Chapter Text
When Cregan received the news that Jacareays Velaryons, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne had died in battle, he had to focus all of his strength into keeping his face still. Maester Kennet, who had loudly announced these news, was standing in front of Cregans dinner table - and behind him, dozens of eyes of Cregans men in the dining hall, are looking back at the young Lord of Winterfell. Everyone is waiting for his reaction.
Cregan blinks and clears his throat. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts his cup, looking back at all of those of shocked faces and says loudly, “A toast to Prince Jacaerys. May his soul rest with the Old Gods forevermore. The North will remember him.”
“To the Prince!” his men say as one. Cregan drinks from his cup and the ale tastes like nothing. He doesn’t stay much longer at the dinner table, excuses himself into his chambers.
When he closes the thick wooden door behind him and is finally alone, the numbness has turned into cold, solid grief. Jaces face lingers behind Cregans closed lids, the dimples in his cheeks, the furrow of his brow. When Cregan had watched him climb his horrible beast of a dragon all these months ago, panic had coiled in his guts. The sudden fear that this would be the last time to see the Prince, that their paths would never cross again. Now, today, Cregan realised that he had been right. The Gods had sent him a glimpse of the future back then, cruel enough to let him feel something that he could neither hinder nor control.
The Gods had never been gentle with him.
Cregan crosses his chamber and stands before the small bookcase in the corner. Tales of the old north, mostly, a few childrens books he’s reading to Rickon when he finds the time. He pulls out a small leather box and sits down with it in an armchair, pulling a few candles closer. In the box, there are about a dozen small paper rolls, collected over the last six months since Jace left Winterfell. Every two or three weeks, a raven had brought a paper all the way from the south, sometimes still smelling of a faraway, dangerous, complicated place.
“Dear Cregan, I have arrived at Dragonstone just fine today. Vermax has eaten half a cow and I swear to the gods that he is now snoring down in the Dragonmont!”
“Dear friend, there is something in the air down here. I can taste it in the salt of the sea and the howling winds. The dragons are restless, down in the mount and up in the air. If you were here you would tell me that winter is coming, I am certain.”
“Dearest Cregan, we buried Luce today. We burned all we have left from him in dragonfire, Joffrey cried the whole night. My mother did not cry, which is a bad sign. She hasn’t left her chambers this morning.”
“Cregan, I cannot believe he did this. I am sure you have heard by now, it’s all the realm talks about. My cousin is dead.”
“Hello my friend, I cannot stand this any longer. I need battle, I need blood! My mother has sunken in her grief where no one can reach here. I was trying to have a conversation with you in my head the other night, but the Cregan in my head is even more grim than you and he was just talking about horses and the near winter. So probably a good representation.”
“Dear Cregan, you will not believe what I am about to tell you. Have you ever heard of Dragonseeds?”
The last letter had arrived two weeks ago. “Dear Cregan, I asked mother if I could go back to Winterfell soonly, as I am of no use here. She just lets me sit around and argue with these old men in the council, none of which see more in me than a spoiled child. Of course she said no, but I will try again when some time has passed. She changes her mind easily these days. Maybe we’ll see each other again before the year passes, wouldn’t that be grant?”
Cregan stares down at the words, at the paper over which Jaces warm hand had wandered excitedly. He does not sleep that night
__
About three weeks later, it is late again. Cregan is sitting next to Rickons crib, watching the three year old sleep soundly. Sara, his half-sister, is sitting in a corner of the room, her quick fingers busy embroidering a piece of dark blue linen. She hums an old song, barely loud enough to hear over the cracking of the fire.
These moments of calm and closeness are rare in Winterfell and Cregan is not surprised at all that the gods do not allow it to last on this evening. There is a knock on the door.
Sara looks up from her work and stops humming. Cregan sights and rises from his place next to his sons bed, crossing the room to open the door.
“What?” he hisses to whoever is disturbing his time with his family.
