Led By Fiery Passion (currently being revised)

Part 61

Aenyra walked through the dimly lit corridors until she paused in front of a small chamber that she new Cregan used for small meetings. Twisting the ring on her finger, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves before knocking softly.

"Come in," Cregan's deep voice called from within. Aenyra opened the door cautiously, peeking inside initially. Cregan was seated at his dark oak desk, scrolls and parchment strewn across its surface as he continued to write a letter, not glancing up even as she stepped further into the room.

"Cregan," Aenyra began, breaking the silence as she stepped into the chamber. "I heard you wished to speak with me."

At her voice, Cregan finally lifted his gaze from the parchment before him, setting aside the feathered pen. He leaned back in his chair, studying her with a grave expression, as though weighing the weight of every word before he spoke.

"Yes," he said at last, his tone steady, deliberate. "Aegon sent me an offer of alliance—one that many of my council urged me to accept. They argued it would strengthen the North, safeguard our lands." He paused, his grey eyes steady on hers. "But as my father before me, I choose otherwise. Here and now, I pledge my sword and my house to Rhaenyra Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

Aenyra drew in a breath, her heart quickening. "So you've chosen our side?"

Cregan's lips curved, faint but resolute. "I told you once before—the North will always be at your service, Aenyra. My father was a wise man. He swore an oath to your mother when she was yet a girl, and a Stark never forgets an oath." His voice lowered, deepened. "I will march to war at her call, and I will bring my men with me. But know this—I also pledge myself to you. Not just as your mother's ally, but as yours. My loyalty is yours, Aenyra Targaryen, for as long as I draw breath."

For a moment, her throat tightened, her composure faltering at the weight of his words.

"You honor me, Cregan," she whispered.

He leaned forward then, eyes locked to hers with unshakable resolve. "I will send two thousand of our finest—what we call the Greybeards. They are seasoned fighters, older, but tempered by battle and loyal beyond measure. They will strengthen your cause, bring experience to your lines. But," he continued, firm yet regretful, "I cannot risk sending more until winter has broken. To do so would endanger my people and yours. When the ground thaws, and the passes open, I will send more. That is my word."

Aenyra furrowed her brow. "I understand your caution, but every delay grants the Greens more time to fortify. We cannot afford to fall behind."

"I know," Cregan said, his voice softening with regret. "If it were only my will, I would ride south this very hour with all my banners. But my duty is twofold—to your cause, and to the survival of my people. Two thousand I can spare now. The rest must wait until spring."

Her shoulders eased with a reluctant nod. "Then two thousand it shall be. My mother will be pleased with such a force, and so am I. Thank you, Lord Stark."

Cregan rose from his chair, placing two signed parchments in her hands. "Sign both," he instructed.

She scanned the agreements carefully, her quill scratching across the page before she handed one back. Their hands brushed briefly, and for an instant his eyes lingered on hers.

"Thank you," she said again, offering him a small smile—one he returned, though it carried an undercurrent of something left unsaid.

"I should go," Aenyra added, tucking the second parchment into her cloak. "I've been away too long. I need to return to—"

"—Aemond?" Cregan finished, his voice even, though there was a subtle edge beneath it.

Aenyra shifted, uncomfortable, though her chin lifted in quiet defiance. "Yes. To Aemond. And to my mother. And my siblings." Her expression hardened, but her heart was far less steady