he that dares
part eleven: the whispering of pretty girls cregan stark
❀༉ premise: With the fates of both herself and Jaehaera Targaryen on the line, Daphne Tyrell prepares to ignore her mother’s wishes for a different betrothal as Cregan Stark summons a small council to present his terms for the sparing of Corlys Velaryon’s life.
❀༉ series tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, smut, court politics
❀༉ chapter warnings: grief, canon-typical misogyny, past suicide mention
❀༉ word count: 15.2k
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In the dreamlike recalling of one cloudless day beneath a golden sun, Daphne Tyrell can fabricate vague flashes of the very first time she met the Queen Dowager, Alicent Hightower. Or, in any case, the first time that she met the woman and was old enough to be cognizant of the event. Daphne could not have been any older than eight years of age, standing obediently behind her mother in a gown made of so many silk, floral frills that she resembled a tiny spring cake served alongside afternoon tea. Cassia had been too young to make the journey to King’s Landing, and Lord Tyrell so rarely left Highgarden’s ivory walls, draped in vines and saturated, fragrant blooms. He delegated the arduous task of answering summons from the royal House to his lady wife.
Elinor Tyrell had spent the entirety of the carriage ride reciting the many expectations upon her young daughter, who had never seen the reddish towers of the Red Keep before that day. Daphne nodded along attentively to each reminder that was supplied to her, eager to prove to her mother that she could play the part of a perfect little lady before the Queen. She had already dazzled their House’s attending lords and ladies at Highgarden – excelling at greeting guests graciously with her mother when Highgarden welcomed company, with presenting the delicate patterns she cross-stitched in her embroidery hoops, always smiling and fluttering her fan before her face and being perfectly silent unless spoken to first.
Daphne had been presented before Alicent, offering the deepest, straightest curtsy that she could manage, allowing the Queen to study her. When Alicent had taken her chin in her hand delicately, commenting upon Daphne’s beauty and exquisite manners, it was all the girl could do to remain composed and emotionless at such high praise. Yet she knew she was expected to present herself with only the most polite and demure grace, and so she had simply murmured how honored she was and returned to performing the role of the darling doll: her mother’s elegant, silent accessory.
Alicent, but a year or two her mother’s elder, had known Elinor since long before talks of her engagement to Lord Viktor Tyrell had even been proposed, back when the Lady of Highgarden had still retained the surname of Florent. Brightwater Keep was not far from Oldtown, the two cities situated upon the banks of the glittering, cerulean waters of the Honeywine, and both women had been raised as daughters of prominent Houses of the Reach. A companionship blossoming in the morbid garden of shared misery had sprung forth from ashen dirt, pollinated by mirrored expressions of obedient resignment and stoic acceptance of their identical duties. Their fates had run parallel, both women marrying a man many years their elder, and it was through the continuation of their friendship via a consistent exchange of penned letters sent upon dark wings that resulted in the longstanding betrothal between Elinor Tyrell’s eldest daughter and Alicent Hightower’s youngest son.
Visits to the capital were frequent in the days of her youth, awaited during long stretches of time spent gazing wistfully out of a gilded carriage’s window as they bumped along the dirt road that would lead them to the Red Keep. It had continued as such until Daphne had been officially named one of Helaena’s ladies in waiting, and had made the journey on what had seemed, at the time, to be the final day she would consider Highgarden home instead of King’s Landing. Alicent had never spared Daphne extensive attention – primarily because there was no great need to, especially not when the Queen had a plethora of critical challenges to concern herself with.
But they had disagreed there, at the end of it all, and their final conversation following Helaena’s death had been far from amiable, although this was predominantly the fault of Daphne and the rage in her mutilated heart. The words Daphne had spoken that night were so quiet that they were scarcely above a whisper; but no more venomous words have ever been expressed by her, nor does she imagine any will ever hold a candle to the vituperative poison imbued into each scathing one.
To speak that way to the Dowager Queen was a nightmare that the mere concept of would have rendered Daphne faint once upon a time. Many years spent toiling away for the crafting of perfect royal perception smashed messily over the stone floors of a moonlit night, another casualty of a war that no one had won.
It is this memory, not any other, that leaves the lady hovering outside of the grand doors to the Dowager Queen’s apartments despite the approval she received from Lord Cregan Stark to enter and discuss the matter of Jaehaera’s betrothal to the young Rickon Stark. There is no possibility of Daphne maintaining the façade of poised elegance that she had practiced before Alicent for so many years, no world in which her act of thoroughly rehearsed theater does not fall apart before this royal audience of one. It is the inevitable outcome, when the wound upon her most fragile organ will be dug into messily, reopening it to draw forth fresh blood. Yet with Jaehaera’s future hanging so precariously between imprisonment and freedom, there is nothing she will not do.
Her hand pushes open the door carefully, listening to the unsettling creaking of the ancient wood. The windows of the Dowager Queen’s apartments have their silken curtains drawn despite the bright hour of the early morning, shielding the enclosed darkness from the sunlight gliding down over the spires of the castle. A cold air has embedded itself into every corner and crevice of the space, into the very stone of the walls and the threads of the hanging woven tapestries. A seven-pointed star stares in burning judgement at Daphne as she closes the door behind her, its golden strands looming with threatening stature and significance over the dim, shadowy chamber and the young woman before it. Her chin raises in marginal defiance. Daphne Tyrell has nothing to prove to gods who did nothing in the face of such wicked violence.
The Queen Dowager sits before her unlit hearth, a book held tightly in her grasp as she hears the door squeaking. Alicent turns with empty eyes that offer no evident reaction to the appearance of Daphne, who does not venture in any further than the immediate doorway. The two women appraise each other for a long while before Alicent elects to speak.
”I did not imagine you would remain here.” Her voice is weary. An exhaustion that sinks beneath her skin and through her bones, into their very marrow.
“I had little choice in the matter,” Daphne casts her eyes away from the older woman and to the rug upon the floor beneath the skirt of her gown, the tassels of it silvery and blue. The once shimmering threads appear lackluster in the cool darkness. “Likely as much choice as you.”
Another weighted silence sinks in with knowing pressure. A whispering unease creeps across Daphne’s skin and she bites her lip, digging her teeth sharply into the soft flesh.
“It is Jaehaera I wish to discuss with you,” When words are finally spoken, they press forth into the silence free of beautiful act. Playing pretend will not amount to anything, not after their previous exchange. It is best that she bares the truth of her intent to Alicent in any case – despite their parting words, they both love the girl. Daphne has to believe it so, even should Alicent have encouraged Jaehaera to poison her cousin when the Queen Dowager last saw her granddaughter. “I believe that I have devised a plan for her to have a chance at a peaceful life.”
The older woman beholds her without expression, merely staring neutrally forth with clouded eyes. Her arms rest atop her stomach, the black of her gown stark against the paling color of her skin. “There is no possibility for that. You know her blood.”
Daphne had, in childhood, retained a great fascination for the tales of Old Valyria, with Shrubbery, Being a History on the Flora of the Valyrian Freehold remaining one of her favorite compilations on the flora of the lost civilization. The silk grasses that arose from the warm soil, a violet fruit that was said to pass moral judgement upon those who consumed it. Whisperings of magic, of curses and witchcraft and fate, often went overlooked. Only through her knowing of Helaena’s strange dreams and their curious manifestations did Daphne come to understand that there is truly an element of the fantastical embedded into each drop of Targaryen blood, exhibiting itself at varying levels, no matter how commonly crimson and viscous it appears when it is spilled.
“It does not need to be her fate,” The lady presents the proposition delicately, understanding well the scornful dismissal that gnaws at the edges of Alicent’s tired gaze. When such horror has fallen upon the House of the dragon, the prospect of one of its daughters avoiding tragedy does not seem entirely plausible. “Not if she is raised far from here, far from crown and throne.”
Alicent shakes her head at this, her chestnut hair hanging in dull curls about her face. Her eyes dart to the empty fireplace in apparent disbelief, before she places the book in her hands down upon the round table beside her. “You wish to ship her off to some distant land and hope that strangers might care for her? You might very well slit her throat to spare her the torture she would surely face.”
“I shall do no such thing,” It is with immense difficulty that Daphne manages to simmer the annoyance that bubbles in a hot spring within her chest at the irrational insinuation, nor Alicent’s speaking so offhandedly of such a thing befalling Jaehaera. Daphne has to turn for a moment, her nails finding their place in the crescent circles always decorating her palm. She presses them into the shapes tightly, before continuing. “I am to marry Lord Cregan Stark and return with him to Winterfell following the conclusion of the trials and executions. As Prince Jacaerys swore that Lord Stark’s eldest son Rickon shall marry a Targaryen princess in exchange for his alliance, he has agreed that Jaehaera’s betrothal to the boy would fulfill the pact and that she might accompany me to Winterfell and remain there as a ward.”
A rustling can be heard from the corner of the room. There is a small squeaking, and a flurry of grey fur and tiny scampering claws tap across the wooden floorboards. As the mouse disappears underneath the thick sapphire curtains before the window, both Alicent Hightower and Daphne Tyrell stare at it. The Dowager Queen appraises Daphne with another shrouded expression a moment later, staring with brazen, uncaring scrutiny at the younger woman.