It’s Timmen, one of Cregans oldest friends and second in command. He must’ve come to Rickons chambers directly from the outside, as there is still snow melting in his red beard.
“The rangers have seen something,” Timmen says quivkly, without sparring. “A dragon.”
Cregan stares at him, then turns around to look at Sara. She has stilled in her movements, watching the two men.
“Well,” Cregan sights. “I’ll put my boots back on then.”
Half an hour later, Timmen and two of Cregans men look up in the dark night sky from the battlements of Winterfell.
“It doesn’t seem to be aggressive,” Timmen says, squinting into the night where the big, winged shadow is flying in circles. “So it’s not the enemies, I suppose.”
Maester Kennet gives him a pitiful look. “There are only three known dragons on Aegon the Ursurpers side still,” he says. “This dragon right there is too small to be Vaghar, and too big to be Thessarion. And I highly doubt that Heleana Targaryen would ride her dragon Dreamfyre all the way to Winterfell, as she is known to barely fly at all. So yes, I suppose this dragon has been sent by Queen Rhaenyra herself. It could be Seasmoke or maybe Silverwing, both of which have recently been claimed by the Dragonseeds.”
“I wonder what the Queen wants,” Timmen mumbles.
They watch as the dragon lowers his circles in a slow spiral, finally merging with the woods not in the east of Winterfell.
“Let’s find out,” Cregan says grimly. “Get the horses.”
Shorty after, the three of them are riding through the snow, heading towards the forest where the dragon has landed. There is a singular person, walking out of the woods towards them, wearing a thick travel coat that is blowing in the winter wind and a hood covering their head.
When the dragonrider steps in the light of their torches, Cregan finds them to be smaller that he expected.
“Who are you, Dragonrider?” Timmen asks loudly, lifting his torch a bit higher.
“My name is Baela Targaryen,” a determined, female voice answers. “I’ve been sent by Queen Rhaenyra to speak to Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell.”
“I am Cregan Stark,” Cregan says, his eyes narrow as he watches the lady lift her head to look at him. Her hair is of the silvery-white typical for House Targaryen. She must be very young still, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old. The same age Jace had been.
“I need to speak to you in private,” Lady Baela says. “As fast as possible. I have a message from the Queen.”
Cregan looks at her, contemplating. Then he nods. “Get the Lady on your horse, Timmen,” he says. “She’ll surely want to warm up after her flight.”
Timmen jumps off his horse and puts out a hand to the Lady, but she hesitates, looking over her shoulder, back to the woods.
“My dragon is exhausted from the journey,” she says. “She needs to eat.”
Cregan nods slowly. “We’ll send some sheeps,” he says. “Prince Jaceaerys’ dragon always accepted these.”
When he says Jaces name, Lady Baela looks at him quickly. Then she nods, “That’ll suffice,” and lets Timmen help her on his horse.
__
When they’re back at Winterfell, Cregan had offered to the Lady to first have something to eat and bathe, but she had declined, insisting to speak to him alone immediately.
That’s why they are in the library now, Cregan filling a cup with hot mead and handing it to Lady Baela. She has taken off the thick coat with the hood and now her white, curly hair is cascading down over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she says when accepting the mead. Then, when the door closes behind the servant who had brought the tablet she looks at Cregan immediately and pulls a small, rolled piece of paper out of her vest.
“From the Queen,” she says, handing it to the lord. Cregan blinks slowly, then takes it out of her hand and steps next to the fireplace to make out the tiny script in its light.
Lord Stark, it read. First, I have to thank you for your loyalty and support during the Ursurpers war for my throne. House Targaryen and House Stark will be connected in eternal friendship forever. But second, I must apologize as I now have a request for you, that it is of upmost importance to me but might seem a bit strange. I need you to come to Kingslanding as quickly as possible.
Cregan stares down at the paper, rereading the last sentence to make more sense of it. His Winter Wolves are marching south, and have been marching south for quite some time now. What could possibly require himself to leave Winterfell and come to the Kingslands, what an army of two thousand men cannot do on their own?
