content: Your life is never dull with two husbands and eight children. Especially when you take in to account the blood of the dragon that flows through their veins.
parts(in timeline order):
⤷ mama, papa & maekar
୨ৎ we were done!
୨ৎ a daughter?
୨ৎ it’s not a competition
୨ৎ better than this
୨ৎ what would you do without me?
extras:
⤷ resolving conflict
୨ৎ how did it happen?
୨ৎ who's their favorite?
୨ৎ the empty space (if the trial of seven happend)
୨ৎ who's the daddy
୨ৎ papa's girl
୨ৎ this time is different
୨ৎ overbearing husbands
୨ৎ the truth (if the King denied Maekar's marriage)
୨ৎ dragon eggs (if the kids eggs hatched)
୨ৎ the stags' wife (if Lyonel’s betrothal happened)
there's actually so much i want to say about sebastian vael hate in the year of our lord 2025. since people are still media illiterate, literately blind and have no reading comprehension. i say this because every time i see why someone doesn't like him it's always for this character y'all made up.
first of all can we get something clear right off the bat. it's okay if you don't like him because he's the unfinished canonical dlc straight. that's fine and valid and i get it. that's not HIS fault, mind you, but i get it.
if you haven't played the dlc and never got to experience him? valid but not a reason to dislike him. he can be the shiny religious cryptid with the pretty eyes you heard about but never experienced. that's fine.
but that's the thing, you HAVE to experience him because the misinformation and these imaginary hills people are dying on to slander this man is effectively laughable at this point. this man you're all vehemently hating and STILL. DRAGGING. THROUGH. THE. MUD. IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2025 is someone you made up because he (rightfully) wanted anders dead after he blew up the last home he had. the last found family he had. i'm getting ahead of myself but i am begging you to stop thinking of anders 'I'LL SHOW YOU WHY YOU SHOULD FEAR MAGES!!' as some wet sad cat man uwu baby, and just be critical for a second.
anyway.
one of the biggest complaints i see are either 'all he does is preach. he tries to convert fenris!!! he's just some religious guy' and all nonsense under the religion category. and i see this a lot when in pertains to fantasy characters in fantasy religions. so let me just say; hi, hello. i have been an atheist since i was 18. i'm like... 37 or 38 now i don't remember, time is wild, but i'm decently aged. i'm not a fan of big pharma or big religion, sue me.
i can tell the difference between the real world you and i and we live in, and the REALM OF FANTASY. you really don't need to push all of your anti-religion feelings onto religious characters. it's dumb, you're being dumb and i'm gonna need you to stop being dumb for the hottest of seconds. you know who also is wildly religious and has stayed so for the first three games?
leliana. and, objectively, she's more insistent about it in origins than sebastian ever was in da2. you can boo me but i'm right. cassandra pushes andraste on every inquisitor and disapproves when you say you don't believe in the maker and all that jazz pretty often. cullen is also very devout, and also one of our canon straights btw. (cass too) so why is sebastian the one who gets his with vitriol TO THIS DAY about it?
he doesn't preach. he genuinely doesn't preach? do... do you guys even know what preaching is? i haven't been to church since i was 12 but like. that's preaching btw. simply TALKING ABOUT YOUR FAITH ISN'T FUCKING PREACHING. I SHAKE YOU ALL. FIRMLY BUT NOT IN A TOO VIOLENT FASHION.
sebastian got ABANDONED BY HIS FAMILY then MANIPULATED BY THE CHURCH and now he is what he is, but he's happy. he was a wild and feckless man, third born (iirc? it's been a hot minute) who sucked at melee so he couldn't even do the thing he was supposed to be in charge of right. his boozing and whoring (which are actions he took to act out - and what i take as NEEDING ATTENTION because hello, third born and cared less about) got him into trouble, and fearing a bastard being born and bringing shame to the family, they threw him into KIRKWALL OF ALL PLACES so they could forget about him and he could learn manners or whatever idk. follow his beloved grandfather's footsteps.
the chantry is very important to him. it was where he found himself, faith, love (???), acceptance and a woman who took him in and where he projected motherly affection to because he needed that so very badly. the chantry and andraste gave him peace of mind and somewhere to shelter himself when his world came tumbling down.
this is why he offers fenris a sympathetic ear. he sees fenris hurting. he sees fenris lost, angry and afraid in his own fenris way and what does he do? offers him solace. in the only way he knows how because this boy has not been loved properly in all of his damned years. the chantry saved him, maybe it could help save fenris too.
and what does fenris do? he goes. he finds solace in lighting candles and attending services now and again. that's all. sebastian never forced him to go, he just offered what peace and care he could in the only way he knows.
he talks to merril about andraste too. they talk about so many things! he answers all of her questions politely, and she answers his. they come to an understanding even if merril still isn't into his religion. arguably i believe he becomes closest with fenris and merril because he talks to them and tries to understand them. that's all he does with anyone.
isabela mentions point blank 'hey you never tried to convert me you're a real one for that' and he says 'preaching doesn't work' so guess what, and y'all will LOVE this, he doesn't. he doesn't preach. he has never preached?? proached.
the new wild take i've been seeing is that he's racist (what) and would say slurs (also what?) who is this man. it's not sebastian. who tells bethany she is perfect as she is, and that he doesn't see her being a mage as anything to be ashamed of. the man who said the chantry failed elves, and he doesn't begrudge one turning to the qun to find the solace and care SHE needed where HIS point of faith failed her.
when people bring up how he mentions reporting anders (tentatively mind you) fenris tells him he should report merril (and maybe hawke too if hawke is a mage? i don't remember this point) and he drops it. it was just a thought he voiced, and he never reports any of the mages on the team - but i'm sorry, i romanced anders first in this game and that man manipulated hawke, their name and service as champion of kirkwall, to get the resources and the 'in' he needed to blow up the fucking chantry. he was also very vocally one of sebastian's biggest haters and every conversation has been a way to get under his skin to piss him off, i don't BLAME SEBASTIAN FOR WANTING TO DO THIS.
he suffered through continuous hatred against himself from varric, whose writer even said was jealous of sebastian, and he got a lot of pushback and wry cunty remarks from aveline (a woman who was so surprised, and softly thanked him for putting her late husband's name on the wall for prayer and remembrance, because he wanted to help COMFORT HER) not to mention anders again, but constant hate from him too the ENTIRE GAME AND HE DID. IT. WITH. GRACE.
yet y'all got pissed when he apparently had the audacity of giving hawke the ultimatum of 'him or me' at the end. when anders so very violently destroyed all he had left in this world. he didn't just blow up the chantry, he MURDERED the people inside. he took away the last mother figure he had. his home. his everything.
yet he is portrayed as the vile man in all scenarios.
be so fucking for real. is it because he's 'ambiguously brown'? because he's been nothing but pleasant in one of the worst places in the world, within the company of a handful of people who put him down, talk down to him like he's shit, the entire fucking game.
i am begging the people who baselessly hate him for made up reasons and anti-religion projection to replay da2. keep him in your party, listen to his banter. good companions to have with him are fenris and merril. take him places!!! give him enrichment by killing awful people, he loves that shit.
i promise he's not jesus christ superstar. he's just a very damaged man clinging to the last thing he has. dislike him for any valid reason you want, but boy howdy is it difficult to read entirely untrue slander on one of the nicest men in kirkwall we meet.
never in my life will i understand sebastian haters who're also cullen/cassandra/leliana stans. imagine raking a character over the coals for the exact traits you find lovable, excusable or redeemable in others
in the art book it's mentioned that they considered having morrigan and isabela as dai-style advisors, and you know what that means. ultimate-sacrificed or succumbed-to-the-calling hof-romanced morrigan and left-in-the-fade hawke-romanced isabela middle-aged widow yuri. is what that means.