“That is your strategy then?” When Alicent finally answers the proposal that Daphne has set forth, it is with mild irritation and disappointment. Daphne’s already flat gaze becomes impossibly drier, her chin lowering as she presses her lips together into a tight line before fixing the woman with a tired look. “To sell yourself off to that bellicose lord so the two of you might spend your days in a frozen wasteland amongst barbarians?”
“That is hardly the situation,” Daphne cannot help the edge of guarded testiness that rises in her tone, nor the way she folds her arms across her chest in a protective frustration. The stirring of such a reaction over a simple commentary irks her nearly as much as the statement itself. “This marriage was not decided out of desperate necessity.”
The Queen Dowager’s face contorts into explicit disbelief, augmenting the strength of her disdain by scoffing lightly as she walks briskly to the table nearest to the closed window, pouring herself a cup of tea. No steam can be seen rising from the cup, indicating the considerable duration of time the teapot has been lingering upon the wooden surface untouched. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that you have developed a sudden affection for a Northerner. You, who have never cared for any of the nobles at court, resident or visiting.”
Daphne’s distaste for the general court is known to Alicent, who never much cared for it herself and had watched the girl for long enough to catch whispered comments and exchanged glances of childish annoyance between a younger Daphne and her own children.
“Lord Stark is not much like the lords at court.” This murmuring in markedly tempered, soothed and shushed and squeezed down into Daphne’s chest. It cannot be helped; the very utterance of his name threatens her steadily maintained and preferred indifference. Managing the compulsion to defend his character proves a more difficult endeavor than desired.
“No, I imagine not,” The teacup held gingerly in Alicent’s hand is lowered back into its saucer, the glazed ceramics clinking brightly at each point they met. Her eyes turn to the leather-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and the faded golden shape upon its aging cover. The words have begun to disappear, the gilded lettering peeling into oblivion. “A heathen lord who ignores the Seven —”
“Oh, I retain not the stomach for pious lectures any longer,” The prayer tables of Seven have seen the last of the Lady Daphne Tyrell. And so rarely are their names invoked by any who genuinely follow the doctrine that is loftily preached. It flashes in her eyes then, the brightness of a star fallen, painting the dull night sky of her gaze with brilliant, glowing light. “Lord Stark has been truer and more honorable than any of the bumbling fools who occasionally remember to offer prayers when they require something.”
Alicent is far from ignorant to the significance of such plain praise from the woman before her, unaccompanied by splendid embellishment or decorated compositions of poetic advocation. Silence falls between them again, and the lady casts her gaze away, disliking the deconstruction of her person being carried out by woman’s lifeless eyes.
“You truly do care for him,” If it was disbelief before, it is absolute incredulity that the Dowager Queen appraises Daphne with now. She presses her open palm to the cover of the book before her. Yet her voice remains monotonous and quiet as she looks away, deep in disturbed thought. “Madness, it must be.”
A tiny breath of annoyance flits forth from Daphne’s lips and her expression only grows more sour. She purses her lips before she folds her hands tightly atop the corset of her gown and quite nearly scowls. “Is now truly the time for melodrama? I trust Lord Stark. Enough to know that Jaehaera will be awarded every freedom in the North she deserves.”
Yet Alicent is already shaking her head in refusal, the mere thought of the occurrence apparently unacceptable. “I do not wish to see my only surviving grandchild banished to the edge of the world.”
“You would rather see her married to her cousin then?” Daphne asks briskly, eyes wide and serious as she stares Alicent down from across the room. Her head tilts in an indicative, sarcastic gesture. “The very one whose mother Jaehaera’s father killed?”
Alicent flinches visibly, retreating even further into her corner of the room. There is not room for guilt in Daphne’s mind, not when it is all for the princess, but she does give the older woman a moment to piece together her thoughts upon the alternative without rushing.
“…No,” Alicent’s hand has risen to rest upon her lips as she considers. The beds of her nails are torn and bloody. It reminds Daphne pointedly of the white scars upon her own hand, carved into the tender flesh of her palm in a path of nervous habit. “No. She will never be safe around that boy, upon that we agree.”
Although it is a small victory, this tiny agreement settles some of Daphne’s agitated nerves. Taking a long, steadying breath, her shoulders release some of their tension and lower. As does the aggression in her voice.
“I can either leave her here at his mercy or take her with me and raise her at Winterfell,” Daphne murmurs, gazing down at the floor, the helplessness she has been saddled with since Jaehaera returned from Storm’s End finally dissipated now that this door has been opened for the girl. She wishes to assure Alicent of the care the girl will receive, her lips parting. It is a naïve mistake. Her mouth closes as memories descend upon her like a flock of carrion birds to a dying carcass, tearing into her flesh with sharpened talons. Daphne can hardly force the following words out. “You know that I love her.”
When Alicent looks upon her then, Daphne knows it is not a young woman that she sees within her chambers. But a girl, the girl she had been once, the girl who had followed her daughter around like a pastel shadow. And what Daphne is asking, to take the last vestige of Helaena from her side forever: it is not something she lightly dismisses the significance nor pain of.
“She should remain here, with me.” A faint whisper, a misunderstanding of what was once uncontestable truth. Daphne closes her eyes.
“You will never be free to raise her,” The court will not allow it, not after what happened the last time the Dowager Queen saw the child. And even in the absence of that incident, they will fear the influence Alicent could have on a princess of House Targaryen who retains a claim to the Iron Throne. “I know you must understand that.”
When the lady lifts her gaze, she watches as Alicent attempts to grasp at anything that might stand as testimony against the girl’s leaving. “This is the only home Jaehaera has ever known.”
Jaehaera, only five years old. How much will she remember of the walls that had witnessed her birth? The breaths she had taken but moments before her brother, shuddering and labored in her tiny body. There had been a heartbeat before the baby girl had been handed to Helaena that Daphne wondered silently if the child would continue to breathe. Jaehaerys had been stronger, crying at once. It was as if Jaehaera’s body rejected the world it was transferred into, the suffocating, poisonous air of a beautiful cage.
“If the day comes when she one day wishes to return to King’s Landing, I shall see it done,” It is a tired promise, one Daphne can only begin to understand in her mind, The future is not something she dwells on often; it is difficult to picture it. She wanders absentmindedly over towards the hearth, staring down into the empty place where the logs should be. “But she should have a chance to grow before she decides.”
“She is a princess, not a prisoner,” Alicent’s voice trembles with something, but Daphne cannot define it as any clear emotion. A grotesque mixture of sorrow and desperation and anger. “She should be Queen – ”
“Do not dare speak that curse before me,” Daphne’s lower lip shakes with the weight of her words. With the childish anguish that has clawed its way up her lungs and rendered her weak at its arrival. Her breath is too shallow, leaving her lightheaded and on uneven footing. She wavers a soft sway as she glares with illogical petulance when she whips around to scowl, eyes stinging. Accusatory in no uncertain manner, regardless of what she understands within her rational mind. “It is already decided. I would like your approval, as you share her blood, but I will die before I allow that innocent child to be damned this inescapable hell.”
Daphne gives a small shake of her head. When she opens her mouth to speak again, her voice cracks and she swallows it back. It is poison on her tongue. Her eyes jump to a spot on the wall in a desperate and pointless attempt to regain some semblance of composure. A fragment of what she has always clung to so desperately, the perfect lady she has designed tirelessly since she had any conception of the truth of their world. Each stitching of herself that she has sewn into the linings of her character, until she cannot always differentiate what was originally there from what she has made. It whirls by her in a carnival of light and sound, of surreal, distinct emotions played out to an eerie tune. Ever since the war started, she has begun to unravel. As Daphne Tyrell haunts the halls of the castle she has been confined to for years now, she leaves a golden thread in a sad trail behind each step.
Though the violence and harrowing nature of the war and of Aemond’s slippery descent into a vicious stranger had battered and bruised her heart, it does not sting nearly as much as the gaping loss. The nightmarish fugue of days of uncertainty, of the threat not quelled because of her own treacherous weakness. It had all seemed so impossibly insurmountable while in the midst of it.
Helaena’s laugh echoes in her mind.
Anger is unbefitting of a lady. Yet it must be rage she feels, just beyond the weepy grief that has steered her into hazy sleepless nights with tears tangling mats into her damp hair and hollow staring into a looking glass that reflects a face she does not recognize. It does not fit neatly into her frame, always crawling beneath her skin as if a thousand spiders have settled under it and now wish to return to the external world. Daphne has no means of expressing it materially, save for the shattering of fragile objects under the guise of careless accidents. Nor does she have an exact target to aim it at, the arrow of her rage lacking any significant place to land. In the darkest parts of her mind, she pictures the damned halls of the Red Keep lit up in a blaze of fire so potent it would melt the sturdiest of stone and brick. The dreadful, dying screams of anyone who had decided that a chair and a crown were worth so much. But even this cruelty would not change anything. It would not change a single wretched thing.