I cannot tell you in this letter why it is so urgent, but I assure you it is and must ask for your trust on this matter. I sent my most trustworthy dragonrider, Lady Baela, who will take you on her dragons back to Kingslanding, as soon as you have said your Goodbyes to your family.
Cregan looks up from the paper and sees that the lady is watching him, sipping her mulled wine. “Take me on your dragons back?” he echoes, horrified.
“Keep reading,” she says.
I will meet you at Dragonstone and explain everything as soon as we meet in person. I must tell you to burn this letter and speak to as little people as possible about where you are going. You shall be rewarded for your efforts.
And then, the curved signature of the Queen herself, Rhaenyra Targaryen, next to the targaryen sigil, impressed in black wax.
Cregan reads the letter again, more slowly. Then a third time. Then, he rolls up the paper and throws it into the fireplace, watching the black wax melt.
“Can you tell me what all of this is about?” he asks.
But as expected, Lady Baela shakes her head. “The Queen will explain herself.”
“You’ll have to send her my excuses,” Cregan shakes his head. “I cannot leave Winterfell, not when winter is near.”
“You have to come!” Lady Baela insists, taking a step towards him. “I will not leave without you. It is my Queens explicit command that I bring you to Dragonstone.”
“I am sure she’ll understand that a Lady on her own cannot force me to climb on that monstrous beast and fly through all the seven kingdoms on a whim.”
“It is not a whim!” she says, her eyes sparkling with determination. Suddenly, Cregan remembers that Lady Baela has been Prince Jacaerys betrothed, his future Queen. Well, not anymore, Cregan thinks grimly.
“If my Queen needs to talk to me so urgently, why didn’t she mount her dragon and come here herself?” Cregan asks. “That would have been a lot more practical.”
“That’s impossible,” Lady Baela snaps. “Besides, it’s not only about talking to you. She needs you to be at Dragonstone.”
“So you do know what this is about,” Cregan says dryly. Lady Baela looks down, then up again.
“The only thing I can tell you,” she says finally. “Is that it is about Prince Jacaerys recent death.”
There is a moment of silence, during which Cregan stares back at her and the Lady holds his gaze.
Finally, Cregan says, “Fine. I’ll come to Dragonstone with you.”
__
The next morning, the sun has just started to rise above the snowy mountains, Cregan follows Lady Baela into the woods before Winterfell. They have passed two ashy piles of goat bones and are now entering the shadows of the trees. Cregan had said his Goodbyes to Rickon and Sara, pressing a kiss to his three year old sons forehead and accepting his half-sisters promise to take care of him until Cregan comes back. He then had ignored her objections about his truly insane journey to meet the Queen and told him, if he weren’t to come back as soon as he could, she would personally ride down to Dragonstone to fetch him back.
After this delightful encounter and a quick hug to Timmen, Cregan was now trudging through the snow behind Lady Baela, who looked way more energetic than the night before.
“How long will we fly?” Cregan asks, looking around the trees warily. She had urged him to only bring a small bag and pack as lightly as possible.
“If we start flying soon we’ll be there around midnight,” the Lady answers. They are approaching what Cregan knows is a clearing in front of them, and he can already see a big silhouette, curled together between the trees.
When they enter the clearing, Baela says a few words in valyrian, causing the dragon to wake up. It uncurls itself and then stretches like a cat, lifting its head to sniff the fresh morning air. It is of a beautiful green and red and about the same size as Cregan remembered Jaces dragon to be.
“This is Moondancer,” Baela says, walking up to the dragon lady and gently caressing her flank.
“Will she manage to carry both of us?” Cregan asks, septically. The dragon seems to be more slender than Vermax.
“It’ll be an effort, but she’ll manage,” Lady Baela says, fastening their bag at Moondancers saddle. There is a smaller extension behind it, Cregan notices. The Queen had really been sure of his agreement.
