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mortalfaerie · 1 month

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡

Chapter Five: Amends For Trespasses

Cregan Stark x (Strong) Velaryon! OC

tw: nothing i can think of

note: this is cross-posted on ao3 and a commenter has dubbed them "dragonwolf" which i love!!

Much to the malcontent of the men-at-arms at Winterfell, Seasmoke had chosen to dig out a trench ten feet deep in the nigh-frozen earth outside the keep. After meeting with the lord of Winterfell, it was Celaena’s second order of business to go and see her mount, and try to ease some of the tension he was causing with his presence.

Seasmoke was older than her mother’s dragon and larger for being male. While still far from the size of Dreamfyre or Vhagar, he was larger than any beast the northern soldiers had ever seen. His head alone was the size of a canon, and the nest he had dug out in the earth could have fit a regiment inside of it.

Before she was in sight of him, he lifted his head into the air sniffed, detecting her scent and scanning for her. When he caught her, skirts clutched in her hands as he tromped not terribly gracefully through the snow, he thumped his massive tail on the ground like a dog. He drew up from his roost, shaking off the snow that had settled and hopped out to close some of the distance between them. When the massive beast reached her, he squatted down and lowered his neck to her level so she could rest her head against him and speak to him in High Valyrian. In response, he made a rumbling noise that sounded reminiscent of a cat’s purr.

The men on the parapets were dumbfounded by the sight. The dragon had nearly killed the best of them when they tried to retrieve the princess’s saddlebags, but faced with the princess herself he was practically docile. Combined with Celaena’s limited stature, having never caught up to her siblings in height, the experience of seeing a massive dragon be pet by a girl the size of one of its bones was uncanny.

“I heard that you’ve been causing trouble,” she spoke to Seasmoke in High Valyrian, eliciting a noncommittal huff of smoke from him.

“I’m sorry I worried you, Seasmoke. I know you don’t like it when I’m gone and you don’t know where I am.” she added, stroking his scales that were sandy grey trimmed with red. He nuzzled her head with the side of his own, wrapping her in his warmth.

“I’m not ready to fly again yet,” she apologized to him, “I was ill, and I’m better but still very tired.” Seasmoke huffed smoke again, but didn’t act out. She considered that perhaps he had truly been fretting over her these past two days, only remaining because of her scent within the keep kept him fixed. At that thought, she attempted as much of an embrace of his flank that she could, and leaned into his big body. They remained like that for some time, until the chill of the air forced her to withdraw, and promise to return later.

In the meantime, it was time to make amends for Seasmoke’s trespasses.

Celaena sought out Jeyne again when she returned to the keep. The woman was hauling flour bags - which no doubt required great strength - when the princess appeared in the threshold. Upon slinging one into the chest that contained the others, she clapped the loose powder from her hands and then looked up, seeing Celaena.

“Your grace!” she exclaimed, startling the other staff in the kitchen to attention. “Are ye lost?”

“No, I’m quite alright, Jeyne,” she assured the older woman, stepping down the two stone stairs into the kitchen proper. “I was wondering if you had the opportunity to pass along the purse I gave you earlier.”

Jeyne glanced to the kitchen, which was being cleaned between the midday and evening meal. “Eh, no, your grace.” she replied.

“In that case, could your staff spare you to help me with an errand?” Celaena asked, nodding in acknowledgement to the kitchenmaids who curtsied low in deference, murmuring their respects. “It would mean very much to me.”

One of the older maids nodded to Jeyne, who reached to untie her apron and replied, “Of course, princess. What is it you need me for?”

As they walked through the keep and out to the inner bailey - stopping to retrieve warmer clothes on their way - Celaena explained her intentions. The groom in the stable was more than willing to allow the princess use of one of the wheelhouses for her purposes, and Jeyne explained to the driver where they needed to be taken. After half an hour, they arrived outside of a thatched-roof farm, with smoke billowing out of the chimney in its center. In the adjoining field, a man was carrying hay out to a barn.

“Should we approach the house, first, Jeyne?” the princess asked, suddenly feeling more wary. Her bravado had carried her this far, but actually standing in the snow outside the farm, it occurred to her that in speaking directly to the smallfolk, she was out of her depth.

“Aye,” Jeyne nodded. “I ken that’s the right thing to do, your grace.”

Celaena hovered a moment longer, and Jeyne added, “Would ye like me to accompany you?”

“Would you?” Celaena implored, and the cook chuckled.

They walked, arm in arm, to the wooden door of the house and knocked. Children noisly called out within to their mother, and a short woman appeared in the opened doorway. She clearly had not been expecting them, and her expression shifted from consternation to shock as she opened and closed her mouth without speaking.

“Hello,” Celaena began, and looked to Jeyne for assurance. The old woman nodded in encouragement and the princess continued. “I understand that my dragon has caused damage to your property, and I would like to effectively compensate you. May we come in?”

The woman’s eyes went wide, but she nodded vigorously. “Certainly,” she said, a distinct northern brogue, thicker than Jeyne’s was evident in her speech. “If you’ll, eh, excuse the mess, madam.”

The door opened into a large central room, a fireplace and stove in the middle of the room, with a dining table and benches nearby. Two worn chairs were sat by the fire, and three small children sat on the ground nearby, playing with wooden toys. A few rooms broke off from the central room into other parts of the house, and a back door exited into the field. The smallfolk woman ushered her children into one of the rooms, apologizing profusely to Celaena as she gathered toys into her apron, and offered her one of the worn chairs.

“Will you take a drink?” She offered, fidgeting with her hands after she had tucked the toys into a cabinet.

“Oh, that’s quite fine, I don’t want to impose,” Celaena began, but Jeyne placed a hand on her shoulder and said to the woman. “We’ll have a tea, please.”

“Oh,” Celaena said, then affirmed, “Of course. Thank you,”

The woman returned a few moments later with two mugs of a hot, spiced liquid and sat awkwardly across from the princess.

“It was very kind of you to welcome us in,” Celaena began, and considered her words. “I am an emissary of Queen Rhaenyra, who has just come into her crown. I was sent to Winterfell on dragonback to deliver a message, but alas, I became ill shortly after arriving. My dragon, Seasmoke, was unsettled after not seeing me for several days, and I understand her may have pursued your cattle during that time.”

The smallfolk woman, still evidently shocked at the visit, nodded. “Afraid so, madam. Three of our heifers were lost.”

