The second part of the plan was no less complicated, but at least it involved less sneaking around and more pretending to be a legitimate Stark. Cregan, the secret son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne, needed to be paraded in front of the world as the future Lord of Winterfell. At the tender age of one, Cregan already had a sense of Stark pride and Dayne stubbornness. That combination could only lead to chaos—and, apparently, some savage burns.
"Uncle Ned," Cregan said, tugging at Ned's cloak as they prepared to leave, his voice high-pitched and very serious for a one-year-old. "I'll be a good Stark, right?"
Ned, crouching down to the boy's level, fought to keep the emotions in his chest from showing. He saw so much of Brandon in Cregan's dark eyes—those eyes that had the stubbornness of a Stark, the same ones that had once locked onto Ned in a way that said, I'll make you regret this.
"You'll be the best Stark ever, Cregan," Ned said with a forced smile, rubbing the boy's head like a favorite pet, though he couldn't help but think that if Cregan ever learned to talk properly, they'd all be in for a world of trouble.
Ashara, always practical, joined them, her tone brisk but affectionate. "Just make sure Robert doesn't get any funny ideas about Lyanna's death. I'd rather not spend the next few hours explaining that one."
Ned sighed, pulling Cregan closer. "One crisis at a time, Ashara."
"And we're already neck-deep in this one," she muttered, glancing at the boy as if she expected him to announce that he was already planning to conquer Winterfell.
And, honestly, who could blame her? If Cregan could somehow wield the power of Stark pride at this age, he'd probably run Winterfell better than half the Starks combined. Maybe he'd even figure out how to deal with Robert Baratheon's temper. (Spoiler alert: No one could figure that one out.)
Ser Arthur Dayne—always the reliable one, as if he didn't have a care in the world—stepped forward with that quiet air of nobility that made you want to sit up straighter, just by being in his presence. "I'll go with you to King's Landing," he said, his voice carrying an edge that made it sound like a quiet order, though he wasn't one to boss people around.
"Your sword would add some legitimacy," Ned agreed, eyeing Arthur's famed sword, Dawn, which was more a work of art than a weapon, but hey, no one was going to argue with the Sword of the Morning.
Ashara raised an eyebrow. "And if Robert gets any funny ideas?"
Arthur's lips twitched. "I'm not worried about Robert."
Ned snorted. "You should be. The man once tried to start a war over a boar. Imagine what he'd do for a royal secret."
"Point taken," Arthur said, still looking too calm for Ned's liking. "I'll handle the wild ones. And once Cregan's position is secured, I'll return with you."
Ned looked over at Ashara, who was watching Arthur closely. "You know I can't argue with that."
"Not that you would," Ashara replied, shooting Arthur a sly smile. "Arthur Dayne, the silent protector. Who wouldn't trust him?"
Arthur, as usual, was the picture of humility. "I'll protect them, Ned. You have my word."
And honestly, that was all Ned needed to hear. Arthur could have told him he was going to personally fight Robert in a duel over the Iron Throne, and it still would've been comforting to hear, because Ned knew Arthur would follow through on whatever he promised.
Cregan, meanwhile, had something to add to the conversation. Apparently, one was never too young to start throwing out savage burns. The boy cocked his head and gave Arthur a once-over.
"Uncle Arthur," Cregan said, pulling on Ned's cloak again, "you gonna fight boar like Robert Baratheon?"
The room went silent. Arthur, for the first time, blinked. "I—uh…"
Ned stifled a laugh, shaking his head. Brandon's son, he thought. Of course he's a savage already.
Ashara smirked. "Looks like Robert's reign might be in trouble already."
Arthur cleared his throat, making a noise like a dignified cough. "No boars in King's Landing," he said, managing to regain his composure. "Only people. And you'll have to wait a while before I teach you that."
"Teach me," Cregan said, not even bothering to look at Arthur anymore. "I'll be a good Stark. I'll be big and strong."
Ned could only shake his head and grin. The kid's going to break everything before he's ten.