Cregan slowly steps closer. Moondancer lifts her reptile head, watching him warily. Lady Baela says a few words in valyrian, seemingly calming her down and the signing Cregan to come closer.
“It’ll be uncomfortable I fear,” she says. “But there’s no faster way to travel.”
“I know,” Cregan says, slowly putting his hands on the small saddle. Baela nods and Moondancer allows him to pull himself upwards. Baela smiles and follows, sitting in the main saddle before Cregan.
“It’s always a bit much on the first flight,” she says, giving him a smile over his shoulder. “Take the ropes to fasten yourself, Mylord. We have a long day before us.”
It is not my first time on dragonback, Cregan wants to say. But then Mondancer jumps up in the air, spreading her wings and there are no words left in his lungs.
__
Cregan almost falls over when his boots finally, finally hit solid ground again. Lady Baela grabs his arm to help steady him.
“Riding a dragon is not exactly a comfortable thing,” she says apollogetically, her eyes sparkling with barely concealed amusement. “Even for a dragon rider we have made a long journey."
“It is an honour, Mylady,” Cregan groans, the feeling coming back into his feet and legs with a thousand tiny needles. Behind them, Moondancer made muffled noise.
“I’m afraid your day is not over yet,” Lady Baela says and elegantly takes off her riding gloves. “I’m afraid the most important part is yet to come. I’ll bring you to meet the Queen.”
Cregan can see the stone walls of Dragonstone in front of them, hidden in the night. Moondance has brought them not the main entrance, but the shadows beneath the castle. There is only a small wooden door, a single torch next to it.
Before opening it, Lady Baela turns around, looking at Cregan with her stern, concerned eyes.
“Inside the castle we must keep quiet, Lord Stark. It is best if no one knows you’re here. It was the Queens request that I bring her before her eyes with the upmost discretion. The less people know, the better.”
“Will the Queen herself finally explain to me why I am being smuggled like a thief in the night?” Cregan grumbles.
“Certainly,” Lady Baela nods and opens the door, taking the torch with her.
It is only a short walk through the castle and Cregan cannot take in any of Dragonstones rumoured greatness, because he can simply not see any of it. Lady Baela leads him though dark corridors and narrow staircases quickly and the first human being they encounter is the soldier standing directly in front of the queens chambers.
“It is me, Sir Darklyn,” Lady Baela says as they step out of the shadows. “I bring the guest our Queen requested to see most urgently. Lord Stark of Winterfell.”
The knight examines Cregan thoroughly, then gives a quick nod and knocks on the Queens door herself.
“Lady Baela and Lord Stark,” Cregan hears the knight say inside.
“They may come in,” the voice of a woman answers.
The first thing Cregan notices about his Queen is that she is much smaller than he imagined. Her hair is half braided, half hanging down her back in long, white-blonde strands and she is wearing a simple black robe.
Then, Cregan notices all her small resemblances to her eldest son. The shape of her eyes, the line of her jaw. Her lips.
He quickly bows down, both out of protocol and to not have to look at her any longer.
“My queen,” he says simply. He doesn’t know what the correct way is to greet his queen after being dragged onto a dragon and shushed through dark corridors into her chambers at night. He could probably be sentenced to death for just being here.
“Stand up, Lord Stark,” she says and her voice sounds surprisingly warm. “I must thank you for keeping up with this exhausting journey that must have been an unwelcome surprise for you.”
Cregan straights up again.
“Certainly surprising, but not unwelcome, your Highness,” he says. Lady Baela giggles, but a quick look by the queen makes her shush.
“I am glad to hear that,” Rhaenyra says.
There is a moment of silence during which she looks at him with clear, intelligent eyes. Inspecting him? Cregan still has no idea why he is here.
When the silence is too loud, he finally says, “I must bid you my condolences. The North will never forget Prince Jaceaerys.”