“I am very sorry.” Celaena said, and took a sip of the tea. “And I am sorry as well I could not have addressed the loss sooner. I would like to compensate your family, either by purchasing new cattle or perhaps paying you for the cost of them.”

The woman shook her head, “I could not ask such of thing of you,” she said, but trailed off for lack of a name or title.

“Princess Celaena,” she supplied. The smallfolk woman’s eye widened and she waved her hands in objection.

“Princess, certainly not,” She said hoarsely.

“I insist. And you are not asking, lady, I am offering.” Celaena countered.

The woman appeared torn, but finally nodded. “I - the heifers are important for us, in money means.”

“Of course,” Celaena nodded, and looked to Jeyne. The cook fished out the purse, and offered it to the woman. “Will this be enough?”

The woman carefully opened the strings of the purse, and looking in, drew in a sharp gasp. “Mada- your grace, this is too much,” she said, shaking her head.

“Please,” Celaena urged. “If not outright for the cows, then consider it to be an… investment in your farm.”

When the smallfolk woman still appeared torn, she added, “It would mean very much to me if you would accept this.”

Finally the woman caved. “I - I don’t know what to say, your grace. This is most generous.”

Celaena beamed. “I am very glad to help, in anyway I can. I will be at Winterfell for some more time yet, and I fervently hope that if you have need of aide in some way, you will feel comfortable coming to me.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, “Truthfully.”

Unsure of how to reply exactly, Celaena nodded, and sipped the remainder of her tea.

Back at Winterfell, Celaena and Jeyne dismounted from the wheelhouse just in time to see Cregan Stark saddling his charger to ride out.

“Princess,” he called out, surprised, stepping away from the groom and the horse. Though not expecting to see her, it obviously was not an unwelcome surprise - he grinned as he approached, and stopped directly before them. He had dressed more for the weather, with his great bear cloak on and leather riding gloves. Celaena tried not to stare at him, but felt her cheeks flush all the same as his gaze in turn settled on her.

It was the cold wind, she told herself.

“Lord Stark,” she greeted politely. “Your cook, Jeyne, was kind enough to humor me on an errand of some personal importance.”

He glanced to Jeyne, who nodded in corroboration. “Well, in that case,” he said, “I am glad she was available to aide you. If you need help with another matter, you may also ask me, princess. Not that Jeyne,” he smiled at the older woman, “Is not competent for the role, but as your host, I should like to aide you where I can.”

“Oh,” Celaena nodded, “I will bear that in mind.” she paused, and regarded his horse behind him. “Where do you go now, my lord?”

“Hm? Oh, yes - into town to mediate a dispute. I should be back in time for supper, where I hope to see you, your grace.” he explained, nodding towards her.

“I should like to be there,” Celaena smiled. His own grin grew a little wider, and his eyes passed her over appreciatively, before his stormy eyes landed back on hers again.

“Good. Until then, princess.” He bid her goodbye for now, and turned to go mount his horse.

Jeyne saw the princess back to her rooms, and urged her to rest before supper. Celaena begrudgingly agreed, beginning to feel the fatigue settling in again.

As the cook returned to the kitchens, she considered the interaction she had witnessed in the stables. She had been in service to House Stark since the old lord, Cregan’s father, was a young man. She had watched Cregan grow from a babe and helped nurse him through his childhood ailments. She had seen him make eyes at women at revels, but not to his guest - a princess, no less - in his own stables, in broad daylight. She believed him to be - generally, knew him to be - an honorable man. She didn’t mistrust his intentions, so much as found his sudden behavior amusing.

She would keep her eye on them, she decided.

#cregan stark #cregan stark x oc #celaena velaryon #jacaerys velaryon #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd #asoiaf #house of the dragon #dragonwolf

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mortalfaerie · 1 month

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡

Chapter Four: Your Mother's Liege Lord

Cregan Stark x (Strong) Velaryon! OC

tw: nothing? i think?

Celaena could remember very little from the night she arrived in Winterfell. She recalled falling from Seasmoke’s saddle, vaguely understood that Cregan Stark had carried her into the keep, and registered flashes when she opened her eyes at times of a maester, a crone, a bath, a bed… and she had been lulled into a deep and unrelenting sleep by the quiet chanted prayers of an old woman at her bedside, beseeching any of the old gods who were listening to take pity on the poor princess.

In her dreams, however, she was back with her father.

In the hazy, out-of-focus lens of her dream, she was sitting on one of the ship’s docks at Dragonstone with Laenor Velaryon, watching the sunset over the water. The waves were painted in rich hues that danced and shimmered like fish, and Celaena - much, much younger - was leaning against her father’s side on the wooden boards.

“When you become the Lord of Driftmark,” she asked him, “Can I live with you?”

Laenor laughed at his only daughter and ruffled her hair. “Silly Cellie,” he called her good-naturedly, a nickname she only tolerated him to call her out of love. “You are your mother’s daughter more than you are mine. You will go where she wills it.”

“I don’t want to be a princess.” She said stubbornly and huffed.

“And would you rather be a pirate? Or be like Elissa Farman, and sail off into the sunset sea?” he asked her.

“Mayhaps.” She said, tucking her knees up and under her chin.

Laenor laid out on his back on the wooden planks. “I’ll tell you a secret, Celaena,” he said, feigning great concern that no one was in earshot, as though this was a juicy piece of gossip. Celaena was baited, and laid out beside him, eagerly listening.

“Sometimes I wish I were a pirate, too,” he whispered in her ear, and she giggled. “Maybe, one day, we can be pirates together.”

As the sun disappeared, Celaena was sucked again into the black nothingness of a dreamless sleep, until she woke to a stinging dryness in her throat.

She turned onto her side in the warm and comfortable bed where she slept, and it took her blindly reaching out and grasping very dense furs to realize that this was not her bed. Her eyes fluttered open and she squinted to focus them. Daylight illuminated the room through a grand window beside the massive bed she lay in, with its tall wooden posts and piled furs of more exotic animals than had ever been hunted for her in the crownlands. Leaning up onto her elbows, she saw stone floors and piled rugs, and a blazing hearth in the corner. Before the hearth, an old woman slept in a chair, with a pitcher of water beside her.

Celaena’s throat ached as though she had taken on Seasmoke’s skill for breathing fire. She rubbed at her neck and moved to sit up in the bed, feeling her muscles protest the movement. Tenderly, she moved her legs over the side of the bed and stepped onto the cold floor, grimacing. She was wearing a heavy flannel nightgown that most certainly did not belong to her, but she resolved to question that development later. For now, she was ravenous for the water she had set her sights on.

