green lies, black hearts

XXXIII

a/n - with this chapter, we are now fully caught up with the archive site hehe, so chapters will no longer be released in batches here, but posted alongside archive site. for note, this is the longest chapter yet at 23k words. and also, on the other site, I had to endure harassment and cruel comments from anons because they didn't like that qoren is effectively the second male lead now. if you don't like that, please don't read. I cannot handle anymore rude comments all because I'm writing my story the way I want to write it.

which means I will warn y'all: there is a smut scene this chapter between shaera and qoren. that portion will be marked with a <~+~> line break if you don't want to read :)

sorry to aemond but idk what you expected when you killed your girlfriend's favorite brother by turning him into minced meat and then IMMEDIATELY lied and married her. she's allowed a hot dilf as a treat.

now...onto this monster of a chapter. enjoy :)

- mint

~+~

Cregan

Cregan Stark watched from the ramparts as two dragons crested over the horizon, and he exhaled with a frown, his breath escaping him as a cloud. He crossed his arms beneath his fur cloak. A cloak not too dissimilar to the ones he had prepared for the Iron Throne's heir and his future queen consort. It had been so many years since Winterfell hosted a Targaryen and their dragon. Last it had been Lord Alaric Stark and Good Queen Alyssane atop Silverwing.

But Alaric was buried in the crypts beneath Winterfell. Alyssane was burnt upon a pyre by Silverwing. And Silverwing...well, Cregan wasn't sure where the dragon was.

But he was certain that there had been a similar affection shared between Targaryen and Stark then. One that existed now.

Cregan called out for his men to prepare for the arrival of Prince Jacaerys and Princess Baela, and he walked down the ramparts of Winterfell, cloak trailing behind him. His Valyrian greatsword, Ice, hung at his hip. Most men were too small to handle such a sword, but not Cregan. Not a Northman. Not a Stark. He descended some wooden stairs and rolled his neck, relieving the ever-present stiffness that haunted him as Winterfell prepared for the coming winter.

Summer had been long. Summer had been long and hot and fruitful, but winter was coming, and Cregan felt it in the air, saw it in the crops, and knew it in his bones.

"Where's Rickon?" he asked. The master-at-arms of Winterfell, Robert, raised a white brow-he was an old man; older than most would keep for their household, but Cregan had known the man to serve House Stark since he was just a boy.

"Will the prince and princess demand our young lord bend the knee as well?" Robert chuckled.

Cregan smiled at that. A foolish thought to be sure, but entertaining all the same. He shook his head and walked beside Robert, both of them making their way across the busy courtyard. "Prince Jacaerys perhaps, but Princess Baela counters his temperament..." Cregan paused. The last time he actually thought about it, it had been he who quelled the fires of the young dragons. He clicked his tongue and glanced up at the cloudy skies. Perhaps they would make Rickon...but he's still just a babe, hardly able to walk and not very good at talking...Jace and Baela would do no such thing...unless, to earn a rise out of me...

"Milord?"

"Apologies," Cregan muttered, shaking his head. "I only wish for my son to join us so Their Highnesses may meet him."

"And propose a betrothal?"

"To whom?"

"The princess' own babe-"