Some of you will see a black woman as the clear romantic interest and think to yourself “what is the whitest twink I can pair with this middle aged man instead?” romantic chemistry be damned.
price is kinda mean. my bad. oh and implied age gap
“can’t you just leave me the fuck alone for once?” price snapped, looking up from the files he was reviewing and meeting your gaze as you stood in the doorway of his office. the one in his flat.
he had had a long day, you knew that. he hadn’t replied to a couple of texts you sent him throughout the day and he barely looked at you when he came back from base. he immediately holed himself up in his office. you were worried. he hadn’t touched the dinner you made and you could assume he had barely eaten today from how grumpy he was.
his voice pulled your attention off your thoughts and on him again. “ya act like a fucking dog. waitin’ for me by the door every day like some stupid mutt. fucking needy. just because you sit on your arse all day, doesn’t mean you can bother me all the fucking time when i’m home. if i’d known dating you would mean this, i would’ve given it more thought.” he was loud and scary, intentionally hitting your most sensitive spots. that was part of his job, after all. find the enemy’s insecurity and crush them.
you weren’t an enemy, though. he knew that. of course he did. but right now he was so angry at those soldiers that fucked up, at a recruit who almost shot his teammate, at life itself for being so frustrating, that he saw red.
a couple silent seconds passed before you walked out and carefully closed the door behind you. you were blinking away tears and your throat was burning but you needed to keep your composure. you had to. you’d been bad. needy and clingy. you didn’t deserve to cry or go back to his office and yell back at him.
was he right? you did act like a fucking dog. most nights, you waited for him by the door of his flat, greeting him with a smile and a kiss. but… but that was because you loved him. you were excited to see him. was that so bad? and you did do things during the day. you had a part time job, went to lectures or labs and if you had a free day, you did chores around the house or ran errands. you didn’t want to bother him when he came home. you just wanted to spend time with him because you missed him. it was john’s idea to move in together, telling you that you shouldn’t be renting a place when you always stayed over his. it was a waste of money, he said. this was your home now, he said.
suddenly these walls didn’t feel like home.
you grabbed your bag and left the apartment, feeling like you were being suffocated by the same place that brought you comfort.
midnight found you sat in a hotel room. you had walked for almost an hour, your mind numb. you hadn’t even noticed you were shivering from the cold. not until the receptionist at the hotel you entered asked you if you were okay. she was a sweet older woman, made you feel safe. you asked for a room for one night, making up some excuse you had already forgotten about, and made your way upstairs when she gave you the key.
you sat on the bed, staring at the wall in front of you. why did you always do this? cared too much. no one had ever matched your energy. from a young age, every friend you had never cared about the friendship as much as you did. it made you feel out of place. why couldn’t anyone care about you like you cared about others? why couldn’t you be loved the way you love?
you had thought you found that in john. he loved you. he loved you like you loved him and he missed you when you were apart and he hated sleeping without you. was it all a lie?
you had pushed him to his limits with your clinginess. it was only a matter of time, really.
cregan stark x velaryon!reader slight harwin strong x velaryon!reader
SUMMARY: You were Driftmark’s golden child — eldest daughter of Lord Corlys, best friend to Rhaenyra.But when your father tried to marry you to your brother, you vanished. Fled north. Found warmth in Cregan Stark’s arms — and gave him four children. Years later, you return.
Snow pressed thick and endless against the tall windows, muting the world in white. Within the hearth room, warmth bloomed like an ember from the stone walls, the air tinged with pinewood smoke and the faint sweetness of baked apples.
Maerys was in your lap, boneless with sleep, arms curled around your forearm as your fingers gently combed through his pale hair. He smelled like milk and snow, warm from the bath, his small breaths puffing softly against your wrist. You shifted your hold now and then to keep him upright, but he refused to let go of you completely.
Lucerys—Cer—was sprawled on his stomach by the fire, elbows planted on a fur pelt, his long legs kicking idly as he whittled at the edge of a toy boat with a blunt knife. He muttered under his breath, naming imagined ports and battles, eyes narrowed in focus.
Benjen was crouched on the opposite side of the hearth, dark hair falling into his eyes as he built a crooked wall of wooden blocks and stones. Every few minutes, he’d glance toward Lucerys’s ship and place another “arrow” rock between them, as if preparing for siege.
Nyra, your baby girl, had made a nest of Cregan’s discarded black cloak in the corner, clutching a wooden direwolf doll in one fist, her curls a messy halo. She babbled now and then—her own little tongue, lost to everyone but her—and once in a while, she called softly for her father. “Pa-pa…”
You rocked Maerys slightly as he began to drift, humming something low and lilting. The lullaby wasn’t Northern. It wasn’t truly Velaryon, either. You didn’t remember where you learned it—only that it helped on nights when silence pressed too tight against your chest.
The fire hissed, casting gold and shadow across the stone floor.
Then Cer broke the stillness.
“Have you ever seen a storm from a ship?”
Your hand stilled in Maerys’s hair.
He didn’t look at you. He was watching the small wooden boat in his hand, turning it slowly between his fingers like something sacred. “I think I dream about it sometimes. Waves bigger than towers. Sky black as ink. The sails snapping like wings.”
You didn’t answer.
You never talked about the sea.
Never about Driftmark.
Never about who you were before you found the North.
But Cer—your Cer—was born with salt in his blood. You could feel it in the way he moved, the way he longed for things he’d never seen. It lived in him, the way it once lived in you.
Benjen huffed from his side of the hearth. “Ships are stupid. They can’t go through snow.”
Cer didn’t even blink. “They don’t need to. The sea has no walls.”
Nyra babbled louder at that, crawling in circles with her doll until she tipped backward into a heap of giggles.
Maerys stirred slightly in your arms. You kissed the crown of his head.
Then the knock came—two soft raps on the door.
The warmth bled out of your chest.
The maester entered with a gust of snow, his boots tracked with frost. He bowed deeply, holding out a scroll sealed in deep blue wax.
The sea-horse.
Unmistakable.
Unwelcome.
“From the south, my lady,” he said gently. “Marked from Driftmark.”
The word pierced something in your chest. You hadn’t heard it aloud in over a decade.
Cer’s head rose like a tide drawn by instinct.
“What’s Driftmark?” he asked, brows furrowed.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not yet. You took the scroll with your free hand, your grip tightening slightly around Maerys as he stirred again.
You stared at the seal.
You had fled this once. Escaped it.
Now it had found you anyway.
You broke the wax.
“Word travels fast, even to the black depths of the North.
Is it true? A Stark? A brood of bastards?
You defied me once, and I let you live.
You fled, and I allowed the realm to believe you dead.
You shamed your blood, and I turned away.
But now you parade my disgrace through snow and dirt—spawned of a wolf, raised among howling heathens.
Come home.
Bring the children.
Or I will come for them myself.”
The silence afterward was total.
Benjen stood slowly, stepping closer.
Cer turned on his knees to face you. “Who wrote that?”
You didn’t speak.
The letter curled slightly in your hand, ink still sharp, like the sea had come to scold you personally.
“Who is it from?” Cer asked again.
Maerys stirred again in your lap, muttering sleepily. Nyra crawled across the floor to you with a grunt, clutching your skirts.
You looked up—and found Cregan standing in the doorway.
He hadn’t announced himself. He never needed to.
His eyes went straight to the scroll, then to your face.
You said nothing. You didn’t have to.
He crossed the room, slowly, eyes hard, and took the letter from your hand. You let him. He read it once, his jaw working.
And then he looked at your sons—at Cer, still waiting for your answer.
“He’s your grandfather,” you said at last. Voice steady. Quiet. Like an oath held too long in the mouth.