She gingerly walked to woman and grasped the pitcher. She looked for a glass but finding none, decided to just drink as much from the pitcher as she could. With great, desperate, searing gulps, she downed half the pitcher before the matronly woman stirred, looked up, and squawked in surprise.

“My lady! No - My princess!” she cried, and quickly stood to bow to her. “What’re you doing out of bed?”

Celaena raised an eyebrow and downed more water before she attempted speech.

“Good woman,” she rasped, her voice sounding as though she had been shouting for days, “Please calm yourself.”

“M’lady, please, you’ve been ill and should be resting.” The old lady pleaded, trying to usher Celaena back to the great bed.

“I’ve no notion of how long I’ve been resting, but should I think with how thirsty I am, I must have been asleep for days.” She said somewhat humorously.

“Well, ah, two days, princess.” The old woman conceded.

Celaena felt her eyes go wide. “Two days? I have been asleep for two days?”

“Ye arrived at Winterfell is quite a state princess, you were dreadfully ill and, thank the gods now you are better,” the woman quickly explained, but Celaena felt her mind spin. She sat down again on the bed and clutched her head.

“Does your head pain you, princess? Shall I send for the maester?” she asked.

“No, no,” Celaena said, shaking her head. “Send for the Lord of Winterfell.”

The woman was quiet before she said, “Are you certain you’ll be wanting to meet the lord in your current…” she trailed off, nodding to Celaena’s flannel night clothes.

Celaena pinched the bridge of her nose. “My pack. Was it retrieved from my dragon?” she asked the woman.

“It should have been, at any rate,” she said, and went to ring a bell by the door. A maid came quickly, and the older woman asked that she bring the princess’s belongings - and inform Lord Stark that his guest had awoken.

Apparently, the soldiers on the night of her arrival were to frightened of Seasmoke, who was most agitated by his rider’s illness, to approach him and attempt to retrieve her belongings. It was only on the second day, when a grizeled watchman and several hunters had the nerve to throw a net over the beast and dodge his flames that the contents of the saddle bags were secured and brought to Winterfell, where they had to be dried by the fire for the freezing rain that had ensued that evening.

In retaliation for the indignity of being trapped in a net, Seasmoke had apparently burned several trees in the outer forest, and hunted several cows from a famer’s field.

The older woman - Jeyne, the cook of Winterfell - told Celaena of this after she went to retrieve her some porridge and bread. Celaena sighed, but recognized that if Seasmoke was truly so aggrieved, he could have just killed the soldiers. She supposed she was thankful her dragon had excercised some limited restraint.

From her pack which had been brought to her, she retrieved some of the gold coin which she carried whenever she was dispatched on a long journey, and may need to bargain. She handed a small purse of it to the cook and said, “I admit I am unsure of who could handle such matters, but please see to it that this coin purchases new caddle for the farmers. Dragons can be temperamental, particularly when their riders are ill… it is an unfortunate hazard of our bond.”

“Oh, aye,” Jeyne nodded, as though dragons scorching the laypeople’s livestock was a very normal and altogether typical occurrence this far north.

“Seasmoke especially is, ah,” she paused, thinking of how to put it, “Difficult, when he choses to be.”

“Then he suffers from being male, m’lady.” The old woman said with a grin at the barb, and Celaena couldn’t help but laugh.

After Jeyne had foistered two bowls of porridge and berry preserves on bread to her princess, she seemed satisfied that the great lady was not going to keel over and die just yet, and sent for a maid to help her dress.

“I ken that you’ll not be prepared to dress in your gowns without a hand to help,” Jeyne explained, adding, “And you’ve such long and curling hair… beautiful hair, princess,” she assured her, “but I imagine it’s rather difficult to work a comb through unassisted, no?”

Celaena reluctantly nodded. “Alas, yes.” she conceded, remembering how her mother’s ladies had struggled with her and her brother’s hair when they were young, until finally Ser Laenor had caved and written to his sister, asking her to send a lady from her own home in Pentos who could manage it.

Between the royal couple, they understood the curls their children inherited were not of the same origin as their Velaryon name, but it was dense and volimuous enough that the princess’s ladies and were wholly unprepared.

By now, Celaena was capable of managing it, but she had slept fitfully for two days on it now and it was a right mess to behold in the mirror.

After an hour of deliberately combing, soaking, and combing again her hair into submission, the maid had succeeded in plaiting it into crown on her head, with stray unreachable curls falling around her face. She dressed in one of the gowns she had travelled with - a red kirtle with a black wool overgown stitched with dragons at the hem. The only shoes she had brought besides her tall riding boots were a practical pair of leather boots, laced to her mid-calf, and it was those she chose to wear today.

A knock at the door alerted the maid and princess, and another servant came in an curtsied. “Lord Stark would like to greet you in the library, your grace. I can take you there.”

With a final look in the mirror, Celaena settled that her tired face after the ordeal of nearly freezing and then spending two days in a fever was immutable for the time being, and sighed. “Yes, of course. Please lead the way.”

As they walked the stone halls of Winterfell, insulated with rich tapestries depicting previous heroes of the north, the men at arms first looked shocked, and then bowed their heads in respect as she passed them, muttering obeisances of “Your grace,” and “Princess,”

Celaena took it in with courteous nods, but it was a phenomenon she had not felt since she lived at court in her youth. Even when they travelled to King’s Landing to defend Lucerys’ inheritance from Vaemond Velaryon, the courtiers had regarded them not with deference, but a cold politeness.

As they reached the library, the man at the door held it open for her and announced, “Her grace, Princess Celaena Velaryon, daughter of the Queen!”

Cregan Stark sat at a table within, looking over a parchment when the door opened. At the announcement, he stood in respect for her station, and gestured to the chair opposite him. She had the opportunity now to gain her first clear impression of him. He was a tall, broad man not much older than she, with jet black hair that fell to his shoulders and a short trimmed beard to match. His eyes were an earnest and steely blue color, and his brow was heavy and denoted a man who was often deep in thought. He wore a woolen doublet in a deep grey, black trousers and tall brown-leather boots. Even in his study, a sword was sheathed at his belt, and his great cloak of bear fur was slung over the back of his chair. He was a broad northern warrior in the full image, but when she came and sat, he offered her a token of genuine concern.

“Are you well this morning, princess?” He asked, his steely eyes narrowed as he glanced over her face, still pale and with dark-rimmed eyes, but she gave him a small smile to set him at ease.