The rest of the room was quiet for a moment, as everyone took in Cregan's deadly seriousness.
"You'll be a great Stark," Ned said with a grin that almost cracked his face. "Just… try to not burn down Winterfell too early, alright?"
"Winterfell will be mine," Cregan declared, puffing his chest out like the tiny ruler he already thought he was.
"Well, that's going to be an issue," Theo Wull said from the corner, arms crossed. "Because last time I checked, your Uncle Ned was in charge of the place until you come of age." His tone was teasing, but there was something warm about it. "Best start practicing your speeches, little Stark. You've got a lot of work to do."
Cregan tilted his head and gave Theo a look that could've melted ice. "I'm already good Stark. You're not a Stark," he said, causing Theo's smirk to falter.
"Okay, okay," Theo said, chuckling. "You've got me. But mark my words, when you're older, I'm still going to tell everyone I was the one who taught you how to rule Winterfell."
"You better start taking notes now, then," Cregan said, his tone deceptively sweet.
Ned nearly burst out laughing at that one. His nephew, one year old, and already handling his business like a Stark. Somewhere, Brandon was probably grinning down from the gods. Or scowling—who knew?
But one thing was for sure. They were all in for one heck of a ride, and the kid was going to lead them straight into it.
---
As the plans unfolded and the groups prepared to part ways, the air felt heavy with the weight of everything that was about to go down. It was like one of those moments in a bad movie where the music swells, and you just know something's about to blow up. Only, in this case, the music was a lot of awkward silence, and the thing about to blow up? Pretty much everything.
Lyanna, Jaecaerys, and their guardians were heading for the swamps of the Neck, where they would disappear into the wilds, effectively vanishing from history—or at least from the prying eyes of Robert Baratheon and his not-so-charming court. Meanwhile, Ned, Ashara, Cregan, and Ser Arthur would be heading straight into the lion's den. And no, I don't mean a literal den, though that would've been less dangerous. They were going to King's Landing. Where it was really dangerous.
"Do you think we have time to grab a quick snack before this all falls apart?" Cregan piped up from his perch on a horse, looking like he was already planning his takeover of Winterfell. Not even one year old, and the kid had mastered the art of throwing shade.
Ashara gave him a sideways look. "You're gonna have to work on your diplomacy skills, little Stark."
"Work on your hair first, Mother," Cregan shot back, like he was giving advice on how to win battles, not insult people.
"Savage," Ashara muttered, but her smile was fond, like she couldn't quite help it.
Ned, ever the serious one (even if there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye), gave Cregan a look like don't make me come over there. "Let's just get through today," he said, voice low and full of that calm, stoic energy that made him sound like he was about to launch into some deep monologue about the fate of the realm.
"That's the spirit, Ned," Ashara said, her voice laced with more sarcasm than was probably fair. "Let's all pretend we aren't about to step into a hornet's nest. Great idea."
Arthur Dayne, ever the knight in shining armor—except he was, you know, actually shining, with the radiance of someone who had probably never had an off day in his life—chimed in. "The hornet's nest is the least of our worries. It's the spiders I'm worried about."
Ashara raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. "Spiders?"
Arthur's expression was deadpan, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "It's a metaphor. A very complex metaphor. The spiders in King's Landing are... never mind. Forget it. Let's focus on surviving the day."
At that, Cregan's eyes lit up. "I like spiders! They have lots of legs and eat stuff!"
Arthur's brow furrowed. "Uh, that's... not quite what I meant—"
"Cregan," Ashara interjected quickly, "spiders are best left to their webs, not their friends."
Ned cleared his throat. "And speaking of webs..." He gave Arthur a meaningful glance. "We need to be careful. Robert's not a fool. He'll catch on sooner or later."
Arthur's usual calm didn't falter. "I don't believe Robert will catch on as quickly as you think. He has... other things to worry about."
"Oh, right, like boars," Cregan muttered, his tone dry for a kid who could barely say three words in a row without being adorably savage.