Cer’s eyes widened. “But… you said we didn’t have family in the South.”
You looked down at Maerys. Still sleeping. Still innocent.
And you whispered, “That was a lie I told to keep you safe.”
The fire had burned down to red coals by the time the keep went still.
The children had long since drifted to sleep—Benjen curled like a pup at the foot of your bed, Lucerys upstairs in the old solar where he insisted the wind sounded like waves, Maerys with one hand tangled in your braid before you’d laid him down. Even little Nyra, who never went quietly, had given in after a long hour of rocking.
Now, in the hush of the late hours, only the fire breathed.
You sat near it, legs drawn up beneath your dressing gown, your eyes fixed on the last curl of smoke twisting into the rafters. The scroll lay open again on the table. You had reread it after the children were asleep, not because you needed the words again—but because you knew them by heart. You’d felt them in your bones long before your father had ever put ink to page.
Cregan stepped into the room silently, though you’d known he was there—felt him outside the door. He never pressed, but he always lingered.
He crossed to the table, poured two cups of mulled wine, and handed you one. You took it, fingers brushing his.
“Are you angry with me?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. Cregan never rushed words. He moved to sit beside you, lowering himself to the edge of the couch with that quiet steadiness you had once mistaken for coldness. Now you knew it was care. Control. A man who had learned to feel deeply without letting it fracture him.
“I’m not angry,” he said finally.
You nodded, but didn’t believe it.
“I knew he wouldn’t call me back unless something was happening,” you murmured. “He let me disappear. But now… now there’s something he needs.”
Cregan’s jaw tensed. He stared into his cup like it might tell him something useful. “He saw the children.”
“He heard about them,” you said. “That’s enough. A silver-haired boy, nearly eleven. A northern wolf among them. A girl with my mother’s mouth. I don’t think he cares who raised them. He just wants them close.”
“And if he means to name Lucerys something he isn’t?” Cregan’s voice was quiet, but taut with warning. “If he sees him not as your son, but as something else—some heir he can shape into a Velaryon lord?”
“Then he’ll learn,” you said softly, “that the boy already has a father.”
Cregan looked at you, finally.
And nodded once.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” he said. “Before the snows rise again. I’ll take six men—no banners, but steel if needed.”
You rested your head against his shoulder. “It won’t be needed.”
His arm wrapped around you slowly, the way he always touched you—deliberate, protective. You leaned into the warmth of him, into the smell of pine, leather, and the hearth that had become your home.
“I want you to stay calm,” you whispered. “Even if he says something that—”
“He will.”
“But I need you to let me handle him.”
Cregan didn’t respond right away. He exhaled through his nose.
“You ran from him once,” he murmured.
“I’ll walk to him now. And that will sting more.”
𓆝⎯⎯⎯༺𓆡༻⎯⎯⎯𓆝
The trees thinned the farther south you rode. The thick, ice-heavy evergreens of the North gave way to bare, skeletal birch and open stretches of damp fields. The air lost its bite. The wind no longer howled through your furs. The snow became slush.
The children traveled ahead in a covered wagon, bundled together with thick pelts and furs. Lucerys rarely sat still—he’d taken to riding a pony beside the wagon, eyes always fixed on the sky or the horizon, as if he were searching for something just out of reach. Benjen asked questions every hour. About roads. About lords. About which animals ate horses. Cregan answered him patiently, though his mood grew quieter the farther they went.
Maerys and Nyra napped between stories and bumps in the road, their cheeks flushed from the cold. Maerys didn’t understand the journey. Nyra didn’t need to. She had you, and that was enough.
You rode beside Cregan most of the way, silent for the first two days. There wasn’t much to say. You watched the land change. Watched the distance between your present life and your past grow shorter.
By the fourth night, the fields had turned to low hills and coastal winds had begun to scent the air with brine. The horses grew restless beneath you. The children did too.
Lucerys turned in his saddle and asked softly, “Mama… what does Driftmark look like?”
You hesitated.
“It’s stone and salt and sea,” you said finally. “And loud with wind. Always.”
He nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “Will it remember you?”
Cregan, riding just behind, turned toward you at that. You didn’t meet his eyes.
“No,” you said. “But I’ll remember it.”
The land was changing.
You hadn’t spoken the words aloud, but your body knew it before your eyes could confirm it.
The trees had thinned over the past day—no longer the tall stoic pines of the North, but scraggly twisted oaks with bare limbs and salt-wind scars. The air had grown damp, heavy, the wind tinged with something you hadn’t smelled in ten years. It came like a ghost. Like breath in your ear.
Salt.
The sea was near.
And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.
You sat rigid in the wagon, your hands clenching the edge of the seat as your lungs fought against themselves. A soft wheeze slipped through your throat. Not loud. But enough.
Your vision blurred. Not from panic, not entirely—something older. Something bone-deep. Like your body had never truly forgotten what it meant to return.
You were coming home.
No.
You were coming back.
Home was elsewhere now.
Nyra stirred in your lap.
She had grown tired of toddling about and had climbed into your arms earlier, settling against your chest like she’d done as an infant. Now she tightened her small fists into the collar of your cloak, her head tucking beneath your chin. You hadn’t even realized you’d started shaking until her warmth pressed steady against you.
The wind shifted again, bringing a stronger gust from the southeast. It carried it all—brine, rotting kelp, seagull cries, fish guts, old wood, rope, the stinging tang of a world that once belonged to you.
Your eyes welled.
Not from fear. Not even grief. From something you couldn’t name. You pressed your mouth shut, jaw clenched.
Cer noticed first.
He rode just ahead, upright in his saddle, silver-blond hair tousled by the breeze. The moment the wind shifted, he stiffened. He sniffed at the air, his brows furrowing. You watched as he paused, half-turning in the saddle, gaze scanning the low hills ahead.
He felt it, too.
The blood in him knew it.
And then he looked back—his eyes meeting yours over the shoulder of the wagon. He blinked once. His expression changed, confused, cautious.
“Mama?” he asked softly. “Are you… are you okay?”
Your lips parted. You tried to speak. But nothing came.
Cregan reined in beside the wagon at once, his eyes sweeping from Cer to you. He didn’t ask. He only watched. Watched your shoulders tense, your knuckles whitening around the wood. Watched your head bow slightly, as though the weight of something ancient had suddenly found your neck.
“I’m fine,” you rasped
Cregan didn’t believe you. Neither did Cer.
But they didn’t push.
Nyra shifted again, whimpering against your chest, as if sensing the change in your breath. You soothed her automatically, hand running over her dark curls.
The road ahead curved around a wide hill—and then broke into a view that stole what little air you had left.
The coastline.
There it was.
The first sliver of it—gray and endless and cold, rising beyond the cliff’s edge. The waves churned with a dull roar in the distance, white-tipped and violent. The horizon was a soft bruise of blue and smoke.
You turned your face to the wind, eyes half-closed.
The sea remembered you.
And you hated that some part of you remembered it back.
Cer rode closer to the wagon now, his eyes never leaving your face.
“I’ve seen this place before,” he said under his breath. “I think… in dreams.”
You closed your eyes.
“Then forget them.”
He frowned. “But—”
“Forget them, Lucerys,” you whispered, sharp as flint.
That silenced him.
Cregan said nothing, but his hand reached across the wagon, steadying against your shoulder. You didn’t shrug him off.
You let it ground you.
Because the road was turning again. The wagon creaked. The children shifted.
Driftmark was no longer far.
And your father, the sea, your bloodline—it was all waiting.
𓆝⎯⎯⎯༺𓆡༻⎯⎯⎯𓆝
The sea was quieter here.
That was the first lie it told you.
