134 AC
Third Person POV
The Great Hall of the Red Keep had shed its recent grim attire, no longer merely a chamber for tense councils or somber pronouncements of war. Tonight, it was transformed, bathed in the soft, golden glow of triumph and reunion.
Thousands of candles, meticulously placed in every sconce and chandelier, cast a warm, flickering light upon the scene. Their flames danced, reflecting off polished gold and gleaming silver, creating a dazzling spectacle that banished the shadows of conflict.
Massive tapestries, vibrant with the history of the Targaryens, depicted dragons soaring and kings ruling, now hung proudly from the walls. They covered the scorch marks and battle scars of the recent conflicts, restoring an illusion of ancient peace and grandeur.
Fresh flowers, gathered from the royal gardens and perhaps even imported from the secured Riverlands, adorned every surface. Their sweet, subtle fragrance mingled with the rich, savory aromas wafting from the kitchens, promising a feast beyond compare.
Long tables, constructed from dark, ancient wood, stretched across the vast hall, seemingly endless in their expanse. They were laden with platters piled high, awaiting the feast, promising an abundance of delicacies.
Fine linen tablecloths, intricately embroidered with the three-headed dragon and the seahorse of Velaryon, gleamed under the candlelight, pristine and inviting.
Goblets of hammered gold and polished silver stood ready, alongside ornate goblets of crystal, catching the light and promising endless drafts of rich Arbor gold and potent Northern ale.
From the high minstrels' gallery, tucked away above the main floor, the strains of music began to fill the air. It was not martial music, nor somber dirges of mourning, but joyous, lilting melodies played on lutes, harps, and flutes, a promise of celebration and merriment.
The air itself seemed to hum with anticipation, a collective exhaled breath after months of suffocating tension and uncertainty. The intoxicating smells of roasted meats, fragrant spices, freshly baked bread, and rich, sweet pastries filled every corner of the vast hall.
Guests began to arrive, streaming through the grand doors, their faces reflecting a mix of relief, cautious optimism, and eager anticipation for a lavish meal after so long.
First, the lesser lords and knights, their faces still bearing the faint lines of war's stress, but now softened by hope. They moved with a quiet excitement, finding their places at the lower tables.
Then came the more prominent figures, the loyalists who had remained steadfast through the darkest days of the usurper's reign. Lord Darklyn, his face pale but relieved, Lord Bar Emmon, his quiet demeanor unchanged but his eyes bright with loyalty, Lord Celtigar, still somewhat aloof but present, acknowledging the Queen's triumph.
Lord Staunton, who had lost much but remained fiercely loyal, and Lord Rosby, who had sworn fealty quickly when the tide turned, joined the growing assembly, their presence a testament to the shifting political landscape.
The Northmen, grim and broad-shouldered, stood out amongst the Southern finery, their dark leathers and furs a stark contrast to the silks and velvets. Rodrick Dustin, the stalwart commander of the Wolf Pack, moved with quiet confidence, his eyes assessing the crowds, ever vigilant. His men, the very instruments of the recent peace, were scattered amongst the hall, watchful but allowing themselves to enjoy the revelry, their faces relaxed for once.
Finally, a hush fell over the great hall, and a deep, resonant silence rippled through the gathered throng. A collective intake of breath descended as the doors to the royal apartments opened, and the Royal Family made their grand, triumphant entrance.
Queen Rhaenyra entered first, regal and radiant in a gown of deep Targaryen red and black adorned with intricate silver embroidery that caught the candlelight. A delicate gold circlet, simple yet powerful, rested upon her silver-gold hair. Though her face still bore the faint lines of stress from the war, it was softened by a profound joy, a sense of destiny fulfilled.
By her side walked Daemon Targaryen, his customary smirk in place, but his eyes holding a glimmer of pride, a rare softness. He wore black leather and velvet, Dark Sister glinting at his hip, an aura of dangerous satisfaction emanating from him, a predator content with his hunt.
And then, walking hand-in-hand behind them, came Visenya and Cregan. Their entrance was met with a murmur of particular interest, a ripple of curiosity and admiration. Visenya, in a gown of deep sapphire blue, its lines elegant and understated, looked every inch a princess, yet her eyes, often reserved, held a unique sparkle as she glanced at Cregan, a silent, shared secret.
Cregan, in his customary dark leathers and furs, seemed a stark, powerful counterpoint to the Southern finery. He was a force of nature, tamed only by the presence of the woman beside him. His hand, so recently stained with the blood of traitors, held Visenya's with a possessive gentleness, a silent claim.
