134 AC
Third Person POV
Three moons had passed since that fraught small council meeting, three moons since the brutal decrees had been issued, transforming King's Landing from a city on the brink of riot into a realm under stern, watchful control. The air in the capital had shifted, slowly, from one of suppressed fury to a cautious, almost resigned acceptance.
During this time, the Crown had set about its task with a grim determination. The words spoken by Cregan Stark in the council chamber had not been mere rhetoric; they were blueprints for a radical transformation.
One of the most visible changes, designed to address the deep-seated dissatisfaction of the populace, was the opening of orphanages. Not just one, but several, established in disused guildhalls and converted warehouses throughout the city.
These were bright, clean places, a stark contrast to the grim squalor of Flea Bottom. Here, children who had lost their parents to war, to disease, to poverty, found shelter.
They were given warm meals, decent clothes, and even rudimentary lessons in reading and sums. The sounds of their laughter, once a rarity, began to echo in previously silent courtyards.
Alongside the orphanages, food banks were opened. These were centralized distribution points, where grain, dried fish, and basic provisions were given to the poor, to the hungry children, to those who had long survived on scraps and charity.
Long queues, orderly now, stretched from these food banks each morning. The faces of the people, gaunt from hunger, slowly began to fill out, a healthier color returning to their cheeks. The immediate, gnawing pangs of starvation lessened for many.
The relief was palpable, a quiet gratitude that seeped into the city's tired bones. It was a tangible improvement, undeniable and visible, for those who had suffered the most.
Beyond immediate relief, the Crown began a monumental undertaking of infrastructure development. The sounds of hammers on stone, of shovels digging into earth, became common.
A new drainage system was being constructed. Years of accumulated filth and waste in the city's narrow, winding alleys had bred disease and despair. Now, trenches were dug, pipes laid, designed to carry the refuse away, to improve sanitation.
The stench of the city, especially in the poorer districts, began to lessen, albeit slowly. It was a long, arduous task, but one that promised a healthier, more dignified future for the populace.
And perhaps the most ambitious project of all: houses were being constructed away from Flea Bottom, in a systematic, orderly fashion on the city's undeveloped outskirts. These were not grand manors, but sturdy, simple homes.
They were built with stone foundations, proper roofs, and basic sanitation. Each house had its own small patch of ground. They were planned, designed to offer a clean, safe alternative to the hovels of Flea Bottom.
The vision was clear: once these houses were constructed, the people from Flea Bottom would be moved there. Out of the squalor, out of the despair, into a new, more hopeful beginning.
This was a promise, whispered at first, then spoken more openly, a beacon for those trapped in the wretchedness of the old city. These visible improvements, these tangible changes, were subtle, powerful affirmations of the Crown's commitment.
And with each new orphanage, each full food bank, each new stone laid for the drainage system, each new house rising, the Crown ensured the populace knew who was responsible. Royal banners flew over construction sites. Decrees were read, not just of law, but of benevolence.
The bards, paid by the Crown, sang of Rhaenyra's vision, of her kindness, of her tireless efforts to rebuild the realm. The message was driven home: the Crown was delivering, the Faith merely prayed.
For the changes made in law regarding the Faith, there were initially some protests. Small lords, devout and traditional, grumbled about the curtailment of their sacred right to donate coin to the Faith.
The High Septon, a figure of immense spiritual authority, initially spoke out, his words echoing in the few septs still allowed to hold large services. He condemned the new decrees as blasphemous, as an attack on the gods themselves.
Individual septons and septas preached sermons of defiance, urging their flocks to resist the Crown's usurpation of the Faith's ancient rights. They spoke of divine wrath, of curses, of the wrath of the Seven.
But the Crown's response was swift and uncompromising. There were no negotiations, no pleas. The protesters, from the grumbling small lords to the defiant septons, were threatened.
They were told, in no uncertain terms, to curb their enthusiasm. The warnings were delivered by silent, grim-faced Gold Cloaks, or by the chilling presence of a Wolf Pack member at their door.
The message was clear: defy the Crown, and the consequences would be severe. And if they didn't listen, if their enthusiasm was not sufficiently curbed, they were taken care of.
These "taking cares of" were swift and chillingly efficient. Key figures in the Faith, known for their defiance, simply vanished. A septon would deliver a fiery sermon one day, and the next, he would not appear.
No body was found. No public arrest. No formal charge. Just a sudden, terrifying absence. Whispers spread like wildfire, tales of these disappearances, of men swallowed by the night.