Despite her wishes, her lip curls with that violent, trembling anger. Daphne knows well that she cannot truly say she is impartial and just in her judgement. She has attempted both thoughtful practicality and empathetic reasoning over the immense difficulty of Alicent’s station and the pressing fear she long retained for herself and her children, their blood all fire and ash and prophesized ruin. Does she not know it well, the doomed misfortune of being born a woman? Does she not empathize so deeply with its sacrifice?
There is no one to blame; there is an endless list. Helaena might not have been pushed from her windowsill during that fateful hour, but there are a dozen pairs of hands that Daphne curses in her most resentful moments. Targaryens and Hightowers alike: Viserys, Daemon, Rhaenyra, Aegon, Otto, Alicent – not even the long late Jaehaerys the Conciliator, dead from the moment Daphne took her first breath, is spared her muttered loathing, her condemning eyes. It is a childish, selfish tantrum. She has not puzzled out how to harbor less hatred. As she fails to choke on her venomous words, the stinging tears in her eyes drip heavily down her cheeks.
“I should not even ask. I hate you,” It is spoken with contempt so bitter she all but spits it forth. And then her cracking voice splinters like wood into something younger, more desperate. “I hate you.”
Alicent’s expression wavers a nearly imperceptible amount. And when it shifts to something akin to pity, rather than anger, it only makes Daphne’s own melt into hopeless, despondent sorrow. Her vision blurs into a soft fog, shape and color merging before her in a bizarre disfiguration of sight. She gasps as her throat began to close, a miserable and raw breath that bites as much as the burning of the skin on her face, affronted by the salt of her tears. Daphne does not wish to be pitied. She wishes for Helaena back.
Her body, weak and cursed, shakes as she slowly felt her legs giving way. Stumbling back until she falls into the chair behind her, the sobs that are ripped from her chest are not delicate. They are not reserved nor palatable nor sweet. Her head falls to be buried in her hands as she chokes on her tears, pressing the salt back into her raw cheeks as her shoulders heavy.
Alicent is silent, but she does not move either towards Daphne or away. The gradual crawling of time echoes in the quiet moving of clock hands, the only other sound save for her tired crying. Only after many minutes is she able to stifle the gasping breaths back into her lungs, her hand pressing firmly to her chest as if to physically suppress it. Dull eyes blink lifelessly down at the carpet, befitting the husk of the specter the lady has distorted into. All the tears she has shed could carve a new river into the landscape beyond the city walls. She should have known this is how the conversation would end. It never fades; it only rearranges and emerges when she weakens.
The women linger in the silence for a long while, an unspoken resonance of shared sorrow between them.
“…You must not let Jaehaera forget.” The words rouse Daphne from the unconscious haze that she has drifted into. Wide eyes rise slowly to stare up at Alicent blankly, exhausted and unfocused. The older woman has summoned a ferocious and stubborn strength as she closes the distance between them at once, hauling Daphne upwards by the arm as she pulls the young woman up from the chair. The lady stumbles gracelessly yet relents to this jarring upheaval of her fatigued body, allowing Alicent to hold her up by either arm. The Queen Dowager’s fingertips have turned white with the strength of her grip, her eyes burning as she gazes with invigored intensity into Daphne’s own. “You must not forget.”
The further away Daphne Tyrell finds herself from the last time she had spoken to Helaena Targaryen, the more she scrambles to hang on to all that Helaena had been. The end had been violent and cruel and unimaginable, and Daphne will never not harbor the grief of it in her ravaged heart. Yet before that, it had been the blissful dream of the kind of friendship that could only blossom in the incandescent florescence of childhood innocence. Sparkling waters of a bay that led to anywhere they could imagine, conjuring up fantasies of foolish whims that had both girls laughing until their cheeks hurt with the stretch of skin. Gentle hands cupped around the smallest of creatures, curious eyes and thoughtful observations under open skies and splendid sunlight. Dreams recounted in beautiful detail, compiled as marvelous narratives that had captivated hours of attention. Whispers of promises to hold secrets shared under the darkness of night, never once broken. Patience and kindness and brilliance and the quiet softness of home. Helaena had not been violent. She had not been cruel.
Daphne’s cracked lips part, voice hoarse and low. “I could not.”
A council is to be gathered before noon, where Cregan Stark, the Hand of the King, shall make his final decision upon the sentencing of Lord Corlys Velaryon. Daphne hardly has time to rush back to her chambers so that Adelin might fix the disaster that has befallen her face, the rims of her eyes the color of ripened strawberries, her cheeks raw and her skin dry. The young woman says nothing to her lady when Daphne comes through the door. A wordless understanding transpires at once, and Daphne is led to the chair in front of her vanity mirror before Adelin begins to rummage through the wooden drawers for cosmetics that might contribute to the creation of a lady made of pale puffs of powder and pretty pink porcelain.
Daphne’s eyes drift up to the ceiling above her as Adelin hides the circles below her eyes skillfully, her attention fixed as giggles from the corridor float in faintly through the door. The handmaiden has long since perfected her craft, when her lady suffers from such consistently poor sleep, the redness easily smoothed away by a few practiced techniques with a powder made from the ground root of a lily. It is applied with a gentle wash of rose water, that stings against the sensitive skin of her face. Not a complaint nor wince is heard from Daphne.
Further dried and ground flower leaves have been whipped into vibrant colored stains for her cheeks and her lips, redistributing the redness upon her face to places that are far more pleasing to an observer than beneath her exhausted eyes. Adelin’s fingers are gentle upon Daphne’s face, smoothing the pinkish pigment onto her mouth with attentive care. When she is finished, the handmaiden turns her lady so that Daphne might catch a glimpse of her reflection in the polished looking glass. She blinks softly.
“Do I look dutifully acquiescent?” The question falls from the lady’s mouth in dull wondering, tilting her chin down before she attempts to bring a glitter of delicate submission to her countenance. Adelin watches the tiny, private performance with knowing eyes before she rests her head atop the hands she has placed on Daphne’s shoulder. Daphne’s head falls to lean against Adelin’s as she stares at herself tiredly.
“Perfectly elegant and resigned.” Adelin whispers back, and Daphne’s gaze meets hers in the mirror with genuine gratitude. As the handmaiden turns to lift a glittering necklace of flowers resembling snowdrops, their petite petals made of freshwater pearls from one of the rivers of the Reach, her door is opened by one of the guards who had arrived with the Tyrell travelling party stationed outside her chambers. She had dismissed them the night before, assuring them she did not need any more security than that which is provided by Ser Leo and Ser Tomas when she summons them, but her mother had sent the men right back when the sun rose.
Daphne holds not the desire to squabble with her mother over such a petty matter, especially given the grand disappointment she shall deliver this very afternoon. She brightens at once, as if the sun has risen past a darkened cloud, her voice light and dainty as she gazes expectantly to the open door. “Yes, Ser Fredrik?”
“Lord Cregan Stark, my lady.” It is the only notice Daphne is given before Cregan appears beneath her doorframe. Ser Fredrik is evidently disgruntled by this brash intrusion, yet Cregan is the Hand of the King and little is to be done to prevent him from acting as he pleases. As Adelin adjusts the jewelry upon her collarbone, the lady provides a sweet smile of dismissal to the knight.
“Thank you, Ser.” A small raise of her hand is provided in accompaniment, a plain sign of her acceptance of the visit. The knight casts a brief mistrustful glance towards Cregan and waits in disapproving silence for Adelin to finish her task and withdraw through the door before he closes it.
The morning is well underway, the chirping of birds drifting in through her open window since the sun broke hours ago. Their presence – primarily Cregan’s, as the one conducting the gathering of the summoned nobles – is expected at the former small council chamber in near time. Daphne gazes across the room at Cregan with a questioning look, one that is bestowed back upon her after he approaches where she is sitting and falls to one knee before her.
It has become a habit she recognized the last time he had done this. When the two of them are free from the prying eyes of the court, and Daphne sat before him, the lord kneels before her without question nor comment. He does not urge her to rise in his presence, nor does he tower over her seated form when addressing her in their private moments. A minor detail, one that endears itself to Daphne’s heart for the darling simplicity of the thoughtfulness.
“You look weary.” The murmur is rumbled in a ponderous manner, his brow creasing as he gazes into her eyes. Daphne frowns at this, one hand reaching up instinctively to hover over her cheek before she turns to stare into her mirror again, turning her head slowly as she examines her face.
“Do I?” A grimace appears on her visage as she studies it in closer detail. Cregan watches the practiced, intimate ritual of observation and obscuring with quiet patience. “Adelin has just attempted to rectify it. Shall I ask her to try it once more?”
The lord reaches out to gently pull her hand away from her face before she can press the pads of her fingers into the powder that has been applied to it. Prompted wordlessly to face him again, Daphne turns atop the plush velvet cushioning of the chair, her frown dispersing into a softer, waiting expression as she sits before him.
“You look beautiful,” The correction is smooth and instantaneous, not presented as anything but plain fact. Her eyes hold Cregan’s grey ones, her concern assuaged by the comfort such straightforward words bring about. His thumb is tender upon her skin as it rubs against the flesh of her palm, overtop the half circles littering it. “I only know because, as I have admitted to you, I cannot help but take note of every detail upon your face.”