The queen gently tilts her head. Her examining gaze is almost unbearable.
She doesn’t thank him for his condolences, but asks instead, “How well did you know my son, Lord Stark?”
Cregan blinks. The questions puts him off, he is not ready to answer that, certainly not to Jaces mother.
“I only new Prince Jacaerys for a few short months, your highness,” he finally says, “which is only a brief time. But I found him to be a reliable leader. And a loyal friend.”
Her gaze glazes over as he speaks. She nods quickly, then exchanges a look with Lady Baela. It seems she hads made a decision.
“Very well,” the queen says then. “You are here now, there is no turning back. Baela, will you bring us some wine? I think Lord Stark will need something strong to stomach what I will just tell him.”
The queens starts to slowly walk through the room, as she speaks: “Jacaerys flew into the Battle of the Gullet on his dragon Vermax. Baela and him supported the Red Fleet against the ships of the Triarchy.”
Cregan did not say anything. Did she bring him here to describe the details of Jaces death? He should never have mounted that damned dragon then.
“The pirates brought scorpions on their ships, with iron bolts fastened to ankers by chains. When one of their bolts hit Vermax, he was pulled underwater and drowned.”
Cregan stares at her. He remembers Vermax, a great, green beasts flying over Winterfell in circles, looking out for Jace during his training sessions in the yard. How cruel to have a creature of the sky be taken by the drowned god, of all.
“Jace swam to the surface while his dragon was sinking under him. The pirates waited with crossbows and shot at him, once he reached the surface.”
Cregan did not want to hear this. This was torture. It took him a moment to realise Lady Baela was standing in front of him, handing him a cup of wine.
“The first shot hit him in the shoulder,” the queen continues, relentlessly. There is a ringing in his ears.
“The second one - missed.”
Cregan looks up. Lady Baela stands next to the queen, and Rhaenyra has her hand gently put on the young ladys arm.
“Luckily, Baela the Brave arrived at that moment to make sure no more shots were fired.”
“I burned them all,” Baela says, her chin high and proud. She would have made a great wife on Jaces side, Cregan realised.
“Moondancer took Jace out of the water and we brought him back to Dragonstone.”
Rhaenyra nods. “My maesters had to burn out the wound after they’ve torn out the bolt. Jace did not even flinch.”
Cregan looks at her, waiting. “But the wound still got infected, your highness?”
Rhaenyra shakes her head, looking back at him. “No. It is healing just fine.”
It is healing just fine.
“But - how did he -”
“He did not.”
Cregan stares at her. The ringing in his ears is back.
“Jacaerys is alive,” the queen adds. There is a small, warm smile on the corner of her lips.
Cregan wonders if she might have gone mad with grief. She would not be the first mourning mother to do so. But when he looks at Lady Baela, she is also smiling and gives a little nod.
“He - lives?” Cregan croakes. Bliss. Torture has turned into bliss.
“Yes,” Rhaenyra says. “He is injured, he is without dragon. But he is alive.”
This is the moment Cregan remembers that there is a goblet in his hand and he drowns half of it in one go.
“But if that is so,” he asks after swallowing. “Why is there word of his death in all of the Seven Kingdoms?”
The queens face darkens and again, she is exchanging a look with Lady Baela.
“Jacaerys lineage has been the subject of rumours before,” Rhaenyra says. “Now, that he is no longer a dragonrider, he is in higher danger than ever to be - moved out of the way.”
Cregan frowns. Southern politics have never been of true interest to him, but even he can follow a bloodline. “You are suspecting .. your husband .. ?”
Rhaenyra does not answer him, instead she puts down her goblet to avoid his gaze.
“That’s why I send for you, Lord Stark. I need Jace to leave Dragonstone, to go into hiding until his shoulder is healed. Just - just for a while. Until I can solve this - problem.”
Cregan blinks. “You want me to - go with him?”