It should have been thrashing, howling, crashing against the stone like it remembered what you did—how you left, how you didn’t look back. But instead it moved in slow rhythm beneath the docks, as if it, too, was holding its breath.
The ship eased into the harbor just after dusk. No trumpets. No banners. Just the creak of wood, the whisper of gulls, and the sound of your past returning with the tide.
They were already waiting.
You saw them lined up along the dock—your father standing at the center, flanked by your siblings like a gallery of ghosts. His back was straight, arms clasped behind him, chin lifted high. Time had not bent him, only polished him sharper. The Sea Snake, ever unyielding.
To his left stood Laenor, hands stiff at his sides. He wore Driftmark’s formal cloak, silver and pale blue trimmed in black, a blade strapped to his hip. He looked every bit the second son trained to lead—except for the way he watched you.
Not with certainty.
But with disbelief.
His mouth was parted slightly. His brows drawn in. He didn’t blink.
And beside him—Laena.
Taller than you remembered. Her hair, once tangled and wild from cliffside rides, was now braided like a lady of the court. But there was something trembling in her posture, something too raw to be regal. She gripped her hands before her as if to keep from running.
Your youngest brother stood closest to your father, barely grown into his manhood. He looked the most afraid of them all.
And still, they waited.
Like statues.
Like mourners.
Cregan stood behind you on the ship’s deck, holding Nyra in one arm, Maerys bundled at his side. Lucerys and Benjen were quiet for once, crowded at the rail, both watching the shore with wide, unreadable eyes.
Your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the railing. You were still. Too still.
The gangplank lowered.
And no one moved.
No one breathed.
Then, your father—ever the general—took a single step forward. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shout. He simply placed a hand on Laenor’s shoulder and nudged him forward.
The gesture was small, but it struck something deep in you.
And in Laenor, it shattered everything.
He stumbled, slightly off-balance, and his feet carried him forward with the clumsy half-steps of a man walking through a dream. His mouth opened, closed. His jaw trembled.
You stepped down the gangplank slowly, one hand gathering your cloak to keep it from the wind. The sea air caught your hair, pulled at it, tangled it like seaweed. Your boots struck the wood with slow, steady force. And still, Laenor couldn’t speak.
He stopped five paces from you.
And then it cracked out, hoarse and full of too many years:
“Sea-Star…?”
The nickname cleaved through you like lightning.
You staggered. That voice. That name. Gods.
He used to whisper it when you swam too far from shore, when you dove into waves taller than his courage. “My Sea-Star,” he used to call you. “My wave-runner. The moon of the tide.”
It was your secret name.
You laughed, just once—shocked and winded—and stepped off the gangplank, the boards groaning under your boots. You meant to walk.
But he ran.
Laenor reached you before your next step and caught you in his arms like he’d been chasing you for a decade. He didn’t stop. He lifted you, hands under your ribs, spinning you once, laughing wetly into your neck, disbelief choking him.
“Sea-Star…!” he gasped again, voice shaking. “You came back. You’re here. You’re—by the gods, you’re real.”
He set you down only to wrap his arms around your shoulders again, clinging like a man drowning, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
You held him back just as fiercely.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, over and over. “I thought—I buried you, and I kept you buried. But I prayed. I prayed every time I saw a silver gull, every time I looked at the sea. I never stopped calling your name in my dreams.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Laenor, I’m so sorry. I wanted to stay—I wanted to—but I couldn’t—”
“I don’t care,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at your face. His hands cupped your cheeks, his thumbs trembling as they brushed away tears neither of you noticed falling. “I don’t care why. You’re here. That’s all.”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his.
And for a long, impossible breath, it was just the two of you again.
The world around you blurred.
Then the moment shattered again.
A soft sob broke from behind you—and you turned to see Laena, moving faster now. Her shoes skidded on the dock. Her voice was breathless, broken by joy and years of waiting.
“I’ve kept her!” she cried. “Tessarion—your dragon—she’s safe! I flew her—I fed her—I knew! I told them you weren’t dead!”
“Laena—?”
You barely got her name out before she collided with you, arms wrapping around your waist. She smelled like sea salt and lavender, like home and heartache. You caught her around the shoulders, pressing your cheek to her hair, overwhelmed.
“I promised her you’d come back,” Laena whispered. “I promised. Every night I flew her, I said your name. I swore she’d see you again.”
You couldn’t breathe.
Tessarion.
You hadn’t dared dream of her.
But Laena had. Laena believed when you couldn’t.
You tightened your grip on her.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “You did so well, little sister. You kept her for me. Thank you.”
Behind you, your younger brother cried silently. He hadn’t moved, but his shoulders shook. He looked at you like a little boy again—like you were a story come to life.
And across the dock, Cregan waited.
He didn’t interrupt.
He knew this was yours.
And he would wait until the tide turned again.
The dock was full of sound now—Laena still pressed against your waist, Laenor clinging to your shoulders, your youngest brother sniffling into the crook of his elbow. The ship creaked behind you. Cregan stood silent just beyond the railing, Nyra nestled into his chest, eyes wide at the chaos.
But all of it fell away when your father stepped forward.
Lord Corlys Velaryon walked with the weight of his legend—unrushed, unbowed, his cloak trailing like smoke behind him. The guards didn’t follow. Your siblings didn’t move. They parted for him, as they always had.
And when he stopped in front of you, the silence returned.
He stood there, eyes scanning your face—those same sharp sea-glass eyes you inherited, though yours had grown softer with motherhood, with winters, with love. His expression didn’t crack. His mouth didn’t tremble.
But his eyes…
Gods, his eyes.
You stood straight, shoulders square, refusing to flinch. And still, next to him, you felt small again. Small in the way only a daughter can when facing the man who once named every tide after her.
He reached out—slowly, reverently—and placed a weathered hand against your cheek.
His palm was warm. Calloused. Familiar.
Your breath caught.
For a single moment, you were a girl again—salt in your braids, riding Tessarion at sunrise, chasing crabs with Laenor, climbing into your father’s lap during storms because the wind didn’t dare touch you there.
You swallowed hard, eyes burning.
Your fingers rose to grip his wrist—not to stop him, not to break away. Just to make sure he was real.
“Father?” your voice cracked, quiet and raw.
His face finally shifted. Not with sorrow, but with something deeper. With awe. His thumb brushed the line of your jaw.
“Our Sea-Star,” he said, voice like sand and silk, low and reverent.
And then he smiled.
Not the cold, courtly curve of a lord.
A father’s smile.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and you could feel his hand tighten as his voice broke. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my sweet moon.”
You choked on a sob.
And for the first time in ten years, you let yourself fall forward—not as a woman, not as a mother, not as a lady—but as his daughter.
He caught you.
His arms were stronger than you remembered, holding you as though he could anchor you again, tether you to the shore before you disappeared once more. He held your head to his chest, and you could feel his heart pounding beneath the heavy velvet.
He was not a perfect man.
But in this moment—he was only your father.
And you were his lost girl come home.
Your father’s arms were wrapped around you, and for a long, breathless moment, you let yourself disappear in them—just as you had as a girl, small and untouchable, when the world was nothing more than waves and wind and the thunder of Tessarion’s wings above the cliffs. His chest was solid beneath your cheek, his scent familiar even after all this time—sea salt and spiced leather, iron and old wood. The Sea Snake. Your father.
He had called you his Sea-Star again.
He had said your name like a man pulling a ghost from the tide.
And you wept. Not loudly. Not broken. But openly, quietly—like rain sliding down a hull after the storm has passed.
Until—
“Mama!”
The cry cracked through the air, loud and sharp and shrill with panic.
You turned on instinct, spinning out of your father’s arms.
Benjen.