Arthur froze for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. "And if you're lucky, you'll never have to face one. They're truly terrifying creatures."
"I'm not afraid of boars. They're just... big pigs," Cregan declared confidently, puffing out his little chest like a tiny ruler of everything around him.
Ashara raised her eyebrows, looking at Ned. "You know, if he gets any more confident, we're all in trouble."
"I think we're already in trouble," Ned said, but he couldn't hide the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
"We should move," Arthur said, his tone turning serious. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we can make sure this plan doesn't... implode."
As if on cue, Lyanna and Jaecaerys rode up alongside them, their faces set in determined lines. Lyanna gave her brother a quick, worried look before turning to Ashara. "Stay safe. I don't want to lose any of you."
Ashara smiled at her sister, her expression softening for a moment. "We'll be fine. Just look after him," she said, nodding toward Cregan, who was already attempting to convince Ser Arthur to arm-wrestle him with that deadly combination of stubbornness and enthusiasm only a Stark child could muster.
"I'll make sure he doesn't burn anything down," Ned said, though it was clear he wasn't entirely sure about that.
"Good luck with that," Ashara muttered, shaking her head.
Cregan, hearing this, turned to Ned with that look that only one-year-olds could master—the "I can handle this" look. "I burn stuff," he said, his voice so deadpan it made Ashara almost cough.
"I'm sure you do, little lord," Arthur said, offering the child a small, amused smile.
"Uncle Arthur, you better not get any ideas about boars," Cregan warned.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You're quite the strategist for one so young."
"Maybe I will take Winterfell before I'm two," Cregan said, sounding entirely too serious.
"I'll be sure to give you some advice on ruling," Theo Wull called over from the other side of the camp, his tone teasing.
"If you don't mind, I'm in charge of Winterfell," Cregan retorted, narrowing his eyes.
Theo laughed. "Guess I'll have to start preparing my speech then."
Cregan nodded solemnly. "You better practice. You're gonna need it."
With that, the group made their final preparations. The air was thick with the tension of everything yet to come, but there was also a strange sort of camaraderie between them all—like a shared understanding that no matter how bad it got, they'd stick together, fight together, and probably laugh about it in a few years.
"Let's go," Ned said, his tone calm but resolute. "The sooner we're gone, the sooner we can finish this."
And with that, the Starks and their companions rode out into the unknown, their paths diverging but their fates tied together by secrets, lies, and the unspoken bond between family—and a very, very sassy one-year-old Stark heir.
—
Cregan's POV
Stepping into the Red Keep was like stepping into a world where logic took a vacation. The throne room smelled like a tavern after closing time—stale wine, sweat, and a hint of something metallic that could be blood, but more likely was just old, rusting iron. Not exactly the welcoming vibe you'd expect from the seat of the Seven Kingdoms, but hey, this was Westeros. Nothing made sense here.
And there, sitting on the Iron Throne like it was a comfy armchair, was Robert Baratheon. I had to admit, the guy looked more like a bear in a man's skin than a king. He was massive, with a beard so thick it probably had its own ecosystem. His face was a permanent scowl, like he'd just bitten into something sour. Honestly, it wasn't the crown he wore on his head that made him look like royalty—it was the sheer weight of his presence.
Uncle Ned's hand was gripping mine like I was about to run away. Honestly, considering the odds of surviving the next five minutes, I wasn't convinced he wasn't about to bolt first. But I stayed put, because nothing says "I belong here" like standing still and pretending you're not internally freaking out.
Behind us, Mother and Uncle Arthur looked like they were in a different league. Uncle Arthur was Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, a guy who probably didn't even need to draw his sword to make everyone around him rethink their life choices. He was tall, intimidatingly handsome in a way that made me wonder if he secretly posed in front of the mirror every morning. And Mother? Well, Ashara Dayne—the Ashara Dayne—was always in control. You could practically hear the court whispering, "She's the one who got Brandon Stark." And I mean, who wouldn't? My mom was, and still is, a walking goddess.
