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Victory is the sweetest taste she has ever known, Cregan’s mouth is a close second.
The bed is warm, gloriously warm, the long stretch of him next to her better than any fire. Skin to skin all the way down, stopping only where his height carries on past the tips of her toes at the end of the bed. Their bed. The thought makes her grin. Hers, all hers. Her hard-won victory. Her hard-won prize.
There’s an ache to it, to the winning. The stretch in her skin as she takes on another form, another name, another future, for the first time being someone’s lover, someone’s wife, for the first time having a chance to be someone’s mother. The soreness in her thighs, in muscles long-neglected, in her arm where she’d awkwardly placed it to let her be as close to him as possible.
There’s an ache from smiling, a sweet pain she hasn’t felt in so many years.
. . .
When Cregan wakes, it’s to cold toes against his calves and gentle breaths against his chest.
In the grey dawn light, all he can see of Baela is the top of her head against his collarbone, the rest of her covered by the furs. His wife, a strange thing to say, to think, but it doesn’t feel wrong. A year ago, perhaps, but not now. Not when he’s felt the warmth of her against him, around him, the taste of her mouth, the sounds of her, the pretty flush of her skin.
He’d been a fool to even think of sending her away. She was dangerous enough here, sending her to Deepwood Motte or the Dreadfort or gods, the Wall? He might as well have considered signing an army into her service. She inspired loyalty in the smallfolk, inspired a depth of devotion few others could, and somehow despite his best efforts, she’d managed to do the same to him.
Smug little dragon, he can’t help but think fondly, they were fools not to put a crown on your lovely head.
His Queen Who Never Was, now the Lady of Winterfell. What strange paths the gods had given them these last few years, sending him south, sending her north, and at last admiring their work beneath the leaves of the heart tree the night before.
She’d been radiant there, glowing like a ghost or some kind of god in the light of the moon. She was radiant everywhere, even in the dark, but in the godswood it had reminded him of how it said been said that the Targaryens were closer to gods than men. When he’d finally swept his cloak around her, covering the white wool of her nightgown, it’d felt closer to worship than a wedding. Like bowing before the altar of some unknown god, already changed by its power, and maybe he had been. After all, hadn’t he told her all those months ago that he would protect her, but never marry her? That she could lie in his bed, but never be bedded?
“We could have been doing this for a year,” she’d said the night before, pouty and pretty and flushed, and any further words along those lines had been silenced by his mouth on her.
Cregan should have known a dragon could never be a gracious winner. They never had been before.
He’s sure she won’t be when the council representative shows up either, safe and warm and wedded with an army in her castle. She can be as smug as she wants to be, he has no plans to stop her and he doubts any other would be able to achieve it.
There were still things to be put in place for the approaching visit, enough that duty begins to pull him from her side and the warmth of their bed. She must sense it, as he feels when she wakes fully, her face so pressed into his skin that her eyelashes brush him when she blinks.
His wife isn’t sleepy for long though, hands sliding over his skin, her teeth nipping at him, and soon all thoughts of duty other than the one to her pleasure were abandoned.
. . .
He gives her a cord for her father’s ring, slipping it too-big from her thumb and letting it hang safely around her neck instead.
Baela steals her husband’s ring from his hand, heavy and silver and warm from his skin. It’s too big for even her thumb, bent at the knuckle, but that doesn’t stop her from moving it to her fourth finger instead. She crowds her other fingers close to it, holding it in place, and holds it out to him for a supplicant’s kiss.
Wordless, he bends to her will.
. . .
They bring the smallfolk in for the feast, fill the hall full to the brim, overflowing, and on top of that they summon the lords.
As the king’s men approach, Winterfell grows more and more crowded, camps circling the city, banners flying, inns full to bursting, growing and growing and growing-
The stableboy comes to tell him that the king’s men are in the yard, ungreeted, and he leaves the feast to welcome them. They’re a pitiful lot, as all southerners are even though spring has come, slushy snow dark beneath their boots and shivering beneath their cloaks despite their attempts at intimidating posture.
“My Lord,” the man in front says, “We have much to discuss. Inside, perhaps?”