Daphne feels her chin lowering at this, her lashes fluttering as she casts her gaze down to their joined hands instead of the ardent honesty within Cregan Stark’s intense eyes. The ease with which he speaks the truth of his heart renders her flustered and marginally jealous; such concepts do not take shape so easily within her mind or upon her tongue. It had taken all of the courage she could muster to admit that the emotions bursting from her chest were indeed mirroring the ones that Cregan had expressed to her before they had shared her bed, and the small candors she had offered him whilst bargaining for Lord Corlys Velaryon’s freedom. Daphne knows it shall be most difficult for it to occur again, even with the evident fondness and trust she has come to harbor for him. The certainty with which Cregan acts and feels and expresses delights and baffles and vexes her all in equal measure.
When she catches sight of the amused grin playing about the edges of his lips, she furrows her brow in inquisitive wondering. Cregan shrugs lightly in response, his weighty shoulders rolling back as he gazes upon her fondly. The morning has been one arduous task after the next, and neither had looked forward to the difficult conversations required before their agreement proceeded. Even so, the combined effort had made the matter of speaking to Lord Corlys Velaryon far less painful, despite the unpleasant memories that stirred again from their light slumber. Their joined handling of the errands awards Cregan a glimpse into the near future; their shared management of their castle and issues handled as Lord and Lady of Winterfell.
“You avert your gaze at my calling you fair, but you were hardly shy in my chambers the night before last.” The whisper is teasing, and he reaches forth to draw her hand into both of his, concealing it with them. She exhales a dramatic breath, her pinched expression lightly scandalized as she shakes her head. A loose curl tumbles playfully beside her face, framing her cheek.
“It is different.” Daphne mutters, her eyes returning to Cregan’s as she provides a knowing look. There is that light smile upon his usually stoic and stony countenance, that nearly boyish mischief that enchants her wholly each time she is graced with its presence. Her visage melts at once, fragile ice thawing to a sweet spring brook. Wisps of lashes are batted unconsciously, her pink lips parted as she stares at him, unguarded.
“Aye,” The Lord of Winterfell has reached up to brush one hand against the piece of hair that has been left free of the elaborate updo atop her head. He twirls the silken strands between his fingers, pleased as she tilts her head to rest it against his open palm. Her eyes are wide, and wholly defenseless. He inhales an awed breath silently. “It is quite different.”
Love, he had affirmed it to her aloud, bathed within the gentle golden candlelight illuminating the Tower of the Hand. She had not meant to insinuate it was her that Cregan loves, it had just been an observation of his character after many days of studying both it and his history so devotedly. Every action he has taken before her has only ever served to strengthen that belief. Yet she had not fashioned an audible confirmation of the confession in return. It leaps onto her tongue then, with sudden yearning desperation. So sudden, that she coughs softly, bringing a hand to her chest and tucking the words carefully beneath satin bed coverings rather than carrying them into the brilliant light of day.
“We shall be late,” Daphne reminds Cregan gently. Her posture has shifted from the poised straightness presented when Ser Fredrik had opened the door. Her shoulders have dropped, her back resting against the cushion of her chair behind her as she allows her knees to draw together and fall to the side. A glimmer of matching amusement nestles itself comfortably into her gaze and she raises her brows. “It is hardly befitting the Hand of the King to be tardy to a council he called.”
“Yes, we ought to go,” His smile widens at her sarcastic urging, nodding in faux solemnity while she bites her lips to ward off the brightening of her own. Her hand is held so gently in his, his calloused palm reverent in its care. “I only wished to ensure that your meeting with the Queen Dowager went smoothly.”
“Smoothly is hardly the description I would ascribe to the conversation,” Daphne’s gaze is askance to the gilded containers of pigment and powder upon her vanity’s cherry wood with a light wince. Yet the thoughtful attentiveness Cregan awards her so consistently does not go unappreciated. Her other hand moves forward to join the one that he has drawn forth, and he cradles both gently. Her translucent curtains flutter inwards with the morning breeze. “But Alicent has given her blessing.”
“Good,” A low hum of rolling approval is given, warm and resounding in Cregan’s chest. “It shall be no great battle to convince the rest of the assembly then. And Lord Corlys has been given my terms privately. All were accepted.”
Daphne offers a small nod at this, but her thoughts have wandered elsewhere. To the inevitable disappointment she is sure to bring about, to the selfishness of her decision – not made solely for the benefit of the young princess she loves so, but for additionally for herself, greedy and gluttonous in her wanting. Her deserving over such a thing, a match made from love and trust and a bond she has had the rare chance of fostering on her own timeline and terms, is weighed upon the scales in her mind. Her steadfast duty, a quality herself that she had usually valued for its strength, has faltered. To her mother, to Cassia, to their House.
Another instance of her accursed weakness is recalled to her then. What the illusion of love had nearly cost her. Might it yet still be possible that time passes in a mocking, cruel circle? Yet Daphne Tyrell cannot believe that Cregan Stark would be so callous or violent with her heart.
“You do not appear as pleased as I believed you might, given our good fortune and the imminent success of your plan.” Her distant, silent musing is caught at once by the man who attends to her so unfailingly. The Lord of Winterfell studies the contours of her visage: the creasing at the corners of her lips and her downturned eyes, cast to the floorboards beneath the chair she sits within. Freshly cut flowers that rest in the ornate container upon her vanity table waft a sweet aroma forth from their fragrant white petals. The ones that Cregan selected for her remain across the room, upon her bedside table. Crystal clear water sits within their vase of polished glass, and they occupy an optimal spot before the bright sunlight and fresh air streaming in through the open window. Beside them sits the accompanying note that he had written, the edges of the paper crinkled to suggest how often Daphne had reread the three simple words.
“I am relieved that our dealings this morning went as such. And, of course, this opportunity for Jaehaera,” She does not catch the way his eyes have wandered towards the canopied bed, her own still lowered as she contemplates the nature of her worry. Guilt chews with blunt yet insistent teeth against her weary bones. “But opposing my mother’s wishes before this council – surprising her with this betrothal, ignoring what she has asked of me…”
Cregan’s eyes return to Daphne’s countenance with a wondering urgency, scanning her as a muted flash of apprehension strikes his chest. Her dedication to her family is something he understands well, and he is aware of the difficulty such a decisions brings about, such a blatant defiance and opposition. A crack appears in his determination, chipped into the thick glass by the knife wielded by his conscience.
“I know you care for her greatly,” Swallowing thickly, he attempts to portray nothing but stoic sympathy, resigned and understanding. Pressing onwards with summoned courage, trying not to hold onto her hand tightly, Cregan continues. “If you do not wish to – ”
“I wish to,” There is no world in which Daphne does not. Her decision, damning as it might be to her eternal soul, is interwoven into the composition of her being through the patterns of the strings of her heart. She has chosen him. “I shall not rescind my word nor do I want to. I want – ”
The words remain withheld but instead manifest physically across her face, eyes soft and vulnerable as she gazes between his. Cregan studies Daphne’s face for some time. Finally, he gives a heavy nod, before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it gently.
Daphne is sent ahead to arrive before Cregan makes his appearance at the gathered assembly. She wonders briefly after the benefit of the delayed advents, once profitable due to the prevention of notice of their familiar association. The time to shield his favoring of her from public view has departed. The flimsy rouse will cascade to the stone within the small council chambers with a magnificent shattering that afternoon, the remnants left to stir up the dust that floats aimlessly past the hazy sunlight drifting in through thick and blurred circular windows. Her place by her mother’s side is taken with persisting guilt.
While Elinor Tyrell smiles gracefully and crafts gentle small talk about the dress Daphne has chosen and the arrangement of her hair, her mind could not be farther from the present moment. Perhaps it has drifted out the door and down the hallways, passing through an open corridor and rising up above the parapets, soaring out over the darkened bay and into the sparkling water of the open sea. Or it might have journeyed instinctively down the familiar dirt roads that lead to gently sloping hills and endless plains of emerald grass, the baby pink roses upon Highgarden’s castle fading in and out of the edges of her vision.
Wherever it has gone, it is not within the room her body stands in. Gathered near the central wooden table are the faces she has grown familiar with seeing around its rectangular shape. The young Lords Tully are engaged in an animated conversation with Lord Benjicot Blackwood, who has gone rather red in the cheeks, his hand waving desperately to ward off some comment that has Lord Oscar’s smile teasing and spirited. Lady Arryn is commenting upon a rumor she heard last night to Lady Alysanne Blackwood, yet the older woman additionally observes the happenings of the space, her eyes pointedly drawn to a hushed discussion to her right between Lord Corwyn Corbray and Princess Rhaena Targaryen, the latter of whom appears despondently worried and in dire need of proper rest. Her sister, the Princess Baela, seems equally as troubled, but hides it beneath a layer of reserved stoicism that her more tender-hearted sister does not possess. Lord Leowyn Corbray has elected to take his seat prior to the Hand’s arrival. His eyes are closed as he snores rather uncouthly through wet and nasally breaths.
Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, the Hand of the King, silences the room at once with his announced arrival by the knights stationed outside the doors. With him, he brings the man whose fate shall be decided during the haphazardly amassed council: Lord Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake is not bound in any way, but Cregan bears the greatsword Ice upon his back and Lord Osric Cerwyn, following close behind, is armed thoroughly as well. Daphne is stirred from her absentminded musings, compelled to compose herself with the measure of poise and dignity expected of her. There shall be no shortage of eyes boring holes into her person once the proceedings commence. Let her ready herself for the performance of dutiful compliance that just might convince the entire room save the woman that bore her, and perhaps the sensibly perceptive Lady Jeyne Arryn. The Princesses’ eyes alight at the sight of their beloved grandfather, Rhaena eager to rush to his side and whisper something in a concerned hurry. The elder man pats the princess’s arm gently, while he turns his attention to Cregan, who bestows upon him a slow dipping of his chin.
Even Lord Leowyn has been woken with a start and convinced to stand to sharp attention by the entrance of the Hand, all of the gathered nobles gazing to him as he calls for the assembly to sit. Daphne takes her seat with a demure dropping of her chin as she lowers herself elegantly into the wooden chair. Their plan has been executed with such meticulous attention to loose ends and specific confirmations and details that she does not worry over its success. Yet anxiety fills her veins nonetheless, an instinctive reaction to Jaehaera’s future depending on the bargain agreed upon and ratified by this council of both Northern and Southern lords and ladies. A rapid glance to her mother’s veiled, neutral expression does little to settle her disquieted nerves.
“I have heard all of your petitions for the sparing of Lord Corlys Velaryon’s life despite his involvement in Aegon Targaryen’s poisoning,” There is an air of concrete authority that buries itself in each word spoken by Cregan Stark. There is not malice in his tone, nor does he raise his volume to anything booming. His quiet, definitive manner of speaking is forceful enough, accompanied by the icy certainty in his grey eyes and his imposing stature. A languid ray of sunlight glimmers off of Ice’s pommel, shining atop the Valyrian steel. Lord Cerwyn stands behind his chair. “As have I acknowledged the edict made by the young Prince Aegon.”
The boy king has not been summoned to the council, still not instated in his position officially, nor is he old enough nor prepared enough to truly engage in the political happenings of his court. He had not been raised as heir to anything, after all, a fourth son in actuality, despite the father he did not share with his elder brothers. As an official regent has not been chosen to rule in his stead while the kingdom awaits his sixteenth nameday, there stands no person to represent his wishes. His half-sisters appear the closest people to filling this role, and their presence there is the clearest indicator as to the Hand’s consideration of this troublesome fact.
There is a moment of silence where Cregan casts his gaze across the table to where the Lord of the Tides sits, and he appraises the man with a weighty stare. Daphne remains uncertain about the nature of their conversation; she had not inquired as to the specifics that had been discussed that morning in Lord Corlys’ cell in the dungeons. Her trust in Cregan allows her a certain degree of surety that it went as planned, but the details remain unknown to her. After an unhurried pause, the Hand continues. “Despite my own firm belief in the necessity of justice to secure a peaceful transfer of power, your pleas and reasonings have not gone ignored. As such, I have presented Lord Corlys Velaryon with my terms for the securing of his release, and I shall present them before you all now.”
There is a small, relieved gasp from Princess Rhaena at the proposition of her grandfather evading the death that he had been decisively sentenced with in the Throne Room. Baela’s shoulders sag and she sinks lower into her chair, as if some great weight has been lifted from them and she can, at last, take a deep breath of the stuffy air within the council chambers. Before that moment, not a soul in the room save for Daphne Tyrell, Cregan Stark, and Corlys Velaryon had known that the Lord of Winterfell, fiercely resolute in his determined quest for justice, would waver upon his stance.
His small Northern council appears surprised at the revelation as well, with the younger of the lords blinking at Cregan with stunned expressions. Most of all Lord Kermit Tully, who had previously argued upon the matter of the trials yet acquiesced to Cregan’s staunch insistence. The young man’s eyes are wide as he gazes down the long table, while the older nobles shift in their seats, ruffled by the sudden change of heart they are perceiving as uncharacteristic. It might only be Lord Osric Cerwyn and Daphne amongst those gathered who understand the truth of this decision’s alignment with his heart and person. Cregan gives the room a moment to settle before he casts his gaze to her. Her hand closes into a fist beneath the table, preparing herself for the immediate storm about to bluster into the room and her life in a ferocious tempest.
When Daphne lowers her chin in the slightest motion, Cregan’s attention returns to the gathered crowed as he addresses them. Her shoulders stiffen and then the tension is released, and a doll of beautiful and lovely agreeability is animated with a breath released from parted rosy lips.
“In exchange for the sparing of Lord Corlys’ Velaryon’s life, two marriages will be secured. I shall take the Lady Daphne Tyrell to wife, to become the Lady Stark of Winterfell. The Targaryen Princess Jaehaera will additionally be betrothed to my son and heir, Rickon, and they shall be married when they both come of age, as was promised to me by the late Prince Jacaerys. To ensure this transpires, the princess will return with myself and Lady Daphne to Winterfell, where she will be raised as a ward until such time as the marriage occurs.” When Cregan Stark finishes with his demands, the silence in the room is of such a heavy quality that not even the sound of breathing can be heard. Daphne can feel the eyes of every person within the chamber turn upon her at once, to her delicately downturned chin and the wisps of her lashes that brush against the rounding of her cheeks as she looks down at the wood of the table. Her mother’s gaze burns as if the Lady of Highgarden has taken a heated poker from a blazing fire and pressed it to the side of Daphne’s face. Yet she knows her mother shall reveal nothing of her shock upon her face. Elinor excels at crafting a perfect mask, even more skilled than her eldest daughter.
It is the Lord Leowyn Corbray who pipes up to offer an answer first, after a long and tense quiet, and the lady is profoundly grateful for the portly lord’s lack of tact or ability to read a room in that moment.
“While it is known that you made a pact with Prince Jacaerys, my lord, I do wonder if the little princess’s relatives might stir up a fuss over this betrothal,” The pondering is not argument but merely faintly concerned, accompanied with a thoughtful stroking of his beard as he leans back in his chair. Daphne is astonished at the coherence of the worry pieced together by the man, and his ability to produce it so suddenly while the rest of the room reels in stunned silence. She might have underestimated the head of House Corbray after all. “It would seem they wish her to be Queen, married to her cousin. Targaryen custom, I suppose.”
Lord Leowyn’s eyes wander as his voice trails off at this, seemingly not too comfortable with the rituals of Targaryen royal marriages. His brother, Lord Corwyn, has torn his eyes from the Princess Rhaena Targaryen for long enough to evaluate Leowyn’s worry and find his reasoning sound. He tilts his head in agreement, a frown crossing his face. “The Hightowers might wish to see her upon the throne as consolation for their losses. Granted, their association with the girl is rumored to be little. I do not believe Lord Lyonel Hightower has ever even met the child.”
“Her grandmother is another issue entirely,” This musing is brought up by Lady Arryn, raising her brows in brash and disapproving acknowledgement of Alicent Hightower’s relationship with the young princess. The Queen Dowager’s suggestion that the five-year-old girl poison her elder cousin had not been well received by the Northern nobles. “While I do not believe she ought to have any further contact with Princess Jaehaera, she is her closet remaining blood.”
Daphne is relieved that the attention has shifted away from her and to the issue presented by Jaehaera’s betrothal to Rickon. It gives her a moment to ensure her performance is maintained properly, regardless of her mother’s presence in the chair beside hers. She is excruciatingly aware of the frustration and disappointment she has caused – something foreign to her, for the majority of her life. Some little part of her, that tiny girl who spent hours learning the perfect curtsy, trembles at the knowledge that she has failed her lady mother. Cregan listens to the concerns brought forth by his retainers, but readily hands them the answer that he has prepared.
“I hear Lord Lyonel Hightower worries far more over his own marriage than that of his distant cousin’s,” The known scandal brings about murmurs of agreement throughout the room. Gossip has a habit of proving delightfully useful, even during official political convenings, when spread thoroughly and accompanied with semi-decent evidence. Lady Samantha’s supposed influence over Lord Lyonel’s decisions has long since reached the ears of those within King’s Landing. “And the Queen Dowager expressed to Lady Daphne she holds no desire for her granddaughter to wed Prince Aegon.”
At the affirming of her complicit actions, curious eyes peer towards Daphne once again. Her eyes are lifted now, facing the questioning stares with poised elegance. She is spared their wondering again when Cregan continues on.
“As Prince Jacaerys can no longer fulfill his oath, it shall be instead be carried out by his grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon.” The argument is sound. As Jacaerys’ grandsire, the obligation to honor an arranged engagement falls to the Lord of the Tides, who seems more than willing to secure his life by handing over the little princess he holds no great fondness for, having rarely seen the girl himself. The rumors of Jacaerys’ bastard parentage are not given audible form in the room, not before Lord Corlys and Princess Baela, who cherished the boy so dearly, nor before Cregan, who holds the fallen prince in such high esteem.
