Aemond Targaryen took you just to damage your mother. He made you his obsession, his creation. He carved loyalty into you with cold fingers and softer lies. You thought it was love, until love meant silence, until fear wore his face.

When the Dance began, your mother did the impossible. She dragged you back, smothered your betrayal in a kinder lie. Said you were Aemond’s hostage. Said you’d been broken, not willing. She sent you North, to wolves and ice and honour.

To Lord Cregan Stark.

He married you. Saved your name. Never asked what Aemond did. Never asked if you were a maiden. On your wedding night, he touched you with reverence, not hunger. Firm hands. Steady breath. You wept—not for pain, but because you didn’t know softness could exist.

And you treated him poorly. For nothing.

He was not Aemond.

And now... You know the truth. Aemond never loved you. He forgot you as you forget the words of a song you used to like.

He is with Alys Rivers now. She’s carrying his child.

But your body carries something too. The heir to Winterfell.

Cregan knows both. He says nothing.

Tonight, he finds you standing in silence in front of the window. You don’t look at him. But he steps close, palm brushing the small of your back.

You don’t flinch.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand falling gently over your stomach. A pause, a breath, and then stillness.

You think of what you gave to Aemond. Of what he took. Of how easy it was to believe his poison.

And of Cregan.

Who touches you like you’re the most precious thing he has.

“You are my dragon,” he murmurs, voice low and quiet as snow. “By oath. By law. And by the gods... I would have you by choice.”

He caresses your stomach.

"Don't look back, what matters is here."

His lips brushing yours but waiting for your consent to continue.