Cregan's POV
I wasn't exactly prepared for this. I mean, no one ever tells you what it's like to meet your future wife when you're one year old. Seriously, who writes these things? What kind of cosmic joke is this?
So there I was, about to "introduce" myself to Rhaenys, the three-year-old girl who, apparently, was now my betrothed. I didn't even know how to walk yet—this wasn't going to go well. If I'd been my usual self, I'd have been all snark and sarcasm, but nope, not in the body of a tiny potato in a diaper. Instead, I just looked up at Ashara with what I hoped was a look of "Help me," though I'm sure it was more of a confused, gurgly face.
"Cregan, this is Rhaenys and Aegon," Ashara said, nudging me forward like I wasn't a grown man stuffed into a baby's body with a bad case of existential dread. She said it so casually, like it wasn't the weirdest thing to be meeting my future wife as a literal toddler. No, seriously. A literal toddler.
I stared up at Rhaenys. Cute kid. Dark hair, sharp purple eyes—total Targaryen vibe. But she was THREE. And I was supposed to marry her? My future wife? And she's still getting the hang of not drooling all over herself. How does this even work?
"Hello, Cregan," she said, her voice a cheerful lilt that honestly made me feel like I'd been slapped in the face with the reality of this.
Great. I was already floundering. Instead of saying something cool, like "Sup, kiddo, nice to meet you," or giving her a hearty handshake (which would've probably been more dramatic than anything I could manage), I made a sound that was somewhere between a squeal and a strangled cat. It was, uh, definitely not the suave intro I was hoping for.
"Hello!" I squeaked.
Oh my gods, I was one of those babies. You know the ones that make a mess of things without meaning to? Yeah, that was me. You couldn't even hear me over the adorable sound of Rhaenys giggling, her tiny fingers twirling in the air like I was the greatest comedy show she'd ever seen.
"You're funny!" she said, clearly in awe of my disastrous attempt at speaking like a normal human being.
Ashara was unfazed, of course. "Rhaenys, this is your betrothed, Cregan," she said, like the whole "I'm one year old, and I'm about to marry this kid's tiny self" was a perfectly normal thing to say to a three-year-old. "He will be your friend, and when you both grow up, you'll get married."
Married?!
Okay, yeah, I get it—I'm a Stark. I know duty and all that, but this was too much. A wedding? Seriously? And what was I supposed to do—give her some sort of ring made of plastic and hope she understood?
Rhaenys looked at me like I was an unsolved math equation. "My... betrothed?" she asked, all scrunched up like she was trying to figure out how the whole "marriage" thing was supposed to work when she barely had a concept of eating solids.
Ashara, as smooth as ever, nodded. "Yes, Cregan will be your special friend. And when you both grow up, you'll get married."
Grow up. Like, in the future when I'm an adult again? At this rate, I wasn't even sure I could keep the drool off my chin long enough to have a real conversation, let alone get married.
I'm sure I was giving Ashara the look—you know, the one that says "help me, please"—but instead, I just let out another gurgle that would've embarrassed me for the rest of my life if I could remember what life was like before I became a baby.
But Rhaenys—bless her tiny, innocent heart—just smiled and held out her hand, like she was the world's most adorable politician shaking hands with her future constituent.
"Okay, Cregan. I'll be your friend!" she said, all sunshine and rainbows, and it made me almost forget the fact that I was one bad toddler moment away from a breakdown.
I stared at her little hand, then back at her big eyes, and I did the most dignified thing my baby self could manage: I grabbed it.
It wasn't exactly graceful—more like a clumsy grab-and-squish—but hey, I wasn't going for elegance. I was going for not dying of embarrassment.
And for a moment, just a moment, I felt a little lighter. Sure, my entire existence had turned into one weird cosmic joke, but at least I had a tiny human to share it with.
Ashara and Elia exchanged looks from behind us, like they were watching us on a reality show and waiting for the next episode. They looked relieved, maybe even a little bit proud. I could practically hear Ashara's voice in my head: "Good job, Cregan. You didn't drool on her."
Elia, who'd been quiet until now, gave me a soft, approving nod. She was as beautiful as ever, but today her eyes held something else—something like hope. And trust. Maybe in me. Or maybe just in the fact that I wasn't a total disaster.