The fear of the Crown, the fear of the unknown, began to grip the devout. The High Septon's pronouncements grew less fervent, then became cautious, then quietly ceased to mention the new laws at all.
The small lords, seeing the fate of their more vocal counterparts, quickly fell in line. The double penalty for donating coin to the Faith was levied without mercy, a painful lesson that enforced compliance.
The Faith's power, slowly but surely, began to recede, like a tide pulling back from the shore. The common folk, seeing their septons vanish, seeing the Crown provide tangible aid, began to shift their loyalty.
Meanwhile, a week ago, the triumphant news had reached King's Landing: Daemon and Jacaerys had returned from the Stormlands. Their campaign had been as swift and brutal as planned, a textbook example of Targaryen might.
Borros Baratheon, the defiant Lord of Storm's End, had been put to the sword. His castle, once thought impregnable, had fallen swiftly to the combined might of two dragons and Daemon's veteran army.
Everything had happened as they planned. The war, for the most part, was won. The realm was being brought to heel.
And to solidify the new order, Aegon the Younger would indeed marry one of Borros's daughters, bringing the Stormlands under the direct, albeit forced, influence of the Crown. He would rule Storm's End, a young lord with loyal regents.
The war's most personal tragedy for Rhaenyra's family had also seen a joyous reprieve: Lucerys had woken from his coma. He had been awake for a full moon now, a fragile miracle.
The news had brought immense relief to the royal family, to the entire Red Keep. For weeks, his life had hung by a thread, a constant, agonizing worry.
But now, he was healthy. Still recovering, perhaps a little weaker, but alive. He was eating, talking, his mind sharp, his spirit unbroken. Everyone was happy, a true sense of celebration in the midst of the grim governance.
And today, the day was marked by another, deeply anticipated arrival. Visenya was coming to the South from Asgard. Her return, after months of absence, was a beacon of hope, a symbol of family reuniting in a world slowly finding its balance.
On the bustling, newly regulated port of King's Landing, a small, distinguished party had gathered to await her. Cregan stood at the forefront, his usual impassive demeanor softened by a tremor of anticipation.
Beside him, Jacaerys watched the horizon with eager eyes, happy for his sister's return. Lucerys, still a little pale but standing tall, gripped Jace's arm, his own excitement evident in his gaze. And young Aegon, solemn as ever, stood quietly, observing the scene.
The sea breeze carried the tang of salt and the distant cries of gulls. The docks, though under strict Crown regulation, held a sense of expectant energy.
Finally, on the shimmering expanse of Blackwater Bay, a distinctive silhouette appeared. A Northern ship, its dark sails emblazoned with the Stark direwolf, cut through the waves. It was a sturdy vessel, built for the rough northern seas.
It approached the dock slowly, deliberately, its timbers groaning softly. The sails were skillfully lowered, the ropes thrown, and the ship eased into its berth, a familiar and welcome sight for Cregan.
The gangplank was lowered with a soft thud, connecting the ship to the land. A figure appeared at the top, and a wave of quiet relief, almost a palpable sigh, went through the waiting party.
It was Visenya.
She descended the gangplank, her movements graceful, her presence radiating a quiet power. She wore practical travelling clothes, her dark hair pulled back, but her eyes, those striking purple eyes, held a light that brightened the entire gloomy port.
Her gaze swept over the waiting figures, a warm smile gracing her lips. She moved first to her brothers. She embraced Jacaerys, a quick, affectionate hug, then held Lucerys tightly, tears welling in her eyes at the sight of him healthy and whole.
She kissed Aegon gently on the head, a gesture of familial warmth. She acknowledged the Gold Cloaks and the few curious onlookers with a regal nod.
Then, her eyes finally found Cregan. They locked, and for a moment, the bustling port, the waiting family, the very world seemed to fade into a blur. It was as if they were the only two people left in existence.
She walked towards him, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering. Cregan, for the first time in moons, felt an almost overwhelming wave of emotion wash over him. He felt his stoic facade crack, just slightly.
She reached him, and without a hint of hesitation, with no sense of royalty, no regard for protocol, she simply reached up and kissed him.
It was a soft kiss at first, then deepened, a tender embrace that spoke volumes of longing, of shared burdens, of a bond forged in fire and ice. It was a kiss of pure, unadulterated affection, a woman for her man, a moment of intimate connection utterly disregarding the public setting.
The members of the royal family, even Roddy, looked away, granting them a private moment. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged glances and smiled at each other.