“I am. Certainly, more than I have been these past days. I was appalled to learn I had been sleeping for two entire daylights,” she confessed, folding her hands in her lap. “There is vital time now which must not be squandered,” she stated, and regarded him as an advisor.

“Of course. I have read the contents of the missive your mother, the queen, entrusted to you. I admit, there are still many areas where we in the north are still in the dark, and I hope you will be able to enlighten us, that we may plan our next moves.” He said, and slid the parchment signed by her mother towards her.

Celaena scanned it, and turned her attention back to the man before her. “Tell me what it is you have gathered in my absence, and I will tell you what else you must know, my lord.”

So he spoke. He told her of the news which had come north in whispers that the king was near his end, that he slept most of every day in a poppy-addled state. He explained that this far north, where spring would not set in for a month yet or longer, ravens were often lost before they reached Winterfell, and messages had to be conveyed by men on horseback, who could take weeks to cross the distance from the south. Her arrival on dragonback had heralded the first confirmation they had of the king’s death and the fase pretender’s conspiracy, and Cregan had acted the morning after by calling for a council of his lords to convene in a week’s time. He confirmed for her the northerner’s unwavering fealty to Queen Rhaenyra, and told her that with her at the council, they would set forth a plan to gather troops and march south, to meet the black army and retake the throne.

Celaena felt the weight of her uncertainty lift from her shoulders at his affirmation of support. She had come prepared to bargain all that she must in order to secure their army, and to hear that the northmen would uphold their vow on principle alone was a stroke of good news in the din of war.

“Now,” he said when he had finished, “You must tell me what it is I must know,”

Celaena considered where to begin, and drew in a deep breath. “Near to week ago now, my family was summoned to a special council in King’s Landing. A cousin, Vaemond Velaryon, sought to usurp my brother Lucerys’s inheritance of Driftmark. When we arrived, we were shocked to see the extent of changes which had been made while my grandsire, the king, was incapacitated.” She said, and then sighed. “The Hand, Otto Hightower, ruled in all but name. He even sat upon my grandsire’s throne.”

Cregan leaned back in his chair as he listened to her speak.

“It was clear that he had decided our fate before we arrived, but his plot was foiled when my grandsire, ill as he was, entered the throne room and put an end to the farce. Not, alas, before Vaemond Velaryon called my mother unspeakable things before the whole court - and as such an utterance is treason, my stepfather cut him down where he stood.” She continued. Cregan raised his eyebrows at that detail, and nodded for her to keep going. “The king summoned us all - both factions which had formed - to a private dinner, where he urged us peace. When he retired for the night, it all fell apart - my uncle Aegon, the pretender, made lewd statements to me and my uncle Aemond provoked my brother, Jacaerys, to defend my and my family’s honor. A brawl ensued, and we left in the night.”

She traced the lettering of the parchment. “We would learn days later that night was my grandsire’s last. His death was concealed from us, from his heir, so that the crown could be placed on the pretender’s head before my mother was even allowed to grieve her beloved father.”

Cregan clenched his jaw and felt the muscle there jump in frustration. It was a sordid tale, and he suspected it only grew worse.

“Three days after, news arrived in Dragonstone. A member of my grandsire’s kingsguard loyal to the true queen could not bare the treachery and escaped to tell my mother, under the threat of death if he was discovered. My mother was with child at the time, you see,” she detailed, and took a shaking breath, “In her shock and despair, the babe came too early. I was there with her in the room when the babe - she would have been my sister - was born silent as stone, and so small.”

Celaena was clearly affected at recalling this horror, and looked off to compose herself. Cregan patted his doublet until he found a square of linen to offer her, to dry her watering eyes.

“Thank you,” she muttered on accepting it.

“Take what time you need, princess.” He assured her.

She took several breaths and proceeded, “Not a full day passed before we had to act. At noon the following day, only hours after we interred the babe, my mother dispatched myself, my brother Lucerys, and my twin, Jacaerys, to secure and inform our allies.”

Cregan had been keeping tally of the days in his mind, and spoke. “You flew all night to reach us.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Celaena confirmed grimly. “The situation was dire, as you can see.”

Cregan studied her a moment. “That was exceptionally brave, princess, and I do not say so to flatter you.”

“It was necessary.” She said plainly.

“You could have perished in the cold.” He pointed out.

“I could not afford to,” she said, as though she could deter death itself. “I had a mission, given to me by my mother and my queen.”

He held her gaze for a long moment and stated, “You will be well loved among the northmen, your grace.”

Despite herself, Celaena felt her cheeks flush and glanced away. “Yes, well,” she said, “I can only hope so, that they might hear what it is I must say.”

His much large hand covered hers, and she met his eyes again, the steely blue that was wholly at home in this cold climate. “They will heed me, and I will see to it that they listen to you, your grace. I am your mother’s liege lord. I will serve you as I do her.”

Celaena felt the intensity of his gaze, and nodded slowly. “Thank you, my lord. I believe,” she paused, “I believe we will work well together.”

#cregan stark #cregan stark x oc #hotd #house of the dragon #celaena velaryon #jacaerys velaryon #jace's twin oc #rhaenyra targaryen #asoiaf

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mortalfaerie · 1 month

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡

Chapter Three: Into The Storm

Cregan Stark x (Strong)Velaryon! OC

tw: illness, questionable pseudo-medieval medical stuff lol

Atop Seasmoke, the world a passing stage below them, Celaena passed an hour before the cloud encroached on them, growing darker and darker. To avoid the cover, they dipped lower and glided over holdings, no doubt visible by the time they passed the great castle of the Eyrie.

Into the north, as the sun drew lower over the horizon, the clouds came lower as though chasing the dragon and her rider. In a sense of duty mixed with stubbornness, Celaena refused to land prematurely. With reckless determination, they followed the kings road north as the terrain became greyer and snowy even in the early spring. Within what she estimated must be an hour of her destination as the sun fully disappeared, the skies opened up and poured torrentially on them.

Seasmoke grew restless as the path became unclear, swishing his tail and roaring in discontent. She urged him in High Valyrian to calm, to obey, to hold on just until they made it. The water soaked even through her dense riding clothes, and she felt cold - and then numb, as they pushed further.

Finally, the outline of great keep came into view, with the circular towers and outwalls that she had seen in illustrations of Winterfell. They circled the keep in preparation to land, as soldiers on the ramparts yelled and pointed, then poured into the inner moat to await orders from their lord and commander.