"So... friends, huh?" I thought, trying to get a grip on the idea of marriage and, well, my life as a one-year-old. And while I was at it, I might as well try to deal with the other existential crisis rattling around in my mind: I was supposed to be the reborn Cregan Stark, son of Brandon Stark, and right now, I could barely keep a toy in my hand without almost falling over.
Maybe I'd figure it all out in a few years. Or maybe I'd end up looking back at this moment and laugh.
Just not today. Today, I had to survive the weirdest meeting of my life.
—
General POV
Ned Stark sat in his room at Riverrun, staring at the fire as if it had personally offended him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this uncomfortable—probably the time he accidentally kicked a wolf cub in the face while trying to teach it to sit. Yeah, that had been awkward. But this? This was a new level of awkward. This morning, he had to break the news to Catelyn, his wife, who was, let's just say, not the biggest fan of surprise revelations about the past.
"This is Cregan," he said slowly, his voice as stiff as his knees after a day of riding. "He's… well, he's Brandon's son."
Catelyn blinked. Blinked again. And then stared at him like he'd just told her he'd been moonlighting as a whore in Flea Bottom. "Brandon's son?" she repeated. Her voice was dangerously calm, which, in Catelyn's case, was an indication that things were about to go south faster than a direwolf on a snow slope.
"Yes," Ned said, leaning forward like this was the part of the conversation that was supposed to be normal. "Brandon's son. And the rightful heir to Winterfell."
Now, most people would have either passed out or screamed in disbelief. But not Catelyn. Oh no, Catelyn Stark was a woman who could hold a grudge longer than the longest winter. Her eyes went from "confused" to "deadly" in about 0.3 seconds. "And his mother?" she asked, her tone colder than the winters beyond the Wall.
"Lady Ashara Dayne," Ned replied, cringing slightly as he said it. "They were married."
"Married," Catelyn repeated, her voice a mix of disbelief and barely controlled fury. "In secret."
"Complicated," Ned muttered, feeling the heat of her glare burning into his soul. "It was complicated."
"Complicated?" Catelyn's eyebrows shot so high they might've flown off her head and taken flight. "Do elaborate, Eddard. I'm dying to hear how complicated it was for your brother to secretly marry a Dornishwoman and leave his son for you to introduce at the most inconvenient moment possible."
Ned opened his mouth, then closed it. He had absolutely nothing. Instead, he turned to Cregan, who was standing there, perfectly composed for someone who was one year old. Honestly, the kid looked like he had his life together more than Ned did. It was impressive.
"Lady Stark," Cregan said, his voice smooth and almost unnervingly mature for his age. "I apologize if my presence causes you pain. It was never my intention."
Catelyn blinked, and for a second, the ice in her veins melted just a little. "You are not to blame," she said, her voice softening. Then her gaze flicked back to Ned. "But your—"
"Is dead," Ned interjected, cutting her off before she could finish that sentence. The last thing he needed right now was an existential crisis about his late brother.
Before Catelyn could say anything else, the door banged open with all the subtlety of a bear breaking down a house, and Lord Hoster Tully stepped in, looking like he'd swallowed a pinecone and was still trying to figure out how to digest it. "So this is the boy," he said, eyeing Cregan like he was an unpleasant rash he hadn't been able to scratch. "The one you claim is Brandon's heir."
Ned sighed deeply. "He's not 'the one I claim,' Hoster. He is Brandon's son. Legitimate."
Hoster made a sound that was part snort, part disbelief. "A convenient claim, with no proof. If he's Brandon's son, he's a Snow, not a Stark."
Cregan's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with the kind of silent fury that only a Stark could muster. But he didn't speak, which was smart. Let the adults dig their own graves.
Ned opened his mouth to argue, but then, as if by some divine intervention (or just sheer audacity), a new voice interrupted.
"Lord Tully," came a smooth, cutting tone. The kind of voice that made every other voice sound like a bleating sheep. Princess Elia Martell swept into the room, her every step radiating confidence. It was the kind of entrance that made everyone else look like they were auditioning for a role in a bad play.
"I bore witness to Brandon and Ashara's vows," she said, her voice firm like an iron sword. "Their marriage was true, and their son is their rightful heir."
Hoster squinted at her like she'd just sprouted horns. "And I'm supposed to trust a Dornishwoman's word on this?"