Following them was Jacaerys, looking matured by his recent campaign, his face open and friendly, a true heir. Lucerys, still a little slender but visibly healthier, walked beside his brother, a shy but genuine smile on his face, a testament to his miraculous recovery. Aegon the Younger, solemn and quiet, completed the young princely trio, his innocence a stark contrast to the battles that had raged.
Baela and Rhaena, Daemon's daughters, followed, their bright eyes taking in the grand spectacle, their faces reflecting the joy of the occasion. The entire procession moved to the high table, situated on a raised dais at the far end of the hall, the focal point of the celebration.
Rhaenyra took her place at the center, Daemon to her right, his presence a powerful anchor. Visenya settled to Rhaenyra's left, and Cregan, with a silent, almost imperceptible understanding, took the seat beside Visenya, rather than a place further down the table, a clear indication of his status.
Jacaerys, Lucerys, Aegon, Baela, and Rhaena took their respective seats, completing the royal tableau, a picture of a family, scarred but whole. The hall filled with the gentle rustle of silks and the soft murmur of conversations resuming, albeit with a new, excited undertone, a buzz of anticipation.
The first course was then served. White fish, lightly poached and drizzled with a herb butter, delicate and flavorful. Delicate pastries filled with savory meat, seasoned with exotic spices, a taste of luxury. Platters of fresh oysters from the Narrow Sea, served on beds of glistening ice, a cool, refreshing start.
The initial formality began to soften as wine flowed freely, loosening tongues and spirits. The murmur of conversation grew, a pleasant hum that filled the vast hall, punctuated by laughter and clinking goblets. Loyal lords approached the high table, bowing and offering their heartfelt congratulations to the Queen on her hard-won victories.
Rhaenyra, ever the gracious monarch, acknowledged each, offering warm words and accepting their renewed pledges of fealty. She radiated a sense of weary triumph, a Queen firmly in control of her destiny, her burdens momentarily lightened by the celebration.
Daemon, meanwhile, observed the hall with a predatory satisfaction. His gaze flickered from one lord to another, assessing them, judging their sincerity, his mind always calculating. He exchanged a knowing glance with Cregan, a silent acknowledgment of the work done, the blood spilled, the realm secured.
Visenya and Cregan, however, remained in a quieter world of their own, a bubble of intimacy amidst the grandeur. They spoke in low tones, their heads bent close together, a silent understanding passing between them, a language only they understood.
Their hands, though no longer clasped, occasionally brushed, a subtle reaffirmation of their bond, a fleeting touch that sent sparks. They shared quiet smiles, a mutual recognition of the arduous path they had walked, both together and apart, that had led them to this moment.
Cregan watched her as she spoke, the candlelight catching the violet in her eyes, the silver of her hair. There was a fierce protectiveness in his gaze, a quiet admiration for her resilience, her strength, her very being.
Visenya, in turn, found a deep comfort in his presence. His quiet strength, his unwavering certainty, was a balm to her often-turbulent spirit. He was her anchor, her North Star, guiding her through the storms.
As the first course was cleared, Rhaenyra rose, raising her goblet. A hush fell over the hall once more, the music softening, the conversations dying down.
"My lords, and my ladies!" Rhaenyra's voice rang out, clear and strong, echoing through the great hall. "Tonight, we feast! Not just for food and drink, but for victory! For reunion! For a realm reborn!"
A cheer erupted, a thunderous roar that shook the very rafters of the Red Keep. Goblets were raised high, clinking in joyful celebration, a symphony of triumph.
"For too long," Rhaenyra continued, her voice gaining power, her eyes blazing with conviction, "this realm has bled! Brother against brother, house against house! But the darkness recedes! The usurper's banners are torn! The Hightower's pride is shattered! The West is secured! And the Stormlands, brought to heel!"
Another, even louder cheer. The lords pounded the tables, their faces flushed with wine and triumph, their voices hoarse with exultation.
"I thank my loyal champions!" Rhaenyra declared, her gaze sweeping over Corlys, then settling on Daemon, then finally, lingering on Cregan and Visenya, a special warmth in her eyes. "My brave husband, Prince Daemon! My sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys! My cousin, Princess Rhaenys! And Prince Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, who brought us salvation from the North!"