Still standing at the top of the ship’s gangway, eyes wide with horror, his little fists clenched so tightly the seams of his cloak strained. His hair was tousled by the sea breeze, cheeks flushed red with worry.
He moved before anyone could stop him.
“Mama! Are you okay!?”
You let out a breathless laugh, still swiping at your face. “Yes, my little wolf!”
But he was already halfway down the ramp, storming down with those determined little legs of his, arms stiff, brows drawn low.
“No!” he cried, shaking his head fiercely. “You’re lying!”
You blinked, startled. “What?”
He barreled toward you, face scrunched up with frustration.
“Papa says he hangs men by their cocks when they lie!”
The dock fell into stunned silence.
Your head snapped toward Cregan, who had just begun making his way down behind the children, Nyra balanced on his hip like a bundle of fur and sass. His expression didn’t change—but he stopped moving, one brow twitching upward, jaw tight.
“Cre—!” you gasped, not even finishing the name.
Benjen reached you, his small hands rising to cup your cheeks with surprising gentleness, his voice suddenly soft, shaking. “Mama…”
You bent to him quickly, brushing hair from his brow. “I’m okay, my wolf. I promise. I’m a lady, remember? I don’t have a cock to hang.”
A strangled sound escaped Laena behind you. Laenor let out a short bark of laughter.
Lucerys, now halfway down the gangway behind Cregan, narrowed his eyes.
“Who’s Sea-Star?” he asked, stepping down with slow precision. He moved in front of you without being asked, his slim body planting itself between you and the others—just slightly, just enough to declare that you were his. That he was watching.
Laenor’s laugh deepened, rolling like thunder. “Are you a star from the sea?” Cer teased, amusement in his voice, but something fonder beneath it—curiosity, maybe even recognition.
Before you could answer, your father stepped forward again.
“No,” he said with quiet authority. “She is not a star from the sea.”
He looked to your children now—Lucerys, Benjen, and even sleepy Maerys being carried by a handmaid.
“She is the greatest gift the sea has ever given me.”
Lucerys turned slightly, eyeing your father with a mix of suspicion and awe.
Benjen pressed his forehead into your side, still holding tight to your sleeve. His worry had softened, but not vanished. Not yet.
Laenor knelt slowly, as though moved by a force outside of himself. His gaze fell to Nyra—still curled in Cregan’s arms, her thumb tucked in her mouth, blinking owlishly at the new world around her.
His voice cracked. “Are they—are they yours?”
The question hung heavy in the air.
You swallowed hard, your arm still around Benjen. Cregan said nothing, only looked to you.
Laenor’s eyes stayed on Nyra.
He reached out, just enough for her to blink at him, just enough for her little fingers to curl around one of his.
“She has your eyes,” he whispered. “All the sea in them. But something else, too.”
“She has the North,” you murmured.
“Laenor,” your father said gently. “These are your blood.”
Laenor looked up at you, like his whole world was trying to reassemble itself. “You have four.”
You nodded. “Four storms I never expected. Four stars I would not trade for the tides.”
You saw the tears in his eyes before he blinked them away
And then he smiled—crooked, unsure, boyish despite the man he’d become.
“Well,” he said, voice rough. “Then I suppose you finally outran me.”
It began with silence.
A hush that swept the coast like the breath before a storm. Even the gulls stilled. You felt it before you heard it—a pull in your gut, a memory stirring where you had buried it. Then—
The scream came.
It split the sky above the sea. Not a roar, not truly. It was grief made sound. Rage and relief tangled in one terrible cry.
Tessarion.
She tore through the clouds like a bolt of skyfire, her blue-scaled body gleaming with sunlit fury. Her wings beat down in enormous gusts, kicking up sand and salt. A stream of blue flame twisted from her jaws, harmless but dazzling, lighting the sky like a comet.
You staggered back a step, heart thundering.
Cregan was already moving.
The children panicked instantly.
“WE’RE GONNA DIE!” Benjen hollered, flinging himself away from the guards. He slipped, scrambled, kicked his feet furiously as he galloped down the slope from the ship. “Mama, run! She’s got glowing eyes and DEAD TEETH!”
Lucerys moved in front of you before you could stop him, blade drawn—not a toy now, not to him. His hands trembled slightly, but his body was steady, chin lifted, legs braced like he meant to face her down. “Get behind me,” he said tightly.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Tessarion was closer now, so close her screech set the docks vibrating.
Cregan stepped forward like a storm. He didn’t shout. He didn’t ask questions. He drew his sword in one fluid motion, placing himself half a step behind Lucerys, blade raised and steady. His entire body tensed as he watched the dragon descend. He wasn’t panicking—he was calculating.
“Fall back!” he barked to the guards. “Protect the children!”
Benjen screamed again, flinging his arms wide as he spun toward you. “Mama! Don’t let her eat your bones! Papa, kill it!”
“She’s not going to eat me,” you whispered.
But no one heard you over the wind.
Tessarion landed in a spray of seawater and sand. Her claws carved trenches into the beach as her wings arched, casting you in their long, dark shadow. Her body rippled with heat. Her tail coiled. She let out a low, vibrating roar.
Everyone flinched.
Before anyone could react, he broke from the others in a sprint—sword drawn, voice thunderous. “NO!”
“Wait—Cregan—” you gasped, reaching for him.
But your father stepped in front of him. “Stay your blade—”
Cregan shoved him aside with a grunt. “Move, old man!”
Your mouth fell open.
Never had you heard that voice from him before—frightened. Furious. Something deeper than battle. Something primal.
Your children were screaming.
Benjen nearly tripped over his own boots, scrambling down the dock, cloak flapping behind him like a banner of doom. “THE SERPENT IS GONNA KILL MAMA! PAPA! KILL IT! DO SOMETHING!”
And Lord Corlys—your father—stood stock still, lips parted in awe.
“Benjen,” he muttered under his breath, gaze never leaving the dragon, “if she wanted to eat someone, she’d start with the loudest.”
“I AM the loudest!” Benjen roared in triumph, eyes wild with panic.
“Benji, stop—!” Laena tried, but he twisted free.
Lucerys darted in front of you again, raising his blade with both hands. “Stay back, mama, she’s too fast—she’s going to attack!”
But you didn’t stop.
You stepped forward.
“Mother….”
Tessarion’s great body struck the earth with a violent grace—massive claws carving lines through stone, her breath steaming in the cool air. Her head swung side to side, frenzied, searching. And when her eyes found yours…
Everything stilled.
Her wings dropped slightly. Her breathing slowed.
And then she moved—charging toward you with a low, keening growl that made the world itself tremble.
Cregan roared your name.
He ran faster.
But you didn’t flinch.
You whispered her name. Her true name, the one she’d known since hatching. Your hand lifted, fingers trembling. “Zokla nykeā…”
Tessarion’s massive head bowed and lunged—her jaws closing not on your body, but your cloak.
She yanked.
You gasped, feet leaving the earth.
And then the sky took you.
Cregan reached the edge of the dock just as you vanished into the air. His sword dropped from his hand.
“No—no—come back,” he growled, voice raw. “Come back to me.”
He didn’t see the awe on everyone else’s faces.
Not Laenor, mouth agape.
Not Laena, eyes wide with astonishment.
Not Lord Corlys, who staggered one step forward and whispered, “She remembers…”
Cregan only saw you, dangling helplessly from your dragon’s mouth, lifting higher and higher, too high—
“She’s gonna drop her!” Benjen wailed. “The serpent’s gonna EAT HER IN THE CLOUDS!”
“She’s not going to eat her, Benji,” Lucerys muttered, trying to sound brave though his voice cracked. “She’s her dragon.”
“Then why’s she flying up to the gods?!”
“I don’t know!”
“Papa, DO SOMETHING!”