Elia's eyes glinted dangerously. "You insult my people and my honor in one breath. How charming, Lord Tully. Perhaps next you'll suggest the North is full of liars, too?"
The room went dead silent. You could hear the crackling of the fire, the birds outside, and, if you were paying attention, the faint sound of Hoster's dignity crumbling into dust.
Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stepped forward with a snort of laughter. "Hoster," he said, his voice rich with disdain, "you've outdone yourself. I don't know what's worse—your complete lack of tact or your complete unwillingness to admit when you're wrong."
Hoster looked like he'd just swallowed a wasp. But Brynden wasn't done. "The boy is a Stark, you idiot. Everyone in this room can see that. If you think you're going to win this one, well… let's just say you're about to be very, very lonely for a while."
Hoster, now thoroughly flustered, crossed his arms like a petulant child and huffed. "Fine. The boy is legitimate."
Cregan inclined his head, his face calm but his eyes flashing with that Stark stubbornness. "Thank you, Lord Tully," he said, his voice calm, his words like a sword cutting through the tension. "Your acceptance honors my father's memory."
And just like that, the room lightened, the tension draining out like air from a punctured balloon. As the lords started to disperse, Ned watched Cregan walk away, a young boy carrying the heavy weight of his father's legacy with the dignity of someone three times his age.
And as for Ned? He was already planning the next family meeting in his head. Spoiler alert: it wasn't going to be any less awkward.
—
The door creaked open with all the subtlety of a cat in a room full of squeaky toys. Ned Stark looked up from the hearth, squinting as if he'd just been caught attempting to steal a second slice of pie at the family dinner. The fire crackled and popped, sending little bursts of light that danced across the room like a troupe of miniature performers trying to audition for a role in a very dramatic play. Ned hadn't bothered with a candle tonight, not because he was too lazy to light one (though that was a strong possibility), but because he'd convinced himself the fire was "good for the soul." If truth be told, he liked the dimness. It was comforting. Like his own personal moody lighting.
And then came the sound. Click.
Catelyn Stark stepped inside, closing the door as softly as she could, though Ned knew better. Catelyn Stark? Sneaking in? That was like trying to hide a dragon under a blanket. He gave her an eyebrow raise that said, "You can't fool me, woman. I'm from the North, not the capital."
She froze, hand still on the door latch, like she was mentally weighing her options. "Should I enter? Should I just turn around and pretend I never saw him sitting there like a grumpy old bear?" Her face was a masterpiece of composure—a frozen lake on a winter's day. But Ned had been married to her long enough to know that beneath that calm exterior? Oh, there were storms brewing.
"Ned," she said, her voice a little colder than the winter winds outside, but in that controlled way that made it sound more like a question than a statement. "You're awake."
Ned tilted his head back, like the very concept of her also being awake was the most shocking thing he'd heard all day. "Well, I could say the same about you." He gestured to the chair across from him, like it was the most casual thing in the world. "Robb?"
"Asleep, finally," Catelyn said, her voice betraying a hint of exhaustion. "He's got the spirit of a warrior... or a rabid badger, depending on the day."
"Gets that from you," Ned grinned, but it was more like a half-smile. Stark men didn't smile much, and that was probably a good thing. Grinning too much might attract the attention of whatever gods were responsible for inconvenient accidents.
Catelyn raised an eyebrow at him, a look that was both skeptical and mildly disapproving. "I thought you were the stubborn one, not me."
"Not that stubborn," Ned said with a chuckle. Then his smile faded just as quickly, like someone had switched off the lights. The weight of the day—a day that had felt more like a series of very bad choices—settled on his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably.
Catelyn took the seat across from him, looking like someone had just told her she was about to be crowned queen, and she wasn't thrilled about it. Her hands folded in her lap, knuckles tight, like she was holding something in… or maybe trying not to strangle someone.
"This whole thing with Brandon and Ashara," she began, her voice so carefully measured it sounded like she was walking on eggshells. "It's... unsettling."
Ned nodded, blowing out a breath. "That's one way to put it," he said. He ran a hand through his hair, the tiredness creeping in. "Honestly, none of us saw it coming. Least of all me. But it's the truth, and we can't just pretend it didn't happen."
