135 AC
Third Person POV
The morning of the wedding dawned clear and bright over King's Landing, a crisp breeze carrying the scent of salt from the Blackwater Bay and the sweet perfume of the Red Keep's gardens. The sun, a rare and welcome sight after weeks of political turmoil, cast long, benevolent shadows across the castle grounds.
Preparations had been underway for days, meticulous and grand. The chosen site for the ceremony was the Red Keep's own Godswood, a small, yet sacred space. At its heart stood a venerable weirwood tree.
Though not as ancient or as vast as the weirwood in Winterfell, it was still a powerful presence. Its pale bark, carved with the watchful eyes of the old gods, stood in stark contrast to the red stone of the castle.
The garden itself had been adorned, a delicate balance struck between Northern austerity and Southern splendor. Banners bearing the direwolf of Stark and the three-headed dragon of Targaryen fluttered side-by-side from tall poles.
Blue winter roses, a symbol of the North, were intricately woven with red and gold summer roses, representing the South, creating garlands that draped across stone archways and along the pathways leading to the weirwood.
Candles, housed in delicate lanterns, hung from tree branches, promising a soft, ethereal glow when evening fell, though the ceremony was planned for midday. The air hummed with a quiet anticipation, a profound sense of destiny unfolding.
The first guests to arrive were the lords and ladies of the South. They came dressed in their finest silks, velvets, and brocades, a riot of colors against the green of the gardens. Jewels sparkled, and the air filled with the soft rustle of expensive fabrics and hushed, expectant murmurs.
They mingled, exchanging polite greetings, their eyes darting towards the sacred tree, eager witnesses to this unprecedented union of fire and ice.
Then came the Northmen, distinct in their practical, darker attire. Their furs and leathers stood out, their faces often weather-beaten and stoic, yet their eyes held a fierce pride, a deep sense of loyalty to their King. Roddy Dustin stood tall, his gaze sweeping the crowd, a silent guardian.
And then, a different kind of arrival, drawing curious glances and hushed whispers: the kin from Asgard. King Antares, the ruler of Asgard, had remained behind to govern his own distant realm, a solemn duty that tethered him to his throne.
But all other members of his family, those closest to Cregan, had made the arduous journey to the south.
They moved with a quiet, almost otherworldly grace, their attire a stark contrast to both Northern and Southern fashions.
They nodded curtly to the Southern lords, a silent acknowledgment of their presence.
And then, Rhaenyra's face lit up with an unfeigned joy as she saw another, much anticipated guest. Mordred Skoll. The lady of Moat Cailin, Rhaenyra's trusted friend and confidante, had arrived with her own family.
Mordred was not adorned in the typical finery of a Southern lady. She wore practical, yet elegant, dark leathers, embroidered with subtle wolf motifs, her long, dark brown hair braided simply. She carried herself with an air of quiet power, a dragonrider's inherent confidence.
She was accompanied by her husband, lord Benjen Skoll, a tall, strong man, and their two children, a boy and a girl of age, their faces bright with curiosity.
Rhaenyra rushed to embrace Mordred, a deep bond of sisterhood evident in their shared laughter and tears. "Red! You came! It has been too long, my friend."
"Nothing would keep me from your daughter's wedding, Rhae," Mordred replied, her eyes warm as they met Rhaenyra's. "Especially not one such as this." Her gaze flickered to the Weirwood, a silent acknowledgment of the blending of old traditions.
The crowd parted, a respectful silence falling as the principals of the ceremony began their procession.
First, Cregan Stark. He walked with his customary measured stride, a picture of quiet strength and unwavering purpose. He wore the traditional dark leathers of a Stark, but over it, a fine cloak of dark grey wool, clasped with a direwolf sigil carved from weirwood. His normally stern features were softened by a subtle excitement, a profound sense of anticipation.
His gaze scanned the faces of his family, his people from Asgard, a silent promise to them all. His eyes finally settled on the Weirwood, the ancient heart of his faith, beneath which his vows would be given.
Then, the murmurs swelled once more as Visenya began her procession. She walked on her Step Father's arm, King Consort Daemon Targaryen, who beamed with pride.
Visenya was a vision of radiant beauty, a true princess of both ice and fire. Her gown was a masterpiece, a subtle fusion of her two heritages. It was made of shimmering silver silk, the color of moonlight on snow, with intricate gold embroidery depicting dragons interwoven with direwolves.
Her silver-gold hair, now braided with delicate strands of blue and white ribbon, cascaded down her back. A simple circlet of finely wrought silver, shaped like interlocking wolf and dragon heads, rested upon her brow. Her eyes, those deep, intelligent violet eyes, held a soft glow, a reflection of the profound emotions swirling within her.
Her composure was perfect, a regal poise learned from her mother. Yet, beneath it, a current of excitement thrummed. She glanced at the assembled faces—her mother, Daemon, her brothers Jacaerys and Lucerys, their faces alight with happiness.
Jacaerys gave her a bright, encouraging smile, a silent gesture of sibling affection. Lucerys, still a little frail but recovering beautifully, offered a shy, genuine grin, happy for his sister.
Daemon, typically aloof, watched Visenya with a rare tenderness, a hint of his pride in his fierce niece. He offered her a subtle, approving nod, a silent acknowledgment of her strength and her choice.
