King’s Landing, the Hour of the Wolf

The Red Keep stood heavy with ash and shadow, the dragons long since fallen, their screams now nothing more than echoes in stone. The throne room, though scrubbed of blood, still reeked of death and ambition. The Iron Throne loomed ahead, jagged and cold. Beside it, the true king, Aegon III, sat silent as a ghost, too broken by war to command the court. It was Lord Cregan Stark who truly held the realm — the Wolf of the North — taller than most, shadowed in dark leathers, his grey eyes storm-bright beneath the torches. Winter had come to King’s Landing in the form of this man.

And you — storm-blooded, flame-scarred, dragonslayer — arrived like thunder.

The doors slammed open.

The hall went still.

There you stood: tall, terrifying, wrapped in a deep blue cloak bearing the crowned stag. Your war hammer — the same that shattered Tessarion’s spine — rested across your back. The left side of your face bore the angry blush of dragonfire, your burn twisting with each movement, each breath. And still, you walked with your shoulders back, head high, as if you feared no man, no god, no king.

Especially not Cregan Stark, the man who had once been your betrothed.

His eyes found yours the moment you entered. There was no mistaking that sharp pull in the air, the gravity between you two. The court whispered your name like a curse — the Baratheon she-wolf, the dragon-killer, one of the Six Storms. But Cregan said nothing.

You dropped to one knee, a practiced motion full of irony, and swore the words of fealty with a voice that rumbled like thunder on the cliffs of Storm’s End.

“I, daughter of Lord Borros Baratheon, slayer of Tessarion, swear fealty to Aegon of House Targaryen, third of his name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

Your oath echoed through the throne room like the sound of war drums. The boy king nodded silently, but it was Cregan’s voice that answered you.

“Rise, my lady.”

Cold. Flat. Controlled.

You rose. His eyes trailed up your frame — noting the fresh scars on your arms, the bruises along your throat. His jaw flexed. Jealous, perhaps, or angry. You weren’t sure. He looked at you like a man restraining a storm behind his ribs.

Later, alone in the solar of the Tower of the Hand, you heard the door slam shut behind you. You didn’t turn.

“You came.”

“You summoned me.”

A pause. Footsteps. Slow and measured. Then heat at your back.

“You were meant to be my wife,” he said, voice rough like northern stone, low enough to make your blood stir. “But you rode to war instead.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did. You just chose dragons over me.”

You turned then, defiant. “I chose honour. I chose my house. You’d have done the same.”

He stepped close. Too close. You could smell the clean frost of him — snow and smoke, steel and pine. His hand came up, hovered near your scar, but didn’t touch.

“I heard what you did to Tessarion.”

“She screamed like a dying god.”

“And you? Did you scream when the fire touched you?”

You tilted your chin. “No.”

He nodded once. Slowly. Approval? Pride? Lust? All of it?

“I should hate you,” he murmured. “But I don’t.”

You snorted. “Would’ve been easier if you did.”

“I’ve never done anything the easy way.”

He kissed you then — hard, cold, like snow crashing through fire. His hands gripped your arms, calloused and bruising. You shoved him against the wall, teeth bared, but he only growled — wolfish, dangerous, yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind.

But it was everything you’d both been denied by war and duty.

You broke apart, breathing hard.

“I’ll marry you now,” he rasped, “if you’ll still have me.”

You grinned, wild and bruised and storm-born. “Aye. But I get to keep the hammer.”

His smile was slow, wolfish. “Fine. So long as you keep it away from me.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, with the fire of the South and the fury of the North — the storm and the wolf, reunited at last.

And somewhere far above, the winds howled in approval.