Catelyn's lips tightened into a line. The kind of line that said "I'm about three seconds away from throwing something heavy at your head." "Did you know?" she asked, the question sliding out like a dagger. "Before?"
Oof. That hit harder than the time he'd tried to punch a rock during one of his legendary "stubborn Stark" moments. But Ned didn't flinch. He met her gaze, steady as a mountain, but with the weight of regret behind his eyes. "No, Cat. I swear it. Ashara told me. Just recently."
She didn't answer right away. Just stared at him, like she was trying to decode the most frustrating riddle in the Seven Kingdoms. Finally, she nodded, though her shoulders didn't lose their tension. "I believe you," she said, though her voice had that cautious edge to it, like she was bracing herself for a second punch.
Ned exhaled, rubbing his temples. "It's not easy, Cat. But we'll deal with it. We've handled worse, haven't we?"
Catelyn's gaze flicked toward the fire, her face tight with thoughts she wasn't ready to share just yet. "My father," she muttered, shaking her head as if trying to shake off a memory that tasted worse than sour wine. "His reaction was… difficult."
"He's worried," Ned said, leaning back in his chair. "Worried about his legacy, his blood. It makes sense."
Catelyn let out a bitter laugh. "It's insulting. He talked about our family like it was some burden he was desperate to unload onto someone else."
Ned flinched, but he knew better than to argue. "Fear does that to people. Makes them say things they don't mean. He'll come around."
"And Brandon?" Catelyn's eyes narrowed dangerously. "He kept this from all of us. And Ashara... as my goodsister?" She gave him a look, as if waiting for him to tell her this was all some elaborate joke.
"Brandon thought he was protecting the North. He was probably waiting forbthe right time to reveal the truth." Ned said with a heavy sigh. "He made a choice he thought was best for the moment. And Ashara... well, she's got her demons to wrestle with. I can't speak for her."
Catelyn looked at him, unimpressed. "And what happens now? What are we supposed to do with this... mess?"
Ned straightened, as if some grand idea had just clicked into place. "Well, for now, I'll serve as regent until Cregan comes of age. He'll grow up in Winterfell, alongside Robb and any other children we have. He's a Stark. Our nephew. He'll know what it means to be part of this family."
Catelyn raised an eyebrow. "And when he comes of age?"
"He'll marry Princess Rhaenys," Ned said, his tone now firm, like he was laying out a plan that couldn't be changed. "King Robert's decree. It'll strengthen the North."
"And Moat Cailin?" Catelyn asked, not letting him dodge her questions.
Ned's jaw tightened. "It'll be part of the dowry. I'll personally see to it—Moat Cailin will be restored. It'll be a stronghold for the North, and our seat when Cregan comes of age. I'm not letting it fall."
Her eyes softened a little. "Closer to Riverrun?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," Ned answered. "Closer to your family."
Catelyn fell silent for a moment, her fingers twisting together in a way that made her look far more vulnerable than she usually allowed. "It's a lot to take in," she admitted. "But... I trust you, Ned. If anyone can carry this burden, it's you."
"I won't carry it alone," he said, reaching out and taking her hand in his. This time, she didn't pull away.
And for the first time in what felt like ages, Catelyn gave him a soft, genuine smile. "And Ser Arthur? He's going to train Cregan, isn't he?"
Ned's smile widened, like a man who had just found out his favorite tavern was offering free drinks for the next month. "And Robb, if he's willing. The Sword of the Morning, in Winterfell. Can you imagine?"
"It's an honor," Catelyn said, her eyes sparkling just a little now. "Our children will get to learn from one of the greatest knights alive. That's a gift."
"It is," Ned agreed, standing and offering her his hand. She took it without hesitation.
As he helped her up, his eyebrow raised with that mischievous glint he reserved for rare moments. "It's been a long time since we've had a moment like this, hasn't it?"
Catelyn flushed, but didn't look away. "Maybe... we could make up for lost time?" Her voice had a softness now, a promise that things might just be okay.
Ned grinned—genuinely this time. "I think that sounds like a great idea."
And before she could say another word, he pulled her into his arms. The fire crackled behind them, but for once, neither of them paid any mind to it. Whatever challenges the gods decided to throw their way next, they would face them together. Because at the end of the day, there was nothing more important than this. Nothing more important than them.