And then, Visenya's gaze met Cregan's. He stood waiting for her, beneath the ancient Weirwood, his presence a steadfast anchor in the midst of the flickering emotions. A private, shared smile passed between them, a moment of profound recognition. The world seemed to narrow, encompassing only the two of them.
They stood before the Weirwood tree, its blood-red leaves a stark, vibrant canopy overhead. The ancient, carved face on its trunk seemed to watch with silent, knowing eyes, a guardian of promises made.
Rickard Stark is officiating the wedding.
The air was filled with a palpable sense of solemnity, a profound quietude. Even the rustle of leaves seemed to soften, as if the very garden held its breath.
Prince Rickard Stark raised his hands, his voice, though aged, still carrying a resonant authority that silenced the gentle rustling of the wind. "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"
Daemon Targaryen stepped forward, his face softened by the solemnity of the occasion. "Princess Visenya, of the House Targaryen, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"
Cregans's gaze remained locked on Visenya. Cregan then turned to Rickar stark. " Prince Cregan of House Stark."
Rickard Stark's gaze turned towards Daemon Targaryen, a respectful nod accompanying his question. "Who gives her?"
Daemon Targaryen's voice boomed slightly in the quiet godswood. "King Daemon of the House Targaryen, who is her father."
"Princess Visenya Targaryen," Torrhen then said, his gaze turning to her, "do you take this man to be your husband, to share his joys and sorrows, to stand by his side in times of peace and peril, for all the days the Old Gods grant you?"
Visenya took Cregan's hand in his, her grip firm and unwavering. "I do."
Rickard then shifted his gaze to Cregan and asked, "Prince Cregan Stark, do you take this woman to be your wife, to cherish her, to honor her, and to protect her against all the darkness that may come, for all the days the Old Gods grant you?"
Cregan took Visenya's hands in his. Her emerald gaze softened as she looked up at him, and a sense of belonging settled within him. "I do."
Cregan took the cloak, his fingers brushing the soft fabric. With slow, deliberate movements, he draped it over Visenya's shoulders, carefully replacing the Targaryen cloak she had worn.
It was a powerful symbolic gesture: the shedding of one's maiden cloak, and the acceptance of a new one, signifying her new House. As the fur settled on her shoulders, Visenya felt a warmth spread through her, more than just the fabric. It was a sense of belonging, a feeling of coming home.
A deep, collective sigh of relief, then a wave of joyous murmurs, rippled through the assembled guests.
Cregan's eyes, dark and intense, met Visenya's. A slow, gentle smile touched his lips, a truly rare sight. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin.
And then, he kissed her.
It was a kiss of connection, of shared journey and future. A kiss that spoke of strength meeting strength, of two powerful souls finally finding their true home in each other. It was a promise, unspoken but deeply felt, of a lifetime together.
Visenya returned the kiss with equal passion, a profound sense of rightness settling over her. This was it. This was her path. This was her Cregan.
When they finally broke apart, the garden erupted in a wave of thunderous applause and joyous shouts. The cheers were deafening, echoing through the Red Keep grounds. Lords pounded their chests, ladies wept tears of joy.
Rhaenyra rushed forward, tears streaming down her face, her eyes shining with relief and overwhelming happiness. She embraced her daughter in a warm hug. "My daughter," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "May the gods bless this union."
Daemon, standing beside Rhaenyra, offered a rare, genuine smile. He clapped Cregan on the shoulder. "Well done, Wolf. You've tamed a dragon." He gave Visenya a warm, paternal hug. "And you, little dragon. You've chosen well."
Jacaerys and Lucerys pushed through the well-wishers, their faces beaming. Jacaerys clapped Cregan on the back. "Welcome to the family, brother!" Lucerys, his eyes bright, hugged Visenya fiercely, then offered Cregan a shy, heartfelt handshake.
The Asgardian delegation approached, their usual solemnity replaced by expressions of quiet approval.
Prince Rickard Stark offered a curt nod, his respect evident. Barthogan Cregan's elder brother congratulated both of them and Gilliane Stark Cregan's mother hugged them both and wished both of them well.
Mordred Skoll, her dark eyes gleaming, embraced Visenya with a strong, sisterly hug. "Congratulations, my dear. May your bond be as strong as dragonsteel." She then turned to Cregan, offering him a firm, approving handshake. "Take care of her, Cregan. She's precious."
Cregan's lips curved into a slight smile. "I intend to, Aunt."
The air was thick with the scent of flowers and the joyous cacophony of celebration. Servants circulated with trays of chilled Dornish wine and honeyed mead. Musicians struck up a livelier tune, preparing for the grand feast that would follow in the Great Hall.
Cregan and Visenya stood together, a united front, receiving the congratulations of all who approached. Their hands remained clasped, a silent testament to their new status, their deep connection visible to all.
Visenya felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, a peace settling in her heart. She was a Targaryen, a daughter of dragons, but now, she was also a Stark, tied to the ancient power of the North, to the man who stood by her side.
Cregan, typically so reserved, found himself smiling more freely than he had in years. The warmth in Visenya's hand, the steady beat of her heart next to his, was a comfort deeper than any he had ever known. He had secured his future, and in doing so, found his truest self.
The wedding ceremony, a blend of ancient traditions and new promises, concluded in a wave of triumph. The sun, high overhead, seemed to bless their union. Their journey together had truly begun.