“Prince Jacaerys confirmed the agreement before a council prior to his passing. And Lord Stark has indeed fulfilled his end of the deal,” When Lord Corlys speaks, Daphne’s eyes drift to his figure. Despite his precarious position, the lord carries himself with all the dignity befitting his station and experience. His violet eyes are steady and sure. “As Jaehaera is the only eligible princess to fulfill the pact, it is only right that it should be done. It is a matter of honor.”
A silent frustration wells up in Daphne’s chest over the way Jaehaera’s future is being discussed. The easy way her marriage is reviewed around the table by those who think not upon the consequences these diplomatic actions will have upon a child who has been the victim of politics since she first drew shaky breath. They do not know how Jaehaera cries for her mother at night, nor how she wondered for weeks where her brothers had gone. They do not know that she wakes in the night from terrible dreams, haunted and terrified and traumatized. Neither do they know that she can recite poetry in both the common tongue and in High Valyrian, or that she cares so attentively to tiny creatures, as her mother had. Yet what Daphne knows is that the situation cannot be avoided. Born a daughter, this is predestined. Even for those not of cursed blood and smoldering bones.
“I believe it would be good for Jaehaera to remain with Lady Daphne,” It is Princess Rhaena who chimes in this time, her eyes cast with a warm appreciation to Daphne. Surprise echoes in the depths of the lady’s eyes at the unexpected support for her plan. Rhaena gives a soft smile, her violet eyes meeting Daphne’s own. “As she was so close with the princess’s mother.”
A matching warmth alights in her chest at the thoughtfulness of the comment, simple in nature yet unique in consideration. The grateful look Daphne exchanges with Rhaena is not anything of fabricated pretend. The guilt she had felt in the gardens that had contributed to her willingness to argue for the freedom of Lord Velaryon feels assuaged then, weightless and drifting away like a feather in a stray gust of wind. Their shared losses, their great grief – none of it might be remedied, yet perhaps both girls can cling onto the loved ones that had survived.
“And what say you of this arrangement, Lady Daphne?” A firm interjection from Jeyne Arryn stirs Daphne to return her attention away from Rhaena and out to the gathered nobles. The older woman’s eyes are fixed upon her meaningfully, her gaze indicating she truly desires to hear the lady’s opinion on the matter. What warmth has sparked in her chest at the support from the princess only grows more incandescent at this genuine expression of consideration. How fond she has grown of the Northern nobles of Cregan’s makeshift court, perhaps the Lady Arryn most of all.
A gentle batting of lashes accompanies the way her gaze lowers demurely to the table for a moment, before she parts her lips to speak with delicate, careful cadence. Daphne’s sweet indifference carries forth softly. “If it is what Lord Stark truly wishes and would aid in bringing peace to the Realm – I would be honored.”
She catches note of the way Cregan gives her a measured nod of approval, his gaze anchored intensely to her as she speaks. When Elinor Tyrell shifts gracefully in her chair, her hands coming together atop the wood, Daphne feels her body stiffen as if a spell has been cast through elaborate witchcraft to turn her to shining marble.
“While the prospect of such an illustrious match is a great honor for our House, Lord Stark,” Elinor’s voice is the epitome of practiced refinement, regal and eloquent and melodious. Daphne’s gaze falls to her lap to hide in the safety of the skirt of her gown. The languid lighting of the space seems to grow colder as remorse returns with a determined vengeance to her organs. “I am afraid my eldest daughter is to be betrothed to Alyn Velaryon.”
Cregan Stark does not reply verbally but instead casts an expectant look in no hurried manner across the room to Lord Corlys Velaryon. The elder man inhales a long breath, before he bequeaths a rueful look to Elinor Tyrell, resigned and knowing.
“Forgive me, my lady,” A heavy brow raises with reconciled apology as the Sea Snake shakes his head with deliberate slowness. For his part, the man genuinely seems to be trapped within the arrangement proposed by Cregan as it is his very life that lingers in uncertainty. “I do not easily dismiss our previous discussions, but I am in no position to refuse the Hand.”
The remaining portion of the sentence goes unsaid, yet not unheard: and so are you.
While it might be that an army could be raised by gathering the banners of the Reach to oppose this union and Corlys Velaryon’s sentence, it would do little to prevent the executions that are taking place the following morning, the moment the sun yawns over the eastern sea. The castle is still occupied by the Northern forces, and the small host allowed to enter past the gates of the Red Keep are not nearly enough to win any sort of conflict. Lady Elinor’s arrival has awarded her a degree of influence that is befitting her position, especially given the opportunity to be involved in these crucial decisions, yet it has additionally made her and her two daughters hostages, the same as all the other Southern nobles. This reminder is prominent in Cregan’s wolfish gaze as it gradually descends upon Elinor Tyrell.
This is not the thoughtful gentleman who shared Daphne’s bed or wrapped her wounds tenderly, not the kind lord who attends to her so devotedly behind a closed door. There sits a warlord who had fought for his position against kin: The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, who had seized the Red Keep without spilling any more blood and held it since. Oath keeper, liege lord, harbinger of justice. The unwavering hold of his storm-colored eyes heralds absolute submission and certain finality.
His appointment as Hand of the King only served to confirm what everyone already knows. The Seven Kingdoms are ruled not by a little dragon prince, but a wolf. Cregan Stark remains the unquestionable and incontestable sovereign at King’s Landing, regardless of surviving royal blood and one dragon hatchling. His words, including his demands, are law.
Even given the magnitude of his power and station, Elinor Tyrell meets his sharp stare with one of peaceful regarding. Calling her banners to war over what is, upon paper in dark ink, an equal and honorable match, would not be possible. She considers him in an amiable silence, before she lowers her chin in demure acknowledgement.
“The joining of our great Houses would be cause for celebration in this troubling times,” A sigh imbued with gentle remorse falls from Elinor’s reddened lips as she shakes her head gingerly, a faint embarrassment settling like the dust of faeries atop her cheeks. “I must unfortunately admit, however, as previously discussed with Lord Velaryon, the gold spent by House Tyrell during the course of the war has left our treasury far less full than it once was. The matter of my daughters’ dowries has been troubling me greatly, and I confess it might not be what is imagined.”
The lie is a magnificent one. Only Daphne and Alicent Hightower know the truth of House Tyrell’s careful avoidance of true involvement in the war; everyone else privy to this information is either under her mother’s thumb or dead and buried. Bannermen fought upon both sides of the succession conflict, so the perception of their partaking is far different than what occurred in actuality. Given such short notice of the proposal, Elinor Tyrell has crafted a splendid excuse to avoid the wedding of her eldest daughter. It might have been sufficient if Cregan were pursuing a match for profit, as Elinor herself does.
Cregan Stark leans forth in his chair, shoulders rolling forward as his hands fold together while he appraises the Lady of Highgarden with an intensity that could topple an ancient oak if it took the form of a great storm.
“There is no price that I would demand. I would wish for her hand if you had nothing to give me at all. I would wish for it if you requested that I provide the dowry myself,” Each word is pointedly deliberate, enunciated clearly in the lowness of his rumbling Northern tone. “There is nothing else I want but her.”
Daphne has lifted her eyes slowly as Cregan speaks, unable to do anything but stare at him. Cracks appear in the edges of her porcelain mask: a faint longing swirling in her eyes, a light pull at the corners of her mouth into a soft disbelief. When his gaze moves with intention over to her, he falls silent. There is a moment where she recognizes the gesture as an asking, a silent seeking of her permission for the continuation of his declaration. Obscured confusion flickers across her visage as she sorts the request out in her mind, before she understands at once. Never has she enjoyed displays of honesty or vulnerability, electing time and time again to refrain from participating in such things before the public. Authenticity and truth are not cloaks she dons before a crowd, and he is giving her the opportunity to prevent him from speaking the truth of his emotion further. One part of her longs to deny him. The other, weaker and softer and so damningly endeared by the way he has learned her and loves her still, cannot.
The gathered nobles notice the exchange with curious looks as the lady dips her chin hesitantly. Cregan returns the gesture before he casts his eyes around the table.
“I love her,” It is stated in the same manner one might validate the blueness of a summer sky. Certain and absolute, nothing elaborate nor ornate, only the simplicity of undeniable fact. When Cregan’s eyes return to hold her own, it is as if they are the only two people in the room. The only two people in the entire kingdom, for all the way that Daphne cannot form another thought aside from how she loves him so ardently that it requires the entirety of her effort to prevent it from appearing upon her face. Cregan does not hold such intentions. “Let it be known by this council and by the entirety of the Realm.”
Nothing else registers in Daphne’s consciousness aside from his presence. Not the boyish grins exchanged between the younger lords, nor the knowing glimmer in Lady Arryn’s eyes as she raises her brows. Not the sweet smile upon Princess Rhaena’s countenance, nor the perfect stillness of her mother’s amiable expression.
“My daughter is quite fortunate to be cared for so,” Sensing the indomitable resolve of the Northern lord, and having no further time to devise a counterstrategy, Lady Elinor Tyrell acquiesces with all the gentle gratitude that might be expected. “I have little choice but to accept such a heartfelt proposal, my lord.”