The hall erupted in renewed applause, particularly loud and fervent for Daemon and Cregan. The Northmen stomped their feet, a deep, resonant rumble of approval, a sound of their own.
"And to my daughter, Visenya," Rhaenyra said, her voice softening, a profound tenderness entering her tone, "who returns to us from the Asgard as a warrior and a princess. Welcome home, my dear."
Visenya offered a graceful bow, her eyes meeting her mother's, a silent message of love and loyalty passing between them, a bond reaffirmed.
"This victory," Rhaenyra continued, her voice resonating with purpose, her gaze sweeping over the assembled faces, "was hard-won. Many lives were lost. But we stand here tonight, stronger, wiser, and more united than ever before! This is not merely the end of a war; it is the dawn of a new era! An era of true peace, true justice, and a realm united under the rightful Crown!"
She raised her goblet once more, her eyes shining with hope and determination. "To the Queen! To the Dragons! To the Asgard! To the future of Westeros!"
"TO THE QUEEN!" the entire hall roared back, a wave of sound crashing against the walls, shaking the very foundations of the Red Keep. "TO THE DRAGONS! TO THE Asgard! TO WESTEROS!"
Corlys Velaryon, his face alight with pride, rose next, his old bones creaking slightly. He raised his own goblet, his voice booming. "To the courage of our Queen! To the valor of her dragons! And to the steadfast loyalty of all who stood with her when the shadows were darkest! May the Mother smile upon this reign, and the Warrior guide our swords!"
His toast was met with similar enthusiasm, a reaffirmation of the alliances forged in the fires of war, a collective pledge of fealty.
The main course was then brought out, a veritable feast of culinary wonders. Whole roasted boars, their skin crackling, apples in their mouths, a symbol of abundance. Platters of venison, glistening with rich sauces, a taste of the wild. Swans, roasted to a golden crisp, a delicacy for royalty. Peacocks, their vibrant feathers rearranged around them, a dazzling display of culinary artistry.
Meat pies, bursting with savory fillings, and bowls of thick, hearty stews were passed around, offering comfort and sustenance. Baskets of fresh bread, crusty and warm, were constantly replenished, their aroma filling the air. The smell alone was intoxicating, a symphony of flavors.
The music grew livelier. Bards began to sing ballads of recent battles, of Daemon's ferocity in the Westerlands, of Cregan's swift conquest of Oldtown, their voices weaving tales of heroism. Jugglers and acrobats performed feats of skill, drawing gasps and laughter from the crowd, adding to the festive atmosphere.
The revelry deepened. Lords and ladies laughed freely, their voices mingling in a joyous din, their faces flushed with wine and good cheer. The weariness of war seemed to momentarily vanish, replaced by the sheer exultation of victory, a collective sigh of relief.
At the high table, the royal family enjoyed the spectacle, their own guards relaxed, their faces showing genuine happiness, a rare sight in the turbulent world of Westeros.
Jacaerys, his eyes bright, conversed animatedly with Lucerys, who ate with a healthy appetite, a true sign of his recovery and renewed vitality. Aegon, though still quiet, was visibly enjoying the rare familial warmth, a shy smile on his lips.
Baela and Rhaena giggled together, sharing whispered secrets and stealing extra sweet tarts from the platters, their youthful spirits unburdened.
Cregan and Visenya, while participating in the general revelry, still found their own quiet space within the chaos. They would often lean in, their voices low, sharing an observation, a wry comment, a shared glance that spoke volumes, a private world within the public feast.
"This Southern feasting is... boisterous," Visenya murmured to Cregan, her voice barely audible over the din, a playful glint in her eyes. "Unlike the stoic celebrations of the North. Do you find it overwhelming?"
Cregan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her. "They have much to celebrate, little dragon. And perhaps, they need more noise to drown out the echoes of what has passed. Or perhaps they simply enjoy their wine more freely."
Visenya's smile softened. "And you, my prince of Winterfell? Are you content with this... boisterousness?"
"Content enough," Cregan admitted, his gaze meeting hers, a rare, soft warmth in his eyes that few ever saw. "Especially with you by my side. It makes even the loudest feast bearable." His hand found hers beneath the table, his fingers intertwining with hers, a silent, powerful connection amidst the joyous uproar.
"You're very charming tonight, Prince Cregan," Visenya teased, her eyes sparkling. "Is this the famed Northern courtesy I've heard so little about?"
"Only for those who deserve it, Princess," Cregan countered, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. "And you, it seems, deserve a great deal of it."