The queen looks up at him, her eyes glowing in the light of the candles. “Jace has spoken most highly of you. I cannot send Balea with him, it would be too conspicuous and we need Moondancer with us. There is no one left at this court I trust enough. And also -”
“Also?”
She sights. “Jace doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay and fight, even though he is injured and there is no dragon left to claim for him.”
Cregan lifts an eyebrow. “And you are hoping I could convince him to run? Your son is not a coward, your grace.”
“I am hoping you can convince him to be wise!” Rhaenyra exclaims. “I will have a war to fight and I cannot take him with me to Kingslanding once I have to go there, not in his condition! And yesterday, we found Greycap in his medicine.”
Greycap, a poisonous mushroom used to put down sick cattle in winterfell. Cregan stares at her. Jacaerys, even in his helpless state, has been victim of an attempted murder.
“Please, Lord Stark,” his queen says, looking at him with clear, wide eyes. The eyes of a mother. “Will you protect my son?”
There is only one answer. Cregan kneels down, his head lowered.
“Until the old gods claim me,” he says. His throat is dry and he tries to shake images of Rickon, small and warm, probably sleeping in his crib right now. “My sword is yours.”
__
The way down though the castle is much longer than up to the queens chambers. Sir Darklyn walks in front of them, carrying the torch Lady Baela brought before. Rhaenyra follows him, Cregan behind her. Baela has stayed upstairs, the queens had ordered her to rest after her long flight. Cregan had bid his farewell with a short bow. He doesn’t know if he will ever see the Lady again, but he has always respected true bravery.
“Thank you, Sir Darklyn,” Rhaenyra says now, as they reach a big, wooden door. Its ornaments are showing dragons, winding through each other, wings spread widely over the wood. The torches next to the door are sitting in the claws of dragon statues also.
“Please wait here for me,” the queen says, and takes the torch out of her Queensguards hand. Sir Darklyn opens the smaller door inside the huge gateway and when Cregan follows his queens through, he can hear how the knight takes his stand, awaiting his queens return.
“Where are we, your grace?” Cregan finally asks, when he follows the queen into something that looks like an enormous stone cave, barely lit by the light of the moon shining through cracks in the ceiling.
“This is the Dragonmont,” Rhaenyra answers, stepping down a flight of stairs, carved directly from the rock. “This is where my families dragons have been living for centuries.”
Cregan follows her even deeper into the cave. They are on its bottom now, and even the little light provided by the moon does not reach here. The torch is their only source of light.
“How many dragons are living here, your grace?” Cregans asks warily. Is he imagining the sound of wings in the air? He has an unsettling feeling that something big is moving around him, just out of the torch's light.
“Seven, over all,” his queen says. She doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned, walking through the darkness unbothered. “But most of them are not here at the moment. Vermithor, Silverwing and Seasmoke I have sent away with their riders. Syrax is here, of course, and Moondancer now. Caraxes is here also.”
Cregan knows what this means. The queens husband, the rogue prince Daemon Targaryen, is here on Dragonstone. The man Rhaenyra suspects to have tried to poison Jace, even after his injuries.
Finally, Cregan sees a glimpse of light in the darkness. A long stripe of warm light, coming through the gap in a door. When the torch's light reaches it, he can see that there is handmade wall, merging with the caves natural stone.
“Rhaena Targaryen had these chambers built into the Dragonmont in her late days,” Rhaenyra explains, putting the torch up next to an elegant wooden door, also engraved with a dragon. “She used to sleep here to be closer to her own dragon, Dreamfyre.”
Cregan nods and steps next to her. Rhaenyra lifts her head to knock, but then hesitates, turning around to look at Cregan again.
“He doesn’t know I called for you,” the queen says quickly. “I left him with the Dragonkeepers, and he will probably be in - quiet a mood.”
“I can handle moods,” Cregan says. He thinks of Rickon again. “Moods are better than death.”
“I would say so,” Rhaenrya nods. Then, she knocks on the door and opens it. Cregan follows her inside.