—
As Ashara and Cregan finally made themselves comfortable in their assigned room—after what seemed like a dozen debates over which bed to claim—Elia swept into the room like a sunbeam cutting through a thunderstorm. She had baby Aegon perched on her hip with all the effortless grace of someone who'd been doing it for years. The little guy was sound asleep, drooling on her shoulder like the most adorable thing on the planet. At least, until his soft snoring interrupted Rhaenys' own very important mission of running around at full speed, giggling like a banshee.
Rhaenys, all three years of her, was already halfway across the room when Elia stepped in. She was a blur of energy, her feet barely touching the ground as she skipped ahead, hair bouncing around her face like an untamed wild thing. "Finally!" she announced, hands on her tiny hips in a pose that could have come straight out of some ancient ruler's portrait. "We're playing with Balerion, and you're late!" Her tone wasn't mad, not really. It was more like the queen of a very important imaginary kingdom telling her staff they were falling behind schedule.
Elia chuckled, her warm laugh filling the room. "I see I've missed something important," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I hope Balerion's been playing nicely."
Cregan, who was holding up a fluffy feather toy like it was Blackfyre itself, was practically bursting with pride. "Of course he is!" he declared, his voice cracking with excitement. The boy looked like he was about to start a full-on campaign to recruit Balerion into his army. "We're training him to be fierce, like a real dragon!"
Ashara, who had been sitting cross-legged near the hearth, stitching a piece of embroidery that looked like it could double as a family crest, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, are you now?" she teased, not even bothering to look up from her work. "And what will you do if he suddenly breathes fire, my little dragon trainer?"
Cregan puffed out his chest like he'd just been crowned Lord of Winterfell (which he was). "I'll teach him to aim it at the bad guys!" he proclaimed, his eyes blazing with the confidence of a child who had never seen a real battle but knew, deep down, that he was going to save the day.
"Spoken like a true Stark," Elia said, kneeling down to meet Cregan's level. She reached out to ruffle his hair, which only made him stand up straighter, as though imagining himself suddenly cloaked in armor and wielding a broadsword. "But perhaps we should start with mice before we start charging into battle, hmm?"
Just as if on cue, Balerion—the black cat named after the most terrifying dragon in history (no pressure)—gave an exaggerated flick of his tail. He strolled into the room like a king entering his throne room, pausing only to give everyone the kind of side-eye that said, I'm not impressed, but I'm willing to humor you for now. The moment was so full of don't-you-dare-make-me-chase-that-feather energy that the kids instantly collapsed into giggles.
Rhaenys, with all the grace of a tornado, clapped her hands and grinned. "He's so clever!" she shouted. "Cregan, let's see if we can lure him back down!"
They were off again, Cregan waving the toy like a madman, and Rhaenys skipping circles around Balerion in a way that definitely made her look like she'd been possessed by the spirit of chaos. But, to their surprise (or maybe not), Balerion hopped up onto a chair with a disdainful flick of his tail, clearly deciding that today was just not his day for dragon training.
As the chaos continued, Elia moved to sit next to Ashara, her brow creased just enough to show the weight of her thoughts. Her eyes never left the children, though. "They're good for each other," she murmured, her voice softer than usual. "It's a gift to see them like this. Happy. Innocent."
Ashara didn't need to look up to know what was being said. She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that was more wistful than it was joyful. "They remind me of how things used to be… before," she said quietly.
Before. That one word seemed to hang in the air, thick and oppressive like the scent of rain before a storm.
But Elia didn't let the silence last long. She changed the subject like it was second nature, though there was a certain tension in her voice. "Any word from Queen Rhaella?" she asked, trying to sound casual, though it was clear that the question weighed heavily on her.
Ashara paused mid-stitch, her needle frozen. She looked up, her face more serious than it had been all evening. "Rhaella's on Dragonstone with Viserys. Aerys sent them there after... well..." She glanced over at the kids again. "After he learned that she was with child."
The news hit Ashara like a cold wave. She blinked, her fingers tightening around the embroidery thread. "She's pregnant?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, like she was afraid someone would overhear and laugh.
Elia nodded, her gaze steady despite the undercurrent of worry in her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "The child should be born soon, if the timing's right."