Cregan could do nothing but stare, jaw clenched, every instinct screaming to act—but there was no sword, no battle that could win this. This was beyond the North. Beyond men. This was hers.
Up above, Tessarion let go.
You fell.
There was no scream. No panic. You tilted in the air like a ribbon loosed from a child’s hand, arms spread wide, wind roaring in your ears.
And you smiled.
“NO MAMA CAN’T SWIM!! SHE’S GONNA DIE” Benjen cried out
You had forgotten what it felt like—to trust the fall. To belong to the air.
The sea opened beneath you.
You plunged into the water like a stone.
And there, in the hush of the depths, memory swallowed you.
Salt burned your lungs. Your eyes. But your body relaxed.
You had dreamed of this.
You remembered being twelve, clinging to Tessarion’s back while she swam through the reef, her coils brushing coral and sunken stone. You remembered her humming beneath the surface, a sound you felt in your bones. You remembered whispering your fears to her snout under the moonlight, while the Keep slept and your world closed in.
She had always come when you called.
You had never called her since.
But now—she came.
Tessarion surged through the dark water like a ribbon of living fire. She twirled beneath you, slow, circling, cautious—afraid if she touched you too soon, you’d vanish again. You opened your arms.
She rose.
Her body curled beneath yours, lifting you carefully.
You broke the surface together in a crash of spray, and she screamed—not in rage, but in reunion.
Above, sunlight pierced the clouds.
She rose with you, wings unfurling wide, water pouring from her sides. You clung to her, chest heaving, tears mixing with seawater.
Your head pressed to her neck. “Tolvi. Tolvi. Nyke daor ēdruta ao… ñuha se.”
She roared again—higher this time. Louder.
Below, the beach stared.
“Sea-Star!! We’re flying!” Laenor shouted from the edge of the deck, his voice breaking with awe and boyish wonder. His mouth was wide open in a grin, eyes locked on you as Tessarion swept across the sky. He lifted both arms, cheering as if you were still children racing dragons down the cliffs. “She’s flying again! She remembered!” His voice cracked, thick with emotion, laughter and tears mixing freely as he called to the heavens, “Sea-Star! You still have wings!”
Benjen collapsed to his knees.
“She’s RIDING it! MAMA’S RIDING THE DEATH LIZARD!”
Cregan didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
His eyes locked on you, glinting with disbelief and something else—fear.
You were soaring. “Laenor!! We’re Flying!”
Soaked, radiant, alive.
And in that moment, you weren’t his wife, or a mother, or a woman who fled the court.
You were a sea-star returned to the tides.
And you had never stopped shining.
The sand trembled beneath Tessarion’s landing, her weight hitting the earth like a wave crashing against the cliffs. Her wings flared, blue fire still flickering in her throat, as if the sky hadn’t finished letting you go.
You slid from her back with your hair soaked to your spine, your cloak half-torn and dangling from one shoulder. Water pooled around your boots. The wind was still in your lungs. You could barely breathe for how alive you felt.
And then you saw him.
Cregan.
He wasn’t standing like the Lord of Winterfell. Not like the wolf who’d won you, kept you, given you a new name in the quiet halls of the North.
He looked… wrecked.
His face was pale, mouth parted, his sword forgotten in the sand. One step, then two—and then he was running, the muscles in his jaw trembling, his breath shaking with every beat.
“Cregan—”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t stop.
His hands caught your face like he thought you might still vanish—rough palms cupping your cheeks, thumbs trembling as they swept across your wet skin.
His brow furrowed, his voice cracked. “What have you done to me?”
You blinked at him. “Cregan—”
“What have you done?” he repeated, lower now, eyes bright and furious and broken. “I have fought battles. I have buried brothers. I have watched kingdoms fall. And I have never—” His breath broke. “Never felt the kind of fear I felt when I saw her take you.”
Your lips parted.
“I saw her jaws open, and I thought that was it,” he whispered, voice like gravel. “I thought I would have to raise our children with nothing but your name in the walls. I thought the sea would keep you. I thought you were gone, and I—” He stopped, shaking his head, his voice catching completely. “I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.”
Your hand covered his.
His skin was warm. His pulse—racing.
“I’m here,” you whispered.
“You weren’t,” he said again, almost angry. “You weren’t here. Not with me. Not with us. You were in the sky. In her. You left.”
Your eyes welled, and this time the tears didn’t sting—they soothed. Like saltwater that finally knew where to fall.
“I wasn’t leaving you,” you murmured. “I was remembering what I was before.”
His hands slipped from your face and down to your shoulders, then back up again, unable to stop touching you, like he didn’t trust his own eyes.
“I can’t lose you,” he rasped. “I can’t. Do you understand? You’ve become the air I breathe, the bones I stand on. You say your dragon needs to feel that you’re real—I need that too. I need to feel you in my arms or I will lose my fucking mind.”
You closed the distance between you, pressing your forehead to his, his shaking breath warming your lips.
“I would’ve jumped after you,” he whispered. “If your father hadn’t grabbed me, if the gods had loosened their grip—I swear it, I would’ve leapt from that fucking cliff.
You swallowed hard, closing your eyes.
His arms wrapped around you then, tight and trembling, his entire body curling into yours like the storm wasn’t over. You felt his mouth move against your hair, soft curses slipping out between kisses to your temple. The kind of things only men say when they thought they’d never get to say anything again.
“I saw my life end,” he choked. “It wasn’t the fall. It wasn’t the fire. It was the space where you weren’t.”
He just pulled you into him—body, cloak, hair and all—tighter than he ever had. One of his hands slid behind your head, cradling your soaked curls. The other gripped your waist like he needed to feel your pulse under his thumb.
The others stood back.
Even your father turned away, letting the moment be yours.
Only Benjen broke the silence.
He sniffed loudly and said, “So… we’re not all gonna die then?”
Lucerys exhaled hard. “No, Benji.”
“Okay. Okay good. ’Cause I peed a little. Just a little. But mostly it was the sea’s fault.”
Laena giggled softly. The moment cracked just enough to let in sunlight.
But Cregan didn’t let go.
Not yet.
He’d seen you fly. He’d seen what you were before him.
And now he needed to feel that you were still his.
𓆝⎯⎯⎯༺𓆡༻⎯⎯⎯𓆝
The corridors of Driftmark had not changed. The same blue-grey stone, damp with sea breath. The same iron sconces burning low with dragon-forged flame. But the air was thicker now—thick with ghosts, with memory, with the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your throat as Laenor led you deeper into the hall.
“There’s someone else who wants to see you,” he said gently, hand ghosting your back. His voice was soft, reverent, as though your name had only just been returned to him after years buried at sea
The doors opened.
And there—like a vision conjured from salt and sorrow—stood your mother.
She had aged, but not diminished. Her presence still held the room, her spine straight as a mast, her gown draped in pearls and ocean-dyed silks. But her eyes—Gods, her eyes. They were searching, frantic, as if she feared you might vanish again before she could believe in you.
You didn’t speak.
You walked—no, drifted—to her.
And she folded around you without a word. Her arms locked tight across your shoulders, her fingers threaded through your hair, and she held you like a woman who had mourned her daughter in silence and now didn’t trust the gods to keep their mercy.
“My girl,” she breathed, her voice wrecked. “My sea-star… my first light… my blood.”
You let yourself fall into her. Your chin tucked to her shoulder, your fists curling into her sleeves. You didn’t know when your knees buckled, only that she caught you.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Mother—I should’ve come back sooner, I—”
She pulled away only to cup your face in both hands, thumbs trembling as they stroked your cheeks.
“You came back. That is all that matters. I don’t care why you left. I don’t care what you’ve done. You are mine, and you are here.”