But the court didn't know any of this, so as we walked in, whispers flooded the room like a storm—just a little less dramatic than a real storm. But only barely.
Robert Baratheon looked up and instantly zeroed in on Uncle Arthur. The air practically crackled with tension. And then—boom. The Robert Baratheon classic.
"And what's the Lickspittle of the Dragonspawn doing in my hall?"
Cue dead silence. The kind of silence that made even the chandeliers stop jingling. Guards shuffled, awkwardly trying to figure out if they needed to draw their swords. Honestly, with the way Robert was glaring, it was probably a good idea for them to start thinking about retirement.
Uncle Arthur didn't flinch. At all. The guy was as unshakable as the mountain in front of Winterfell. If anything, he probably had the "Unfazed by Robert Baratheon" superpower.
Uncle Ned, in his usual "peacemaker mode," stepped in with his calm voice. "Ser Arthur is here as a representative of House Dayne," he said, like Robert wasn't about to chew his head off. "With the death of Aerys and Rhaegar, he no longer has any allegiance to the Targaryens. His loyalty lies with his house and his honor."
Robert wasn't having it. He leaned forward with a loud scoff, like he'd just stepped in something sticky. "Honor? Don't talk to me about the honor of a man who wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard while serving a tyrant!"
Okay, now that was rich. Robert Baratheon, calling someone else a tyrant. Pot, meet kettle. But Uncle Ned gave me one of those silent signals—"Don't say a word, Cregan"—and I kept my mouth shut. For now. I mean, this whole conversation was a dumpster fire waiting to happen, and I wasn't about to be the guy who poured gasoline on it.
Jon Arryn, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here, stepped in before Robert worked himself into a proper fury. "We're not here to relitigate the war," Jon said, trying to smooth things over.
Robert, of course, grumbled and waved it off. "Fine. Let him stay. But I won't forget whose side he fought for."
Ah, politics. Where loyalty is a coin you flip when no one's looking.
Uncle Ned sighed, but Jon was already looking at me with that fatherly expression. I was starting to get the impression that Jon Arryn actually liked me—or at least didn't think I was a total disaster waiting to happen. "And who's this young man?" he asked, his voice soft but warm.
Uncle Ned puffed out his chest. "This is Cregan Stark," he said, almost like he was introducing me to royalty—which, I guess, I was. "Son of Lord Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne. The future Lord of Winterfell."
The room went into overdrive with whispers. Because, of course, it did. Newsflash: having my mom's eyes meant I was the center of attention every time I blinked.
Robert blinked, probably trying to process the situation. And then, out of nowhere, he threw his head back and laughed, his voice booming through the hall. "Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne? Brandon, you sly bastard!" He slapped his thigh like he'd just heard the funniest joke ever. "How in the Seven Hells did you manage to land her?"
Jon Arryn just shook his head, smiling like he already knew the answer. "The gods favor House Stark," he said dryly.
And then Robert turned his massive gaze on me, studying me like I was the last chicken in the butcher's shop. "A Stark, no doubt," he said, his tone almost approving. "But with Dayne's beauty." He paused for dramatic effect. "And you've got your mother's eyes. I'd bet a cask of Dornish red on it."
At this point, I was wondering if I was going to get a collection of "your mother's eyes" compliments every time I walked into a room. If I had a silver stag for every time someone mentioned it, I could probably buy the Arbor.
Before I could respond with anything remotely sarcastic, Robert dropped a bombshell that made even the chandeliers rattle. "As a gift to the future Warden of the North," he boomed, "I hereby announce your betrothal to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen."
And the room? Oh, it didn't just go silent. It screamed into silence, like a thousand tiny birds trying to be the first to catch a worm. The buzz started up almost immediately. Even Uncle Ned looked like he'd just had his first sip of firewine.
"Your Grace," Uncle Ned began, ever the calm negotiator. "This is... unexpected."
Robert, of course, waved him off. "The war is over, Ned. Time to build alliances, not tear them down."