When Seasmoke landed, shaking the earth and roaring to all his presence, Celaena had begun to feel weak and tired. Still, she persevered and held herself tall in the saddle as the Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, exited to stand before her.

In some distant part of her mind, Celaena considered that it takes a brave man indeed to stand alone before a fully grown dragon. However, she had business to carry out on behalf of the one true queen.

The rain still poured down with a vengeance as she called out, “Lord Cregan Stark,” and paused to draw in a deep breath, as she felt more weary than she expected. “I am Princess Celaena Velaryon, second-born of Rhaenyra, first of her name - Queen,” she drew in another breath, “Of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and of the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector - of - the - Realm.” she ground out with great effort.

Cregan Stark, despite the downpour, removed his cap and bowed his head. “Hail, Queen Rhaenyra.”

Taking in another fortifying breath, Celaena continued. “I come as an emissary of the Queen,” her vision began to swim and she fought to stay focused. “With a message to deliver.”

Beneath her, Seasmoke moved uneasily and swished his tail in discontent. The men on the ramparts knocked their bows, but Cregan Stark raised a hand to stop them. Celaena muttered for Seasmoke to calm down, but he snapped his jaw in defiance.

“Your grace,” the Warden of the North called through the rain. “Are you well?”

Celaena blinked to clear her vision as Seasmoke strained his neck to see her and snapped again in discontent. “No, my lord,” she began, and Seasmoke slapped the snowy ground with his tail. “I am not,” she said, just as her vision began to blur again and the light of the torches beyond seemed to move sideways. She was aware of Seasmoke’s roar of distress, the yelling of the men beyond, and could feel the sting where her waist chains dug into her side to prevent her from fully falling from the saddle.

“Your grace!” Cregan yelled, and approached cautiously. Seasmoke swished his tail in agitation and bared his long, sharp teeth, but did not advance on the young lord. With hands raised, he approached, speaking lowly to the dragon.

“I mean her no harm. No harm,” he repeated, until he reached the beast’s side. With an agitated thump and an exhale of steam, Seasmoke hunkered down and closer to the ground, where the Lord of Winterfell could reach the princess, dangling from the chains.

He cursed as he grasped her, feeling that she was cold and soaked, her lips beginning to tinge purple. But, her pulse was strong and she was breathing without effort, and he set to work unlatching the chains. Seasmoke continued to grow agitated but permitted him to take her, when finally she was free of the chains and fell into his arms. He clutched the princess to his chest and slung his fur cloak over her body, as he carried her into the keep and called loudly to wake the maester.

The warmest room in Winterfell was the lord’s own chamber. The castle had ingeniously been built over a hot spring, with the greatest chamber feeling the best of the effects. It was here that Cregan carried his princess’s cold frame, before depositing her on the rug before the fire and wrapping her in his cloak. Wasting no time, he went and pulled the furs from his own bed and covered her more, rubbing her hands in his own to bring the blood back. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him strangely. “How did…” she rasped, but then shook her head as though she had thought better of it.

“Don’t fret, your grace,” he urged, and yelled to the men who had followed him in to bring a tub and hot water, and where on earth was the maester?

The old man finally came, jogging as best he could, carrying herbs and bottles clutched to his chest.

“How long has she been in the cold?” He asked. Cregan shook his head. “I don’t know - I wasn’t even aware she was travelling to Winterfell. She may have come directly from Dragonstone.”

The maester made the sign of the Seven before himself and began separating herbs in various amounts into a bowl, and crushed them with a tool. “She’ll need to be rid of the wet clothing, my lord.”

Cregan grit his teeth. He had seen men sick nearly to death from exposure and frostbite, and he knew what must be done, but he hesitated to insult the princess’s modesty infront of all these assembled soldiers.

“Out!” he yelled to them. “And summon Jeyne - and the maids!”

The servants who had been sent for arrived back with a great wood tub and pails and pails of water that steamed in their hands, dumping them into the tub. The maester commandeered a pail and used it to add to his potion, stirring it dissolve.

“Help me to get this in her mouth, my lord,” he asked, and Cregan tilted the princess’s pale face back so the draught could be poured down her throat. She sputtered and started, but swallowed the mixture, and groaned aloud to the pair.

The maester looked encouraged, however. “That will help. It is a warming tonic, and it will help to warm her body from the inside. Still, we need to get her out of her cold clothing and into the hot bath.”

Cregan nodded but insisted, “I will have the Septa do it. She is a princess, and unwed. I will not insult her honor by seeing her undressed, nor having any of my men see her as such either.”

The maester nodded. “Very well, but bring her to the fire.”

Cregan scooped her again and sat with her against his chest, facing the hearth. She squirmed in his grasp but didn’t wake again, and he chewed the inside of his cheek in consternation until the Jeyne, the wizened old crone and cook at Winterfell came scurrying into the room with several chambermaids on her heels.

“Yes, m’lord?” she asked, waiting for his word.

“This is Princess Celaena, daughter of your new Queen, Rhaenyra.” he said, turning to her. “She is very ill from the cold and must be undressed and bathed in the hot water to bring her body back around.”

He regarded the plump and matronly woman who had helped care for him and his late brother during their childhood illnesses, and said pointedly, “You must care for her with the greatest respect for her station and honor. Let no man but the maester see her unclothed, and only to treat her. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, my lord.” She insisted, and the maids nodded. He waved her over and shifted the princess into her waiting arms, then stood.

“Bathe her, care for her. I will have some of my mother’s old clothing sent for so you can dress her after. You may put her to bed here, it is the warmest.” He said, looking about the room. “I will sleep elsewhere tonight. Have a woman watch over her, and send for me as soon as she is awake and coherent.”

A chorus of agreement went up from the group, and he made his exit, closing the door firmly behind him. Spotting two of his most trusted men, he ordered them to stand watch at the door. As he went towards the kitchens in search of a mug of heated ale, another soldier approached him.

“My lord, the princess was carrying this missive when she collapsed,” he said and handed the offered scroll to his lord. Cregan nodded gruffly to the man in thanks.

Once he had sought the stiff drink, he found his way to the library and sat in a secluded corner to unfurl the parchment.

Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, In the late hours of the previous day, my father, King Viserys, passed into the arms of Seven. It was his will, and stipulated by the oath sworn by all the lords paramount of the realm, that I succeed him to the Iron Throne as his chosen heir. However, a faction has formed and installed my brother, Aegon, as a false king in my stead. I now call upon those who swore an oath to my father to honor it, and join me in retaking the throne and realm from this treasonous few. I have sent to you as an emissary, my daughter Celaena. She is intelligent and astute, and I have endowed her with the power to grant necessary requests in the North which may prove beneficial to our alliance. The one and true Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen

Finishing reading, Cregan downed his ale and sat, pensive. It offended his code of honor that there were those who went against the solemn oath they had sworn in the Queen’s youth, and per his morals, he would make true to his promise and render what aid to the rightful queen that was necessary. Nevertheless, it struck him that straits must be dire if Rhaenyra sent her only daughter to fly through a storm to reach Winterfell.

The situation did not bode well in his mind, nor his warrior’s heart. Gods be good, the princess would wake and recover and could shed more light on what had come to pass. Regardless, he would make it his first action come dawn to dispatch ravens to his bannermen and summon their lords to a council at Winterfell. He could see few ways out of this now where the northmen did not march south to make war on behalf of their dragon queen, and it was time to prepare.

#cregan stark #cregan stark x oc #house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon #rhaenyra targeryan #celaena velaryon #hotd

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mortalfaerie · 1 month

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡

Chapter Two: Draw No Blade, Spill No Blood

Cregan Stark x (Strong)Velaryon! OC

Celaena Velaryon is the younger twin of Jacaerys by minutes. When war comes, she is sent to Winterfell to ensure House Stark's loyalty. In return, Cregan Stark only wants one thing: Celaena to be his wife.

tw: graphic depictions of traumatic childbirth/miscarriage, stillbirth (visenya)

Celaena was predictable. Each day in the afternoon, she took to the skies to fly with Seasmoke alone - for hours even, if the weather allowed for it. On that fateful day, the clouds had finally parted after days to allow her to soar as long and as far as she desired, and she wasted not a minute of daylight. Returning to the cliffside by the castle, her hair was windswept from its braid and her cheeks were whipped red from the breeze. She stood, smoothing her hand over her dragon’s scaled flank and telling him praises in High Valyrian, when her younger brother ran to her, his face as grim as she had ever seen him.

“Lucerys,” she greeted, her stomach twisting as she saw his expression. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Our grandsire, the king, is dead,” he said, panting. “Mother went into labor when she learned the news,” he managed to get out.

“No.” Was all she could say in response. It was too soon, much too soon - and grabbing the lengths of her riding cloak in hand, she tore off down the expanse to the keep.

She skidded into the great hall on the stone floors, where her stepfather was hearing reports from the kingsguard who had brought the news. From her chamber, her mother screamed in pain and called out for her husband. He was heedless to her pleas, and with gritted teeth, Celaena climbed the stairs two at a time until she reached the landing before her mother’s chamber. A guard tried to deny her entry but she shoved past him and through the doors.

Inside, her mother wailed, clutching at the postbeam of her bed. Her ladies and midwives pleaded with her to let them help, but she swatted each of them off of her as they tried.

“Mother!” Celaena cried out, sounding choked. Her mother looked at her for just a moment before crying out again in pain.

“Princess,” Elinda Massey came to Celaena’s side, pleading. “She won’t allow anyone to touch her, but she needs help. The babe is coming too soon, she must submit to care.”

The plea was implicit, and Celaena nodded. Slowly, as though approaching a wild animal, she walked towards her mother.

“Lady mother - your grace,” she said softly, coming to stand several feet away from her at the other postbeam. She grasped it, just as her mother did, and tried to speak gently to her.

“Please, please, mother,” she said, her heart in her throat as she watched her mother strain and gasp. “Let us help. Let me help. Please,” she asked.

“No!” Rhaenyra ground out, her knees buckling beneath her. Celaena went to her side, shouldering her weight.

“Don’t touch me,” the princess-turned-queen wailed brokenly, but she could not remove her weight from her daughter’s support, she had not enough strength.

“Mother, please,” Celaena croaked. “Please, please, you know I will not leave you. Beseech me not to, please, and let these ladies help you.”

“They will kill me,” Rhaenyra insisted, “They will have me dead, just as my father.”

“Nobody!” Celaena insisted. “Nobody will hurt you, this is Dragonstone, you are safe!”

“I am alone,” Her mother sobbed. Celaena met the eyes of Elinda Massey and her other ladies and conveyed with a jerk of her head to approach slowly.

“Mother,” she said gently, “Please, we must get you into bed. Let me help,” she persisted.

Rhaenyra cried but nodded weakly, and the other ladies came to her side. With much effort, they got her into the bed. The midwives said that it wouldn’t be long, and did what they could to calm her. They offered her milk of the poppy but she bitterly refused, and only clutched at Celaena’s hand as the pains came more and more frequently.

At last, the babe came free into the midwife’s arms, but no cry of life came from her. The queen turned her face and wept into the pillow, and Celaena clutched her close. Gently, Elinda came to her lady’s side.

“It was a girl, your grace.” She said, smoothing back Rhaenyra’s hair. Celaena could feel her tears spill over - a sister. She would have had a sister. Her mother had told her before, sitting before the fire at night, that they wanted to call her Visenya.

Rhaenyra wept. Elinda spoke gently to her, assuring her that they did all they could, that it couldn’t have been helped, as Celaena climbed into the bed beside her, clutching her mother like a child. The midwives moved quietly, taking away the bloodied sheets and swaddling the silent child. They placed her on a pillow at the side table, as the new queen began to quiet in her sobs. When the midwives left the room out of respect, only Elinda and Celaena flanked her.

Elinda had been the most recent lady-in-waiting Rhaenyra had taken on and had joined them on Dragonstone after she wed Daemon. She was a loyal and dedicated supporter of her queen and wept along with her and the queen’s eldest daughter at the sudden turn of events. They sat in silence together, huddled like children, until at last, Rhaenyra’s breathing levelled into an exhausted sleep.

Gradually, Celaena shifted her mother’s frame to her lady. “I must tell the family,” she said quietly, and Elinda nodded.

“I will be with her if she wakes.” The older woman assured her.

Celaena left the room in silence and proceeded down the hall. At the upper landing of the stairs, Lucerys sat and Jacaerys paced. When they saw her, she made to speak but felt her face fall. Her twin caught her in an embrace before she could cry again, and held her close.