You blinked back tears. She kissed your forehead like you were still a child with skinned knees and sea-brined dreams.
But then the doors behind you opened again.
You turned.
And there she was.
Rhaenyra.
Your Nyra.
She stood just inside the archway, her gown black and red, the Targaryen crest burning at her shoulder. But it was her face that struck you hardest—ashen, stunned, hand clutching the neckline of her gown like she was holding herself together with the last stitch of will.
“Nyra,” you breathed.
She didn’t speak.
Her eyes were glass. Her jaw clenched. Her fists trembled.
And then she moved.
The sound of her hand striking your face was sharp enough to silence the wind.
You staggered—more from shock than pain.
Before you could speak, she raised her hand again—but this time, you caught it, your fingers wrapping tight around her wrist.
She froze. Her chest heaved.
“I—I…” she tried, the words cracking from her throat. “You’re alive.”
You nodded.
Her expression broke. Fury gave way to devastation.
“You promised me!” she sobbed, yanking her hand away. “You said we’d never be apart! You vanished! You let me think you were dead!”
You tried to reach for her again, but she beat her fists against your chest, her voice climbing.
“I mourned you—I lit candles for you—I dreamed of you drowning, of your bones washing up on Blackwater Bay—”
You grabbed her. Held her.
And this time she didn’t fight.
She collapsed against you like a storm broken open.
“I prayed,” she whispered. “Every night. I said your name until it didn’t sound real anymore.”
“I never stopped loving you,” you said, breath trembling against her hair. “I just didn’t know how to live with what they asked of me.”
She nodded once, fiercely. “They tried to marry me off too. But I kept waiting. For you. Maybe, you’ll be there for me!”
You didn’t speak. You just held her.
And then another voice, low and dry from the shadows.
“She wouldn’t let me burn your letters. The ones from your youth.”
You turned your head.
Daemon.
He was leaning against the far column, arms crossed, one brow lifted—but even he couldn’t mask the way his jaw tensed, or how his eyes shone wet before he blinked too quickly.
“We argued about it once,” he said with a sardonic smile. “She wanted to keep them in her sleeve. Carried them into council meetings. Told Viserys they were wards.”
Rhaenyra choked out a laugh that turned into another sob.
Daemon pushed off the wall, approaching slowly. “You’ve aged,” he noted, voice quiet. “But not in the way most do. The North wears well on you.”
You smirked faintly. “The snow scrubs clean.”
His expression softened, rare and unguarded. “Welcome home, Star.”
And then—
The steps behind them stopped.
A shape appeared in the archway.
You knew the walk before your brain caught up to your heart.
Harwin Strong.
He stood motionless, his mouth slightly open, his eyes locked on you like he’d seen a ghost walk out of his own guilt.
He took a step.
Then another.
And suddenly he was in front of you, closer than breath, his hands rising.
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“You white-haired bastard,” he murmured, voice shaking.
A tear slid down his cheek as he let out a ragged laugh. Then he wrapped his arms around you, crushing you to him.
“My star,” he whispered. “Gods… my star.”
You held him. One hand to his shoulder, the other to the back of his neck. You felt his heartbeat against yours like a memory trying to crawl out of your skin.
But behind him—
You could feel it.
The weight of another stare.
Cregan.
Still. Silent. Watching from the upper landing, arms braced on the railing like it was the only thing keeping him from tearing the walls apart. His shoulders were square, but his expression was raw—eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. Fury and fear danced just beneath the surface, coiled in every line of his body.
And beside him, just a step lower, stood Cer.
Your eldest.
His arms were crossed, one hand resting on the pommel of his blade, eyes like sharpened steel. He didn’t look at you. He looked only at Harwin.
And he did not blink.
You pulled back gently, placing your hand on Harwin’s chest.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
He nodded, lips pressed together. “I thought the sea had taken you.”
You stepped away fully.
“I thought it had too.”
You turned your eyes toward the staircase.
And when your gaze met Cregan’s—he didn’t smile.
He simply breathed.
Like he was remembering how to.
The hall had gone still.
After your words — after the names, the quiet declaration of who you were now and who raised these children — nothing moved except the firelight dancing on the marble floor.
And Cregan?
Cregan didn’t move at all.
He stood at the far end of the hall, near the entryway where the salt winds still whispered in. His boots planted shoulder-width apart. His arms slack at his sides. His expression unreadable — except for the tightness in his jaw and the glint in his eyes, like steel freshly tempered and not yet cooled.
He said nothing.
But gods, he felt like a storm barely held in skin.
The rest of the room tried to shift on.
Harwin, ignoring the burning stare from across the hall, had yet to look away from you. His chest rose and fell hard. His eyes drank you in with something dangerously close to love — or its ghost. He looked at you like the years hadn’t passed. Like you were still his. Like nothing had changed except the weather.
And in his mind, maybe nothing had.
“Mama!”
Benjen’s voice shattered the silence with all the subtlety of a dropped sword.
He barreled from behind Cer, wild curls bouncing, arms flailing as he ran straight for you.
“Mama!” he cried, nearly knocking into your legs. He gripped your cloak and glared dramatically over his shoulder. “Papa’s doing the thing again!”
Your brows lifted. “What thing?”
“The not-breathing, angry-staring, ‘I’m fine’ thing!” Benjen huffed, face scrunching. “He’s doing it!”
“That’s how the steward lost his hand,” Cer said matter-of-factly from where he stood protectively beside Nyra.
Daemon, still leaning lazily on one boot, chuckled darkly under his breath.
“He looked at Mama funny,” Maerys chimed in, his chubby arms now latched confidently around Daemon’s leg like it was the mast of a ship. “He had pirate eyes.”
Daemon raised a brow. “What in the seven hells are pirate eyes?
“Like this,” Maerys said, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out sideways in a look so profoundly ridiculous that even Rhaenyra had to bite her lip.
Across the room, Cregan didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smirk. Didn’t speak.
He just stood there — watching. The muscle in his jaw ticking once, twice, and then going still.
But Harwin stepped forward.
He’d never been good at stillness.
His eyes flicked to each of your children — the pale-haired boy with the dagger, the bold one who howled like a cub, the baby girl pressed against your side, and the small dark-haired child now hugging Daemon’s leg like it was a throne.
A hundred thoughts passed behind Harwin’s eyes. You saw them.
But he didn’t ask for permission.
He stepped closer, stopping just in front of you. The firelight kissed the edge of his jaw, and for a moment, it felt like before.
“Star,” he said, voice soft. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You disappeared. You just vanished. Do you know how long I looked for you?”
You didn’t answer.
And still — Cregan said nothing.
Not a step forward. Not a word. He just watched, eyes like winter.
And it hurt.
Because you knew that look. You’d seen it on the edge of the bed when your fever broke. You’d seen it when Benjen first called him “Papa.” You’d seen it when you touched your dragon again.
But this time, he said nothing because he was drowning in it.
Jealousy. Fear. Rage. The knowledge that the man standing close to you had once held the very same place Cregan now did — and for the first time, he couldn’t breathe through it.
He had no claim in this room. No titles here. No blood to bind them to him.
Just you.
And he wouldn’t beg.
Benjen tugged at your skirt again. “Mama,” he said seriously, “should I bite him for you?”
She was a curious thing. Quiet like a church mouse with the curiosity of a cat that was indeed killed and brought back to life- or however that saying went.
Cregan had never minded quiet moments. It gave him time to think. To reflect. To consider important decisions for the North.
And to have her also being quiet- near to him but neither in his way or gossiping like other women do? Well, that was his idea of a perfect day.
Not that she didn't occupy his mind.
In fact, his mind was occupied with her quite consistently, for she was worth thinking about.