"But a Targaryen—"
"She's no threat," Robert said, leaning back like he'd just made a masterful play. "Her brother Aegon will either take the Black or become a maester. Either way, the boy's no king."
Well, this was a problem. I didn't know if I was more stunned by the betrothal or the fact that I'd just been publicly handed a political grenade. But the truth was, Robert's move was a smart one. Tying the North to the Targaryens could keep the realm in check, or at least keep them distracted. But this whole thing felt like it had "trap" written all over it. And I wasn't sure I wanted to be caught in whatever net Robert was throwing.
But I had to play along. The game of thrones wasn't a game at all—it was a deathmatch.
So, I squared my shoulders and kept my voice steady, even though my mind was racing. "Thank you, Your Grace," I said, because what else do you say when you've just been promised to a princess you've never met?
And so, with all eyes on me and whispers buzzing in every corner of the room, I realized something. The throne room wasn't the worst part of this game. It was the court. And I was about to learn just how dangerous they could be.
Just another day in Westeros.
—
General POV
Ned Stark looked like he'd been carved out of the harshest winter winds—tough, unyielding, and colder than a freshly-fallen layer of snow. But what no one ever mentioned was that inside? Inside was a whole mess of emotions tangled up like the dead leaves on a bitter autumn morning. Accepting Robert's terms was like swallowing a bitter, sour potion—it wasn't just a pragmatic move, it was the only move. The realm's peace was hanging by a thread, and even if he had to tie his family's future to that thread, it was better than letting the whole damn thing unravel.
Still, as Ned straightened his back and spoke, his voice was as steady as Winterfell's walls. "We accept your terms, Your Grace," he said, the words hitting the room like the ringing of a sword against a whetstone. "May this betrothal bring peace and prosperity to both our houses and to the realm."
Nobody cheered. No clapping. No applause. Just the kind of heavy silence that made you wish you could drown out the awkward tension by smashing something. Ned gave a quick glance toward his nephew, Cregan, who was standing nearby, his small figure carrying more weight than it should've. Ned's thoughts spiraled for just a second. I hope you can carry it, boy. I really do.
But before anyone could move, Ser Arthur Dayne, the so-called Sword of the Morning—and if anyone was truly as cool as their title, it was Arthur—stepped forward like he owned the room. His every movement was deliberate, like he was walking in slow motion for dramatic effect, and honestly, he probably was.
"Your Grace," Arthur's voice slid out like smooth silk, the kind of voice that could convince a dragon to take a nap. "I humbly request to be relieved of my duties as a member of the Kingsguard."
Cue the shocked gasps from the courtiers. People immediately started whispering like a chorus of rats in a grain cellar. This was big. It wasn't every day one of the greatest knights in Westeros stepped up and said, "You know what? I think I'll pass on guarding the king. I'm gonna go do something else."
Robert Baratheon, who'd been lounging like a man who didn't even remember what stress was, sat up a little straighter, his curiosity piqued. "And why would you do that, Ser Arthur?" he asked, sounding like a kid who'd just found a toy he didn't know he wanted.
Arthur met Robert's gaze like he was challenging the gods themselves. "I wish to accompany my nephew, Lord Cregan Stark, to Winterfell," he explained. "To teach him the ways of knighthood, as is his right and duty as the future Lord of Winterfell."
Now Robert really looked interested, as though Arthur had just offered him a massive tankard of wine at breakfast. "So, you're telling me you want to leave the sunny South to freeze your arse off in the North just to train the boy?"
Arthur's lips twitched into something that was almost a smile. "A knight's duty does not change with the weather, Your Grace."
From somewhere behind the throne, a laugh broke the tension, probably one of the more sarcastic courtiers who never missed an opportunity to make everything awkward. But Robert ignored them, his face shifting into something resembling respect.
"Fine," Robert said, waving a dismissive hand, as though this conversation had become irrelevant. "You're a damn good swordsman, Ser Arthur. If the boy's half as good with a blade as you are when you're done with him, it'll be worth it. Consider yourself released."