Ashara's breath caught in her throat as she processed the information. But before she could say anything else, Arthur Dayne—who'd been standing by the door like a quiet sentinel—straightened up. His eyes, normally calm and collected, suddenly sharpened like a blade being drawn. He opened his mouth, his voice low and controlled, but you could feel the tension in his words. "When did the queen conceive?" he asked, his tone a little too sharp for comfort.
Elia hesitated for just a second before responding, her gaze flicking between Arthur and the children. "Sometime after Rickard and Brandon Stark were executed," she said quietly, her eyes heavy with the knowledge of what that meant. "That's when Aerys started keeping her closer."
Arthur's jaw tightened, and his usual calm demeanor cracked just enough to let a flash of something dangerous slip through. He turned his gaze downward, as though focusing on the floor might stop the storm brewing inside him. He didn't need to say more; the timeline spoke for itself. It was dark. It was wrong.
Ashara reached out, her hand gently resting on his arm. "Arthur?" she asked, her voice soft but firm. "What is it?"
Arthur's fists clenched, his knuckles going white as he forced himself to speak through gritted teeth. "If the child was conceived when I think it was," he said, his voice like gravel, "then it was conceived in the height of his... madness." He almost choked on the word. Madness. It was too kind a term for the cruelty and violence Aerys had shown.
Elia's composure slipped, just for a second. Her lips trembled as she looked at the children, who were blissfully unaware of the dark conversation unfolding around them. "She has endured so much," she whispered. "Too much."
Arthur's hands trembled with the weight of his frustration, his usual stoic composure cracking just enough to let the pain leak through. "We all swore oaths to protect her," he muttered bitterly. "And yet, we stood by while—" He cut himself off, not daring to finish the sentence in front of the children.
Ashara tightened her grip on his arm, looking at him with such understanding that it seemed to almost transcend words. "You did what you could," she said firmly. "More than most. But you're only one man, Arthur."
Arthur's eyes burned with an intensity that made it clear that he didn't accept that excuse, not fully. He stared at Rhaenys, who was now pretending to fly on the back of Balerion (who was, naturally, having none of it), and the realization hit him with the force of a freight train. "I failed her," he said, the words rough and full of regret.
Ashara said nothing, but the look she gave him spoke volumes. They all knew what was at stake now. Whatever storms loomed on Dragonstone—or beyond—Arthur Dayne wasn't going to face them alone. Not anymore. Not when there were children laughing in the next room, blissfully unaware of the dangers that waited outside. The world was about to change, and the men and women who had sworn to protect it would have to decide whether they would rise up or let it fall.
—
Cregan's POV
Sprawled out on the floor, trying to look like I was actually playing with Rhaenys's ridiculous cat, Balerion, I was really just wrestling with my own thoughts. Thoughts that refused to stay quiet. Like an army of chatty nobles at a feast, they kept running in circles in my brain.
Rhaenys—bless her little heart—was sitting across from me, cross-legged and totally absorbed in the moment. She was focused like a warrior queen preparing for battle, but instead of a sword, she had a feather toy. The sight of her attacking the air with it was both adorable and terrifying. She had that look on her face—like she could totally conquer Westeros if she wanted to. It was a good thing she was only three, or she'd probably start making battle plans for the Seven Kingdoms in crayon.
I glanced down at Balerion, the cat who had clearly inherited every bit of lazy nobility that Westeros had to offer. The little beast was half-heartedly swatting at the feather like it was beneath him, pausing between "attacks" to yawn and lounge like he was too cool for this whole "hunting" thing. If he could, he'd probably sip a goblet of wine while ordering a servant to do the hunting for him.
But, as usual, my mind kept wandering back to Riverrun and what had gone down there that morning. Because apparently, being Lord of Winterfell meant you had to put up with a lot of uncomfortable conversations. Seriously. You think the Northern lords were awkward? Try being me when I walked into the Tully hall, all eyes on me like I was some kind of imposter who'd just wandered out of the snowstorm to make a claim.
Hoster Tully, that old fish-lord (I'll admit, I didn't exactly like him, mostly because he looked like a guy who'd spent way too much time around rivers), gave me the look. You know the one—the look that says, "I'm thinking about how to make your life miserable, but I'll be polite about it."