Lord Cregan Stark observes the gathered nobles one final time, searching for any further opposition to the terms he has put forth. When a few moments of silence pass in indication that the matter has been settled, he rises from his chair slowly.
“Others may have begun this war, but I shall end it. And I shall do so upon this day,” After the brutality and violence that has swept like a fatal plague out from the walls of the Red Keep, seeping into the roots and minds of the surrounding lands, scorching the trees and grasses and poisoning the water and soil, Cregan Stark shall do what he intended from the moment he set out from Winterfell – bring the conflict to closure. The frozen tempests of his eyes still the entirety of the room as he observes each of the gathered lords and ladies. “These are my terms. Let any who wish to speak against me do so now, but they shall face the full force of my Northern army and mine own sword.”
No tongue is raised in foolish argument, no eyes wander with vexed frustration. The obedience commanded by the Hand of King is delivered promptly and with deferential respect, regardless of past disagreements or present disruptions. Cregan not need unsheathe his sword from its ancient scabbard. There is no doubt that he shall adhere to each word of his promise should opposition arise from those assembled or those outside the capital. After ensuring his demands have been ratified by those gathered as witnesses of noble blood, his eyes return to Daphne, burning with ravenous longing despite their icy sheen.
“Then it is done. This council is dismissed.”
The gardens of the Red Keep are so expansive and twisting in their mazelike conduits that one could escape into the towering hedges and wander for hours without crossing the path of another. Daphne Tyrell had once endeavored to map out the optimal routes for such desired avoidance, developing a unique sense for the exact pattern of footsteps through pearl-colored pebbles that could be taken to slip into an illusory existence. A halfway sort of in between where she is neither present nor absent, diluted to a transparent ghost that flickers through the green leaves, saturated in the daylight of late spring or early summer. Sometimes she can distinctly hear the echoes of a fading laugh, and she peers around the corners of the hedges, wandering if she might find the lucent figure of a girl much like herself who had disappeared into the gardens and never returned to the realm of substantiality.
As the sun finishes falling from the sky, her shadow dances lithely atop the leaves beside her, restless and fluid in the dying light. Fingers brush against the satiny foliage as Daphne ventures further into the winding labyrinth constructed before her, away from the composed arrangements of blooming flowers that line the straight pathways nearest to the fountains, the water bubbling and bright as it turns amber and golden in the sunset glow. She does not want to linger out in such open space, does not wish to chance any further perception of her face or figure or feelings. If the shrubberies around her were to reach out their branches to wrap around her limbs, dragging her into their emerald bodies for the remainder of eternity, she does not believe it would be such a terrible end. If only it were not for Cassia, or Jaehaera, or for Cregan Stark, whose visage is cradled in the most delicate part of her mind’s eye with such devoted reverence one might think it constructed from fragile glass. She polishes it with such gentle care every few minutes, ensuring it shines brightly, and then returns it gingerly to the cushion it rests upon.
Love has such a curious manner of persisting. Dandelions in the dying garden of her heart, regrowing with envigored strength each time she gets on her knees in the dirt and rips them out, root and stem. While everything else withers around her, trees and florals crumbling to dusty grey ash and fluttering away in the wind, the tiny, buttery petals gaze up at her still.
Daphne finds herself sitting down in the grass as the last rays of the sun wander off to rest while the moon leaps giddily into the starlit heavens. She lies upon her back, staring up at the stars, dreaming with her conscious mind about how she used to believe so wholeheartedly that if a wish was car upon one then it would certainly come true. How foolish she had been as a child – yet she misses it, in a forlorn, foolish way. The way the world looked before she truly knew it. Darling pink silk and soil on her hands and the sun above her. She shifts the vision slightly – woolen baby blue fabric, soft powdered snow, a clear grey sky. It does not sound so terrible, not when she pictures Jaehaera seeing the snowflakes for the first time.
She is wondering over the differences between the North and the South when footsteps draw near. A surprised expression flits across her features as Daphne sits up at once, half frighted as she unexpecting to be bothered in such a secluded corner at such a late hour. Yet she should have known, when she sees his figure down the pathway. They are tethered after all, in a manner that she does not wholly understand, even then. There is a pull that is inextricable – although that might be want, intuitive and plain. There is no magic in desire, in that which is natural and ordinary. What might constitute as decidedly supernatural is the steadfast nature of the choices Cregan Stark continues to make. Searching for her for the better part of an hour is one he does not much mind, not when she scrunches her nose as she hauls herself up off of the ground. There is dirt all over her gown.
“Quite the hiding spot you have acquired. I wondered if I might never find you,” Cregan has stilled a ways down the corridor constructed by the rows of tall shrubbery as he calls out to her in a quiet tone. He observes the way her hair is loose and free to cascade about her shoulders, her face neutral and tired and unrestrained by anything saccharine. His heavy brow raises good-naturedly. “Though I must wonder if it is from your lady mother or from myself.”
Daphne offers a rueful glance in return, before casting her eyes downwards and brushing some soil off of the sage satin of her skirts. The dark dirt gets stuck under her nails, but she does not care at all. “I would not hide from you.”
“I would not blame you if you wished to,” He does not move to cross the space between them. The section of the gardens she has disappeared into is visited with such infrequency that even the hedges are not managed as they should be, overgrowing into the path while vines of ivy cover the entire stone bodies of the statues nearly consumed by leaves. There is no one to eavesdrop nor spin fanciful tales of gossip over sugary morning tea. “You shall be seeing much of me for the rest of our lives, I would understand if you did not want it to begin right at this moment.”
The reminder returns Daphne to her previous musings for a moment, of the drastic change in scenery that will compose her world following her marriage to the man before her. Her eyes narrow at the suggestion Cregan provides, a faint glitter of disbelief occupying her eyes.
“If you were someone I needed escape from, I would not be so reckless and so selfish as to risk my mother’s wrath to marry you.” Her arms are drawn across her chest out of anxious habit, the edges of her voice sharp like the crackling of a fire as the anxiety briefly wears the cloak of something prickly. It is dispelled a moment later as she lowers her shoulders and her chin, lashes fluttering as she grounds herself in the serene solitude of the secluded space. Cregan provides a look of equal yet tempered disbelief.
“Even if it still guaranteed Jaehaera’s freedom?” The inquiry is practical and blunt, and the straightforwardness of the observation startles her for a moment, even after all the time she has spent growing accustomed to Northern mannerisms. But, as it so often is, it is not the candor that catches her off guard – it is the accuracy of his reading of her. Daphne Tyrell has never been paid such close attention in her entire life. It is far easier to perform a convincing piece of theater when an audience does not bother to examine the composition of the props and the painting of the set and the sewing of the costumes. Cregan wishes to see each and every detail. Daphne bites the inside of her cheek before speaking.
”You have been doing that for the entirety of the day,” It is muttered at the exact point in the crossroads where vexation and wistfulness intersect. Her arms tighten over her chest. The chirping of tiny crickets has begun to fill the air like the starting of a soft symphony. It had not ruffled her so much prior to the exposure of their upcoming union before the council that afternoon. Daphne’s anxiety has only grown at the premise of so many eyes seeing the great weakness of her beating heart. “You see far too much of me, I am utterly exposed.”
Cregan narrows his gaze in return, studying her with those piercing eyes. And then a slow grin spreads to the corners of his face.
“Forgive me, my lady,” The Lord of Winterfell clears his throat, his voice lowering to a sultry roll as he diverts his gaze away from her figure. “Shall I close my eyes then?”
The breath that leaves Daphne’s parted lips when Cregan raises a hand to cover his eyes is exasperated and embarrassingly fond. Her face crumples into a sweet frown, a ridiculous look upon her visage as she watches him take one step forward carefully, and then another. The tiny rocks beneath his dark boots rotate atop each other with a quiet clacking. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all, yet when he finally stops inches before her, her arms uncross and she reaches up to draw his hand away from his face.
Cregan’s fingers intertwine with her own as he gazes down at her, eyes half-lidded and pleased. Daphne casts her own down to their hands, her head tilting over her shoulder as she shakes her head.
“Do not call me my lady,” A quiet murmur floats from her lips, her thumb smoothing a slow, indecipherable pattern into the skin on the back of his hand. The lord before her is delighted at the correction, at the gentle frown that tugs at her lips as she blinks down. “Call me Daphne, as you have been.”
She does not wish it to be an occurrence that happens only during moments of intense emotion or physical intimacy; Daphne longs for the easy familiarity in even the most mundane of situations. It establishes her personhood in such a simple way, separating her from title or expectation or role. And her given name is so enchanting in the rolling warmth of his Northern tongue. She could listen to it for the rest of her days and never tire of its low melody.
“My apologies, Daphne,” Even then, with the sparkle of something teasing alighted in his eyes of polished steel, it sends her heart fluttering. “I shall amend it at once.”
Redirecting her mind to the original wondering proposed by the lord before her, Daphne bites her lip before gazing up at Cregan with a look of unquestionable, still certainty upon her face. The evening breeze rustles the foliage around them as the welcoming party for a midnight storm parades through the air, bringing forth the smell of cool rain.