"Careful," Visenya whispered, a playful warning in her tone. "Such words might make a girl's head spin."
"My intention exactly," Cregan replied, his gaze unwavering, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Perhaps then you'd lean on me more often."
They spoke of Asgard, of the progress in the North, of the resilience of his people, their shared history, and their future. Visenya recounted the new inventions, the hardening of their defenses, the sense of purpose that had settled over the stark lands.
Cregan, in turn, spoke of the subtle intrigues in the South, the machinations of the Maesters, the insidious influence of the Faith. He spoke of the quiet purges, the methodical dismantling of old power structures, a grim satisfaction in his voice.
"You have been busy," Visenya observed, her voice low. "Building a new order, even as you fight a war. It seems you relish the chaos."
"It is all part of the same fight," Cregan replied, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. "To ensure a future where such chaos cannot again be unleashed. To secure the Queen's peace, truly. And to ensure no one ever threatens what is mine." His gaze lingered on her, the unspoken meaning clear.
"And what, pray tell, is yours, Prince?" Visenya challenged softly, a daring glint in her eyes.
"You, little dragon," Cregan murmured, his voice a low rumble, his eyes never leaving hers. "And the peace we will build together."
Daemon, catching a glimpse of their quiet intimacy, merely smirked. He had always respected strength, and he saw it in abundance between his niece and the Northern lord. He had seen the way Cregan's eyes followed Visenya, a possessiveness that Daemon understood perfectly, a mirror of his own nature.
Rhaenyra, meanwhile, surveyed her family with a sense of completion. Daemon, by her side, the fierce warrior who had secured her West. Jacaerys and Lucerys, healthy and strong, her heirs. Baela and Rhaena, her stepsons, a vibrant presence. And Cregan, the steadfast rock, who had brought her daughter home and ensured her victory. And Visenya, her courageous daughter, returned to her fold.
The dessert course arrived, a cascade of sweet delights. Honeyed cakes, fruit tarts, puddings drenched in cream, and exotic sweets brought from the Free Cities. The richness added another layer to the already opulent feast.
As the last of the sweetmeats were being cleared, Queen Rhaenyra rose once more, her goblet held high. A profound silence descended upon the hall, all eyes turning to the Queen.
"My loyal lords, my beloved family," Rhaenyra's voice rang out, clear and resonant, carrying to every corner of the vast hall. "Tonight, we celebrate victory. We celebrate reunion. But tonight, we also look to the future. To the bonds that will secure this realm, and this dynasty, for generations to come."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the high table, then settling on Cregan and Visenya. A warm, loving smile graced her lips.
"My daughter, Princess Visenya, has returned to us from the Asgard," Rhaenyra declared, her voice filled with a mother's pride. "And she has brought with her not just courage and wisdom, but a bond forged in the fires of shared purpose, and the quiet strength of true affection."
A ripple of murmurs went through the hall, a collective understanding beginning to dawn.
"It is with immense joy and the full blessing of the Crown," Rhaenyra announced, her voice ringing with authority and happiness, "that I announce the betrothal of my daughter, Princess Visenya Targaryen, to Prince Cregan Stark, and Prince of Asgard!"
A gasp, then a roar of applause erupted, louder and more enthusiastic than any before. Lords stood, clapped, and cheered. The Northmen present stomped their feet, a deep, resonant rumble of approval that shook the hall. Cups were raised, shouts of "To the Prince and Princess!" and "To the Wolf and the Dragon!" filled the air.
Visenya's cheeks flushed a delicate rose, and she glanced at Cregan, a shy, happy smile on her face. Cregan, for his part, allowed a rare, genuine smile to spread across his features, his eyes warm as he met her gaze. He raised his own goblet in acknowledgment of the cheers.
The minstrels, sensing the mood, struck up a lively, romantic tune. Rhaenyra, with a knowing look, gestured to Cregan and Visenya.
Cregan, without a word, rose from his seat. He offered his hand to Visenya. She took it, her fingers intertwining with his, and they moved to the center of the hall, the space clearing around them as the other guests made way.
The music swelled, a graceful, flowing melody. Cregan, usually so stoic, so formidable in battle, moved with a surprising grace. He was not a dancer of courtly flourishes, but his movements were strong, deliberate, and utterly focused on Visenya.
Visenya, for her part, moved with an innate elegance, her blue gown swirling around her. She followed his lead, her eyes never leaving his, a silent conversation passing between them in every step, every turn.