When they finally broke apart, Visenya's eyes were shining, and Cregan's stern features were noticeably softer, a warmth in his usually cold gaze.
"You did it," Visenya whispered, her voice husky with emotion, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek, utterly ignoring the presence of their family and the hushed whispers of the onlookers.
"I said I would," Cregan replied, his voice rougher than usual, his large hand gently covering hers. "Are you well? Is Asgard well?"
"As well as can be," she murmured, her eyes searching his, tracing the subtle new lines of weariness around his eyes. "And you, my prince? The city... the war... you have done too much."
"What needed to be done," he answered, a familiar grimness returning, but softened by her presence. "Much has changed."
They stood there for a few more moments, lost in each other's presence, their conversation a private world that excluded all others. The waiting royal family, the curious onlookers, the clamor of the port – all faded into the background.
Finally, with a gentle nudge from Jacaerys, who cleared his throat subtly, they broke their intense focus on each other. Visenya, with a radiant smile that enveloped all her family, linked her arm through Cregan's.
Together, they made their way from the docks, their steps in unison, towards the towering walls of the Red Keep.
Visenya, her hand still firmly clasped in Cregan's, walked towards the waiting family in the Red Keep's courtyard. The air, which had been thick with the dust of war and the tension of recent riots, now seemed to shimmer with anticipation and relief. The grand archway of the Red Keep framed the scene, a picture of a family reunited against all odds.
Queen Rhaenyra stepped forward first, her face a mask of regal composure that cracked the moment her eyes met her daughter's. A choked sob escaped her, and she rushed forward, embracing Visenya fiercely.
"My daughter," Rhaenyra murmured, her voice thick with emotion, tears streaming down her face. "You are safe. You are truly here." She held Visenya tight, as if afraid she might vanish, pressing kisses to her hair and forehead.
Visenya returned the embrace with equal fervor, burying her face in her mother's shoulder. "Mother," she whispered, her own voice trembling with relief. "I'm home." The long separation, the fear for each other's lives, melted away in that embrace.
Daemon Targaryen, ever the rogue, stood back for a moment, observing the tender reunion. But then, a rare, genuine smile touched his lips. He stepped forward, his eyes softening as Rhaenyra finally released Visenya.
"Little dragon," Daemon said, his voice surprisingly gentle, and he pulled Visenya into a brief, firm hug. "You have grown. And you have chosen... wisely." His gaze flickered to Cregan, a silent acknowledgment of the Northern Prince's role.
Visenya smiled up at her stepfather. "Daemon. It is good to see you well."
Then came the younger children, eager and boisterous. Aegon the Younger, solemn as ever, offered a polite bow, still a little shy. Viserys, the youngest, clung to Rhaenyra's skirts, peeking out with wide, curious eyes.
Baela and Rhaena, Daemon's daughters and Visenya's cousins, rushed forward, their faces alight with joy. They embraced her warmly, a whirlwind of excited chatter. "You're finally here! We missed you so much!"
Visenya laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the courtyard. She hugged them back, asking about their dragons, their lessons, their lives in the Red Keep.
Cregan stood slightly apart, observing the scene, a quiet satisfaction in his eyes. He had brought her home. He had delivered her to her family, safe and sound.
Rhaenyra, finally pulling herself away from her children, turned to Cregan, her eyes shining with gratitude. "Prince Cregan," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "Thank you. For everything, everything you did, House Targaryen will never forget what you have done for us. If you want anything you wish for, ask, I will give it to you if it is in my power."
"It was my honor, I will think about the wish and ask for it later, Your Grace," Cregan replied, bowing his head respectfully.
The entire family then moved into the castle, the grand hall echoing with their joyous chatter. The Red Keep, so recently a place of grim battle and tense strategy, now felt filled with life, with laughter, with the warmth of a family finally reunited.
Visenya, still holding Cregan's hand, walked beside her mother, her gaze sweeping over the familiar faces, the familiar halls. She was home. And with Cregan by her side, the future, though still uncertain, felt filled with promise.
The reunion was a powerful symbol, not just for the Targaryens, but for the entire realm. It was a visual testament to the end of the civil war, to the victory of the Blacks, and to the new, formidable alliance forged between the dragons of the South and the wolf of the North. The Queen was on her throne, her family was whole, and the realm, though scarred, could finally begin to heal.
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A/N: What should Cregan ask for? he cannot ask for land outside the north, because he will return to the north sometime in the future.