"Lord Stark," he said, leaning back in his chair like he was already deciding whether I'd be worth his time or just some ice chunk that'd float down the river and disappear. "Forgive me if I sound cautious, but I have some questions regarding the legitimacy of your parents' union... and by extension, your claim."
At this point, I swear the room chilled by about five degrees. Like, we could've all used a direwolf hug to warm up. My stomach flipped, but I did my best to keep it together. After all, I'd spent years at Hogwarts learning how to keep my cool when everything around me was screaming awkward—thanks, Voldemort.
Uncle Ned, though, he had that Northern calm about him that made everyone in the room shut up when he spoke. "Lord Tully," he said, voice as cold and solid as an ice floe. "Cregan Stark's claim is indisputable. His parents' marriage was lawful and witnessed by those of standing."
That should've been the end of it, right? Not with Hoster Tully. Oh no. He just had to go digging deeper, like he was playing some weird game of political whack-a-mole.
"Was it?" he asked, his voice like he was sharpening a dagger. "It seems odd that so few know of this supposed union, given its implications."
Behind me, I could practically feel Wyman Manderly getting ready to throw a punch—he made this low, rumbling noise that might've been a growl or him just being hungry. Who knew with him? But the point was, I didn't need to look behind me to know I wasn't the only one getting angry.
That's when Aunt Elia—who was rocking Targaryen red and black like she was born to wear it—stepped forward. She was all fire and grace, even without the dragons. "My lord," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a sword through butter, "I was present at their union. I stood witness to their vows before the gods. By both law and faith, there is no question of their legitimacy."
Boom. Mic drop. Everyone in the room went silent like they'd been hit with a heavy dose of reality.
Hoster blinked. Yeah, he didn't expect that one. "I see," he said, clearly gritting his teeth. "If Lady Elia vouches for this, I will defer to her testimony. For now."
"For now." I could practically hear the unspoken threat in those words. Sure, the Tullys weren't going to start throwing chairs around, but this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Back in the present, I snapped out of my own replay of the awkward family dinner to find Rhaenys tugging at my sleeve. "Cregan, you're doing it all wrong," she said, sounding more exasperated than a tired mother dealing with a toddler—despite the fact that she was only three.
I blinked. "What? I'm just playing with the cat."
"You're boring him!" she said, pointing at Balerion, who was now rolling around on his back like he was in the middle of some dramatic soliloquy, probably plotting world domination in his head.
"I'm boring him?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Rhaenys, he's a cat. He doesn't even care that I'm alive right now. He'd prefer a nap and some luxury food."
She looked at me like I was a total failure. "You have to make it exciting!" she ordered. "Like a real hunt."
"A real hunt?" I asked, incredulous. "He's a cat. What, you want me to hunt down a rabbit for him?"
Rhaenys gave me a look that could probably freeze a dragon mid-flight. "Cregan. If you don't take this seriously, how will Balerion ever be ready for battle?"
I burst out laughing. "Battle? What's he going to do, scratch someone's ankles to death?"
Her eyes widened in horror. "He is a Targaryen cat! He'll defend our honor!"
"Okay, okay," I said, trying to suppress another laugh. "I'll take it seriously. Your honor shall be defended."
As I half-heartedly tried to get Balerion more engaged in the "hunt," I glanced at Rhaenys. There she was, my little three-year-old ball of fire, totally in charge. And even though I felt like I was barely keeping it together most of the time, she had this way of reminding me what really mattered.
"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, her violet eyes narrowing like she was some sort of psychic.
I glanced at her, blinking. "What do you mean?"
"You've been weird today," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Like... thinking too much. Is it because of the fish-lords?"
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Fish-lords?"
"You know, the Tullys," she said with a little sigh, clearly frustrated by my ignorance. "They're always talking about rivers and fish. It's boring."
I snorted. "Maybe a little," I said, ruffling her hair. "It's just... complicated."
"Well, don't let them make you feel bad," Rhaenys said, her voice suddenly much more serious. "You're the Lord of Winterfell. That's way cooler than being a fish-lord."
I smiled at her. "Thanks, Rhaenys. I'll try to remember that."
And as we both returned to our very important mission of entertaining a very lazy cat, I let myself take a breath. The Tullys could keep questioning my legitimacy, keep doubting me. But here, with Rhaenys and Balerion, I felt like maybe I had a chance to show them all that I was exactly who I said I was.
---
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