“It is as I said,” In her free hand, Daphne buries her nails into her palm lightly. Catching sight of it at once, Cregan does not verbalize any thought upon her habit but shifts his other hand forward to take her worried one into his own. The lady raises her brows to emphasize her previous point about his astute perception. He does nothing but further embrace the ghost of a smile that plays at his lips. Daphne is not so bold as to speak the word upon her mind directly, the way Cregan had before the council, but she calls back her previous declaration, vulnerable and honest. “There is no one else in all of Westeros I would wish to marry except for you.”
“But perhaps across the Narrow Sea?” Cregan ponders, his chin lowering slightly as Daphne huffs out another rushed breath of amused exasperation. Her brow crinkles.
“No one anywhere,” To imagine such a thing would be wholly ridiculous. Yet his tone, playful despite its low rumbling nature, lifts an endeared smile to her face as her eyes flick between his own. Her voice drops to a quieter murmuring once more, decidedly satisfied and wondering. “You seem quite happy this evening.”
“Of course I am happy,” One of the lord’s hands is raised to cup her cheek with tender affection. He shakes his head slowly, staring down at her with an expression both serious and enamored. “You are to be my wife.”
Cregan Stark’s beauty renders Daphne Tyrell wordless. Breathless, thoughtless, completely in awe. The great blaze of it eclipses the candle of fascination and lust that had flickered faintly in her chest when they had first met. Each day that passes in his presence only serves to add kindling to the massive pyre. But it does not threaten her fragile flesh; it burns beside her steadily and keeps her warm.
“The Lady Stark of Winterfell.” The repetition of the words he had spoken before the council takes tentative shape upon her tongue. Eyes downcast to the pebbles beneath them, Daphne misses the flash of instinctive hunger that crashes through the clouds in his eyes like the lightning certain to light up the night sky above their heads. His hand tightens around hers for a moment before he speaks, his voice lowering.
“Aye,” Cregan is a patient man, yet the longer he is tempted with her permission and presence, the thinner that noble patience grows. It is a precarious cliff he sits atop, her hands in his and her willingness to give herself to him made plain twice before. He inhales deeply through his nose. “It shall be sworn before gods and men in the sept before long.”
Daphne’s nose wrinkles and her eyes flick up to meet his.
“Surely not,” Distaste has cascaded in a curtain upon her delicate features, her lips curling as she shakes her head in firm disapproval. There is a moment where Cregan’s stomach drops and he is taken aback at the vehemence with which she opposes his statement, but it is quelled by her continuing. Her attention flickers up to the heavens above, to the twinkling celestial happenings.
“I do not wish our marriage to be blessed by the Seven. I once believed they heard me,” Daphne’s eyes darken, a veiled bitterness filling them as she stares upwards. It is not as if she had been staunchly devout in her practice, but Helaena had been raised in the faith by her mother. Daphne had accompanied her to the Great Sept of Baelor on many afternoons to pray and light candles for the souls of those both living and dead. It had felt symbolic, poetically intimate and tinged with a hint of a supernatural beauty that was undeniable. Little good it had done, in the end. “But I cannot any longer. I cannot offer them prayers, not when they allowed such cruelty. And if it was that they could not stop it, why would I continue to seek their blessings?”
The words are sour upon her tongue. Pain tugs at her lips and tightens her jaw as the stars swim in the pools of sorrow flooding her eyes. Cregan’s thumb presses with grounding touch into the roundness of her cheek. Her eyes descend to meet his. There is such exhaustion written into them that he cannot help but reach forward, drawing Daphne into his arms. The breath she lets out is shuddering, skeletal as vanishes into the night. Her eyes close tightly before she opens them, her head resting against his chest.
“Let us instead be married in the tradition of your House,” It is whispered into his tunic. Cregan nods his head at once, eager to do anything that might lift that awful pain from her heart. One of his hands strokes her hair, desperate to soothe her in even the smallest manner. If she wishes their ceremony to occur before a weirwood tree, as his own parents’ wedding had, he certainly shall not deny her. The asking fills him with a swell of protective affection. There is a small part of him that had wondered if he might suggest it to her, yet he had imagined she would want to marry in the faith she had been raised within before departing from these lands to reside in the North. A tiny, more stable breath escapes her lips then. “Perhaps I shall have better fortune with the blessings of your gods.”
A memory comes to her then, fleeting and fabricated from flimsy flickering. Her eyes upon the weirwood in the castle gardens, gazing up in wonder at the scarlet red of the shining leaves no matter the season. The tree had always retained the most peculiar quality, a strange sensation evoked in her chest as she reached her hand forth to brush against the whitened bark. It did not sing like the trees near the Mander, nor did it whistle like the others in the capital. The weirwood did not spin melodies or tunes, it did not reflect or mirror: it whispered. Yet that chilly, bright afternoon, it had drawn her in with such insistence even the girl who had been raised to attune herself to the language of flora had been surprised. Daphne wonders over this imagined conjuring of her younger self, sat in the grass before the tree. Perhaps a younger Cregan had once done the same, upon the same day.
“You would honor me by marrying in the custom of my people,” Cregan presses his lips to the crown of Daphne’s head, against the softness of her hair. When he leans back, both of his hands cradle her face as his brow furrows with heavy sincerity. Daphne might yet be crushed by the weight of such a gaze. “And I will protect you regardless of the wishes of the gods. Yours or mine or any of them. I swear it to you, Daphne.”
It is a binding, burdensome promise. She leans her head into the palm of his hand, rough from years of swordsmanship and archery and riding. The smallest shaking of her head is given at this, her voice quieting to something uncertain and soft as she blinks up at him. “I could not bear the thought of you risking the wrath of the divine, no matter my tenuous belief.”
This earns her the melting of his stern countenance. His brow furrows in light wondering at the way his heart clenches at the sight of her, at the concern in her voice and the tenderness with which she gazes upon him.
“It is a risk well worth it,” There is not a thread of doubt in the tapestry of words he weaves for her plainly. “I could not bear the thought of something befalling you.”
“I despise the idea of you placing yourself into harm’s way for me.” The frown upon her face is weary and troubled. He is a commander of men and a force upon the battlefield, fearsome and absolute even without his weapons as he had proven that afternoon, yet flesh and bone and blood the same as anyone. Imagining Cregan Stark with a sword pointed at his chest makes Daphne uneasy – yet it becomes sickening nausea when the reasoning would be herself.
“That will be my duty as your husband.” Cregan reminds her patiently, her face still cupped between his large hands. And he intends to see it through until the final breath that enters his lungs. The lady bites her lip for a moment, stress appearing upon her brow as she considers this.
“That does not mean it will not unsettle me so,” There is an element of helplessness to the resigned admittance. Her eyes hold his with a brightness of quiet intensity. “I cannot do anything but. I – …”
It is there upon her tongue again. Daphne can almost form the words, her lips parting as she stares up at Cregan then. Her brow furrows and she attempts to will it out from her mind and into the material world. At her hesitation, a soft questioning dances in his eyes as they narrow, before they open in realization and he regards her tenderly. After another moment of patient waiting is awarded to her, her attempts coming to naught, Cregan leans forth to capture her lips gently with his own. He does not need it verbalized – he already knows.
The kiss is not the hungry, messy wanting that has appeared in the space between their lips before. It is slow in its sensuality, tempered by the certainty promised by a lifetime of this moment, replicated time and time again. Daphne’s eyes have closed, allowing her remaining senses to immortalize each aspect of the lord before her in permanent memory. The taste of his mouth, the touch of his hands upon her face, the sound of the quiet breath he inhales as their lips part, the smell of amber and pine from his skin. His being is all she is aware of. If the old gods had truly created such a man, layering the stones that compose his quiet strength and his kind heart, Daphne Tyrell might have to spend the rest of her days upon her knees in the snow expressing her most sincere gratitude.
Delicate droplets of rain begin to fall from the inky sky above them, decorating their skin in gentle splashes. No sooner does Daphne lean back to whisper of it onto his lips than it changes from a dripping to a downpour. A breathless gasp of disbelief leaves her mouth at once and she lifts her shoulders before dropping them. Her gown is drenched at once, her hair soaking wet as Cregan lifts his arm in fruitless attempt to shield her from some of the deluge.
Daphne shakes her head at this with a smile, water flying from her hair as he gives her a rueful grin and concedes to her waving off of the pointless act. Her hand is slipped into his as the pair of them begin to trudge back through the rows of shrubbery, commenting upon the misfortune of their timing with matching grins of amusement as thunder booms overhead. When Daphne’s sweet laughter reaches Cregan’s ears, delighted by the nonsense brought upon by the storm despite how it has undone all of the effort committed to the arrangement of her appearance, he finds he could be drowned in sudden rains for the rest of his days if it means she will beam up at him with such light happiness.
author's note: this story has been officially reworked as a x oc fic! all other content and plot remains the same save for grammar and structural edits. it is now going to be updated slowly yet consistently again as hotd s3 is coming out soon. thank you to everyone who waited patiently for this story to continue!!