Arthur gave a bow so deep it almost looked like he was trying to touch his toes. He then turned to Cregan, his face softening for the first time since he'd entered the room, his eyes almost warm. "We have much to do, my lord," he said, the words carrying a fatherly weight that seemed at odds with the towering knight. "You will make your family proud."
Cregan, who was, let's face it, only about one year old, stared up at the towering knight like he was trying to comprehend what the hell that even meant. But he did his best to look dignified. He tilted his head and managed to squeak out a, "I will do my best," as though those words carried the weight of a thousand decisions made by men three times his age.
As they turned to leave, Robert's booming voice, full of curiosity (or maybe it was something else—who knew?), echoed through the room.
"Ned!" Robert called, his tone now the kind of sharpness you'd expect when someone's just had too much wine and decided to drop an uncomfortable question. "What happened to Lyanna at the Tower of Joy?"
Everyone froze. Silence blanketed the room. Not the comfortable silence, though. The kind that made you want to disappear into the walls.
Ned turned slowly, his face as unreadable as a frozen lake. But inside, his heart was racing like a stallion. "She died of a fever," he said, his voice calm, steady, and flat like it had been carved from stone.
Robert blinked, confusion swirling in his eyes, but then something else—something softer—slipped through. His expression crumpled slightly, like a man seeing a distant ghost. "A fever," Robert repeated, the words not quite making sense in his brain. "Lyanna...she was so full of life. And a fever took her?"
Ned didn't answer. He just stood there, letting the silence speak volumes, letting Robert's grief hang in the air like an unwanted storm cloud.
After what felt like an eternity, Robert sighed—a deep, heavy sigh, like the weight of the world had just collapsed onto his shoulders. "The gods are cruel," he muttered under his breath, his voice so low that it barely made it out of his throat.
Ser Arthur placed a hand on Cregan's tiny shoulder, guiding him toward the exit. "The North will ask much of you," he whispered, his tone soft, though Cregan still didn't quite understand what the North meant, "but you will not face it alone. Remember that."
As they walked toward the door, Cregan glanced up at his uncle, his tiny brow furrowing as if he'd just realized something important. "Do you think…do you think the king will ever let go of the past?"
Arthur's face turned somber, his voice growing quieter, more reflective. "The past is a heavy chain, my boy," he said, "and some men choose to carry it, no matter the cost."
Cregan nodded, not fully understanding, but knowing enough to feel the weight of the words. As they stepped through the doors, he couldn't shake the feeling that everyone in that room was carrying around chains—chains made of grief, duty, and a whole lot of bad decisions that no one ever talked about.
And as for the king? Cregan could only hope that one day, Robert would realize that the past was a heavy thing, but it didn't have to define the future. But for now? He'd just settle for making it through the next five minutes without someone asking him about the bloody betrothal.
—
Cregan Stark's POV
As we walked away from the Red Keep, my feet dragging along the cobblestones like I was being pulled by some invisible, giant hand, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just been a part of a really bad episode of "Game of Thrones." Seriously, if the world was a TV show, this would definitely be the part where they cut to some dramatic music and a slow-motion shot of me blinking in confusion. And, to be fair, I did feel pretty confused. Because, let's face it, no matter how much my life has been a series of "hold onto your butts" moments, today was a whole new level of wild.
I glanced up at Uncle Ned, who was walking next to me with that same stone face of his—seriously, I think he might've been carved out of actual stone at this point—and tried to make sense of what just happened. We'd been inside the Red Keep for what felt like three hours, but it could've been three minutes or three weeks. I wasn't sure. All I knew was that someone (I'm looking at you, Robert Baratheon) decided it would be a good idea to casually mention my aunt Lyanna's "death," and, in the process, I had been force-fed a lie so massive, it could've been used to cap the wells of Winterfell for a century.
And Uncle Ned, being Uncle Ned, had decided to lie right along with him. So now we were outside the Red Keep, stepping into the heat of King's Landing with the scent of sweat and fish in the air. Lovely.