“Of course,” Cregan says, smiling, though it’s anything but friendly, “Though you should join the feasting first, warm your bones after such a long journey.”
“The crown thanks you for your hospitality.”
“It’s my Lady Stark you should be thanking.” He watches their faces twitch in surprise as he waves them through the broad doors to the hall, “After all, it’s her you’re here to see, is it not?”
He almost laughs when he sees her, sat up in his chair at the head table, his furs around her shoulders. Sara had gleefully unearthed a hairpiece gifted from Queen Alysanne to one of Alaric Stark’s granddaughter’s, silver twists like the weirwood and grey, smoky diamonds that glitter in Baela’s hair.
She looks like a queen. She looks like a god.
. . .
They laugh in the tub, after, Cregan’s skin turning red from the heat of the water.
The hairpiece is still in her curls even as they frizz up in the spirals of steam. He touches it with reverence, with thoughtful eyes.
“My grandfather spoke often of her. Too often, considering the kind of man he was.”
She hums under her breath, curious, and his mouth trails from neck to collarbone.
“He spoke of Jaehaerys too, though I never quite got the impression that they were as fond of each other as he was with the Queen. Too fond, really, and her public quarrels with the King didn’t help the rumors much.”
“Maybe the dragonblood calls us North, I know it called to me. Cold, vast freedom."
She takes his hand, the stretch of his fingers in her own aching, his ring warm from being in the water.
“If the Hightowers had never betrayed the crown, if Jace and Luke’s inheritances had never been threatened, maybe the fates would have stepped in for us.”
A year ago, she could have never even comprehended saying such a thing.
“They would have married Jace to someone outside the family, some highranking lady of Dorne, perhaps. Maybe my story would have ended here anyways, no matter the wills of men.”
There’s a slight sting to the thought, like a bruise almost healed but tender to touch. She buries it in him with her teeth and he kindly welcomes the invasion once more.
. . .
The king’s men remain.
The banners pour in, more and more, Winterfell swelling like a river after rain, bringing gifts and offerings. The Commander of the Night’s Watch brings his Lady the skin of a Wall-Northern bear, pale as her hair, its broad head resting on her shoulder, its paw over the other. Cregan can’t stop the flash of heat the sight of it sends through him and he knows she senses it by her grin, as dangerous as the creature surrounding her had once been.
He watches her meet wives and daughters and nieces, lying in bed at night and arranging her Northern court, crossing off names and adding others, making a list of squires and cupbearers. The Lady of Bear island brings her a bow and arrows, handsomely made, and he has the pleasure of hearing his wife’s unhindered laugh as the two women shoot together in the yard outside the window of his solar.
After, she walks into the solar and locks the door behind her, shoving papers out of her way to sit on the desk in front of him. Taunts on her mouth, glittering eyes, lightly kicking at his shins. Please, she eventually has to say, scowling, but she leaves smirking with ink smeared on her skirts.
“Well done,” Sara says, on the third day of the lords visit, lifting her goblet in toast to him, “I had every faith that wisdom and sense would prevail.”
He doesn’t bother telling her that wisdom and sense had nothing to do with it.
. . .
On the fifth day of the celebrations, a messenger arrives during the nightly feast wearing the king’s banners.
The King’s men look as surprised as she does, watching the messenger and his pair of guards walk down the middle aisle of the hall and bow before the head table.
“A gift from your brother, King Aegon III, king of the Andals and the Rhoynar and of the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
The table in front of her is cleared of dishes and a long canvas wrap is laid along it. When her fingertips touch the contents beneath the wrappings, she freezes in place for a long moment, consumed with emotion before her palm wraps around the pommel.
She draws Dark Sister from the shroud and her shoulders shake with grief.
. . .
He watches her sit by the fire in their rooms, polishing the sword with a clean cloth.
“I never thought I’d see it again.”
Ice rests against the bed frame, he can’t imagine being parted from it like she had from her father’s blade, lost to the swirling silt of a lakebed.
“I’ll have to have a scabbard made for it, the one I have isn’t long enough.”
“Let me,” Cregan says, lowering himself to the ground next to her so their arms press together, warm through their sleeves, “As a gift to my wife.”