“The baby didn’t survive.” He stated more than asked. Celaena shook her head against his shoulder, and he smoothed her hair back. “It’s alright. It’s alright. You did what you could, Celaena.” he insisted. She heard Luke stand and felt him hug her too, and the three of them - the un-innocent three of them, the three bastards guilty of maiming their uncle, the three who bore the weight of their existence - clutched each other.

When finally Celaena pulled back, she said, “Let’s go down. They need to know.”

In silence, they went down the staircase together and into the great hall, where Daemon stood pouring over maps. He nodded for the soldiers to leave the room upon seeing them. Jacaerys squeezed Celaena’s hand, and she spoke.

“Mother is asleep now. The babe didn’t make it,” she drew in a sharp breath. “A girl.”

Stoicly, Daemon nodded. He was a man not prone to outward shows of emotion, but his anguish was evident in the way he looked away from them for a moment, composing himself. When he faced them again, he said, “She should sleep for now. She will need her strength for what comes next.”

It was dawn when they took the bundled and silent body of their would-be sister to the courtyard of the keep, where Syrax waited for her rider. Anxiously, the golden dragon shifted her weight from clawed foot to clawed foot, until she saw Rhaenyra approach leaning on her husband’s arm. The beast nosed at Rhaenyra, mussing her hair and whining her high-pitched noise, until Rhaenyra looked up at her and spoke a few words in High Valyrian. They committed Visenya to a dragon rider’s burial and mixed her ashes with those that came before her, and then they went inside to plan their war.

At noon, Rhaenyra summoned her eldest three children to the cliffside. Dressed formally in the colors of House Targaryen and prepared for flight, they stood before her with bowed heads, as befit vassals to their queen. With a slight smile and reminder of that though she had come into her crown, she was still their mother, she spoke.

“It is imperative, at this stage, to ensure the alliances we count on. But, know that in sending you to carry out these tasks, I am sending you as emissaries only.” She said meaningfully.

Luke looked up, seeming to want to argue but thought better of it. Rhaenyra nodded and produced a copy of the Seven Pointed Star from her pockets, and held it out before her.

“Before I give you your work, swear upon this holy book that you will draw no blade in carrying this out, and you will spill no blood in my name.” She instructed.

The three exchanged looks and then stepped forward, one after the other, and uttered statements of “I swear to the Seven-who-are-one, that I will draw no blade and spill no blood in the name of Queen Rhaenyra.”

Satisfied and setting aside the tome, she produced two scrolls. Placing the first one in Luke’s hands, she explained, “Lucerys. I entrust you with this message to deliver to Borros Baratheon. You may remind him of our kinship, as he is kinsman to your grandmother, Rhaenys.”

Lucerys nodded, and Rhaenyra turned to Celaena. “Celaena. I am sending you to the north, to Winterfell, to speak with Cregan Stark and deliver this message. He is closer in age to you than I and is said to be an honorable man. I have never known of a Stark who did not uphold a vow, but nevertheless, House Stark is a crucial ally.”

Celaena accepted the scroll and nodded deferentially to her mother. To Jacaerys, Rhaenyra spoke next.

“Jacaerys. As I am now Queen, you have become in my stead the Prince of Dragonstone, my heir.” She said and took his hands in a motherly gesture. “To you, I give the all-important task of managing this domain. Go to the towns, and speak to the people. Gain their favor. It will be crucial if we ever need, gods forbid, to defend this island.” Though evidently he would have preferred adventure, he nodded his assent to her. “As you wish, your grace,” he replied.

They walked to their dragons, a family unit, as Rhaenyra saw them mount and prepare to leave. Lucerys, and then Jacaerys took to the skies before Celaena mounted Seasmoke. Rhaenyra rested her palm on Seasmoke’s flank and spoke to her daughter again.

“Celaena, my dear. The north holds a significant army, which would be an asset to our cause. If you are confronted with a request that is in your power to grant, I discharge you to do it. Even betrothals are allowed to this end.” She said.

Celaena nodded slowly. “Including my own?” she asked.

Rhaenyra nodded. “Including your own,” she answered. They regarded eachother for a moment before Rhaenyra added, “Be safe, my daughter.”

They parted like that, and for the second time in two days, Celaena took to the skies atop Seasmoke, disappearing into the gathering storm.

#cregan stark #cregan stark x oc #hotd #house of the dragon #jace's twin oc #jacaerys velaryon #celaena velaryon #rhaenyra targaryen

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mortalfaerie · 1 month

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡

Chapter One: Her Father's Daughter

Cregan Stark x (Strong)Velaryon!OC

Celaena Velaryon, Jacaerys' younger twin by minutes, is sent to Winterfell to ensure the loyalty of House Stark. Upon seeing her land outside the ramparts on the back of the dragon Seasmoke, the Warden of the North desires only one thing for his loyalty: this compelling woman to be his wife.

tw: depictions of childbirth, references to violence

Celaena Velaryon was born in the shadow of her brother - just as in the way she would be for much of her life. The hours of arduous labor which the nineteen-year-old Princess of Dragonstone had endured had finally and gratuitously come to fruition with the strong wail of a healthy babe, announced to the princess by a tired but smiling midwife who declared, “A boy, your grace. A healthy prince.”

“A boy?” she had asked, weakly extending her arms to see him. The red-faced and fussing bundle was placed in her arms, as the princess kissed his forehead.

“Jacaerys. You shall be called Jacaerys,” she spoke to the newborn, and then to the midwife’s apprentice instructed, “Go and tell my husband, Ser Laenor - tell him he has a son.”

Laenor, who had spent over an hour pacing the halls outside the birthing chamber, cringing at the moans and pained cries that emanated from within, had long since declared he could not take it, and would take to the skies on Seasmoke until the babe was born, had conveniently returned to the Red Keep just in time. The young apprentice still clothed in her bloody apron ran through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. None but the royal family had their quarters there, and on today of all days, only those in service to the princess and those who loved her best waited in its walls.

As she ran, her arm was caught by a large hand in a steel gauntlet. Looking up, she found herself in the presence of the Commander of the City Watch and the Princess’ sworn protector, Ser Harwin Strong. His expression was grim as he saw her apron and began to form a question, but was stopped by the young woman's grin.

“A boy, ser! Both healthy and safe, gods be good. I must fetch the princess’ husband, Ser Laenor-” she babbled excitedly. The knight’s face eased into a relieved expression, just as another voice cut in.

“You, girl,” said the approaching lord - exactly the one the apprentice had been seeking. “What news? Is she well? Is the babe born?” Ser Laenor asked intently, looking between Ser Harwin and the young woman.

