on the road with me ❤️
opheliamaec love you too uncle nate 🫶🏼 thanks for letting me stick around!!
biznasty happy birthday gremlin
opheliamaec that block button looks so good rn
Carolina Hurricanes, you know what to do. Please don’t fail me now
i miss alex turner and miles kane making music :(
WHO WAS GOING TO TELL ME THAT NATEMAC AND VANESSA MORGAN DATED?? SO NATHAN MACKINNON DATED THE MY BABYSITTER’S A VAMPIRE VANESSA MORGAN 😭