She hums, eyes glittering as she looks him up and down, “Best be quick about it, Cregan, I plan to wear it daily.”
. . .
Rickon clings to her skirts in the courtyard as they watch the king’s men leave, as the gates close behind them she breathes a sigh of relief.
The tension bleeds out of Cregan’s shoulders.
The lords leave shortly after.
At last, they are alone.
At last, they are home.
. . .
He offers her moon tea after her blood comes, its appearance surprising her far more than him. Rickon had taken time, too, and Arra had never starved and suffered as much as Baela had before falling pregnant with him.
There’s no harm in waiting, letting her have all the time she should have had as a younger woman to ride her horses in the woods, to hunt with her new bow, to practice with Dark Sister without a belly to avoid. Time away from the prying hands of concerned Maesters, surely she’d had enough of those with her burns during her captivity?
Cregan knows her mind, though, understands the need for a stronger claim, a reinforcement of loyalty and safety brought about by being the mother of a powerful man’s child. He understands it too well, they’d had Rickon so soon after his own uncle’s usurption to strengthen the succession in Cregan’s favor.
“A babe won’t make you any more secure in your place here than you already are,” He tells her, though he’s not sure she agrees, “You have no need to strengthen a claim or loyalty, not here, not with me. If you want a child then we can have one, but it doesn’t have to be now.”
She seems frozen in the choice, unable to say, but he kisses her cheek as he leaves the tea behind on his desk.
“I don’t need an answer now. You don’t even have to tell me if you drink it.”
Another kiss, this one to her shoulder, as if he doesn’t need to meet the Master at Arms in the yard shortly, as if he has all the time in the world.
. . .
She loves him.
Years will pass before she’ll say it truly, outside of moments of passion where it slips out and he dutifully ignores it for her sake. He knows her too well, sometimes, even when she says he doesn’t. It keeps him on his toes, mind sharp and strong, she calls it her duty as his wife. Annoying him too, for the bannermen will always bring their petty struggles and he handles them so well after all the trials she puts him through.
Years will pass, ones where Rhaena bears a healthy daughter and names her Laena, followed by more sons and daughters to fill her home with laughter. Baela will have a son, will pain over names and meaning and legacy, will name him Baelon for her grandfather, will name her daughters Rhaenys and Lyanna.
Viserys will appear before her children are born, healthy and whole and miraculous, plucked from the Gullet’s foaming waves, and she’ll barely be able to leave him. She’ll want to bring him north, will beg him to go, but he’ll remain in the city with their brother and sister. With his wife, who Baela will consider ridding themselves of more than once but won’t for Viserys’ sake. He’s lost enough, she won’t be the next in a line of thieves robbing him of all he owns. She’ll give him their father’s ring in the hopes that he’ll never forget who he is. Who he was always meant to be.
Corde and the others will come by boat, her bluecloaks will meet them in White Harbor and bring them home on the roads. They’ll be folded into her court into the places that waited for them for so long. Baela will hold Corde and Quinn’s daughter on her lap, will hold their newborn son years later with a daughter in her own belly.
Years will pass but she’ll never let him forget who she is. She’ll commandeer his baths, drink from his cup, steal his cloak for her own shoulders on the coldest days. Will take his signet ring to wear on her thumb, bent at the knuckle, even though he has one forged for her that she keeps on her fourth finger.
Years will pass, Rickon will call her mother. She’ll love him as her own.
Years will pass, they’ll laugh in hidden rooms in the Red Keep when they visit, Cregan’s hand on her hip and pulling her far closer than appropriate in public when faced with the man the council had once wished for her to marry. She’ll kiss the smug smile from Cregan’s face, giggling, Dark Sister heavy and secure on her hip.
When the winters come, she’ll coax him to their bed, to the den, the nest, to the place where she glows and blossoms and heals. He’ll keep her warm all through the snow and ice and darkness and when the springs come they’ll welcome a baby with it more than once.
“I do love you, you know that, yes?” She’ll say, one day, in a steaming bath with an attempt at nonchalance that he can see right through.
“And I, you,” He’ll reply, the back of his hand cool against her overheated, blushing cheek, “And I’ve known for quite some time.”
the end