Before she could tell him, the gold cloak spoke. “A boy. A son, your grace.”

Laenor eased immediately, grinning and then laughing, clapping the knight on his back. “A son? Thank the seven. I’ll go to her now.” he told the other man, like an old friend in his familiarity. Their air of camaraderie was fractured by the frantic steps of a maid, who called out to the apprentice, “Ye must hasten to return! There’s another babe!”

This announcement had the apprentice in a run, the two men not far behind her. She apologetically shut the door of the chamber to them on a scream from the princess inside, blocking them from this place which was no man’s jurisdiction. The pair shared identical expressions of strained worry as the door closed.

“Oh, damn it all! Seven hells!” The princess cried, clutching hard to the ropes which had been hung for her to grasp as she pushed. A maid in the corner bounced the wailing firstborn, as the senior midwife crouched between the princess’s legs and urged her, “I can see the head, your grace, another push and-”

“For fuck’s sake, stop talking!” The princess screamed, stunning the poor midwife into silence. The apprentice ran to the dish of cold water, soaking some linen in it and putting it on the straining princess’s forehead. Another push, more screams, more wailing from the newborn lad and finally - he was joined by the cries of a much smaller second babe.

The princess slumped back on the pillows behind her, eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion. “A boy or a girl?” she asked, her voice gone hoarse from the hours of effort.

“A girl, your grace.” The senior midwife said hesitantly.

The princess laughed breathily. “A girl? One of both, then.” She mused, and waved her hand generally to the room. “Go tell them. Go on.”

Exiting the room again, the apprentice found the Commander stone-faced, staring at the threshold, and Ser Laenor with his head in his hands. He looked up as the midwife exited and asked, “Well?”

She looked between the two men and said, “A girl, my lord. Smaller than her brother but strong and healthy.”

“Twins.” He said, as though he couldn’t believe it. He looked at Ser Harwin with a humorous expression and said, “I suppose that would be my side, then?”

The knight returned his laughing grin. “Must be,” he said, and patted the back of the other man in congratulations.

Much later, when the sun had given way to dusk and the Princess had been allowed to rest after her difficult labor, she stood in the chamber with the two men dearest to her as they looked at the two swaddled bundles laid next to each other in the cradle.

“We didn’t pick a girl’s name.” The princess commented.

“No. An oversight indeed.” Laenor replied dryly. “It should be a family name, I think. Maybe something that sounds similar. Jacaerra?”

The princess looked annoyed at him. “I am not naming my daughter that.” She declared firmly. “You could pick something that sounds like her father’s name.” The big knight suggested. They both looked at him, perplexed for a moment before he clarified, “Laenor, that is.”

The princess offered him a small smile and grasped his hand. “Well, we could hardly name her Harwina or some such,” she sighed. “For one, it’s not Valyrian, and for second,”

“It’s a little too on the nose,” Laenor finished with an apologetic shrug. He paused and offered. “Laena?”

“We already have a Laena Velaryon in this family and she’s your sister,” Rhaenyra pointed out. “Let’s not overly confuse matters.”

“How about Celaena? Sounds similar enough to Jacaerys.” Harwin ventured.

The princess and her husband shared a look and then nodded.

“Celaena, then.” she declared, “Princess Celaena Velaryon.”

The realm rejoiced for a week afterwards, firstly for the birth of a prince, and secondly for the double birth, which had confirmed the princess to the seven kingdoms as fertile and healthy. The birth of a son and daughter in one day, the high septon was even heard to say, must be a sign of goodwill from the Seven themselves.

After the wine stores had dried up and the tourneys fought, however, whispers began inside the Red Keep about the dark brown hair and fair skin each babe had, which resembled neither parent so much as it did their dogged companion, Ser Harwin Strong. Any conspiracy that the twins were smuggled in peasants and not of royal birth was quelled when the prince’s dragon egg hatched, but it only left the young girl whose egg had remained like stone open to even more speculation as she aged.

While the court could be duplicitous and even cold at times, the chambers shared by her family always flowed with love and laughter. They were joined before long by a younger brother, Lucerys, and another, Joffrey. Their father regaled them with stories of adventure and battle, and when the boys were instructed in swordcraft in the training yard, Ser Laenor snuck his daughter away from her septas and took her to the skies on his dragon, Seasmoke. Ser Harwin Strong was a constant presence, making her mother laugh and smile with such warmth that was palpable to all who saw it. For years, they were happy in their little world - but the cracks began to show in the stress their mother bore in the court, and when her beloved sworn shield died she could no longer bear to remain in King’s Landing.

Dragonstone became their refuge, their fortress. It was where the children learned to sail from their father, where they became entrenched in the stories of Old Valyria and saw the unclaimed dragons sore and dip daily around their home. But, their mother never again would laugh the way she had when Ser Harwin was with them.

Celaena Velaryon believed her childhood ended in one wretched week. First, their aunt had died with a babe stuck in her belly, consumed gruesomely by flame. Then, her dragon had been usurped by their uncle, who called them bastards and nearly killed Jacaerys. While she had been kicked to the ground and crawled to her twin, her little brother had picked up a knife and sliced out Aemond’s eye. No sooner had the chaos of that terrible night begun to settle when their father was killed, and Rhaenyra and Daemon wed and spirited their children back to the fortress of Dragonstone and the safety within.

The legacy of that week was the end of innocence among her and her brown-haired siblings. They knew the truth - the sin which they had no hand in - and knew that they must deny it or forfeit their right to the crown. No matter what, it was war in the making, and the children had lost not one father, but two.

Celaena’s solace was the warmth of her family in their stoney home. They shone from within it like a hearth, curling up together at night and chasing each other through the courtyard. In her lonelier moments, Celaena climbed up the rocky ridges beside the keep to watch the free dragons swoop and soar, and hope for a glimpse of Seasmoke if he ever returned.

When she was thirteen, he did. For months, she came daily to watch him and try to entice him with what High Valyrian she knew. Day by day, she wore down his feral disposition until he heeded her commands, and knelt for her to climb into his saddle. It was the crowning achievement of her life, up to then. Her brothers, all of them, may have had their cradle dragons, but her own father’s dragon had chosen her. The whispers and gossips could say what they wished, but none could deny it in a way that mattered to her - she was Laenor Velaryon’s girl.

#cregan stark #cregan stark x oc #house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon #rhaenyra targaryen #laenor velaryon #seasmoke #harwin strong #hotd #celaena velaryon

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