She viewed the world with wide, ever watchful eyes that noted every movement. Every change. Every motion and detail. And she was not judging of it. Only curious.
He fondly remembers the first time she stepped foot in Winterfell. Her eyes couldn't look at everything as quickly as her mind begged her to.
Now, she sat in her cloth chair by the fire, stitching with a delicate precision. In silence. Comfortable and steady.
Cregan sat at the edge of their bed, head in his hands, trying to debrief from the stress of his day.
And before he lifted his head, his felt her soft fingers running through his hair.
He faltered. She moved so quietly.
And as the question came to his mind, she was already answering it in that soft voice of hers. "You breathe harsher when you are under stress."
He didn't know that.
But with her hands in his hair, he finally felt some of the stress fade. He let out a soft sigh. "I must go out tomorrow."
Her hands paused. "When must I be ready?"
He tilted his head up to look at her. "My love, you're to stay here."
Her face fell.
He tugged at her hands, pulling them into his lap. "I want you to stay here. In Winterfell. It's only for the day."
She stayed silent, accepting his words.
He secretly worried every time she stepped out of the stone walls. In her quiet nature, she could be easily lost or taken. Perhaps even whisked away in her curiosity. And he couldn't bare the thought of it.
He tipped her chin down to meet her eyes. "Only the day. You'll be good, hm?"
She nods reluctantly.
"Good." He leans forward and kisses her cheek.
…
That next day, Cregan walked the streets of the city.
He was to personally visit the blacksmith over a matter of horseshoes for his beloved steed. He was to leave for the Wall soon. He needed his horse to be properly prepared.
He chatted with the blacksmith. He was a favorite of the Stark's. A man that works with fire and his hands- now that is a man. And his work was so intricate and beautiful that Cregan could never find a flaw with him.
As Cregan walked back through the busy market streets, his eyes caught a familiar face.
His wife.
He knew that woman from anywhere, any place. Even with her hood up, he just knew.
She had yet to see him, so he used that to his advantage.
Her quiet nature showed even in her light movements down the streets, going unseen and unnoticed by those around her.
They had no idea the Warden's wife was near them. And it showed.
Cregan's blood boiled when she was forcefully bumped at her shoulder, causing her to lose her footing for a moment.
He wanted to force the perpetrator down to his knees and take his head from his body.
But he had to remain calm.
She carried on, not particularly bothered by what happened. Her feet carried her down the road slowly, her eyes taking in every single market vendor. Every item. Every stone in the pavement.
"Lord Stark!" A deep voice echoed.
Cregan cursed under his breath.
His wife's head shot up and in his direction. Their eyes met.
He can tell there's panic in her eyes, and he motions for her to come to him.
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head.
Cregan takes a step forward, determined to get her himself when someone steps in front of him. The man that had just called his name.
He's jolly. Some market vendor that Cregan vaguely recognized. But as he begins to talk, the Stark steps around him and continues on his hunt for his bride.
He can't shout at her. One, it would hurt her to raise his voice more than he cares to admit. Two, she's not in his care yet, and exposing her as the Warden's wife would put her in danger.
So, instead, the Warden of the North is chasing a woman down the busy market street.
She takes off down the road, weaving and dodging past people to the best of ability, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself.
But Stark's strides were much larger. And as the crowd dwindled down, so did the distance between them.
She takes a turn quickly. As he follows, he stops short. She simply standing there now, reluctant but knowing that she has to stop.
He pants lightly, the frustration evident but the pure anger of her disobedience pulls away from him like the sweat down his brow. He's upset. Reasonably so.
He says nothing, only standing and staring with a look in his eyes that's between relief and pure disappointment.
His wife's cloak barely moves in the light breeze. Her lips are downturned. A hint of tears to her eyes.
When he steps forward, she steps back. "Cregan."
He stops for only a second, taking another step. One she takes back as well. "Cregan," she softly tries again.
"Why are you not home?" He whispers. It's quiet, but it carries perfectly to her ears.
"I-" the explanation died on her lips. "I was only cu-"
"-Curious. Yes, I know."
Silence settles for a moment. But Cregan's emotions do not.
He takes quick steps, grabbing her wrist just tight enough to pull her to him. Then, he bends down and throws her over his shoulder. His arm holds her legs steady against his chest as he stands.
She lets out a shriek at his suddenness but knows better than to fight him.
And with that, the great Stark stomps back to Winterfell with his meek wife over his shoulder.
She makes small remarks along the way.
"'M sorry."
"Yes, I know."
"I only wanted to go see-"
"Yes, I know."
"You're angry."
"…yes. I know."
…
Upon the doors of the castle opening, the servants were quiet. Their Lord was clearly not in the mood. Neither was their Lady.
Only when they entered their shared chambers, did he finally put her down. He was oh-so-gentle, cradling her neck as he laid her on the bed. But with a light glare, he stood straight again and walked to the fireplace.
His hands rest on his chest, crossed at the wrist as his grips his collar. It was a natural movement from him. He's so used to wearing the rough and harsh armor that his hands always rest there. Especially when he's deep in thought.
He couldn't decide how angry to be with her. True, she was only curious. And a part of him was relieved of it. He loved that about her. But she not only ran off, but disobeyed him. Something could have happened to her, and he couldn't live with himself if it had.
But he sighed heavily and steps out, leaving her in the silence behind him.
…
That night, she sat down for supper. The chair made an unpleasant sound against the floor. She smoothed out her dress with a guilty expression.
Cregan had been completely silent. Rather unmoving. Only staring at her from his place across the table.
And with that, she quietly ate.
And Cregan did not.
Her nimble fingers picked at the dried meat on the plate, movements slow and careful as if Cregan would pounce at her.
Finally, she'd had enough. "Did y-"
"What were you searching for?" He interrupts.
Her words die off and she's left to decipher his meaning. "W-what?"
"When you were out. Were you looking for something?"
Cregan did not ask it with a clear intent of the type of answer he wanted from it.
"No," she answered truthfully. "I was not searching for anything. Only wishing to see things myself."
He nods. "And how many times have you done that?"
There's the silence again. "You beautiful, stubborn woman," he urged, "Answer me."
"Enough."
"A number will do."
She considers it, picking at the food on her plate. "Perhaps… five."
There's a tension that waves through the air, accompanied by Cregan leaning back in his chair.
"Will you lock me away now?"
"Perhaps I should!" His voice softens sooner than it rose. "But I will not. No. I cannot fault a curious doe for the crime of being curious." He picks up a piece of jerky and eyes it as he thinks. "I must be the one to satisfy her curiosity."
She frowns.
He takes a bite, pointing the half eaten piece at her. "Tomorrow."
A promise. An acceptance.
"But I have some ground rules," he assures. "Really, just one. You cannot run off. I have never felt such a pressure in the pit of my stomach. I will not have that again. So, you will stay by me. Fair enough?"
She nods.
"Good." He finishes off the piece and sits back again. "You'll be the death of me, sweet girl. Go on."
She excuses herself quietly, journeying across the dining table to kiss his cheek goodnight then going to ready herself for bed.
Cregan leans back in the chair until he's slumped with his eyes on the ceiling. "But what a blissful death," he softly remarks.
In the weeks leading up to little Daeron's departure to Oldtown, Queen Alicent finds herself trying to entertain the unmarried ladies of court. As one of her ladies in waiting, you agree to an anonymous penpal in one of the men at court, and end up spilling your heart to him. He is your perfect match, your equal. The only issue? The Queen's brother Gwayne Hightower will not stop bothering you as you try to uncover who responds to your letters.
Current schedule is tentative, as if i finish chapters early they're being posted early <3
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
little epilogue
Certified Monster Dong Enthusiast @faewild-creates - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
vaporwave
kianamaiart
jbbartram-illu
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