The lie was something I could live with, I guess. But the whole thing? The truth that we were desperately trying to hide? It was a ticking time bomb, and it felt like we were just waiting for someone to pull the pin.
"So, Uncle," I said, my voice as light as a feather even though my brain was already spiraling into a void of stress. "Do you ever feel like we're all just actors in some really messed-up play? Or, you know, an extremely long-running farce where all the plotlines are trying to kill us?"
Uncle Ned shot me a look. You know the one. It's the "I don't want to laugh but I also kind of want to laugh" look. And let me tell you, it was almost impossible to get Uncle Ned to break. I'd done it maybe twice in my life. The first time was when I was three and knocked over his favorite sword—he still hasn't fully forgiven me for that—but I could tell this was close.
He finally cracked a smile, just a little one, like the shadow of a smile. "Every day, Cregan. Every day."
That was it. The epic saga of my life summed up in three words. Yeah, it was totally normal to have to lie about your dead aunt being alive, and then pretend you're a part of some overcomplicated political game that has a very real chance of getting everyone killed.
"Robert didn't ask too many questions about that, did he?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence. There were too many thoughts swirling around in my brain, and Uncle Ned was too good at his "I'm the most stoic man on the planet" act. It was kind of annoying.
Ned kept his eyes forward, scanning the crowd of King's Landing with a vigilance that made me wonder if he was secretly a super spy. "Robert doesn't want to know the truth, Cregan," he said softly. "He just wants a story he can believe. One where the Targaryens are dead and buried, and no one dares speak their name again."
"Right, because who needs actual truth when you've got a story to sell?" I said, rolling my eyes. Honestly, I didn't care if the whole world believed that Robert Baratheon was a "hero" or whatever nonsense people liked to sell themselves. But if they started getting wise about the Targaryens—or worse, the fact that Aunt Lyanna's son, Jaecaerys, was still alive—well, that would just be one more problem in a world already full of problems.
Uncle Ned stopped walking for a moment and turned to face me, his expression dead serious now. "Cregan, what Robert doesn't know won't hurt him. Or any of us."
"Yeah, well," I muttered, "what we don't know could end up getting us burned alive by dragons or stabbed in the back by one of his buddies. Same difference, really."
The streets of King's Landing had this eerie quiet to them, like the kind of silence you hear when everyone is just waiting for something to go wrong. I hated it. It made me feel like I was walking on a tightrope over a pit of lions.
"You're thinking too much," Uncle Ned said, his voice a bit gruffer than usual. "You're right to worry, Cregan. But sometimes, the only way forward is through the lies. We protect what's most important, even if it means wearing the mask of deception."
"Lies, lies, lies," I said, like I was the world's greatest philosopher. "At this point, I'm wondering who's really pulling the strings in all this. 'Cause I'm pretty sure it's not Robert, and it's not you either. Feels like we're all just playing chess while the real game's being played somewhere else."
Uncle Ned was quiet for a long time. I could see the muscles in his jaw flexing as he thought about my words. "Sometimes, Cregan, the most important moves are the ones no one sees."
"Right," I said, tapping my fingers against my arm. "I guess the move we're making right now is called 'hope nothing blows up in our faces.'"
He didn't respond to that. Honestly, I wasn't expecting him to. Uncle Ned had this way of always making you feel like you'd figured something out—then leaving you with ten more questions. It's one of his secret skills, like how he could stare someone down like a wolf and make them back off without saying a word.
"So," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "think we can make it through King's Landing without someone trying to stab us in the back?"
"Cregan," he said, his voice heavy with that special Ned Stark seriousness that was way too serious for someone who clearly had a sense of humor, "you'd better learn to expect the knife before it comes."
I tried to smile, but it felt forced. Honestly, this city was a powder keg, and we were all just waiting for someone to strike the match.
And me? Well, I was starting to think that the only thing more dangerous than lying in King's Landing was trying to survive when you knew all the cards were stacked against you.
But hey, no pressure, right?
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!