Their dance was not a performance for the crowd, but a private moment shared in public. It was a dance of two souls finally finding their rhythm together. Cregan's hand on her waist was firm, possessive, yet gentle. Visenya's hand rested lightly on his shoulder, her touch a silent promise.
They moved as one, a seamless blend of Northern strength and Targaryen grace. The other guests watched, captivated by the sight of the formidable Wolf of Winterfell and the beautiful Dragon Princess, their union a symbol of hope for a new, united realm. The dance spoke of their shared journey, their battles, their quiet moments, and the profound connection that bound them.
As the music softened, and their dance came to a gentle halt, they remained in the center of the hall, their hands still clasped, their eyes locked. The applause was thunderous, a heartfelt roar of approval from a realm eager for peace and new beginnings.
Later, as the feast began to wind down, and the last of the revelers prepared to retire, Cregan and Visenya slipped away from the lingering crowds. They found a quiet exit, making their way into the moonlit gardens of the Red Keep.
The cool night air was a welcome balm after the heat and noise of the Great Hall. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth filled the air, a soothing contrast to the recent smells of roasted meats and wine.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, their footsteps soft on the gravel paths. The sounds of the distant city, muted now, were a mere hum.
Cregan's hand found Visenya's, and their fingers intertwined, a natural, comforting fit. They walked in comfortable silence for a time, simply enjoying the quiet solitude, the gentle presence of each other.
"That was... quite an evening," Visenya finally said, her voice soft, a hint of amusement in it. "My mother certainly knows how to make an announcement."
Cregan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "She is direct. I appreciate that." He squeezed her hand. "Were you surprised?"
"A little," Visenya admitted, turning her head to look at him. The moonlight illuminated her face, making her eyes seem even deeper violet. "Though perhaps I shouldn't have been. I suppose it was inevitable, wasn't it?"
"Aye," Cregan said, his gaze steady, pulling her gently to a halt beneath the canopy of a weeping willow. Its branches swayed softly in the breeze. He turned to face her fully, his hand still in his.
"You know it does," she confessed, her voice earnest, her eyes shining in the moonlight. "I wouldn't have returned from Asgard if it didn't. There is... there is no one else. For me. Not after you conquered me."
His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a tender gesture. "And for me, Visenya," he responded, his voice low and sincere. "You are the only one. The one who makes even the South bearable. And who makes me... feel something other than grim purpose."
Visenya laughed softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Such compliments, my hungry Wolf. You'll make me think you've gone soft. Is the cold North finally getting to your head?"
"Never soft," Cregan murmured, his arm coming around her waist, pulling her closer. "Just... warmer. You have a way of melting the ice, Visenya. A very dangerous way."
"And you have a way of grounding me," she replied, her fingers tracing the tough leather of his doublet. "Of reminding me that sometimes, strength isn't just about fire and fury, but about quiet, unyielding rock."
They stood there, wrapped in each other's presence, the quiet night a witness to their unspoken vows. The sounds of the city faded further, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant cry of a night bird.
"So, my prince," Visenya teased, looking up at him, her eyes dancing. "Now that we're officially bound, what are your expectations? Will you make me trade my gowns for furs permanently?"
Cregan's lips curved into a slow, tantalizing smile. "Only if you promise to warm my keep in the long nights. And perhaps teach me a thing or two about how to ride a she dragon."
"Oh, I can certainly teach you about she dragon," Visenya purred, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "But I fear your Northern sensibilities might not be prepared for the heat."
"I am a Stark, Princess," Cregan countered, his voice a low rumble. "I fear neither. Especially not with a Targaryen at my side." He paused, his gaze deepening. "And perhaps you'll find the quiet strength of the North, and a Stark's unwavering loyalty, more to your liking than all the gilded cages of the South."
"Perhaps I already have," she whispered, her eyes meeting his, a genuine warmth in her gaze. "More than you know."
He bent his head then, and kissed her. It was a kiss of deep commitment, of shared purpose, a silent promise under the watchful eye of the moon. It was a kiss that sealed their alliance, not just of houses, but of souls, a gentle flame in the cool night.
The night air was cool, but their embrace was warm. They knew the challenges ahead were immense, the realm still fragile, the enemies cunning. But for this moment, in the quiet solitude of the royal gardens, under the pale moonlight, they were just Cregan and Visenya. And that was, for now, enough.